Strangled - Brian McGrory [115]
My phone rang — my real phone, not the Hank-issued one — and I almost jumped through the moonroof. And the moonroof, by the way, was closed.
“Easy there, tabby cat,” Hank said.
When I answered the call, it was Peter Martin, making sure I was safe and sound and in the company of the security agent named Buck. I explained that I was the former, but not the latter, and that Hank Sweeney was my chaperone and chauffeur.
“Hold on,” he said. I heard him pick up another line and say, “Hey, Buck, why aren’t you with Jack?”
Pause.
“You’re waiting for his flight? Where? Hold on.” Then, to me, “What airline did you come in on?”
I told him.
To Buck, “That’s US Airways, not United.” Pause. “No, it’s Las Vegas, not Los Angeles.” Pause. “No, he’s off property. Never mind, just come back here.”
“Why don’t you put him on the copy desk,” I said to Peter.
“He’d probably fit right in.”
He didn’t appreciate that. Instead he told me, “Be careful. Next time I see you, I don’t want to be paying my final respects.”
At one o’clock on a Sunday morning, the Downtown Crossing side of Boston Common isn’t a place most normal people want to be. Abnormal people, yes, which probably explains all the punked-up Mohawks, the various body piercings, and the bizarre Gothic fashion sported by the dozens of early twentysomethings who gathered in formless clusters near the corner of Tremont and Park Streets, where I stepped out of Hank’s car. I’m not sure what they were waiting for, but I had a feeling it wasn’t coming anytime soon.
“Be calm, be cool, remember I’m armed, we’ll get out of this just fine.” That was Hank’s last bit of advice to me as I shut the door and walked toward the meeting site.
I didn’t take the time to tell him that Edgar Sullivan was armed as well.
Once off Tremont, Winter Street was dead, and again, I don’t use that word loosely anymore. The doors and front windows of the various discount stores were sheathed in steel grating — dark, hulking structures that repelled the vague light from the street-lamps. Even on a gorgeous June afternoon, Downtown Crossing isn’t exactly Piazza Navona, if you know what I mean. In the post-midnight hush of an early spring night, it took on the look of a stage set from the type of horror movie I’d never bother to see.
Winter Place was little more than a dead-end alley halfway down the block, known only because it is the home of the Locke-Ober, where Hank and I recently dined on that dreamy bisque and those delicious steaks. When I pulled up to the corner, there wasn’t another person around, or at least not within my view. I had a moment where fear dripped into awkwardness because I didn’t know what to do. What I really wanted was a shot of whiskey from the Locke-Ober bar, and I don’t even drink whiskey. But the place was dark for the night, so that wasn’t really an option.
Instead, I stood in the middle of the street, away from any buildings where a predator might emerge from the shadowy entrances without me having time enough to fight back. Mrs. Flynn of South Boston didn’t raise any fool. I put my hands in my pockets. I took them out. I shuffled my feet. I stood completely still. It felt like an hour; it was really about five minutes. And that’s when my cell phone rang.
It was as quiet as the country out there, and by country I don’t mean Prague or Helsinki, though I’m not sure those are even countries. Regardless, I mean the American country, like the middle of the country, a wheat farm in Nebraska, where the only sounds in the distant fields are the crops whistling in a summery breeze.
Which is a long way of saying the chime of my phone sounded not unlike a car crash for the noise it made. I all but leapt off the ground as I yanked it from my pocket. The caller ID said “Unavailable.” I flipped it open and said, “Jack Flynn here.