Among the calls I made from pay phones was one to my lawyer, just in case. Whenever I left the house, I dialed home religiously, every half hour. Roz was staying at Margaret’s most of the time. She had strict instructions not to answer my phone when she dropped by for a change of clothes or a meal of peanut butter. I used my remote beeper to check calls received. I heard from a manufacturer of vinyl siding, and a woman doing a toothpaste survey.
From my home phone, I made no calls, with the exception of one preplanned session with Roz, stationed at a pay phone in a Jamaica Plain diner. We chatted about how pleased I was that Tom was finally coming home.
I didn’t let the Devens case totally rule my life. I ate. I slept. I played volleyball. I told myself it would all be over by Friday. Nothing would interfere with Paolina’s Saturday band concert. I had plenty of time. Instead of picking her up for our regular noon rendezvous, I was expected in the school auditorium at 7 P.M. sharp. I look forward to band concerts with mixed emotions. My ears wince, my heart smiles.
I called Mooney from Dunkin’ Donuts, after a strenuous morning at the Y. I’d intended to visit him, but I changed my mind after dueling a tough squad from the East Boston Y. Near the end of the game, I blocked a spiked ball with the heel of my palm so hard the return practically shot to the ceiling. My team made the point, but we lost. I hoped it wasn’t an omen. My hand ached.
That really doesn’t explain why I was not in a mood to confront Mooney. Let’s just say that he always had a way of punching holes in my cases when I was a cop. Besides, I like his voice on the phone. It’s low and gruff and rumbly. He’d have made a good blues singer.
I asked if the door to his office was closed.
“Nope.”
“Could you close it?”
“Now?”
“Yeah.”
“People will think I’m getting a personal phone call.”
I could picture the wide grin on his face. “You are,” I said. “Personal and business-related and important.”
I heard the receiver thump against his wooden desktop, the slam of his office door.
“What’s all this?” he asked.
“Mooney,” I said. “Would you say you still owed me a favor, or what?”
He considered it for a while. “I’d say we’re pretty even.”
“Then how’s my credit?”
“Depends.”
“Mooney, how’d you like to help your career, and give the FBI a gorgeous black eye at the same time? Would you be remotely interested?”
“I could be,” he said cautiously.
“Look, I don’t need any credit for this. I’m not saying I’d mind seeing my name in the papers. It might be good for business. But I’ll leave that up to you. What I want is cooperation.”
“What kind of cooperation, Carlotta? I can’t break the law.”
“Don’t tell me what cops can do, Moon. I know what you can do. You can make plans based on the word of a reliable informant. You can make judgment calls.”
“Go on.”
“Mooney, I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life. This will all go down by Friday, or else I’ll turn it over to you. Completely. The whole thing. You’ve got my word.”
Silence.
“I can do it without you, Mooney. I just thought you might like to be there for the finale, make the FBI look dumb.”
“What’s my end of the deal? What do I have to guarantee?”
“First, that you won’t jump the gun. Even if you decide to pass on it, you’ll give me until Friday, free and clear.”
“This Friday?”
“Make it Saturday morning. Eight A.M.”
“Is it about T.C.?”
“Sort of.”
“Would it require a lot of work?”
“I’d leave that up to you, Mooney. I trust you. You’ve got to trust me. No more Twenty Questions.”
I could hear him breathing. “Deal,” he said.
We talked.
Mooney, being Mooney and Irish to the core, could see my point. He felt a sneaking sympathy for the Old Geezers. He didn’t want to arrest a whole bunch of cops’ elderly uncles and fathers-in-law. Nor did he wish to arrest a fat black woman in a wheelchair, especially one with three hulking brothers. I admit I played fast and loose with Gloria. She would have despised my romantic version of her plight. I didn’t let that stop me. I was convincing as hell. Once I even had to lower my voice because the Dunkin’ Donuts waitress was taking an interest in my performance.
There were parts of it Mooney didn’t like. I’d expected that. He said I was relying too heavily on cops taking informants seriously. I agreed with him completely, a technique that leaves him speechless. I told him he could make it work by letting me know which officers would be likely to move fast on drug arrests, which cops were busting ass for promotion.
“This is going to be a lot of work,” he grumbled.
He agreed to get the warrants ready. He agreed to stand by. He wanted to tap my telephone.
I had to remind him that it was already bugged.
“I’ll call you,” I said. “Don’t call me.”
I’ve always wanted to say that.
He was still blitzing questions when I bade him a firm good-bye, and hung up.
Rude, I know. But Mooney’s never satisfied.