I followed him down the hallway. We walked past a man, his back pressed against the wall and arms crossed in front of him. Another guard opened a door, and Mr. B went inside. If one or both of these men were to come into the room behind me, then today’s date would be chiseled into the stone on the other side of the dash after my birthday on the marker in the cemetery.
The door clicked behind me instead of the hammer of a small caliber pistol that would’ve made spaghetti of my brain. Mr. B walked to the chair behind a handsome desk. The room was square and neat. There was no rug, which I interpreted as Mr. Clean, with his mop and bucket of suds, wouldn’t have had a difficult time with any blood on the floorboards. A banker’s lamp threw warm, lush lighting. A blotter, the color of the fairway at the country club, was trimmed in leather, and a heavy black rotary phone with a thick cord was within reach of his right hand. The absence of pen and pencils told me he archived numbers and other information upstairs in his Machiavellian mind.
An empty chair awaited me.
It was the principal’s office all over again, and the same rules applied, now as then. The rule was, Be careful of what you say and how you say it because it would affect the response from the power in the seat across the divide. Fingers interlaced, he considered me, and his eyes acknowledged the Bakelite telephone close to him. The receiver could double as a cudgel, and the cord was of sufficient gauge to strangle someone with.
“Do you have something for me?”
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the piece of paper from Jimmy. I held it up for him to see it. “I was waiting for a good time to give you this.”
His eyes glanced at the phone. “I received a call from Southie.”
“I’m surprised. I didn’t think he had the stones.”
“I don’t respect him. Let’s be clear on that point, Mr. Cleary.”
I didn’t need to reread The Great Gatsby to understand the green light ahead of me in the fog. Mr. B had violated the peace when he’d sent a squad after his wayward hoodlums. He was within his rights not to need permission to have their names removed from the rolls. They had crossed the line and broken the rules when they’d ventured into the drug trade. He was wrong in where he’d chosen to carry out the sentence.
“What do you think that conversation was about, Mr. Cleary?”
“I imagine the language was colorful, but the bottom line is he wants reparations. Payment for damages. Restitution. A bar in his territory was damaged, and you damaged it. A man doing his job was killed, so there’s collateral damage, and someone has to pay for it. The bottom line is there’s a bottom line, and it’s always green. How much is written on a piece of paper? I can’t tell you the amount because I haven’t looked at it. I feel uneasy reading someone else’s mail. However, whatever the bill comes to, I doubt you’ll feel soaked by it. The pressing question is whether you want to go to war with him if you decide not to pay the man.”
“Would you go to war with him?”
“Over this, no, because what is there for you to gain? You’ll have to justify a war to your people when there’s been peace. Is it a matter of annexing territory? Is South Boston worth it to you? There’s oceanfront property, but it’ll take a decade of greasing politicians, and then there’s the busybody bureaucrats for the permits and licenses to develop the real estate. A decade easy. There’s also history.”
“History?”
“You saw what the blue bloods did to Italians in the West End, and then to the businesses some of your friends owned in Scollay Square. Do you want to be the man behind pushing the Irish out of Southie?”
He blinked. I blinked. We both blinked. He spoke first.
“I have two problems, one I created and one you created.”
“I created?” I said.
This announcement surprised me, and I had lost face by responding to the charge, when I should’ve kept my mouth shut. I’d been around Tony Two-Times enough to know that in their world you don’t lose your temper at a sit-down, or speak out of turn. You don’t talk until you’re given permission. Lose your temper, you lose the argument. Lose your cool and raise your voice, you show disrespect. Lose respect, you lose your life.
“I was thinking about our conversation in the washroom. You said then that there were people in town, and I should be worried about them. Is that still true?”
“Yes.”
“I had a colleague keep an eye on you after he drove you home. He said you had company for dinner one night. True?”
“It’s true.”
“I’d like to know more about this friend of yours. He’s Lancelot, I presume.”
“He is, yes.”
“And he was in the bar in Southie?”
I told him what I believed was the truth. “He was looking for information. Can we return to this later because I think you have more important matters that require your attention?”
He pointed to the phone on the desk. “Jimmy named his price, and he wants you to deliver it to him tomorrow afternoon. Now, I’ll tell you what troubles me. Any guess as to what you think ails me?”
“I wouldn’t claim to know what bothers you. All I can say is, worry all you want about bugs in the walls and have your conversations over running faucets or wear a wetsuit in the shower with the management team, but I am not an issue.”
He rubbed his hands together. “That’s reassuring.”
“You think I would side with Jimmy, is that it?”
He did the Jesus with open arms. “I’d be lying if I say it didn’t cross my mind.”
The old mistrust between Italian and Irish in this town had now made itself known.
I sat in the chair like Michael Corleone, each hand on an armrest. “You have certain views on loyalty, but I’m not allegiant to that man, his crew, or anything he thinks he represents. We both know he has no principles. He couldn’t give a damn about the barkeep who took a bullet behind the counter.”
