The Penny Ferry - Rick Boyer (8 page)

"Just some papers from a case a long, long way
back. Forget it, Joe, it's old history. It was for the library, uh .
. . archives. That's what they said: archives."

"Then I think we can rule it all out. It was a
grudge hit, probably from the Mob. When we consider that it must've
taken time to build the bomb and plan the thing, which happened like
clockwork, then I think we can rule it all out."

"I think so too. But remember, Joe, I used to be
a cop in this town. I still know cops all around here. And state
guys, like you, and some of the Feds even. I got connections and
contacts. I'm gonna keep an ear to the ground, hear? I'll keep
pumpin' these dudes, hear? When I find out who it is I'm going
huntin'."

We didn't say anything. Sam Bowman didn't seem to me
to be a fellow to argue with. And if he had Popeye along, one would
have to think not only twice, but a third time at least. Then I
noticed that two of the lower cubbyholes in the safe were packed with
stacks of what looked like bills. Legal tender. Coin of the realm.

"What's all that stuff that looks like money?"
I asked.

"Money," said Sam. "That why it look
like it."

"
How much is there, Sam? Looks like a bundle,"
said Joe.

"
Twenny thousand five hundred dollars. Small
bills. It's our I stash. Looks like it all mine now."

"Why don't you keep it in a bank?" asked
Joe. "You'd get interest on it."

"Got plenty in the bank. Got about a quarter
million bucks between us. This here's emergency cash money. Also, the
bank I blows up, we still got the loot here."

Sam was slowly drawing out his arm now. When his
coffee-colored hand emerged from the cubbyhole it was holding a blue
cardboard box. Heavy. I didn't have to be told what was in that
famous blue box, even before I saw the S&W monogram on the lid.
Sam placed the box down on the desk, took a long pull of coffee, and
lifted the lid.

"Now what the hell are you going to do with
that?" asked Joe.

Sam was holding a giant revolver in his right hand.
It was finished in bright nickel. Its bore was big enough to stick a
palm tree in. Sam put the piece down quickly on the desk. The room
seemed to shake a bit. He walked back over to the big safe.

"I tole you, Joe. I'm goin' huntin'."

"No you're not." Joe stood up and started
for the safe. In less than a second the big dog was in front of him
in a crouch. The mouth was half-open, the front of the lips curled up
in a combat snarl. A deep rumbling filled the room. Joe froze.

"Be cool, Popeye! Don't come no closer, Joe;
he's trained to stay between you and the safe whenever it's open.
Little trick I taught him."

Sam fished around further back in the cubbyholes and
drew out another box, which he carried over to the desk. Joe squatted
on his heels in front of the dog and held out his hand. The dog
stared blankly at it.

"
I'm good with dogs, Sam, right Doc? Watch. Here
Popeye! Here boy! C'mon . . . caaaaaa—mon boy. Tchh! Tchhh! Caaa—"

"RRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!" .

A Joe stood up, chagrined.

"Don't think you're having much luck," I
said.

Sam looked up from the desk. He was loading the
revolver with the cartridges he had just fetched. They were spilled
out all over the maple desktop and looked as big as lipsticks. The
ammo box said FIFTY CENTERFIRE PISTOL CARTRIDGES 45-CALIBRE LONG
COLT. 185-GRAIN HOLLOW POINT.

Big bullets that would go very slowly from the big
handgun. I hefted one; it was heavier than a golf ball. And there was
the gun itself. Perhaps the Nimitz could use it for a sea anchor.
"How much does Popeye weigh, Sam?"

" 'Bout a hundred thirty. Not too much fat on
him."

There was a decisive clack as Sam slammed the loaded
cylinder into the revolver's frame. He replaced the spare cartridges
and put away both boxes. Joe stood up and came over to the desk. The
dog likewise went back to his bed and sank to his belly on the old
carpet. Sam opened a lower drawer in the desk and brought out an
empty shoulder holster, which he ducked into, then replaced his light
jacket. He slipped the big silver gun into its snug resting place
underneath his left armpit.

