Providence Rag: A Liam Mulligan Novel (20 page)

“Are you a photographer?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I hope you’re not planning to take my picture.”

“No. I was shooting pictures in the park. I just came in to grab a bite.”

“You work for the paper?”

“For the
Dispatch,
yes,” Gloria said.

“Because I don’t want my picture in that rag,” the woman said, her tone suddenly snappish. Then she smiled apologetically and added, “Not when my hair is such a mess.”

“I think you look very nice,” Gloria said.

Charlie wandered over to take their orders—a bacon cheeseburger, fries, and a Coke for Gloria and a garden salad, light Italian dressing on the side, and a glass of water for Mrs. Diggs. The older woman reached into her purse, pulled out her wallet, and looked inside, perhaps checking to be sure she had enough cash to pay for her meal.

“Are those your grandchildren?” Gloria asked.

“No,” Mrs. Diggs said, turning the open wallet toward Gloria. “Those are my children, Amina and Sekou. Of course, they’re all grown now.”

“Are they your only kids?”

“Yes, they are.”

“Do they live nearby?”

“No. Amina’s out in Oakland, California. Got herself a fine husband, two sweet little girls, and a good job as a software developer for a computer company. Sekou lives in Tuscaloosa. He’s still single, but not for much longer, God willing. If you watch college football, you can see him sometimes on the TV. He’s the defensive backs coach at the University of Alabama.”

“You must be proud of them.”

“Oh, yes.”

“I imagine you don’t get to see them often.”

“Not as much as I’d like to, but they call their mother most every week, thank the Lord.”

“Amina and Sekou. Are those African names?”

“Why, yes, they are. Most people these days think they’re Muslim names, but that’s not so.
Amina
is Swahili. It means ‘truthful.’
Sekou
is Guinean. It means ‘wise.’”

“I’m curious,” Gloria said. “You’re obviously a Christian woman.”

“Yes, I am, but how did you know?”

“You’ve mentioned God a couple of times, and you’re wearing a gold cross around your neck.”

The woman smiled and caressed the cross with her right hand.

“So I was wondering,” Gloria said. “Why didn’t you give your children biblical names like yours?” That was a slip. Gloria knew it the moment it escaped her lips.

Mrs. Diggs’s smile vanished. “You know who I am, don’t you.”

“I do.”

“How?”

“I saw you a couple of months ago when you came to the newsroom.”

“You tricked me.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Gloria lied.

“What do you want?”

“Nothing, really. I was just making conversation.”

“Are you tape-recording this?”

“No, of course not.”

“Are you going to put what I’ve told you in the newspaper?”

“Do you think you have said anything newsworthy, Mrs. Diggs?”

She thought about it for a moment.

“No, I don’t suppose I have.”

“Well, all right, then,” Gloria said. “We’re just a couple of girls making small talk, okay?”

The older woman frowned, thinking it over, and then startled Gloria by saying, “I apologize.”

“Whatever for?” Gloria said.

“For telling a lie.”

“About not having any other children?”

“Yes.”

“That’s all right, Mrs. Diggs. I understand why you might not want to talk about Kwame.”

The woman ate a forkful of her salad, took a sip of water, and looked out the window.

“Did you just come from visiting him?” Gloria asked.

“Yes. We had one of our nice little talks.” Then the frail old woman simply sat there, eyes fixed on the world outside, her tiny hand circling the water glass. Gloria was afraid Esther Diggs was signaling an end to their conversation until she suddenly said, “Kwame’s an African name too. It comes from Ghana and means ‘born on a Saturday,’ although he wasn’t. We just liked the way it sounds, or rather my late husband, John, did.”

“Didn’t you?”

“I would have named our daughter Hannah and our sons Aaron and Daniel, but John called them slave names. According to him, Diggs is a slave name, too. He always wanted to change it to Mandela or Mobutu, but you have to hire a lawyer and go to court for that, and we never could spare the money for such foolishness.”

She finished her salad and pushed the plate to the side.

“If you work at the
Dispatch,
you must know that reporter Mulligan.”

“I do.”

“He’s a terrible man.”

“He certainly can be sometimes,” Gloria said.

“You must know Edward Mason, too.”

“Of course.”

