I spent the night at Jackie’s Sunday and slept like the dead. The house was empty when I awoke early Monday morning. It had turned cold and was threatening to rain. Jack and Leta were gone. A copy of my newspaper and an advance print-out of Jack’s were on the kitchen counter. The Boston Journal led with an exclusive, front-page story that reported “sources close to the investigation” had evidence that pointed the finger at one Frederick G. Adamek of Dracut, president of Adams Construction Co., as the possible killer of his sometime golf and business partner Vitus Papageorge. The motive? Anger over the loss of the upcoming bridge contract and his need for money to help his desperately ill wife. It noted his proximity on the morning of the crime.
The Lowell police were quoted as saying the investigation was ongoing and that they would have no comment. However, the police spokesman said nothing to defend its arrest of Ted McDaggert, and Angela quoted police sources as saying Teddy might be released. Attempts to contact Mr. Adamek were unsuccessful, the story continued. A housekeeper and nurse at the Adamek residence said Mr. Adamek had not returned home that night and his whereabouts were unknown.
Jackie left me a printout of the story that would appear in that afternoon’s Lowell Citizen. The headline read: “Golf Pro Released: Admits He Saw Body.” According to the account, McDaggert admitted he had wandered into the cart barn after Vitus has been strung up, saw his body dangling from the electrical cord, but did nothing about it. “He was already dead,” Ted said in the story. “I should have called for help, but I didn’t. I don’t know why.” The police said he could be charged with obstruction in a police matter, but had dropped all pending murder charges.
The Lowell paper also said a search was continuing for Fred Adamek, but quoted sources saying that his sudden disappearance might be Mob related. It mentioned a close working relationship between Freddie’s Adams Construction and Rene Lemere. Phone calls to both Adams and Teamsters Foundations had gone unanswered, the paper said.
I showered, packed up and drove back into Boston. Thanks to the usual traffic mess, I didn’t get into the office until around 10. Frank Donatello greeted me with a dirty look and a thick stack of copy to edit, mail to sort through and assignments to get done. “Vacation’s over, bub,” he grumped at me.
On top of the stack were all the stories that Tony Zec had sent to me over the weekend. The first one was headlined “Tennyson Wins With Sparkling Final Round.” It started off “On a gorgeous Sunday afternoon, Sam Tennyson, the 94th ranked player in the world, put together a round for the ages, firing a stunning 64 at the En-Joie Country Club to overtake a dumbstruck Brad Faxon and claim his first PGA Tour title in more than six years.” It went on in that vein for another three pages.
I dug out a copy of Monday’s sports section and read the AP wire story that had run, buried deeply in the gutter on page D-13, under the heading “GOLF.” It was one graph long. “Sam Tennyson’s final round 64 was good for a two-stroke win in the BC Open yesterday in Endicott, NY. Tennyson won $545,000.”
I smiled. My intern had a lot to learn. But at least he had enthusiasm going for him. That might, or might not, help him carve out a career in the newspaper business. Where enthusiasm is usually the first thing to go.
I pushed the rest of the papers around my desk all morning. It was hard to concentrate on the statistics from last Saturday’s football game between Acton-Boxborough and Westford High. I was thinking somewhat deeper thoughts about life and death, anger and revenge, and the limits of human forebearance. I was thinking about Rita Adamek, struggling for oxygen with every breath, and now with no one to hold her hand.
The telephone kept interrupting my reveries. The first call was from Branson Tucker, the paper’s Mob correspondent.
“Hacker, my lad,” Tucker’s deep voice drawled through my phone. “I had the most amazing thing happen to me this morning.”
“Well, I said, “I hear Viagra works pretty good. The missus must be pleased.”
“Very funny, dear boy,” he said dryly. “No, I am talking about a telephone conversation I just had with one Herbert ‘the Vig’ Incavaglia. He tells me that he has surrendered to the feds and wants to talk a little.”
“Is that right?” I said.
“Indeed,” he said. “And I find it quite amazing that it was just a day or two ago that you asked me about him. And that you were in Lowell. Where, according to our fine newspaper, some interesting events have been going on over the weekend.”
“Could be coincidence,” I suggested.
“Dear boy,” Branson clucked at me. “There is no such thing as coincidence in the world in which these people live. I wonder if you could perhaps tell me a little more about what you know?”
