As soon as I turned the corner, out of sight of both the hookers and the house on Norfolk Street, I broke into a run and almost killed myself racing to the Toyota in those damn sandals. I kicked them off as soon as I sat down. Then I gunned the motor and took off.
Damn. Damn. Damn. I’d never catch Sean Boyle. If I’d had my cab, the cab I should have picked up two hours ago, I could have flipped on the radio, called Gloria, and found out where Boyle was heading. I screeched a turn, and told myself to cool it. I didn’t want to get picked up by the cops; not wearing this classy outfit, I didn’t.
I saw a cab’s roof lights up ahead, and jammed the accelerator to the floor. It was an innocent Red Cab, idling along, no fare in the backseat.
I braked, hesitated, and decided to head for Green & White. I doubted Gloria would be in a helpful mood, what with my tardiness, but I wasn’t about to give up following any guy with a gym bag who took G&W cabs and hung out with scum like Wispy Beard. At the first traffic light, the guy next to me honked, raced his motor, and yelled something out the window. I yanked tissues out of my purse, and managed to smear most of the lipstick off my face. At the second light, I untied the rope around my waist and pulled my sweater down to its full length. I groped in the backseat for my pants, with no luck.
Instead of taking the shortcut, I decided to scoot down Harvard Street. It’s not far out of the way, and I wanted to check the Rebellion. John Flaherty had driven his gym bag there like a homing pigeon. Why not Sean Boyle?
Boyle’s cab was in the parking lot.
I shot right past, sure my eyes must be deceiving me. Some of the same cabs I’d noted the night before were parked on the street. The bar’s neon sign was dead black tubing. The front door was barred, and a steel-mesh curtain shuttered the windows, but something was going on inside. Just like last night. I glanced in my rearview mirror, hoping Mooney hadn’t sicced more cops on me. I reviewed last night’s thoughts: What next? Wait? Take pictures? Risk entering the bar?
I parked illegally around the corner from the lot. I made up my mind. I couldn’t find my jeans, so I wriggled into my gym shorts. They didn’t show under the long sweater, but they made me feel better. So did my bra. I found both my sneakers, but only one sock. I tossed it into the backseat, and laced my shoes onto bare feet.
I have broken into cars before. I have used everything from bent wire coat hangers to your latest high-tech wonder tools, courtesy of a car thief I once arrested, a man eager to prove his superiority to your average car-stealing punk. If he hadn’t been absolutely wasted on dope—and hadn’t thought himself one of the hunky ladykillers of the world—I doubt he’d have shown off his prize collection of boosters with such pride of ownership. He’s doing five at Concord Reformatory, which should curb his desire to impress girls.
Breaking into Sean Boyle’s cab was not without challenge. The parking lot was brightly lit, and Harvard Street’s a main drag, patrolled by many a police cruiser. Since I hadn’t been able to watch last night’s gathering of the Gaelic Brotherhood, I had no idea how long tonight’s meeting might last. An adrenaline spurt propelled me to the cab faster than my intended casual stroll.
Sean Boyle hadn’t bothered to lock the cab, in direct disregard of Gloria’s oft-repeated warning. He hadn’t been dumb enough to leave the keys in the ignition, which was too bad because “stealing” the cab and searching it at my leisure seemed like a fine idea. I got inside, and quietly pulled the door shut. No need to advertise by leaving the domelight glowing.
I reached under the front seat and found a handful of dirty leaves, got awkwardly down on all fours, and peered under the seat. The rough carpeting scratched my cheek. It smelled of stale cigar ashes and dried mud. I stuck my hands into the cushion cracks and got an assortment of small change, which I pocketed. The dash compartment was locked. I never lock my cab’s dash compartment.
Now I can open most locks. Give me time and decent lighting, and I can do the job. It’s one of those small hand-coordination things I do well, like picking the guitar. Time was the problem. It seemed like I’d been in cab 863 long enough for Boyle to drink his weight in Guinness. My hands were sweating.
I inhaled deeply, hauled myself up onto the passenger seat, and stuffed my handbag between my legs. I fished out my flashlight on the first plunge, scrounged around for eternity before I located my leather case of metal odds and ends. I jammed the flashlight under my right thigh, aiming its narrow beam as close to the lock as I could manage.
The adrenaline was really pumping now. Slow and easy, I muttered to myself. You can’t force a lock. You have to tease it, gentle it along until it’s good and ready. Mooney used to make a lot of pointed remarks about my lock-picking skills, but I wish he could have seen me do that lock. If I can’t make it as a private investigator, I can always burgle.
I jumped when the light inside the dash compartment lit up. It must have been all of five watts, but it seemed like a wailing burglar alarm. My heart quit leaping around when I saw the package.
It was a four-by-six-by-two box, wrapped in brown mailing paper. No address. Instead of string or tape, it was sealed with ornate green wax seals, initialed GBA. I hefted it. Light. I shook it. Nothing. I smelled it. Not a clue. I figured a gym bag could hold maybe thirty boxes.
I couldn’t open the box because of the damn seals, one on each end, two across the main seam of the brown paper. I could steal it, but Boyle would be sure to notice. Not only that, I could see myself explaining to Mooney how I’d come by the damn thing, hear him reciting rules of evidence. Reluctantly, I put it back in the dash compartment, took pictures, hoping the film was fast enough for the available light.
While taking photos, I noticed another item in the dash compartment, a whitish rectangle half hidden under a map of the city. It was a postcard from Ireland, a landscape of green hills and contented sheep. It was signed “Gene.”
That puzzled me, so I stole it. I figure people misplace postcards all the time.