Back Bay (56 page)

“You’re fuckin’ right I didn’t have anything to do with it.” Rulick stepped toward Ferguson. He was six inches shorter, but Ferguson respected his strength and his temper. They were close enough now that Ferguson could smell the scent of the colonel’s wife on Rulick’s face.

“Listen, you big nobody son of a bitch. If I want to get back at somebody, I don’t sneak into their house and kill their son, who wouldn’t know me from a pisshole in the snow. I do it in a big way. And that’s just how I’ll nail those fuckin’ Pratts—in public! Maybe I’ll find the tea set and wave it in their faces. Maybe someday I’ll shoot their company out from under them. Maybe I’ll do both. But someday, there’ll be a good story about me and the Pratts, and I’ll see that you get it first. Now get out of here before I take your fuckin’ head off.”

By the time he reached the cobblestones, Ferguson felt ridiculous. He’d come across like a bad detective, and he’d insulted a friend. He wanted to go upstairs and apologize, but he knew that Rulick was mad enough already. Ferguson didn’t want to interrupt him in the middle of another screw.

One night a week later, Jack Ferguson wandered home around midnight. He had been drinking—four or five beers—and he was close to hitting the hard liquor again. He lived in the West End, in a three-room flat above an Italian grocery store. As he came home, he noticed a light shining from under the door.

Suspiciously, carefully, and, because of the alcohol, a bit clumsily, he let himself into the apartment and saw the mess. His filing cabinet had been pulled open, his papers covered the floor, notes were scattered everywhere, and his typewriter lay smashed. Bill Rulick sat in the middle of the chaos, in Ferguson’s armchair, and puffed on a cigar as though he had just finished a good dinner.

Initially, Ferguson felt no rage. He was too shocked.

Rulick stood and walked over to him. “I guess you’re clean, Jackie.”

“What the hell are you doin’ here?”

“Well, Jack…” Rule took a long drag on his cigar. “I learned a long time ago that the quickest way for a guy to get himself out of trouble is to blame someone else. So I got thinkin’, maybe it was you broke into Carrington’s house that night a while back. You
know, by actin’ real innocent, you’re tryin’ to get yourself a late alibi.”

Rulick blew a few smoke rings and studied the cigar, a long green Havana. “So since you been thinkin’ about nailin’ me, I thought I’d check around and see if I could get anything on you.”

“Like what?” Ferguson took a step toward Rulick and put his hands on his hips.

Rulick was not intimidated. “Like stuff about the tea set. Why else would you kill Carrington? You went up there to hunt around that night, and old Jeffrey surprised you.”

“Get out of here before I break you in half.”

Rulick laughed and puffed on his cigar. “You might have four or five clues around here, and you don’t want to tell anyone about them.”

Ferguson looked around at the mess and asked sarcastically, “Did you find any of them?”

Rulick shook his head. “Like I say, you’re clean. For now. But if I find out you’re lookin’ for that tea set and you’re not includin’ me, I’ll be pissed.”

Ferguson grabbed Rulick by the necktie. “I don’t ever want to see your face again, you prick.”

Rulick’s hands shot into Ferguson’s belly and slammed Ferguson against the wall. “No rough stuff, Jackie,” he growled. “Since we been kids, you know who wins the fights.” He let Ferguson go and backed off, giving himself room if he needed it. “I didn’t come here to punch you out, Jack. I got bigger fish to fry than you. But remember this—don’t you ever cross me again.”

“Nobody’s crossed you.” Ferguson didn’t move.

“You were thinkin’ about it. Where I grew up, that’s enough.”

O
n Saturday mornings, Danny Fallon cooked breakfast. Sheila slept late. The kids watched cartoons. Tom worked around outside. Maureen baked bread. And everyone ate in Danny’s kitchen.

Peter filled his plate with bacon and eggs and his mother’s bread. Evangeline had an English muffin and coffee.

“No wonder she’s so skinny,” said Tom Fallon.

Maureen told him to be quiet.

“Hey, Peter,” said Danny, “remember when we were kids and Pa would ask us at breakfast what we were gonna do that day to make our first million?”

Peter nodded.

“If he asks you this morning, you might have an answer.”

The two brothers laughed, and a smile cracked across Tom Fallon’s face. None of the women at the table thought it was very funny.

