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BATTLES RAGED ON THE chess boards outside the Smith Campus Center in Harvard Square. An International Chess Master was taking on a challenge from a local amateur. The amateur appeared skilled, but not faring too well against one of the world's best. Other top local players concentrated intensely on their own matches. Chess hustlers pocketed the money of overconfident players willing to lay down cash.
I watched as Tommy Two Fingers check-mated his opponent and scooped a stack of bills off the table and into his jacket pocket.
“Better luck next time, kid,” Tommy said to the disappointed college student. “Looks like it's Ramen Noodles for you this week.”
“You let the kid bet his food money?” I said to Tommy.
He turned and looked at me over his shoulder. Tommy rolled his eyes. “Jeez,” he said, “I didn't know you was lurking behind me.”
“Just taking in a friendly game of chess on this beautiful New England day,” I said.
“Yeah, right,” Tommy said as he got up from the chessboard table.
“This your new hustle?” I said as we walked away from the chess boards.
“One of them,” Tommy said. We crossed Massachusetts Avenue and sat on a bench in Harvard Yard. Squirrels scurried about gathering nuts. Harvard students scurried about gathering a world-class education.
“I didn't realize you played chess,” I said.
“Since I was a little tyke. I've perfected my game to the point where it is profitable.”
“And it beats being a pick-pocket,” I said.
“Whoever said I was a pick-pocket,” Tommy said.
I looked at him sideways. Tommy got his nickname of Two Fingers for being a legend among Boston criminals for his skill at lifting wallets on the T. He was of medium height and build with an unremarkable face and thinning brown hair. He looked like your average middle-aged white guy.
Birds chirped in a nearby tree. The air was fragrant of late summer moving into early autumn and the temperature hovered in the mid-sixties. A group of co-eds walked past with backpacks slung over their shoulders and their faces illuminated with the glow from their cell phone screens.
“You think they ever look up to see the world around them?” Tommy said as he glanced at the college students.
“Much of their world happens via text message,” I said.
“So what is it you want?” Tommy said. “The afternoon rush starts soon.”
“I need information.”
“Of course you do. What kind of information?”
“What do you know about Jack Murphy's murder at the Snake Pit?” I said.
“Just what I read in the paper.”
“I doubt that,” I said. “You hear things.”
“Not as much as you think,” he said. “As you witnessed, I prefer a good hustle here in Cambridge these days.”
“So you're telling me there’s no word on the street about who killed Jack Murphy?”
“Two bruisers,” Tommy said. “They are twin brothers. Mean bastards. Heard they used to box back in the day.”
“Names?” I said.
Tommy shook his head. “That's all I know about 'em,” he said.
I had hoped Tommy could ID the two bruisers, but at least I learned they were twin brothers and former boxers. How many guys working as Boston thugs matched both those profiles? It narrowed the search. I'd take it as a small step forward. I sat back against the bench, stretched out my legs and crossed my arms over my chest.
“Don't get too comfy,” Tommy said, “I ain't staying long.”
“Right, more chess players to hustle.”
“It's an honest hustle,” Tommy said. “Cambridge cops don't bother me. Harvard cops don't bother me. People understand the deal. Friendly wagers. I put in some cash. Challenger puts in some cash. Winner walks away with all the cash.”
“Works out well if you win,” I said.
“Haven't lost yet,” Tommy said. He smiled at me. Then continued, “Care to test your skills?”
“Not today,” I said.
“Maybe make it the price for information next time,” Tommy said.
“Next time,” I said. “Today, I need whatever you have on activity around the Snake Pit and Boston College.”
“The Snake Pit and BC aren't exactly in the same zip code,” he said.
“Nope,” I said.
I admired a sharply dressed older gentleman as he strolled through Harvard Yard. He wore a three-piece suit and a bowler hat. The gentleman lightly tapped a cane on the ground as he walked.
Tommy noticed me looking at the man. He glanced over. After a moment he said, “Two hundred bucks, easy.”
“Huh?” I said.
“I'd bet my days haul that he has least two hundred bucks in his wallet. Which, by the way, he is carrying in the left inside pocket of his suit coat.”
“You can determine that from here?” I said.
"Experience, combined with the vision of a hawk," he said.
“I thought you weren’t a pick-pocket?”
Tommy didn't bother to answer. Instead he smiled broadly as he leaned back against the bench.
“So what else can you tell me?” I said.
“Several guys work the Snake Pit,” Tommy said. "But I'm only aware of one guy who is operating in Chestnut Hill and the Snake Pit."
I waited a moment. “Are you going to offer a name?” I said.
“Lately it has been a kid who attends BC,” Tommy said. “Big kid. Built like a linebacker.”
“He's a large tight end,” I said. “They say he's the next Gronk.”
“You’ve heard about him?” Tommy asked.
I nodded my head.
“Then why are you asking me?”
“I only have partial information,” I said. “Any idea who he works for?”
“Not a clue,” Tommy said.
“The name Brad Whitcomb mean anything to you?” I said.
“Should it?” Tommy said.
“I'll take that as a 'no',” I said.
“Drew, I ain't got nothing else for ya,” he said. “I only hear bits and pieces, and I don't pay that close attention.”
“Sure,” I said. “I appreciate what you could offer.”
Tommy pushed himself up from the bench. He looked at me and said, “I bet Big Lou can tell you about the two goons who put Murphy in the dumpster. You should talk to him.”
I nodded and then stood. “Thanks.”
“You bet,” Tommy said. “Don't forget, next time we play chess.”
“I'll be sure to practice,” I said.
“And bring cash,” Tommy said. “Lots of cash.”
I watched as Tommy strode along the path and out of Harvard Yard. Even though he no longer picked pockets, I figured his eyes scanned the crowd for who would have been an easy mark. Old habits die hard. As I followed the same path, I called Big Lou to tell him I was stopping by for a visit.