“Edward is a respectful young fellow. He’s the only person I’ve met in years who cares about what happens to Kwame. He told me he’s trying to help him, but I don’t think he’s getting anywhere.”

“Don’t give up, Mrs. Diggs,” Gloria said, although she hoped the woman was right. “Edward is a very good reporter, and he’s just getting started. These things take time.”

Mrs. Diggs nodded uncertainly.

Charlie cleared away the plates and dropped a single check on the table. Mrs. Diggs opened her purse, but Gloria picked up the bill and handed the proprietor her MasterCard.

“No, no, no,” Mrs. Diggs said. “I can pay my own way.”

She counted out ten one-dollar bills and slid them across the tabletop to Gloria. Gloria slid them back.

“Well, at least let me leave the tip,” Mrs. Diggs said, returning six bills to her purse and leaving the other four on the table. “You’re a nice young woman, even though you work for that newspaper. God bless. I’ve enjoyed our little talk.”

“Perhaps we can do it again sometime,” Gloria said.

Mrs. Diggs didn’t reply. She slipped on her coat, clutched her purse, and tottered out of the diner.

Psychologists used to blame serial killers on uncaring or abusive mothers. Some still espouse the theory, but it has largely fallen out of favor. It would be folly to draw conclusions about the household Kwame Diggs grew up in from this one conversation. Gloria knew that. Still, she felt certain that Esther Diggs was exactly the loving, churchgoing woman she appeared to be.

Gloria looked out the window and watched the woman cross the street, her head tilted toward the pavement as if looking for lost change.

37

“Frank Horrocks, please.”

“May I tell him who is calling?” A woman’s voice.

“Edward Mason. I’m a reporter for the
Dispatch
.”

“The newspaper?”

“Yes.”

“What’s this about?”

“I’ve got a few questions for a story I’m working on.”

“A story about what?”

“The state prison.”

“My husband doesn’t work there anymore.”

“Yes, I know.”

“And you still want to talk to him?”

“I do.”

“Why?”

“I’m sure he’ll tell you all about it after you put him on the phone.”

“Is he in some kind of trouble?”

“Not that I am aware of.”

“Well, all right,” she said. “Hold on and I’ll get him.”

Mason listened to dead air for a couple of minutes, thinking the best thing about calling people at home is that you don’t get put on hold and have Muzak piped into your ear.

“Hello.”

“Mr. Horrocks?”

“Yeah.”

“My name is Mason. I’m a reporter for the
Dispatch
.”

“Well, la-de-fuckin’-da.”

“I was hoping you’d be willing to meet with me and answer some questions.”

“I don’t think so, pal. I’m too busy.”

“You are? I heard that you’re out of work.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“I promise I won’t take up much of your time, sir. I could really use your help for a story I’m working on.”

“What kind of story?”

“It’s about some things that happened at Supermax when you worked there.”

“I ain’t got nothin’ to say about any of that,” he said, and hung up.

That
went well, Mason said to himself. So much for the first guy the cokehead, Ty Robinson, had seen in the break room that day. Fortunately, there were two left to try.

Charles “Chuckie” Shaad, the next one on the list, told Mason that he was waiting for callbacks from a couple of places where he’d applied for jobs.

“So you understand why I can’t talk right now,” he said. “I don’t want to tie up the phone.”

Doesn’t everybody have call waiting now? Mason thought, but what he said was, “Perhaps we could meet later at a place of your convenience.”

“Yeah, okay. Let’s say half-past eight at Galway Bay.”

“What’s that?”

“An Irish pub.”

“Do you know the address?”

“It’s right behind McCoy Stadium, left-field side. I’ll be the big galoot in the M &D Truckers cap. Sorry, gotta go.”

*   *   *

The old stadium, built with taxpayer money during the tail end of the Great Depression, was the crowning boondoggle of one of Rhode Island’s legendary political bosses, Pawtucket mayor Thomas P. McCoy. He had personally selected the site, a swamp known locally as Hammond’s Pond. A construction crew spent months draining and excavating it over and over again, battling mountains of muck that kept sliding back into the work area.

The original lowball estimate for the project was six hundred thousand dollars, but by the time it was completed in 1942, the bill had escalated to 1.2 million. That was more than it had cost to build the seventy-thousand-seat Yale Bowl in New Haven three decades earlier. McCoy Stadium seated only fifty-eight hundred fans when it was completed, although it had since been expanded to hold ten thousand.