“Peter.” Evangeline’s tone was enough to strangle the laughter. She had not slept well. She had spent the night thinking about her grandmother, her father’s death, and her family’s involvement with the Golden Eagle Tea Set. She had resolved nothing. “What are you planning for today, Peter?”

“Not much of anything. I’m going over to Cambridge to get a gray suit. Then I’m going to the New England Genealogical Society to look at the Pratt family tree. After that, I’m coming back here to wait for Jack Ferguson’s call.”

“What do you need a suit for?” asked Danny.

“For tonight. And Dad’s charcoal-grey suit will fit you. Just make sure you have a white shirt and a dark tie to go with it.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see.”

Evangeline saw a trace of skepticism on Danny’s face. She had hoped to see more. She thought that a grown man with a wife and two children might exert a steadying influence on his younger brother. She was disappointed.

Peter turned to his father. “What kind of terms are you on with Uncle Dunphy?”

“The usual. Lousy.”

“Well, put the arm to him, because I need a hearse and a coffin for tonight. The biggest coffin he’s got.”

“What on earth do you want with a coffin and a hearse?” screamed his mother.

“I was thinkin’ that myself,” said Tom.

Evangeline knew what Peter was thinking, and she didn’t like it.

Peter stood. “You said you’d help me, Dad.”

Tom Fallon frowned. His bushy eyebrows came together to form an unbroken strip of hair across his forehead. “And I’m not supposed to ask questions?”

“Evangeline’s grandmother is being held in a rest home on the North Shore. If we can get her out, she’ll give us the key to the tea set’s location.”

Evangeline shook her head. “There has to be another way, Peter.”

“None I can think of that won’t take days,” he said. “We go in and out. The Pratts won’t do a thing to stop us, because they can’t afford the police interference themselves.”

“I don’t know about this,” said Tom.

Peter crouched down beside his father. “With you or without you, I’m going through with it. Help me, and I’ll help you.” He turned to Evangeline. “It’s nine o’clock. Ferguson said we should open the Green Shoppe today, just to make it seem that we’re getting back to normal.”

Evangeline finished her coffee. She wasn’t sure if she would go to the Green Shoppe or the police. She and Fallon left together.

“I don’t know about this,” said Tom Fallon to his wife.

“What can you do to stop him?” she asked.

“Nothing.” Danny slammed his fist on the table. “He’s got brains, and he’s usin’ them. I’m for that.”

“I’ll admit it’s the first time I’ve seen any initiative out of him in a long time.”

“That’s a harsh thing to say, Tom,” chided Maureen. “He’s shown initiative all his life. Now he’s just showin’ craziness.”

“And there’s laws against diggin’ up people’s cellars,” said Sheila.

“We’ll worry about that when we find the thing,” Danny responded. “Peter’s doin’ somethin’ most people wouldn’t have the balls to even think of, Dad. That’s what it takes, sometimes, if you want to get out of the hole. He deserves some help.”

Tom Fallon studied his massive hands. “I told him last night I’d help him.”

“You told him last night you’d help him, and I was glad to see you standin’ behind him,” said Maureen. “But if you don’t think this is right, Tom, don’t do it.”

“Me and Sheila could use the money, Dad.” He glanced at his wife. She didn’t say anything. She knew that once his mind was set, Danny would do what he wanted.

“Even if we found this thing,” said Tom, “the state would probably try to take it away from us.”

“They wouldn’t take all of it,” said Danny. “I was just readin’ about a big Spanish galleon they found down off Jamaica or someplace. They had to give the country half the treasure. We do that, and we still have a million and a quarter. Nice work if you can get it.”

Tom Fallen thought hard. “It sounds to me like risky business.”

“Sittin’ in your livin’ room catchin’ radiation from a color TV is risky business, but if you want to watch the Red Sox, you’ll sit.”

“Don’t be exaggeratin’,” said Sheila.

“He may be right,” said Tom softly, almost bitterly. “You have to take risks. A man works all his life, tries to build a business and keep to the straight and narrow, and he ends up in a corner. When one son comes along with a chance to turn everyone’s life around, and the other son is ready to pitch right in, I guess he’d be a fool not to join them.”

“Hail Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners,” said Maureen.

“Am, c’mon, Ma. Say an Our Father that we find the thing. Then you can pray the Rosary all winter in Florida.”