Mr. B’s hands moved. “But how do I know you won’t side with him?”
“And what, split the money with him? If I was worried about my daily bread, I’d stick to managing the rental properties for my Greek friend. I like my life simple.”
“Then, why does he want you to deliver the money?”
“The easy answer is he thinks you’ll ice the guy he sends to pick up the money.”
“Is there a second reason?”
“He may want me dead.”
“Kill you after you deliver the goods?”
“Why not?” I said.
“And you say I’m paranoid.”
“Think about it. There are plenty of people in this town who would like to see me dead. The one protector I had, the commissioner, has bolted. I’m without protection. Kill me, and it’d put him in good with all the bad cops and shady politicians. There are people who want revenge. You understand revenge. Your people invented the recipe.”
“Fair enough, but do you think he’ll try it?”
“I don’t know. He might.”
“Is that why you asked Tony for a nine-millimeter?”
“It’s one reason, but there’s another one, and it’s personal.”
Mr. B accepted my answer and said, “What do you propose?”
“Continue this game of Liar’s Dice everyone is playing.”
“You’re suggesting I call his bluff?”
“And others.”
“Others?” Mr. B said.
“The other dangerous people in town.”
Mr. B flinched. “The ones you mentioned in our washroom conversation?”
“Yes, but the less you know, the better.”
“And if you’re wrong?”
“I’m dead. You’ll know what to do when you get the news.”
“And what if you disappear, Mr. Cleary?”
“Jimmy needs my carcass in order to prove that I’m dead. Before I return to the topic of my friend, let’s get clear on what I need for tomorrow. I want Sal as my driver. I need someone good behind the wheel. I assume Jimmy named a place.”
“A junkyard. I’ll talk to Sal for you. Anything else?”
“It concerns my friend. When I came here tonight, one of your people took my jacket and hat. Inside my jacket is a red feather. Have the feather taped to your front door and leave the front light on.”
“A red feather?” His forehead wrinkled.
“It’ll keep you safe tonight.”
“Safe? You do know I have an army on the premises, don’t you?”
I shook my head. “It doesn’t matter, trust me. Your men are no match for someone like him. I said this before at the social club, and I’ll rephrase it again for you. You’re amateurs. He is not.”
“And you know he’s that good, how?”
“When we first met, you saw me fight the Barbarian. You saw that I could take a punch. A good part of that comes from my training as a boxer when I was a kid. The other half has to do with self-control.”
“Self-control? I don’t understand, Mr. Cleary.”
“You served in World War II, right?”
“Navy. Pacific theatre.” Mr. B raised his hand and showed me his missing pinky. “A story for another day. You served in Vietnam. In the army, correct?”
“Not the regular army. Killing people is a part of war. We both know that. The hardest part for me wasn’t killing another human being. It was killing an animal. The army learned somehow, a man will kill another man, but he’ll hesitate killing an animal unless it’s for food. The military teaches a man how to kill, but when they want to see if a soldier has that little extra something, there’s a test they’ll put him through. It’s a final exam in three parts, and you’re not given a weapon. They’ll ask you to kill a chicken first. Then it’s a rabbit. Both are easy enough. Chickens are noisy and annoying. The rabbit they give you isn’t the cute and cuddly Easter Bunny, more like a rat with big ears. It’s the goat that broke most guys. You know why?”
Mr. B shrugged. “No idea.”
“They tie the goat between two trees. In the field, when you engage the enemy, it’s simple. One of you lives or dies. The goat is different. He knows you’re there to kill him, and he has no place to hide or run. He’ll buckle against the ropes and he’ll scream. You, on the other hand, have the power of life and death. Understand now?”
Mr. B stared. “It’s the conscious choice to kill.”
“It’s the willful act to end a life, and using your bare hands. When I’d said earlier you’re amateurs, I meant no disrespect. You have your rules and your code, and you believe that keeps you sane and civilized. My friend is different. We are different. Our code, if you will, are the rules of engagement, and they’re thin as an onion’s skin. My first instinct is to kill, and ever since I came back to the world, I have chosen not to, and my friend is the same way, and he is excellent at what he does because I taught him everything he knows. Everything. Now, I will politely remind you that you inadvertently created a problem when you sent your men into that bar. My friend was there to find out who murdered his friend. When your men came into that bar, it was a matter of self-defense to him.”
“And my guy in the street?”
“In our unit, we had a rule. Leave no evidence behind.”
“And the red feather?” Mr. B asked.
“A message, from me to him. What did the Jews do before the last plague in Egypt?”
“They put blood on the doors.”
“Same principle. Put the feather on your door.” I stood up. “You owe me that story about your finger. Until then, put the feather on your door.”
A nervous smile, a first, then Mr. B said, “You really think he’s out there?”
“By day, the hunter will steal from you. If he comes at night, it’s you he wants.”