For decades, McCoy Stadium was notorious for a playing surface so hard that batted balls ricocheted from it as if they had been launched by bazookas. According to local legend, construction workers had filled the swampy site with thousands of bags of cement purchased at an exorbitant rate from one of the mayor’s cronies.

Mason had never been to McCoy, home of the minor league Pawtucket Red Sox, so he left early in case he had trouble locating the pub. He found it right off, spotting a massive Guinness sign nailed to the side of a three-story commercial building that looked as if it had been thrown together between the two world wars. The inside was a pleasant surprise of gleaming circular bars, polished brass fixtures, and a menu that made him regret he’d already eaten. They didn’t carry Red Stripe, so he ordered a Smithwick’s and nursed it for twenty minutes until Shaad shambled in.

The ex–prison guard looked the place over, saw Mason give him a wave, greeted him with a hearty handshake, and asked the bartender for a pint. It was apparent he was a regular because he didn’t have to specify the brand. He dipped his gray mustache in the foam head of his Guinness and then turned back to Mason.

“So what’s this all about?”

Mason ducked the question, saying, “What’s with the hat? Are you a trucker now?”

“I drove for M &D for a couple of years before I got laid off last month. Probably just as well, ’cause I didn’t like it much. Too many nights on the road away from family. I’m tryin’ to catch on with a rent-a-cop company now, but it ain’t easy thanks to the assholes in Washington. George Bush wrecked the economy, and Obama and the Republicans in Congress can’t stop pissing on each other long enough to do anything about it.”

“Why’d you leave the prison job?”

“Wasn’t like I had a choice. I was one of the ten Supermax corrections officers let go in 2010 when the department’s budget got slashed. Our union raised hell about it. Said fewer guards would make the job more dangerous. But the governor didn’t give a shit.”

“I see,” Mason said, and jotted something in his notebook.

“Why the personal questions?” Shaad said. “Ain’t nothin’ newsworthy about me, is there?”

“No, nothing like that,” Mason said. “I want to ask you about Kwame Diggs, but I like to know who I’m talking to first.” He had skipped that step with Ty Robinson, but the young reporter was a quick study.

Shaad froze, his glass in the air.

“Diggs? What about him?”

“Was he difficult to handle inside?”

“Why do you want to know?” The ex-guard’s shoulders stiffened, his whole body on alert.

“I’ve been visiting him,” Mason said. “It’s the first time he’s ever opened up to a reporter.”

“So?”

“So I think I’ve got the makings of a pretty good story, but I need to verify what he’s been telling me. I don’t want to take his word for everything.”

Shaad’s shoulders relaxed.

“I’ll bet,” he said.

“So did he make much trouble for you?”

Shaad took off his cap, laid it on the table next to his beer, and looked up at the ceiling, thinking over his answer, maybe, or pondering whether he should say anything at all.

“No,” he finally said. “Not really.”

Shaad sipped his beer. Mason looked at him expectantly. It was a trick he’d learned from Mulligan. Just sit quietly and the person you are interviewing may feel compelled to fill the silence.

“When I was a rookie,” Shaad said, “some of the veteran corrections officers told me Diggs used to be a real handful. Always bitching about the food, stealing smokes from other inmates, making a fuss when the guards tossed his cell. He was such a big guy that sometimes it took four or five guards to get him under control. But he was just a kid back then, you know? Still learning how to behave on the inside. By the time I came on board in 2001, he’d calmed down a lot.”

“Ever see him assault anybody?”

“No. Nothing like that. He pretty much kept to himself. Spent a lot of time reading in his cell. Never bothered anybody, and nobody bothered him. Inmates don’t much like child killers, so most of ’em have a rough time inside. But Diggs? He was way too big to mess with. Truth be told, I think even the gangbangers were afraid of him.”

“What about his interactions with the guards?”

“He was real polite with us. With Diggs, it was always ‘Yes, sir,’ this and ‘Yes, sir,’ that. Once in a while he’d crack wise and say, ‘Yes, massa,’ but he always smiled when he said it.”

“Do you remember a guard named Robert Araujo?”