The sun was bleeding it seemed, as the day faltered into dusk. Screaming fire trucks and their shouting personnel blocked off Tremont Street with pizza wagons, squad cars and a hullabaloo of official uniformed action, confused, unfocused, but most importantly overbearing. Uniforms kept the bombed out, blasted façade of what was once the Gangsta Boyz clubhouse clear of onlookers.
Homicide Detective third grade Byron Wurdalaka in his shabby trench coat that hung off him like rags barely concealing a mismatched blue and brown suit beneath, wearing a peaky worker’s cap on his matted hair, squinted at the sun, his stubble looking prickly and like conductive filaments in its light. Boyd cast a long shadow over him as she approached.
A fireman in full turnout and bunker gear—helmet and protective coat, Black Diamond yellow and black boots—was idly hosing down the last of the flames and smoldering wreckage of the once Gangsta Boyz clubhouse. Wurdalaka didn’t bother to look at Boyd when he spoke.
“You’re late to the party,” he drawled, or perhaps honked. He pronounced the last word “Pah-ty.”
“I didn’t know it was in my honor.”
“It isn’t. But it’s still your party and I’ll cry if I want to.”
“This is gang territory, or so the text said that brought me here.”
“This is your territory now, LT. The pundits at One Schroeder want to bundle the Gang taskforce into the OC task force for budgetary reasons. We also never really had a Gang task force, if you don’t count four half-in-the-bag pension palookas, so it makes us look good on the news to show we have one when we say we have one. You know this shit’s gang related, right?”
“Do I? Exactly how do I know that? I just got here, for Christ’s sake. Is it even a homicide crime scene yet?”
“Yup, we got two barbecued Gangsta Boyz gettin’ loaded up into the pizza wagon as we speak for a berth down at Southern Mortuary. Your buddy with the knitted yarmulke bobby-pinned to his scalp is getting them ready now for their final journey.”
“Yonah Shimmel.”
“Yeah. That little faggot.”
“He’s not gay.”
“You know what I mean.”
“How do you know they were even Gangsta Boyz? And how the fuck many of them got deep fried?”
“Two so far.”
“C’mon Byron. Small turnout for a gang retribution. Only two mutts got cooked when the bomb went off.”
“Gang members, for sure.”
“So how do you know they’re Gangsta Boyz? They carry cards in their wallets?”
“So freakin’ funny. Nope, we know it because one of my CI’s claims this is the Gangsta Boyz dugout.”
“Dugout? They playin’ baseball?”
“Video games,” said a gray-templed Battalion Chief in full turnout gear, intruding on the conversation with the usual pushy fireman’s aplomb. “One of the mutts died holding one o’ those doohickeys clutched in his hand—a game controller they call it.”
Boyd turned to face the man, squinting. “And you are?”
“Battalion Chief Haggerty. I’m in charge of the scene here.”
“I thought I was,” sneered Wurdalaka, picking his teeth.
“You just said I was, Byron, for fuck’s sake.”
“Well, if you want to hereby take on this clusterfuck for yerselves, you’re welcome to it. You don’t even have to ask. I don’t think we’re gonna need a full forensic arson investigation to type out this piece of shit.”
“And why is that, Mr. Battalion?”
“Call me Sean. Mrs.”
“It’s Ms.”
“Whatever. Even the greenest rookie could detect the malodorous scent of a fucking pipe bomb here, strictly gang related, I am sure.”
“What if it was someone just aping a gang, to put us all off the scent?”
“Haggerty’s right, LT. Why even bother? What pro-outfit would ever want to concern itself over these petty crime negroes?
“Don’t you have any black friends working homicide with you?”
“Sure as fuck do, LT, and they use the term nigger a helluva lot more than I do. In fact, Charlie Turner was offered this plum little homicide detail, but said he’d rather work the unsolved mass murder case we got that went down there in Southie.”
“He refused to investigate what might actually be a hate crime? Really?”
“I didn’t take that angle and neither did he.”
“Alright yez lovebirds, I’m going to close up shop since the scene’s contained and my report’s already half-written in me head. You might wanna catch up with your pet kike, Shimmel, though, before the Post-Toasties take their final ride in the pizza wagon.”
“What did he tell you, Haggerty?”
“Who knows what the little prick’s got in his Yiddisher kopf? The whole fuckin’ domicile was a tinderbox anyway—no sprinklers, no smoke alarms, those damn abo’s involved in who the fuck knows what petty crimes got it and got it but good. This don’t seem too complicated to me.”
“I look forward to your report.”
“You can get it from your captain, not that I don’t have respect for youse lesbians or anything.”
“Not that you don’t. I’m not a lesbian, Haggerty.”
