JJ Foley’s is a longtime Boston cop bar on Berkeley Street, one of those magical buckets of blood that used to exist in the shadow of the elevated Orange Line, which ran practically on top of it, blocking any hint of sunlight that might happen to stray down to street level. It was also a vampire bar. While all the surrounding shops were shuttered and closed, the industrial neighborhood on the outer edge of the South End neglected and falling into decay and disrepair, Foley’s stayed the same.
A long L-shaped bar was there to greet you as you walked in the door under street signs written in Gaelic. The corners were dark enough to disappear into if the only solace and company you needed was in the form of a shot glass or a pint of Guinness.
Was the proprietor Jerry Foley prescient? A Real Estate Whisperer? Master of the neighborhood reversal? Or did he simply decide that while the world spun outside, he would just keep doing what he did best, offering a warm home away from home for the cops, firemen, and municipal workers who toiled in the surrounding environs?
My father frequented Foley’s practically his entire life and had made it into a picture or two on the walls to prove it. It’s a wonderful thing to drink where your father once drank. I also happened to be arrested inside of Foley’s once, got cuffed at the bar, kept drinking and still almost got laid. Top that if you can.
Foley’s was also the place Sam and I had long ago arranged as a drop site in case he ever got jammed up, a likely occurrence had he not sold his fledgling hallucinogenic business and all the recipes to Cedrick Overstreet and Otis Byrd, Darryl’s lieutenants, who were holding down his spots until Darryl served his sentence at MCI Concord.
And anyhow, it was always good to see Jerry working, a rare sight now that his sons had taken over and added a restaurant in a second room adjoining the bar; even Foley’s wasn’t immune to change as the neighborhood morphed into a monied playground.
“Well, if my eyes don’t deceive me,” Jerry exclaims as I take one of the few remaining open seats at the bar. The place is packed.
“Jerry, how are ya?” I say.
“Grateful as always.” Jerry slaps a white rag over his shoulder. “Why has it been so long, Zesty? We’ve missed you around these parts.”
“You’re too upscale for me, Jerry. Look at all these people. The only time I’ve seen your place this crowded there was a wake going on. Somebody die?”
“Not to my knowledge. Blame my boys. The ambition of youth.” Jerry shrugs an elaborate apology. “I did all I could to steer them away from working the stick, you know that.”
Indeed I did. All four of Jerry’s boys went off to college. Three of them came back to work the bar. One went into the priesthood. You don’t get much more Irish than that.
“The world was their oyster. And what do they do? Restaurateurs.” Jerry enunciates the word with mock disdain. “And you? How’s business?”
“Hanging in there.”
“And your da?”
“The same.” Jerry pours me a Guinness and two shots of Jameson without my having to ask.
“Speaking of change.” Jerry directs my attention to a handful of pictures hanging above the ancient key-punch register, in the center a photograph of my father in his youth, drinking with Kevin White and Barney Frank. The last time I’d seen the photo it was yellowing at the borders, the corners curling toward the glass frame. When the restaurant construction was in full swing, the space where the picture once hung was blank and I’d assumed it was gone forever. But instead, it had been reframed and given a spot of prominence. I could now look across the bar into my father’s smiling face.
“You do that?” I pretend to have something in my eye, pull at the short sleeve of my shirt to dab at it.
“My boys. Hardheaded, but respectful.” Jerry lifts the shots and hands me one and we clink glasses. “To your da. May the road rise to meet him.”
“To your sons.” We throw the drinks down.
It’s about twenty minutes before Jerry pays me any attention again, returning with a small manila envelope with my name on it, which he places in front of me. Not an ounce of curiosity plays on his face.
“How long have you had this?” I ask him.
“Two weeks.”
“You could have called.”
“I could have also given it to Zero,” Jerry replies. “Would you have preferred that?”
“He’s been in?”
“Sure. Him and the Rabbi. I have to say, we don’t get many rabbis in here. Why do you think that is, Zesty?”
I make an exaggerated show of looking around me, the pictures of cops and priests and ballplayers and firemen and politicians. Gerry Adams and Sinn Féin. Irish street signs. Irish politicians. Shamrock Heaven.
“You got me,” I said. “You carry Manischewitz?”
“No.”
“Well then, mystery solved.” I open the envelope and shake a thumb drive onto the bar. Written on the black plastic casing in Wite-Out are the letters A.T.
Anitra Tehran?