“I have a better idea,” I said. “Get Angela Murphy to help you interview the guy. She was on the scene all weekend up there. Tell her I said it’s time for Part Two. If Herb is singing, he will fill in all the blanks you need.”
He was silent for a moment. “Sounds quite intriguing,” he said. “Why don’t you want to get involved in the story?”
“I’m just a golf writer, Branson,” I said. “My world is all about fun and games. Not life and death.”
“Quite so,” he said. “I’ll call Angela.”
I pushed the papers on another lap around the desk before the phone rang again.
“Hacker!” said a woman’s voice, “Leta Papageorge. How are you feeling this morning?”
“Emotionally bruised,” I said. “You?”
“Oh, not too bad, actually,” she said. “Vitus’ son got here late last night. We had a long talk over breakfast. He’s actually not a bad young man. Don’t tell anyone, but I kind of like him!”
“Your secret’s safe with me,” I said, laughing. “So what’s next for you?”
“Well, “ she said, “I’m actually thinking of taking over management of the bank.”
“Really?” I said, amazement creeping into my voice.
“I know, I know,” she said. “Doesn’t sound like me. But you know, I already know a lot about the business, just from looking over Vitus’ shoulder all these years. And I think I can keep things going, and maybe even do it a little better. You know, if you’re not trying to screw someone all the time, you can sometimes help people in this business.”
I pounded the telephone on the desk. “Hello?” I said. “Will the aliens who have captured Leta Papageorge please let her go at once.”
She laughed. “And Alexander – that’s Vitus’ son? – he and I have been talking all morning. He might be interested in coming back east and working with me.”
“Really?” This time, I didn’t even try to keep the amazement out of my voice.
“Yeah,” she said. “He’s smart and a nice kid. Got a wife and a baby. He wouldn’t mind coming back East.”
“That would make you a grandmother, kind of.” I pointed out. “Instant family.
”There was silence on the other end. Followed by a sniffling sound.
“I think that’s nice, Leta,” I said. “Good for you.”
She hung up without saying anything else.
Tired of staring at my desk, I played some solitaire on my computer until my stomach told me it was time for lunch. I was making neat stacks with the papers before leaving when the phone rang again.
“Hack-hack-hack-man!” chirrped my erstwhile partner. “Can you get away for a while?” he asked. “I’m going over to London for a week. We can play Sunningdale, Wentworth, Stoke Poges, all those stuffed shirt clubs. Start a food fight, goose the secretary, get a little blood flowing. Those Brits need us, Hack!”
“Can’t,” I said sadly. “Gotta write a piece about an All-American field hockey player at Stone Hill College and then there’s a fierce gridiron tilt this weekend between Hingham and Mashpee. Both teams are 0 and 3.”
“Jeezus,” Jackie groaned. “What a waste of talent.”
“That’s what I say,” I said. “But I guess one’s gotta earn his keep somehow.”
“Well,” he said, “If you change your mind, I’m leaving Thursday. Give me a call.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Vaya con Dios, and all that.”
“Cheerio,” he said.
There was a pause.
“Hack?” he said.
“Yeah.”
“You done good.”
“Yeah,” I said. “You, too.”
I didn’t go out for lunch. Instead, I drove over to the North End, found a parking spot about two blocks from home and walked down the narrow, cobbled street. I stopped at Enrico’s bodega and bought a bouquet. Fall mums, some angel’s breath, couple of asters. Then I walked across the street and went up to the second floor and knocked.Mary Jane opened the door. I held out the flowers. She stared at me, then took them and held them. Mister Shit came out of the living room and rubbed up against Mary Jane’s leg, arching his back in happiness. He stared at me with contempt, stretched and walked away contentedly. Turncoat.
Mary Jane leaned forward, head against my chest, and my arms came up around her. We stood like that for a long time.
Then she backed up a half-step and punched me, hard, in the shoulder. She looked up at me with wet eyes.
“You bastard,” she said. “I was worried sick.”
“I know,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“You never told me you knew,” she said, and hit me again, a little softer this time.
“Wasn’t sure how to bring it up,” I said. “And you never talked about it. Never seemed important, before.”
“Before?” she asked.
I reached over and wiped a tear from her cheek with my thumb.
“Are you OK?” she asked softly, eyes shining now through her tears.
“Think so,” I said, “Thanks to you.”
“Well, I think you’d better come in so we can make sure,” she said.
She grabbed my jacket and yanked me inside. I closed the door with my foot.
THE END