“Whatever floats yer boat, Madame Lieutenant. I’m not judgy. I’m the live and let live kind, if you take my meaning.”
“We all take your meaning,” Wurdalaka sneered.
“What was the bomb made of, if I can ask before you scurry off to your commode?”
“You have a flair for poetry, I think.”
“And you have a flair for evasion. What was in the freakin’ bomb. Match heads?”
“Would that that were true, milady. But no. That weren’t no match head pipe bomb. Those fuckers went full Timothy McVeigh on the shitty little thing.”
“Fertilizer?”
“Ammonium nitrate/fuel oil combo most likely—just killer-diller when packed in a tightly compressed lead pipe, which this one was. Good bang for the buck, though, if you want to look at it that way.”
“And I don’t.”
“I’ll bet you don’t. So, if that’s everything, me and the crew is out of here. You can secure the scene any way youse like, darlin’. I’m turnin’ it all over to you as of right now.”
“Gee, fucking thanks.”
Haggerty grinned and his perpetually youthful face crinkled into a nest of dimples. “You’re fucking welcome, Ms. Lieutenant. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go get on me horse and ride.”
“Yeah, great,” Boyd muttered, adding softly, “fuck you and the horse you rode in on.”
Wurdalaka burst into a laughing jag. “Jesus H., LT, next time, just say it right to the cocksucker’s face. You’ll feel better, I promise.”
“Well, at least you got your jollies.”
“Exactly, LT. Sometimes you just gotta grab what you can get. Short life o’ trouble, ya know.”
“Yeah. It was that way for the Gangsta Boyz.”
“But only two, which presents a troubling question: Just who the fuck tipped off the rest of them, and were those who were not at the exalted clubhouse actually themselves the doers?”
Boyd sighed, accepting the inevitable. “Fine. Go ahead and round up the rest of them and see what we get.”
“Well, if you’re ordering me to do it, LT, I don’t see how I could properly refuse.”
“Fucking A, Byron, you know you were going to do that anyway.”
Wurdalaka tipped his peaky cap to her, saying with a responsive laugh, “That’s right: fucking A indeed!”
* * *
Null stood watching the bombed-out scene, looking disheveled, unshaved, scarred and derelict several blocks down from the action on Tremont street. A short, distraught and visibly nervous Do-rag was waving his hands while talking to the impassive Null, who didn’t so much as nod. The red bandana tied around Do-rag’s head flapped in the breeze.
“How did you know, boss? How’d you get the nod for those fireworks?”
“It doesn’t matter. What mattered at the time was minimizing losses.”
“We gots two of ‘em fried extra-crispy, homes!” Do-rag shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“They have families?”
“Got some I s’pose.”
“I’m promoting you to fixer. Can you fix this for me?”
“What you want? Somethin’ heavy?”
“Pretty heavy.”
“I’ll do it. I always do what you say. We make massive mooga doin’ what you say. All of us.”
“You like that, the cash.”
“Shit, everybody like that. Fuckin’ universal.”
“So, the rest of the boys are waiting to kill me only when the cash runs dry.”
“No, no, homes—we got real loyalty. We stickin’ wit’ you.”
“You ever see that before?”
“Maybe. I think it’s possible. We look after each other—that’s sumpm!”
“Do you though?”
“Just tell me what you want.”
“I don’t know where the boys are holed up. That’s not good. I don’t know who’s slinging the gak. And who the fuck is watching the storage locker in Watertown where all my packets of cash are at?”
“Don’t worry.”
“I never worry. And is my lab producing?”
“Same as always, boss. You know Brother Ray is doing his IT thing, hackin’ the dark web ‘n’ shit.”
“Posting my photos.”
“Yeah, boss. Posting your photos, and they ain’t too pretty.”
“They’re not supposed to be.”
“You postin’ up Edgar ’n’ Howard?”
“No. They deserve privacy.”
Do-rag ticked it off with his fingers, trembling slightly. “The lab in Methuen is rockin’ hard. Riley the chemist is cookin’ and Ronald’s runnin’ the sling. Jo-jo and alls slingin’ so hard, they stayin’ far away from the crib, like you wanted.” He held up his hand. “No schools, just like you say. You and me gots the only keys to the stash in Watertown. Nobody knows but you, me and Jo-jo, who drove the bus, and he ain’t gonna spill. He’s seen you close up. Everybody knows what you’ll do if anything fucks up. Nobody wants to fuck up with you, not no how.”
“It’s not failure tolerant, our business, is it?”
“Shit, homes. Alphonse didn’t know that and he motherfuckin’ dead.”
“Good lesson there. They want to kill me, though, don’t they? You can be honest.”
