Murder in the Charlestown Bricks: A Dermot Sparhawk Crime Novel Read online

  “Selling coins takes patience, Buck. Diaz is fidgety, itching for a score.” Was I assuming too much? “Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe Diaz knows about coins.”

  “Or maybe he was using them at face value. A bag of dope is cheap these days.”

  “A drug dealer accepting coins as payment? I don’t think so.”

  “Maybe his drug dealer is a coin collector, or maybe his brother-­in-law owns a coin shop.” Buck paused. “We can speculate about Diaz all day. What’s our next move?”

  I finished my coffee and rinsed the cup in the sink.

  “I’ll canvass the stores in Charlestown and find out where Gert got the coins.”

  “I’ll call Mrs. Diaz and bring her up-to-date,” Buck said.

  I walked out of the office to Dry Dock 2 and called Cheyenne Starr, but she didn’t answer. I left a message and began to canvass on Chelsea Street, starting at the river and working my way to City Square. Most of the businesses were yuppified, or franchised, or corporatized. The cashiers, programmed like cyborgs, robotically processed orders. They were devoid of personalities, barely looking at the customers, let alone making eye contact with them. Were they even human? Would they recognize a silver dime if you handed them one?

  I stopped myself and thought: alcoholism. I had slipped into a dry drunk, painting the world in a negative light. The canvassing had gone lousy, and I was feeling sorry for myself, pouting and kvetching, wallowing in self-pity. Poor me, pour me another drink — make it a double. Selfish and angry, I walked away with my head up my ass, holding in my hand a fistful of gimme. It didn’t help that Cheyenne hadn’t called back. I went into St. Jude Thaddeus Church and sat in the first pew in front of the taber­nacle and meditated.

  7

  Bo Murray presented a serious threat. If he came at me I could handle it — maybe — but if he went after Buck, he’d eat him up. Buck was vulnerable, and guys like Bo prey on the vulnerable. I needed to protect him, and with that in mind I made two phone calls, one to my uncle Glooscap, and one to his son and my cousin Harraseeket Kid. Glooscap is my father’s half-brother, a full-blooded Micmac Indian originally from Antigonish, Nova Scotia. He is my advisor and my confidant, a trusted elder who shares his wisdom with me.

  We set a time to meet at the auto-body shop in Andrew Square. They were waiting for me in Glooscap’s office when I got there. Glooscap’s pipe, which was an appendage to his mouth, glowed orange with fiery embers. His copper face was stoic and still, as if posing for an Indianhead penny. Kid, on the other hand, was animated. He too had a coppery complexion, but instead of stoic and still, his was expressive, agitated, and chomping for action.

  I sat down and said, “I’m worried about Buck Louis.” I gave them a thumbnail of Gertrude Murray’s murder case. I told them about Victor Diaz, the accused, and Buck’s role in defending him. I told them about Bo Murray’s threat against Buck. “Buck needs protection.”

  “Buck is good with a gun,” Kid said, “as we well know.”

  “That shooting shook him,” I said. “I don’t think he’s over it yet, and I don’t think he’s comfortable carrying a gun. It took a lot out of him, killing that cop.”

  “It was self-defense,” Kid said. “The cop was crooked.”

  Glooscap blew a plume from his mouth, a smoke signal announcing he had something to say. “What does Buck think about the threat?”

  “I haven’t told him, yet,” I said. “I wanted to talk to you two first.”

  “His life may be in danger, Dermot,” Glooscap said. “You have a responsibility to tell him what is going on.”

  “I know I do.”

  We were quiet for a time, Glooscap smoking his pipe, Kid fidgeting with a ratchet, while I sat waiting to hear what they had to say.

  “I’ll talk to him about a gun,” Kid said. “I’ll convince him to keep one in his desk drawer as a precaution. Then I’ll take a few days off and watch him. If he’s in any danger, I’ll see it.”

  “Thanks, Kid,” I said.

  “I shall call Vic Lennox in Nova Scotia.” Glooscap puffed away. “Vic enjoyed the last trip he made to Boston, and he is a good scout. Vic can help Kid defend Buck.”

