“I don’t disagree,” Finn said. “We’re still shit outta luck with no place to go.”
“Murphy definitely isn’t going to be of any help at this point.”
“Clearly not.” Finn blew out a long breath as the lines of Southie’s row houses flashed by, each corner dividing one block from the next with identical pizza parlors, pubs, and liquor stores. “Sounds like he went out in a bad way.”
“Unlike all those good ways to go out? He played the game. He had it coming.”
“Maybe. I knew him. He wasn’t all bad.”
“Right. Hitler liked dogs and kids. I’m still not gonna shed any tears for him.”
The scenes kept rolling by, and as they passed a bodega on West Broadway, Finn spotted three young Irish-looking men tumbling loudly out the door, slapping each other on the back, laughing. They wore jeans and sweatshirts, and they pulled out cigarettes in unison. Construction workers, Finn thought, on their way to the work site, a little late for the job but without any real care in the world. Or boyos, back from a night of mischief, stopping off for a quick bacon-and-egg sandwich before heading back to their apartments to sleep for the first time in days. There was no way to tell the difference from the driver’s seat of Finn’s car.
“Coulda been me,” Finn said. “I was in the game.”
“You were a kid,” Kozlowski said, waving his hand. “Besides, you got out.”
“I got lucky.”
“That’s not luck. Not in this world.”
“A lot of it’s luck. I think about the people I ran with; the stuff we did. Then I think about what I do now. I’m not sure there’s a difference in the end.”
“There’s a world of difference.”
“Is there?”
Kozlowski looked at him and shook his head. “Goddamned Irish. Angst-ridden to the core, every last one of you. Why the hell is that?”
“The Irish are cursed with brains. You’re Polish, you wouldn’t understand.”
“Maybe not. So, what now?”
Finn shrugged. “I guess I’ll drop you off at the office and head over to Nashua Street to see Devon. Maybe there’s someone else who can give us some information.”
“Sounds good.”
Neither of them spoke for a while. Then Kozlowski said, “You’re gonna pay for the Polish crack. You know that, right?”
Finn smiled. “I figured. I couldn’t resist.”
Chapter Eight
“So, are you, like, dating that guy?”
Sally’s elbows were on the dented metal table, a fried-egg-and-bacon sandwich hanging from her fingers. As Lissa suspected, Finn hadn’t fed the girl any breakfast. There was a diner near the office, and still almost an hour before Sally had to be at school.
“Which guy?” Lissa asked, sipping her coffee, feigning ignorance.
“The guy you kissed. The guy with the fucked-up face.”
“You shouldn’t swear.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m buying you breakfast.”
“Everybody swears.”
“Not at breakfast.”
Sally took a huge bite of her sandwich and yolk dripped down her chin, splattering on the table. She didn’t seem to notice. “So, are you dating him?” Her mouth was full and more yolk trickled down her face.
Lissa pulled a napkin from the dispenser on the table next to the ketchup bottle and put it on the table in front of Sally. The girl picked up the napkin and moved it over next to her plate, careful to keep it as far away as possible from both the egg on the table and the egg on her face. “That’s a personal question,” Lissa said.
“Not really,” Sally argued. “If I asked you when was the last time you guys had sex, or what he was like in bed, that would be a personal question. All I asked was whether or not you were dating.”
Lissa took another napkin from the dispenser and reached over toward Sally, moving the girl’s plate so that she could mop up the egg on the table. She was tempted to go after the girl’s face, but thought better of it. “Are you sure you’re only fourteen?”
“Half the girls in school are pregnant,” Sally said. “It’s not like I don’t know about sex. You want to ask me anything?” She looked up at Lissa through her uneven, razor-cut bangs, a challenge in her eyes.
“Yeah,” Lissa said. “I’m dating him.”
The girl kept looking at her, as if deciding whether to believe her. Finally she lowered her eyes to her sandwich and took another bite. “Cool.”
“So, how long have you lived with your father?” Lissa changed the subject.
“A year,” Sally replied. “Maybe a little less. My mom split. Couldn’t handle the pressure anymore.”
“That must have been hard.”
Sally shrugged. “I don’t know why she waited so long. I mean, why bother putting up with the first thirteen years if she wasn’t going to stick it out, you know? It’s like she waited around for long enough to see what I turned out like, and then took off when she didn’t like what she saw. Pretty fucked up, huh?”
Lissa nodded. “It’s not as unusual as you think, though. And you seem smart enough to know that it had nothing to do with you.”
“Did your parents take off, too?” The look in the girl’s eyes resembled hope.
“Not officially. They didn’t need to. They ignored me instead.”
“That’s like Devon -my father. He lets me stay with him, but that’s about it. He can’t seem to really figure out the whole dad thing, y’know?”
“Do you have any aunts or uncles-grandparents, maybe?” Lissa asked.
“Nope. It’s just the nuclear family for me. As in meltdown.”
Lissa stared at her coffee. “So,” she began carefully, “if your dad ends up going away for some amount of time, do you know where you’ll stay?”
The girl attacked what was left of her sandwich. “Not really. I’ll figure out something, though. I’ve been getting by more or less on my own for a while now.”
She shoveled the last of the yellow-stained English muffin into her mouth. Lissa tried to think of something to say, but nothing came to her. She opened her mouth and took a breath, but no sound came out. She went to try again and Sally looked up at her. For a moment the air between them was charged with expectation, and then the moment was over. Sally picked up the napkin and wiped her chin. “It’s getting late,” she said. “I gotta get to school.”
“Murphy’s dead.”
Finn delivered the news to Devon as soon as he was alone with him inside the tiny visiting room at the Nashua Street Jail.
“Dead?” Devon seemed shocked, and Finn could read nothing from his reaction. “How? When?”
“Murdered. At the Body Shop, looks like on Saturday night. Ugly stuff, too. He was beaten beyond recognition from what they say. Then shot in the head.”
Devon hadn’t even had time to sit. Now he slid slowly into the tiny chair in front of Finn. “Jesus,” he said. He rubbed a hand across his face. “Do they know who did it?”
Finn shook his head. “If they do, the cops aren’t sharing. Not yet, at least.”
“No, I guess they wouldn’t, would they.”
“ Devon, I need to know if this has anything to do with your case.”
“Are you asking if I killed him?”
“Not really. I just don’t like surprises.”
Finn would have expected Devon to be offended or defensive. He wasn’t, though. He just sat there, impassive, his eyes focused on some imaginary point in the distance. “How could I have anything to do with it?” he asked at last. “He’d just given me a job to do. Why would I?”
“He’d just given you a job that landed you in here.”
Devon shook his head. “That wasn’t his fault.”
“So you’ve told me,” Finn said. “It all seems a little coincidental, though-you get busted and send me out to talk to Murphy, and now Murphy’s dead.”