“I’m not gonna argue with that, boss. But with all that wallpaper comin’ in and you sportin’ so much hardware and takin’ you down not bein’ no easy thing, I say we pretty good for right now.”
“You’ll let me know when we’re not pretty good?”
“Course, dawg. Course.”
“Maybe when they come for me, you’ll be the one holding the gun, don’t you think?”
Do-rag’s hands shot up fast, fearful of Null raising up one of the fancy guns he carried, like that Heckler he kept mentioning. “Won’t be me if that happens, homes. I’m not made that way. I don’t play with no gats. Ever. I don’t know who’s even the one to do it—they dig you runnin’ shit. You make shit and all happen. And you’re a scary fuck, too.”
Null narrowed his eyes and thought about that statement. Do-rag started to get visibly jittery.
“No, no, I meant that in a good way, boss. You the shot caller!”
“You turn my head with praise.”
“Just facts, boss. You scare the shit out of me. Ever since that day you blipped off Cheese.”
“How could I forget?”
“Fuck. I can’t. So, what’s the heavy deal you need me to do? Don’t ask me to kill no one—please.” He was sweating for having been so forward with the man he made long ago for a hair-trigger psycho, a pathological killer. Null looked calm alright, maybe even a little sick, but Do-rag knew not to trust it. He had seen Null up-close move way too fast to clock.”
“So, you want the job of fixer?”
“Yeah, man. I’m all about it.”
“Good. It’s yours. Go down to the Watertown stash, get two medium-sized shrink-wrapped packages of cash and one of the smalls.”
“Y-you mean the forty k ones? The small one’s twenty k, right?”
“That’s right. You know who got burned today?”
“Edgar and Howard. Guess they did the Dutch.” He shook his head. “Fuckin’ X-Box.”
“You know where their families are, whoever was closest. The next of kin?”
“I can find out.”
“Don’t make me regret trusting you.”
“No, boss, I’m on it. Who’s the twenty for?”
Null hunted in his coat for a slip of paper, found it, fished it out and passed it to Do-rag.
“Take the small package to the woman on the slip—the address is on there too. She’ll be expecting you. Just say I sent you when she pushes the intercom.”
“Yeah, I be on fleek wit’ dat.”
“As you guessed, I want you to take the bigger packs to the families of the ones that died in the fire.”
“Edgar and Howard. You cleanin’ it, too?”
“No, I’m not laundering it for them. They’ll have to figure that out for themselves.”
“I can do that. They won’t be too unhappy about it.”
“Everybody loves money, except me, even though I need to keep it comin’ in. That I do.”
“Price o’ doin’ business, boss.”
“Don’t I know it.”
“You want me to get that thing done now?”
“I do, but one other thing.” Do-rag automatically started feeling nervous again.
“What you got, boss?”
“I need you to group text all the fellas and tell them that we’re all going to meet up tomorrow night. At 8:00 p.m. Sharp.”
“Where you wanna do it?”
“Who’s the one with the two-bedroom near Geneva Avenue at the Warren Gardens?”
“Desi, man. Desi live there.”
“We’ll meet at his place and tell them to think back and remember “Bloody April.”
“Fuck! We alls know about that one, boss. Surprised you do – but I guess not really.” A street feud less than a decade ago with Latin Kings and Gangster Disciples wannabes lining up gun-shot bodies all along Geneva Avenue. Who could forget that? Do-rag couldn’t.
“April is the cruelest month, some poet said.”
“Yeah, boss, and we in it now for sure.”
“Do-rag, you couldn’t be more right.”
* * *
“What the hell are you still doing here?” Boyd asked, annoyed. Do you want one of the boys to make you and hold you for questioning? I’m in charge of the scene now, thanks to you.”
“No thanks needed. Just marking time, waiting for a phone call.” Null barely spoke above a whisper.
“You have a mobile. You can wait for that anywhere.”
“True. I thought it was appropriate to wait here, where my guys died. I thought I owed them that.”
“Think you might have owed them anything else?”
“I do. About eighty K, I think. For the families, whoever Boston hasn’t swallowed up yet.”
“You threw that much cash at the survivors?”
“It wasn’t much, I know, but I have to be frugal. Keep reserves for when the Gangsta Boyz turn on me.”
“How do you even know that?”
“It’s inevitable and I expect no less.”
“Wurdalaka’s going to round up the Gangsta Boyz for a little tete-a-tete.”
“If he can find them. My hunch is no, he won’t.”
“He’s not as stupid as he looks.”
“I believe you. But the boys have gone to ground, out on the sling. Good luck hunting them. Maybe if he cruises up and down tornado alley, he’ll have a shot. Where’s Janis, by the way?”