He was wearing bathing trunks and sunglasses. His wife was rubbing oil into his hairy shoulders. His butler was preparing bloody Marys. William Rule reclined on his balcony three stories above
Lewis Wharf and sipped espresso. Behind him, the water of Boston Harbor flashed silver in the morning light. Power boats left tiny trails of foam in the water, and bleach-white sails stretched in the breeze. Later, Rule would be going out in the
Peter
, his twenty-five-foot cabin cruiser, to do some fishing while his wife stripped off her bikini and soaked in the sun. At the moment, he was awaiting a visit he had looked forward to for many years.

The door buzzer rang, and Edward announced the Pratts.

“Send them in,” said Rule.

“Good morning, gentlemen. Thanks for stopping by.” Rule extended a hand. Calvin and Philip Pratt offered perfunctory greetings.

“Espresso, or something stronger? Not that there’s anything much stronger than the espresso I drink.”

“It’s the weekend,” said Philip Pratt expansively. “I guess I can have a bloody Mary before noon.” He sat down on a deck chair. He was wearing tennis shorts, jersey, and sneakers. He wanted Rule to believe that he was completely confident about retaining control of Pratt Industries and that he intended to spend all of Saturday on his tennis court. He looked casual, but Rule had outdone him.

Rule was wearing bathing trunks, sunglasses, and a film of tanning lotion. He had the
Globe
sports page in his lap. “A bloody Mary sounds good. I’ll have one, too. What about you, Calvin?”

“We haven’t come for drinks and friendly chit-chat,” said Calvin. “We’re bringing you a final offer, and we think you’ll want to consider it before Monday.”

Rule waved Edward away with the drink orders, then he smiled. “If you’ve come here askin’ me to keep your old man’s picture on the wall, forget it.”

“On Monday,” said Calvin, “we will have the tea set in our possession. I can guarantee it.”

“The museum has the tea set,” said Rule. “How can you have it?”

Calvin ignored Rule’s response. “We are offering you a final chance to back out. Drop your challenge now, and no one but the people seated on this balcony and my cousin’s personal staff will ever know that your Golden Eagle Tea Set is a forgery. If you don’t, we’ll reveal the fraudulent tea set.”

Rule laughed softly. Philip Pratt saw the sweat and suntan oil glistening in the fold of fat around Rule’s belly.

“I got two things to say. First of all, you’ll have to produce this tea set that’s supposed to be buried in the Back Bay before you can prove that mine’s a fake. And second,” he spoke with feigned, mocking indignation, “I’m really disappointed to think that the sons of Boston’s most famous family, and one of them a lawyer, have sunk so low.” He shook his head and sucked his teeth. “Whatever happened to integrity?”

“Let’s cut the shit, Rule,” said Philip Pratt angrily.

Rule leaned back and locked his hands behind his head in an attitude of complete relaxation. He had Pratt mad already.

“Don’t lecture us on integrity—”

Calvin interrupted Philip. He preferred to do the talking. In a meeting of this sort, he presented himself with a professional calm that usually unsettled men like William Rule. “We would like to avoid a scandal. The company has been suffering of late, and you know how sensitive the stock market can be when a company is not doing well. If a new board chairman is elected and the stockholders discover that he built much of his fortune on art frauds, the value of Pratt Industries stock might fall even more dramatically.”

Rule laughed again. “Then you’d better not tell anybody about it. Just let me take over and run the show the way it ought to be run.”

“We don’t want to damage any reputations, Mr. Rule—yours, the company’s, or Lawrence Hannaford’s. That’s why we’ve kept quiet this long and tried other means to convince our stockholders that you’d be bad for the company. If you’ll consent to surrender your proxies, we’re perfectly willing to keep this matter among gentlemen.”

“Gentlemen.” Rule repeated the word softly, almost to himself. “I’ve been called a lot of things by a lot of people, but this is the first time that one of the Back Bay Pratts has ever called me a gentleman.”

Edward arrived with the bloody Marys.

Rule took his and held it up. “To gentlemen. At last.”

Philip Pratt did not toast.

“We have the utmost respect for you, Mr. Rule.” Calvin Pratt tried not to choke on the words.

“As you should.” Rule stepped to the balcony railing, folded his hands behind him like a sea captain, and gazed out at the harbor. “You know why I like it here? Because I can look out and imagine the clippers and cargo schooners that used to fill this harbor, and I can feel like a part of history. Yeah, that’s right.” He liked the phrase. He turned to the Pratts and repeated, “A part of history. An empire builder. Just like the Cabots and the Lowells and the Kennedys.”