"Johnny was the only one of us carried a piece.
Now I'm carryin' this one every day."

He tapped the bulge under the jacket for emphasis.

"Every day. " He shut and locked the big
safe.

Joe's sternness gave way to a helpless look.

"I assume you're licensed to carry, Sam. But be
careful. How long since you've fired that howitzer?"

"Last month at the Deer Island range. It might
surprise you, Joe, but I pretty good with this ol' cannon. Here, you
want this logbook anymore?"

We said no thanks, and told Sam how much we
appreciated his coming to Dependable's office on a Sunday. He and
Popeye led us out and then he turned and relocked the three big
deadbolts and reset the electronic intrusion device. He faced us.

"
I'm not kiddin'. I'm gonna have my ear to the
wire. I hear who did that to Johnny— they're dead. I don't care if
I go down with 'em. Got nobody waitin' for me . . . just like Johnny.
Don't care if they take me with 'em. They're dead."

"See you, Sam. Sorry about Johnny."

"One more time," said Joe. He squatted down
in front of Popeye. "Here boy. C'mon Popeye. Caaaaaa-mon!"

The dog seemed as interested in Joe as he would be in
a snow shovel.

Sam fastened the lead and walked the blocky beast
back to the motorcycle. As we drove off I heard the faint popping and
rumbling of the old bike starting up. Joe said the lab at
headquarters had some news.

"
Two items. One: there was evidence on the
corpse in the chimney that he was tortured. Cigarette burns on the
sole of his right foot."

"Oh Christ."

"Yeah. Two: the emergency room of Union Hospital
in Lynn treated— get this— an Italian fisherman for two amputated
fingers late Friday night. The guy could barely speak English.
Claimed he got his hand caught in a cable winch. Hah! You see how
clever that was? Know how many illegal aliens there are in our
fishing boats? Especially Portuguese down in New Bedford and Italians
on the North Shore? Records show the guy paid cash, had no I.D. Don't
you see how perfect it is?"

"Very clever. About as foolproof as the gas
bomb. These guys are pros, or near it. I can just see that doctor who
was on call in Lynn. He's sewing up the hand and thinking, this poor,
poor fisherman. So far from home, working to support his starving
family in Ragusa. And if word gets out, they'll deport him."

"Shit. It's enough to make me wish Sam does
catch up with them."

"Think he will? And if he does, is he really
going to try to kill them?"

"Oh yes indeed. Sam's
no pussycat, in case you didn't notice. He was a paratrooper in World
War Two and never got out of jump shape. He was a cop, like he said.
I guess he's good with a sidearm. Sure hope he doesn't get himself
killed. Whatever happens on this case, I'm keeping mum to Sam."

* * *

We drove up Mass. Ave. through Central Square, which
on a Sunday looked unrecognizably quiet and deserted.

"Where are we headed?"

"To the Fogg Museum," said Joe, driving
through a thicket of Dunkin' Donuts wrappers that fluttered in our
wake. "See if we can get any kind of line on that job Johnny did
Friday morning. Then we'll go home, okay?"

"
Fine. Except I think the Fogg's closed on
Sundays, like everything else in this state is, except bars."

"Except bars. Right. The Irish influence no
doubt."

The Fogg was closed. But Joe and I peered through the
glass of the Federal-style front door and saw the display screens for
the exhibit entitled "Renaissance Treasures of San Marino."
On the screens were mural-sized photos of that tiny republic
(reputedly the world's oldest as well as smallest) and its flag,
showing the three stone castle towers on three summits that mark its
crest. The museum was all dark inside though.