“She’s hunkered down in at my place streaming Netflix. Waiting for her money.”
“She’ll get it. I have my fixer on the case. He’ll get it done.”
“She’s more nervous about that than getting whacked out by this Legere creep.”
“People often have funny, topsy-turvy priorities when it comes to money.”
Null’s phone rang out its mournful song. He dragged it out from his pocket and held it in his hand looking at the screen, counting the seconds before answering.
“Is that your guy?”
“Should be. And he’s a little late.”
“Put it on speaker?”
“Why not? There’s nothing to hide at this point.”
“That you, Null fuck?” The voice was thick; it sounded like whoever was on the other end was speaking through dough.
“You know it’s me, Legere.”
“How do you know it’s Legere?”
“If it’s not, I can just hang up.”
“Fine. It’s me. Get my little message?”
“I did. Finally, you answered all the messages I sent you. Took you long enough.”
“You’re a little hard of hearing.”
“My hearing is acute. Your message is dull.”
“I think I made my point today.”
“You did. I intend on making a few to counter it.”
“Big talk from a little guy.”
“Size is not necessarily relative to efficacy.”
“They’re gonna stop as of today.”
“Because you say so?”
“Because you’re gonna be dead.”
“Really. Triangulating the signal from my cell on GPS—some marauder in a passing car gonna do a drive by on me? Right by the scene of the crime? I think I like my odds.”
“Your odds suck.”
“They do? Now why would that be? Oh, yes, you want to arrange a meet so you can whack me out standing in front of you? Everybody says we should meet, you know. It’s the hottest ticket in town.”
“You can’t hide forever.”
“I’m not hiding. I’m disassembling Hebe Group piece-by-piece, house-by-house, mutt-by-mutt. I’ve got a scheduled raid on a special youth hostel you guys are running up there near Brighton. Should hold a special message for you.”
“You think you’re pretty fuckin’ slick, don’t you, you little prick?”
“No, but what’s left of Hebe Group does. I’m not going to argue the point.”
“You’re a dead man, Null.”
“There’s another point I won’t argue. It’s awfully hard to kill the dead, you know.”
“We’ll find you, kill you and everyone you love.”
“If you knew me, you’d realize just how absurd that statement really is.”
“You think you’re funny—you’re a funny guy, fuckstick.”
“Everybody says that, even though I completely lack a sense of humor. I just state facts.”
“We’re gonna do Boyd, just like we did that little piece of chicken Rudy. We’ll do her hard, get it all on video, sell it on the dark web, then we’re gonna do you—extra hard. You can’t run and you can’t hide. It’s inevitable.”
Null might have been commenting on the weather when he responded to the threat.
“Oh, well, if it’s inevitable, I don’t see any reason to put it off, do you?”
Meanwhile, Boyd had been giving Null desperate hand signals to control the conversation, mouthing words for him to take note of and echo, but he ignored her. She became furious with suppressed rage and a need to shout with a desperation that she had to either stifle or blow the call. To the casual observer, it looked as if she were doing an Indian rain dance while Null spoke calmly on the phone next to her as if she weren’t there.
“What the fuck?”
“Sure, yes, okay, let’s meet, talk it over like men. You know, face to face.”
“Now you’re being half-smart.”
“Only half?”
“If that.”
“I’ll make it easy, Legere. I’ll text you a location and you can meet me there. Then we’ll have a discussion.”
“You’re coming alone?”
“I think you know both of us are going to bring some of our very dear friends along for the ride.”
“You don’t have any friends.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“Tell you what, fuckstick, I’ll text you the time and location. You can meet me there and we can settle it out. And I mean out.”
“I was counting on you. I’ll hang up, so you can do that. But, before I do, for the record: as far as settling it out? That won’t happen even when I’m done with you. Oh, no. That’ll only happen when the last one of your group dies, screaming in agony by my hand. Then the account will be settled. Only then and not until.”
Null didn’t hear the click on the other end, just the cooing sound of the lost connection when Legere ended the exchange. Boyd looked at him wide-eyed, silently hysterical in utter incomprehension, not really quite sure as to how to respond to the call. Null looked back at her, also somewhat puzzled.
“That’s just great. Super! Do you know what you’ve just done? Have you seriously lost your fucking mind?”
“Oh, that was sometime ago, if you remember. Psychosurgery down at Mass General. Right?”
“Never mind that. How do you think this is really going to go down? Just what do you think is going to happen?”
“I think the next phase of our program can be summed up in one word: ambuscade.”
“If that’s anything like an ambush, I’d say we’re fucked.”
“You’re right about one thing. That’s exactly what it is.”