Three

Confusing the South End with South Boston is viewed as an insult by the residents of both neighborhoods. South Boston considers itself a working-class Irish neighborhood where real men in hard hats drink coffee from the local Dunkin’ Donuts in the morning and beer from the local bar at night.

The South End, with its brick streets and houses, is better associated with Starbucks. It has been called artsy, gay, and “full of moonbats.” I’d call it diverse. The neighborhood was planned by Charles Bulfinch in the nineteenth century and was built when Boston replaced its swamps with brownstones. I live on the top floor of one of those brownstones—the one with a dead guy on the front stoop.

Lucy and I turned the corner to Follen. Bobby Miller was in a group of people surrounding a mass on the ground. With his bald head, barrel chest, and custom suit, Miller looked like a bowling ball on a job interview. We joined the group and stood next to Bobby. He glanced at me, saw Lucy, grabbed my arm, and pulled me aside. Lucy followed.

“Jesus, Tucker, you brought your date?”

“She’s standing right behind you,” I said. “Her name is Lucy.”

Bobby turned and shook Lucy’s hand, “Pleasure to meet you, Lucy. You take a very nice picture.” Then he spun back to me. “What the hell are you doing?”

I said, “A gentleman doesn’t dump his date in the Fenway Park grandstands.”

Bobby said, “A gentleman doesn’t bring his date to see his brother’s body in the street.”

Lucy put her hand to her mouth and looked at the covered body.

I said, “I’m sorry. My what?”

Bobby said, “Your brother. I’m sorry, man, I didn’t know that when I called you. We just found ID.”

“What are you talking about? I don’t have a brother.” I reached out and put my hand on Lucy’s back. She was tearing up. “It’s true.” I told her. “I don’t have a brother.”

Bobby said, “You mean, like he’s dead to you or something?”

“No, like he never existed. I’m an only child. I always wished I had a brother, but I don’t.”

Bobby beckoned me back to the body. Lucy followed and looked over my shoulder as he flipped the sheet off the face and shined his flashlight on it. The guy’s eyes were unblinking in the beam.

I’d seen pictures of my dad when he was twenty-something. They were taken during the ’60s. In a decade where you had to choose between hippie or establishment, he chose establishment. He was an engineer for a defense contractor and wore the crew cut and white shirt that was made famous by the NASA engineers during the space program. He worked for the same company until the day he died.

The guy under the sheet was a young version of my father. He looked just like my dad in those old pictures, except that he was the modern edition. He had a buzz cut instead of a crew cut. He wore a blue button-down shirt instead of a white one. His button-down had a hole in it. His chest had been blown open. The two buttons over his sternum were gone. The pocket remained, with a logo on it. It was the logo for Global Defense Systems: GDS. My dad had worked at GDS.

I pointed to the logo. “So that’s why the FBI is interested in this.”

Bobby ignored the comment. He asked, “You don’t recognize this guy?”

I said, “Of course I recognize him. He looks just like my dad. It’s the only reason you got me out of Fenway.”

Bobby flopped the sheet back into place. “What does that tell you?”

“That there are people out there who look like my dad.”

“Here’s his ID. Check out his last name.”

Bobby handed me a Massachusetts driver’s license in a plastic bag. The license was blue, with a crappy picture of a guy who looked a lot like the one on the bricks. The license had a silver authentication shield across it and a little heart in the corner that told me someone was going to get this guy’s kidneys. The address in the center read Pittsfield, MA.

I said, “Pittsfield? That’s a hundred miles away. What was he doing here?”

Bobby said, “Read the last name.”

Lucy read the name from over my shoulder. “Tucker. His name was John Tucker.”

I said, “That’s my father’s name.”

Bobby said, “I thought you’d say that.”

“It doesn’t prove anything. It’s a coincidence.”

Bobby asked, “If your dad’s name was John, why did they name you Aloysius?”

“I was named for my dad’s father. He was killed at the Battle of the Bulge, and my dad wanted to honor him.”

“Jesus, by naming you Aloysius?”

I handed Bobby the license. “Can I take Lucy home now?”

A short Asian guy with a wide face and scraggly hair joined us. He asked Bobby, “Is this the brother?”

I said, “He’s not my brother.”

Bobby said, “This is Lieutenant Lee. He’s investigating your—John Tucker’s murder.”

“He’s investigating it? Then what are you doing here?”

Bobby turned away. “I’ve got to go.” He waved to Lucy. “Nice to meet you.”

I said, “Yeah but …”

Bobby said, “He’s all yours, Lee.”

Lieutenant Lee shook my hand and said, “I am sorry for your loss.”

I said, “This is ridiculous.”

I broke the handshake and turned to Lucy. “C’mon, let’s go get you a cab.”

Lee pointed at the body. “Mr. Tucker. I have proof that this man is your brother.”

“Really? Why should I believe your proof?”

“Because you wrote it. You need to come with me.”