  “We’ll do shifts. Vic can live with me in the cellar.”

  Kid lives in my basement, by choice. He loves the sound of sump pumps gushing and boilers clicking on and water draining through pipes. He has turned the place into a subterranean hunter’s lodge, with oak paneling, deer antler mounts, a rifle cabinet, terrazzo flooring, and track lighting. He installed dehumidifiers and ventilation fans and an alarm system. It’s probably the best space in the house.

  “On another subject,” I said, thinking about Cheyenne. “I met a woman recently, a Cherokee Indian from Georgia. Her name is Cheyenne Starr.”

  “The Cherokee are good people,” Glooscap said. “And you like her?”

  I couldn’t answer, because my throat dried and closed. I lowered my head and stared at the floor. I finally managed to say yes.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Kid said. “You have it bad.”

  8

  I had a hunch about the scar tissue around Victor Diaz’s eyes, so I called the local boxing clubs and asked them if they knew him. Boxing is a dying sport, at least in Boston, and it took only three calls to find him. He trained in Lowell at a gym called D’Amico’s Boxing Club. The owner of the club, an ex-pug named Barney D’Amico, answered the phone on the first ring.

  I asked D’Amico about Victor Diaz, but he wanted to talk about himself instead. He crowed about his storied boxing career, “a dazzlin’ pugilistic odyssey.” He talked about his big bouts, “I had Bobby Chacon beat, ’til he knocked me out in the third.” He lamented his lost dream of a title shot, “I was slated to fight Arguello in Vegas, but I broke my hand in training, and things went sour gradually all at once. After that I was a spent shell.”

  It was only after I pressed him on Diaz that he grudgingly switched topics. He said that he’d been training Diaz for three years, and that he liked the kid and thought he had a promising future. I asked D’Amico if I could visit him. He said sure, come on up. I hopped onto I-93 and headed for Lowell.

  When I got there, he invited me into his office, a shabby hatch that smelled like old socks and Bengay. He wore crooked glasses held together with athletic tape, and his white hair was tightly cropped and retreating. Yellowing newspaper clippings were tacked on the walls, providing a chronology of D’Amico’s career in the ring, which dated back to the 1970s. On his desk were boxing magazines, handgrips, and a parched, dog-eared book written by A.J. Liebling.

  He lit a twig of a cigar and dropped the dead match into an ashtray. He seemed pleased to have company, and who could blame him? The gym was empty, except for the cockroaches rolling dice in the corner. I asked D’Amico about Victor Diaz. He tilted his head back and snorted smoke through a nostril — only one nostril allowed passage — and contemplated the question like an emeritus professor who had spent a lifetime teaching the Sweet Science.

  “Diaz has been AWOL for a week now, which ain’t like him. The boy’s not afraid to work.” D’Amico nodded as if something came to him. “He’s in trouble.”

  “Big trouble,” I said.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. He’s a respectful kid in his own way, not a punk.” D’Amico puffed up a cloud. “Diaz has a tremendous right hand, like a lead pipe. He can take a punch, too, and he ain’t scared of getting hit. And blood don’t bother him none, his or the other guy’s.”

  “He’s in jail for murder.”

  “What, murder?” He sat up. “No fuckin’ way. Diaz is a tough kid, but there’s no way he’s a murderer?”

  “Just so you know, I don’t think he did it,” I said. “What kind of fighter is he?”

  “Talented, tough, ready to learn.” D’Amico smoked. “Diaz was hungry for money, so he fought all the time, and he wasn’t picky, either. He’d fight
anyone I put in front of him.”

  I thought back to my visit with Diaz at the Nahua Street Jail.

  “He seemed secretive about his boxing,” I said. “When I asked him about it, he changed topics. I got the feeling he didn’t want me to know about.”

  “A lot of guys are like that,” D’Amico said. “But he was in the right profession, I can you that. He’s strong as hell and his ring smarts was gettin’ honed. He showed promise, so much promise I thought he was ready to move up in class. Maybe I rushed him too fast.”

  “Too fast?”