"Help you?" said a voice. It belonged to a
Harvard campus security guard, who wouldn't open the Fogg doors for
us even when Joe flashed his badge. But he did give Joe the phone
number of the right person to contact regarding Fogg exhibits and
their sponsors. While Joe went off to make his phone calls, I went to
the john in the lower level of a red-brick building that was pointed
out to me by the guard. Standing in from of one of the urinals in the
men's room, I was struck by the graffiti. Yes Virginia, there is
graffiti on the walls of Harvard rest rooms. However, it was all
neatly lettered and obviously not the product of average minds. For
example, there was a running debate penned on the wall above me
concerning the behavior of accelerated particles in cloud chambers at
various temperatures. This was complete with lots of Greek letters
and appropriate formulas. Underneath the arguments was the wry
observation that perhaps the warring factions would do themselves and
everyone else who used the facilities a favor by transferring to
M.I.T. Then there was this:

CONSERVE GRAVITY: WEAR THICK-SOLED SHOES!

Followed by this, from the first book of
Gargantua
and Pantagruel
:

Come sit an cack
With
lusty back
But leave no wrack
Beside
our closet.
Void, spurt and pump
Your
turdous rump
But leave no lump
Here
for deposit.
He shall know shame
Who
misses aim,
St. Anthony's flame
Burn
his scut sear,
Who will not swab
His
thingumabob
To the last blob
Ere
he leave here!
         —
Rabelais

Well, I was impressed. I glanced around and saw the
greatest names of science, literature, and philosophy well
represented in the Crimson
maison de merde
.
Perhaps fittingly, most of the quotes
and
diatribes concerned politics.

Finally, as I dried my hands and prepared to depart,
I saw this terse warning:

FOOLS NAMES AND FOOLS FACES
OFT
APPEARIN PUBLIC PLACES
                                   —
Shakespeare

Hell, I considered as I sprinted up the steps back
out into Harvard Yard, I was wasting my money sending jack and Tony
to Bowdoin and Williams. I could save almost forty grand a year by
making them hang around the Harvard johns. Joe was still on the
phone. I heard his cop voice haranguing some poor soul on the other
end. He hung up and turned to me.

"Guess what? We're going to pay a brief visit—
I promised her, and I promise you, it will be brief to Lucia
Fabrianni over at the Copley."

"You said we. Where do you get we?"

"Aw c'mon, Doc. It's only eleven-thirty. We'll
only see her twenty minutes."

So we went to Copley Square, where the Fabriarmi
family was ensconced in Boston for the duration of their show.
According to our information they owned the whole kit and kaboodle of
the treasures from San Marino, and the senior Mr. Paolo Fabrianni was
anxious to display the art treasures to increase tourism to his tiny
country. But Joe told me during the ride over the Charles River to
Boston that Lucia Fabrianni had sounded put out and wasn't at all
eager for an interview with the police, especially on Sunday.

"
Know what she said to me?" asked Joe as we
strode into the ornate lobby of the Copley Plaza Hotel and punched
the elevator Button. "I spoke some Italian phrases to her, you
know, to kinda break the ice a little. The extra effort, you know?
What she says is, 'You're from the South, aren't you? I can tell
you're from Naples.'jeez!"

The elevator arrived, and
we went up.

* * *

We sat in the small parlor room decorated with Louis
Quinze furniture. Or was it Louis Seize? Well whatever, it was one of
them. The furniture was white and gold with bent legs and claw feet.
The chair backs and seats were overstuffed. ellipses of velveteen.
There was scrollwork and curlicues everywhere. Give me Shaker any
day.

Lucia Fabrianni entered the room. She was everything
we thought she'd be, and more. She was rich and beautiful. After a
few minutes Joe suggested we get coffee. Lucia gladly accepted, and
ten minutes later we were in the lobby sipping and munching. Lucia,
educated in Switzerland, France, the States, and England, spoke
perfect accent-free English. Boy, was she a looker too. Her
dark-blonde hair was rather short and swept back soft and thick. I
guessed her to be around twenty-five. Her face was finely chiseled
and showed no sag or fat. Her mouth was almost too large and full.
But not quite.

She puckered her lips over the steaming cup and
sipped. A gold pin on her blouse glowed with bucks. Her nails were
shiny beige. Bracelets twinkled. Four of them on her right arm, but
thin, not overdone. Beautiful watch on her left wrist. I stared at it
hard. Something wrong with the watch. Why did it make me uneasy?