There was no parking lot for York’s, the cars just left half on the street, half on the sidewalk. Outside, the windows were diamond-shaped, too small to crawl through and covered by chicken-wire mesh in a hopeful attempt to block rocks. A short-circuiting neon beer sign hung inside the glass of one, the first and last letters of the brewer’s name cut off by the narrowness of the window itself.
The front door had three of the diamond windows. I looked inside before opening it. Nearly full, and mine would be the only jacket and tie. I went in anyway.
The conversation died a bit as I moved through the crowd to the bar, then picked up again when I signaled the keep for a beer. About forty, squat and balding, he brought a draft of the brand in the window. Reaching under the counter with his free hand, he dealt a coaster to land like a playing card just in front of my elbows, then raised two fingers in a victory sign as he set the mug on the coaster. I laid a ten on the bar, and he went to the register with it, coming hack with a five and three ones. As he arranged the change near my glass, I showed him the photo from Father Riordan’s desk.
The keep slung a towel over his right shoulder. “You a cop?”
“Private. Just want to know if you’ve seen either of these men in here.”
“The big one, yeah. Wouldn’t have thought he was a priest, though.”
“Why not?”
“He come through the door in a ski sweater, the other with him wearing this nice navy blazer. I was afraid they might draw a little action.”
“For what?”
“For dressing that way. The boys don’t like yuppies slumming around their watering hole.”
“Like me in this suit.”
“Yeah, and you could feel the boys reacting, couldn’t you?”
“But not starting anything.”
“You look like a cop. And besides, it’s early yet.”
“What time was it when these two were in here?”
“Early Monday night, last week. I remember account of they kept a table for the football game, then left in the fourth quarter. The other guy got kind of stiff, but the big guy watching the tube, I had the feeling he played somewhere.”
“He did. Can you describe the other guy?”
“More like a priest than your friend there, I didn’t know better.”
“Know better?”
“The other guy’s named Tuglio. Tall and skinny, comes in here from time to time. Kind of ‘researching’ us, I always thought. But he don’t usually get slammed, and he does a good job for the kids over to St. D’s, so I try and watch out for him.”
“With the clientele.”
“Yeah. Only one look at your big guy there, and I didn’t see anybody messing with them.”
“Because of the big guy’s size.”
“And the attitude, you know? Your priest there, he just carried himself right. A guy with a hard laugh, kind of on edge.”
“On edge?”
“Yeah, like he was excited about something, ready to play.” The keep looked at me. “Kind of guy could handle himself, he had to.”
I told the keep I appreciated his time and left the change on the bar.
“Thank you, June.”
The woman smiled and closed the door behind me as the man at the desk sneezed into a handkerchief. “Sorry, this cold. Believe me, you don’t want to shake hands, but Anthony Tuglio.”
“John Cuddy, Mr. Tuglio.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I’m looking into the death of Father Frank Riordan.”
Tuglio’s features drained of color the way his sister’s had of animation. Tall and skinny like the bartender had said, with black, fine hair combed across. His shirt looked pressed and his tie was snugged up to the collar button despite his cold. A tweed sports jacket hung from a hook over files stacked on a low cabinet.
Tuglio said, “Look, I don’t want to be rude.” Another pass with the handkerchief. “But your people have already gone through this place like Sherman’s army, assuming that one of my—”
“Not to interrupt, but I’m a private investigator, not a cop. Monsignor McNulty’s asked me to look into this for him.”
Tuglio seemed to process that. “Why?”
“He’s concerned that the police may have moved Father Riordan’s case to the back burner.”
A shake of the head, his sister’s mannerisms evident in him. “A priest is killed, and even that goes to the ‘back burner.’ ” Tuglio’s eyes seemed to wander. “My God.”
“Mr. Tuglio?”
He came back into focus. “Yes?”
“What can you tell me about Father Riordan?”
“Frank? Salt of the earth, a prince of the church. We’re not part of the archdiocese here at the House, but we get some funding and a lot of honorable mentions. Well, Frank Riordan put his time where his mouth was. Organized a basketball tournament for the boys, always interested in how they were doing in school. And we weren’t even in his parish.”
“I understand you saw him the night before he died?”
His sister’s shy smile. “Yes. We played telephone tag during the day, and when we finally connected, he said he wanted to have a drink, talk about something.”
“What was it?”
“I never really found out. This cold must have been sneaking up on me, because when he suggested York’s — it’s a tavern just down the street? — I said sure. Well, it’s kind of a rough place, but Frank didn’t seem to mind. We sat and watched the Monday night game and must have talked.”
“Must have?”
“Well, like I said, this cold was creeping up on me, I guess, because the beer really hit me. I remember Frank saying something about the prior weekend; what, I couldn’t tell you.”
“When did you leave York’s?”
“I’m not sure. I was so stiff, Frank had to drive me home.”
“You live here at St. Damian’s?”
“No. Over in West Roxbury. I usually leave my car at the apartment and take a bus to work.”
“So Father Riordan drove you home in his car.”
“Correct.”
“Could he have gone somewhere else after that?”
Tuglio thought about it. “I’d say not. I remember the game going to the fourth quarter at York’s, so it would have been pretty late.”
I took out the keys. “This number mean anything to you?”
Tuglio read it aloud. “No. No exchange I’ve ever heard of.”
“But a phone number.”
“What?”
“You figure it’s a phone number.”
“Written that way? What else could it be?”
Good point. “When was this basketball tournament?”
“That Saturday.”
“Two days before you had drinks with him at Yorks.”
“Yes. The health club woman out there — a Ms. Steinberg? — was very helpful, but said it had to be before the real season started, when her members were still interested more in outdoor tennis and televised football.”
“Can I speak to some of the boys who were in the tournament?”
Tuglio gave me a steady look. “Mr. Cuddy, Frank’s death has already upset them badly, and the police only made matters that much worse.”
“It might help me.”
He looked down. “All right, but please, be gentle with them.”
“Do my best.”
Tuglio nodded before sneezing again into the handkerchief.
4.
“Yo, man, how’s it going?”
DeVonne was a solid black kid, maybe thirteen, with the long, graceful arm muscles of an all-around athlete hanging loosely from the sleeves of a rapper’s T-shirt. DeVonne also wore an Oakland Raiders cap, reversed but slightly cockeyed, black vinyl warm-up pants, and scuffed Air Jordans. We sat across from each other in a small room at St. Damian’s that was just a cut above a police station interrogation cell.