If it is, why hadn’t Sam just sent it directly to the reporter? I don’t have a clue, but if Sam’s skipped town, I’m sure he has his reasons and I’m assuming those reasons are probably on this drive. I drink the Guinness. Jerry refills my shot glass and I drink that, too.
Sam’s a sly bastard because he knows that if there’s one thing I can always be counted on to do it’s make the delivery come hell or bong water, and he also knows I consider whatever I might be delivering or why none of my business. I slip the drive back into the envelope and the envelope into my pack and finish my beer as two teams, neither of which is the Red Sox, play some fundamental baseball: the batter dropping a nifty bunt down the third base line, moving the runner to second; the infield playing the wheel, everybody shifting over to cover a base; even the outfielders twitching in case they have to back up an errant throw.
“That’s what happens when they don’t take steroids anymore,” says the guy to my right, fresh off a buzz cut, silver stubble tapered to the back of his neck. He smells like he’s been marinating in a vat of Aqua Velva. A detective’s badge is pinned to his belt.
“You mean boring baseball?” says his partner, a pretty brunette whom I haven’t seen since she was hammered at Foley’s on the very night I’d been arrested at the bar. She’s changed her hair since then, had it straightened.
“Fundamentals,” Aqua Velva replies. “Like their daddies taught them.”
I’m pretty sure she doesn’t recognize me. I spare her the embarrassment of telling her that her lips had tasted like strawberries.
“I didn’t realize Zero was so religious,” Jerry says to me as I cup my hand over my glass so he doesn’t pour me a third shot.
“The Rabbi works at Zen Moving. Between congregations,” I explain, echoing the Rabbi’s words.
“Yet still imparting wisdom.” Jerry swipes at the bar in front of me even though it’s clean enough to lay out a body and perform surgery.
“How’s that?”
“The two of them, for hours, nothing but talk and hand signals. Rabbi Eleazar says this and Rabbi Akiva says that. Zero says this, the Rabbi counters with that. Strangest pair to walk through these doors in quite some time. Though to be honest, most of it was depressing.”
“Why?”
“Well, I’m not a learned man, Zesty, but if there’s one thing we Irish do well, it’s death.”
“You mean the wake?”
“Indeed. A proper farewell. Eat, drink, share stories, make certain the deceased is deceased.” Jerry winks. “Drink some more, celebrate the life that was. If done right, it’s a party, laughter, tears, the works.” Jerry leans his elbows on the bar. “Did you know that the wake actually came about off the Jewish custom of sitting shiva?”
“I did not know that. So you take a Jew, add whiskey, and you get an Irishman?”
“Precisely! Some of the customs are still shared, the stopping of the clock at the time of death, the covering of the mirrors. But your seven days of sitting shiva last too long, don’t you think?”
“You’re suggesting the Jews condense to the Irish version?”
Jerry grimaces. “I’m not suggesting anything, just noting the comparison. And the Rabbi informed me your duties don’t end there. A year you’re supposed to grieve? It sounds exhausting.”
“You mean the Kaddish.”
“Ah, so you’ve talked to the Rabbi about this?”
“No. In fact, I just met him for the first time tonight.” Jerry contemplates that fact in silence. “I overheard him teaching Zero the prayer at my dad’s place.”
“Where he’s looking after your da, Zero tells me.”
“So it seems.” Again, I’m out of the loop, last to know. “Is there anything else I should fuckin’ know about, Jerry?” I say, the two cops turning their heads to me. I didn’t mean to speak so sharply, but it’s too late to cram the words back into my face.
“There a problem, Jerry?” the brunette says.
“This is a private conversation, do you mind?” I look her in her eyes.
She ignores me. “Jerry?”
“Your lips taste like strawberries,” I say to her.
“Excuse me?”
“I said your—”
“Everything’s fine, Officer McKim.” Jerry makes like a matador, waving the bar rag in front of my eyes. On the television, the batter lines a single to center, the crowd roaring as the runner cuts sharply around third and slides home on a close play at the plate.
“How’s that for boring?” Aqua Velva slaps the bar, challenging his partner.
“That’s because the catchers don’t block the plate anymore. The whole fuckin’ game’s gone soft.” She throws back the last of her drink. Rifles her shot glass loudly on the bar. “Bunch of fuckin’ pussies. And by the way, Zesty, that’s your name, right?” McKim gets way up in my face, forcing me to lean away from her hot breath. “It was cherries, smart guy. Cherries. Learn your fuckin’ fruits.” She winks at me, not a trace of embarrassment in her eyes.
I’m not quick enough to catch her number as she sashays out the door.