  “I put him in with an animal from Bridgeport, a Golden Glover with a good pro record, and the fight was down there in Connecticut. I thought Diaz could hang in there with him, you know, give him a go. And as it turned out he did hang in with him, hanged with him real good, but it was a brutal fight, a six-rounder that went to the cards.”

  “A decision.”

  “The Bridgeport guy tagged Diaz in the last round. Whammo, a straight right to the chin. Diaz got froze by that punch.”

  “Did he go down?”

  “Nope, he took it standing. The fight ended in a draw, but a draw in the other guy’s place is like a win in a neutral setting. Hometown judges, it’s the same everywhere. You practically gotta put a guy in the emergency room to get a win. I got jobbed myself five or six times. One night at the Felt Forum I fought a guy from Jersey, Newark I think, and —”

  “So the fight ended in a draw,” I said, bringing him back.

  “Yeah, a draw. It was a major step for Diaz, taking on that Bridgeport guy, but I think it shook his confidence. If anything it should have boosted it, fighting a quality opponent like that.”

  I love the language of the fight game — “lead-pipe right” “went to the cards” “got froze by that punch” “moving up in class” — it’s a language privy to few, too few.

  “Was Diaz friendly with anyone up here?” I asked. “A sparring partner? A trainer?”

  D’Amico took off his glasses and massaged his scarred eyelids.

  “I’m his trainer, his manager, and his sparring partner,” D’Amico said, with a modicum of pride. “And to answer your question, Diaz drove up here with an itty bitty flyweight named Juan, who couldn’t box for shit, but he had a car if that’s what you wanna call it.”

  “What’s Juan’s last name?”

  “Don’t remember.”

  “Do you have a photo of him?”

  “A photo of Juan?” he said. “Of course not.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “Scrawny, black hair, prison tats.” D’Amico relit his petering cigar. “He drove a shit box. I had to jump start it once.”

  “What kind of car?”

  “One with a dead battery,” he said.

  In the projects, a dead battery doesn’t narrow the field. If D’Amico said the car had a good battery, I’d know who Juan was immediately.

  “Anything else about Victor Diaz?”

  “I can’t believe Diaz got pinched for murder, but he done it to himself, no one else.” He blew a perfect smoke ring and admired it until it vanished. “You look like a pretty rugged guy. Did you fight?”

  “I played football.”

  “Well, football ain’t fighting, friend. When a fighter scores, he don’t give the ball back.”

  We talked a little longer, mostly about boxing, and when I saw an opening, I thanked him for his time and started for the door. Before I opened it, D’Amico said, “Diaz is basically a good kid. Did I tell ya he’s got a crucifix tattooed on his back. He’s no killer, get him off.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Now I had to find a flyweight named Juan.

  9

  That night I canvassed in Hayes Square, starting at Uncle Joe’s Diner, a Worcester dining car that looked like it once rolled the rails. A blue neon sign glowed in the steamy window, and the smell of fried food wafted from the ventilators. By the time I stepped inside I was hungry.

  A young couple drinking milkshakes occupied one of the booths, and a man who looked like a workhand sat at the counter with a newspaper. Sitting in another booth, counting the day’s receipts, was the owner, Joe Lally. A lean man with wispy white hair and gold-rim glasses, Joe was a daily communicant at St. Jude Thaddeus Parish. I sat across from him. Without looking up, he said, “Hey, Dermot. The meatloaf was baked fresh today.”

  “Meatloaf sounds good to me,” I said. “Coffee, too.”

  “Betsy.” Joe signaled the waitress. “Dermot wants —”

  “I heard him,” she yelled back.

  “Ladle on the gravy, Betsy.” Joe looked at me. “I made the gravy stock from veal bones this morning. We had a veal special yesterday.”

  Betsy wrote on her pad and went to the kitchen.

  “Did you hear about Gert Murray?” I asked.

  “Of course I heard.” He set aside the receipts. “It’s a shame, isn’t it, an old lady like Gert getting killed in her own home. Sometimes I wonder about the projects. The drugs, the crime, the violence, nobody looks out for anyone anymore, not like when we lived there.”

  “Those days are gone.”

  “Long gone,” Joe said. “In the old days you had to get to Mass early to get a seat. Now you have a row to yourself.”

