“As promised,” I said, and placed it on his desk.
He picked it up and studied the printing on the Spanish cedar.
“Cuban?” he said.
“So it would appear.”
“Jesucristo! These are more illegal than marijuana.”
“But neither should be.”
“You know I could arrest you for this.”
“But you’re not going to.”
“Guess not, but I can’t accept them.”
“Of course you can’t.”
“So why did you bring them?”
“So you could confiscate them in the name of the law.”
“I see.”
“Perhaps you should investigate to determine whether they are genuine,” I said. “There are a lot of counterfeit Cubans on the black market, you know.”
“And I would do that how?”
“By smoking a few. Maybe twenty-four of them, just to be sure.”
“There are twenty-five in the box, Mulligan.”
“Yes, but you are going to ask me to smoke one, too, so that you can avail yourself of my expert opinion.”
He laughed at that.
“I won’t tell,” I said. “I promise.”
The chief grinned, pried open the box, and removed two sticks. I tossed him my cutter. He clipped the ends, stuck one in his jaw, and handed me the other. I bent to give him a light and then set fire to mine.
“Now this,” he said, “is a damn fine smoke.”
“The best,” I said. “So what have you got?”
“When we cut Alfano’s body out of the wreckage, we discovered something interesting in the pocket of his suit jacket.”
“Oh?”
“Have a look,” he said, and slid an unsealed letter-size envelope across the desk. “Don’t worry about handling it. It’s already been examined for prints.”
“And?”
“Just one partial that belonged to Alfano.”
I picked it up and checked it over. Except for a couple of dried blood streaks, both sides were blank. Inside was a single sheet of paper. On it was a typewritten list of five names. Nothing more.
“Recognize them?” he asked.
“Of course I do. Anyone else seen this?”
“Just the state police. I figured they should know.”
“Who did you talk to there?”
“Captain Parisi.”
“Good man,” I said. “What do the two of you think it means?”
“What do you think it means?”
“It’s a Christmas list,” I said.
“That’s our guess. These five upstanding public servants were about to come into some dirty money.”
9
“Let’s just be friends” used to be my least-favorite sentence in the English language, but it was no longer a match for “The managing editor would like a word.” Not even close. As I punched the clock on Wednesday morning, the receptionist said it again.
I strode into the aquarium and found Twisdale hunched over his computer. His scowl, his furrowed brow, and the coffee stain on his yellow silk tie told me his day had not gotten off to a smashing start.
“Top o’ the mornin’, Chuckie-boy.”
The muscles in his jaw clenched, but he decided to let it pass.
“Have you perused The Ocean State Rag this morning?” he asked.
“Not yet.”
“Have a look,” he said, swiveling the computer screen toward me.
I bent down, looked at the story on the screen, and said, “Aw, shit.”
“I told you not to let us get beat on this. You and your goddamned ethics.”
“They aren’t all bad,” I said. “That’s why they’re called ethics. You should get some for yourself one of these days.”
“I ought to suspend you for this.”
“Why don’t you?”
“I would if I could spare you.”
“I wonder how Mason got hold of this,” I said.
“I’ve been wondering the same thing. Did you tip him off to make me look bad?”
“I can’t believe you asked me that.”
“Well, did you?”
“I don’t need to make you look bad, Chuckie. You manage that all by yourself.”
“Fuck you. We gotta have something on this in tomorrow’s paper, so get cracking.”
I turned my back on him and stalked out.
“Ocean State Rag, Mason speaking.”
“Great story this morning, buddy. How the hell did you dig it up?”
“Come on, Mulligan. You know better than to ask that.”
“How about a hint?”
“You got assigned to chase it, didn’t you?” he said.
“I did, and I’m nowhere. All my statehouse sources have clammed up.”
“Even Fiona?”
“Even her.”
“Don’t take this wrong, but tough shit.”
“One more nail in the coffin, huh?”
“I’m counting on it,” he said. “When the paper goes belly-up, I’ll be the only game in town.”
“Good plan.”
“Know what people are calling The Dispatch these days?”
“What?”
“The Dispatched.”
“As in dead,” I said.
“You got it. Most mornings, there’s not a damned thing in it worth reading. Finally ready to leave the dark side and come work for me?”
“You still paying slave wages?”
“For now,” he said, “but in a year or two that’s gonna change. You should get in on the ground floor.”
“I’m still thinking about it.”
“Well, the offer is always open.”
“Thanks,” I said. “How’s your dad doing?”
“Better. He was on Zoloft for a while, and it helped. He and my mother took the Albacore out of Newport last week, and they’re cruising somewhere off Bimini right now. Father still thinks The Dispatch was his life. Mother is showing him that it isn’t.”
“Good for her,” I said.
I clicked off just as Chuckie stepped out of his office and strutted to the cubicle where Kate Frieden, the kid city hall reporter, was tapping on her keyboard. He puffed out his chest and loomed over her. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but from the pained look on her face it was obvious he was thrashing her publicly. Lomax had never done anything like that. I thought about butting in, but that would have done her more harm than good. Instead, I tugged on my jean jacket and headed for the elevator.
“Mulligan?” Chuckie shouted. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
“To find some news,” I shouted back. “There isn’t any in the office. I’ve looked.”
The state flag that flies atop the Rhode Island statehouse sports a golden anchor on a field of white. The symbol is surrounded by thirteen stars representing the original thirteen colonies. Below them is the state’s motto, “Hope.” There is no evidence that the flag’s designer intended to be ironic.
Inside, the state Senate’s Health, Education, and Welfare Committee was debating a bill to make fried calamari the official state appetizer. Its sponsor, the honorable senator from Johnston, was getting a grilling.
“The whole idea is absurd,” the senator from Newport snapped. “How could anything but oysters Rockefeller be considered seriously?” His colleague from Cranston shouted him down, extolling the undeniable virtues of fried mozzarella.
I leaned against the back wall, marveling at our tax dollars at work but stunned that nobody had the political courage to stand up for chicken wings.
At eleven A.M., the committee took a ten-minute break, and I followed the majority leader, Ray Tomasso, into the men’s room. I waited until he zipped up and washed his hands, then held my cell phone up to his face. He ignored it and brushed past me.
“How well do you know this guy?” I asked his Armani-draped back.
“Never seen him before.”
“Maybe so,” I said, “but how can you be sure without looking at the picture?”
He hesitated, then turned back and took the cell from my hand. I studied his face as he examined the photo, but it didn’t betray anything.