  “Everything changes.”

  “It sure does.” He looked across Hayes Square to the bricks. “I heard she was killed for a dollar in change.”

  “Ninety-six cents, to be exact.”

  Betsy served the coffee and went back to the kitchen. When she got to the swinging doors, a large man clomped through and bumped into her, almost knocking her to the floor.

  “Sorry, Betsy,” the man said, reaching out to steady her. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, Donald.”

  “You’re always so nice to me, Betsy.” Donald walked toward us and said, “Hi Uncle Joe.”

  “Hello, Donald.” Joe turned to me and said, “I love Donald, but one of these days he’s going to kill somebody he’s so clumsy.”

  “You’re awfully good to him, Joe.”

  “Even though he’s got issues, Donald is practically part of the family.” He removed his glasses and wiped the lenses with a handkerchief. “This Diaz character, do you know him?”

  “Not really. Diaz’s mother asked Buck Louis to defend him. Buck and I are partners, so I’m looking into the case. I don’t think Diaz killed her.” The meatloaf came and I ate a forkful. “The evidence against him is weak. In fact the evidence almost proves his innocence. I want to nail the real killer, Joe. Maybe you can help me.” I showed him a photo of the stolen coins. “Gertrude Murray collected coins.”

  “I know she did.” He looked at the photo. “I saved them for her. We get a lot of coins in here, because we don’t take credit cards.” Joe pointed to the photo. “This coin here, the 1916 standing-liberty quarter, I gave it to her.”

  “Are you sure it’s the same one?”

  “Sure I’m sure, the date matches, and it’s not every day you see one of these. I saw it in a coin shop downtown. It was marked down to $40, so I bought it for her and let her find it.”

  “How did she find it?”

  “We have a routine — I should say had a routine. When Gert came in I would dump the coins on the counter, you know, the coins from the cash register, and she would sift through them. One by one she inspected each coin, and when she found the standing-liberty quarter she gasped with joy. That’s my last memory of Gert, finding the silver quarter. Can you believe she wanted me to keep it? She thought it was too valuable.”

  “Did everyone know she collected coins?”

  “I didn’t tell anyone, not in this neighborhood,” Joe said. “You might as well write ‘mug me’ on her back.”

  “You’re right about that.”

  I thanked Joe and g
ot up to leave, dropping a twenty on the table for Betsy.

  “Find the killer, Dermot. Find the bastard and drown him in the harbor.”

  10

  The next morning began dark and foggy, with the empty feeling of predawn in the air, except it wasn’t predawn. It was nine o’clock. The nightlight stayed on even after I opened the blinds, the drabness winning the day. I started a pot of coffee and the smell of it stimulated my energy. I ate toast, drank a cup black, and read both Boston dailies, filling in the crosswords and Sudoku puzzles, and reading the comics. By noontime the front had lifted and so had my frame of mind. I showered, shaved, dressed, and went to the Navy Yard to talk to Buck.

  I passed through Gate 4 at the ropewalk and kept walking toward the harbor. I spotted Vic Lennox on Pier 3, keeping an eye on our office, poised to help Buck if he needed it. Vic was doing his best to look inconspicuous, but he was clad head to toe in faded denim with brass studs and he was wearing scuffed cowboy boots, which would make him inconspicuous in Laramie, Wyoming, not Boston, Massachusetts.

  I feigned a nod to Vic, crossed First Avenue to Dry Dock 2, and went to the office. Buck, looking sharp in a tan suit and a pale blue oxford shirt, rolled out from his desk to greet me.

  “An eyewitness came forward,” Buck said. “Her name is Santa Reyes. She lives in Gertrude Murray’s building, down the hall from Gert’s apartment.”

  “I know Santa.” I sat at the table and rubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands, hoping to clear the cobwebs. “She’s a regular at the food pantry. I’m surprised she talked.”

  “There’s more,” Buck said. “New evidence came in from the forensics team. They raised a partial print in the dried blood.”

  “Was it Diaz’s?” I asked.

  “No, it wasn’t,” Buck answered. “The print isn’t on file.”

  “That’s interesting,” I said, more to myself.