“Well?”
“Lester didn’t have his best stuff tonight, but the bullpen was great.”
“Enough already! Tell me what happened to you.”
So I did. I tried to put a good face on it, but it was no use. I’d been beaten up by a pygmy.
When I finished my sad tale, Veronica struggled to suppress a giggle.
“I thought you were going to kick his ass.”
“I was mistaken.”
Then she glanced at the broken door and furrowed her brow.
“Think he’ll come back again?”
“He won’t. He’s made his point. Besides, the manhole-covers story is running tomorrow, so he’s got nothing to gain by a return visit.”
Veronica cradled my face in her hands and touched her lips to my forehead, each cheek, my chin. I reached to pull her to me and yelped again.
“Maybe you could get on top,” I said. I’m nothing if not resourceful.
“Maybe we should give it a rest for a few days.”
A few days?
I swallowed another Oxycodone-Killian’s cocktail and chased it with Maalox. I looked at Veronica and wondered how I’d ever ended up with a woman that beautiful. I was still thinking about that when the drug kicked in and I nodded off.
In the morning, I woke to the sound of Veronica banging around in the kitchen. When she heard me turn on CNN, she came in with the paper and a tray laden with scrambled eggs, bacon, orange juice, and coffee. I used the juice to wash down a couple of painkillers, but they didn’t work as well without the beer chaser.
Mason’s story about the manhole covers was splashed across page one. There was no fire news. There hadn’t been any fires since Hell Night.
“Why do you think that is?” Veronica said.
“There are sixty-two pissed-off DiMaggios patrolling the streets now, looking to crack a head or two. Half the population of Mount Hope is popping NoDoz and lying in wait with firearms and nervous trigger fingers. Maybe our arsonist likes living even more than he likes burning things down.”
“Why doesn’t he just move on to another neighborhood?”
“He seems to have a special interest in Mount Hope.”
“Those lawyers you asked me about the other day? What was that all about?”
“Just some names I happened to run across.”
“They lead you anywhere?”
“A dead end,” I lied. Given what had happened to Gloria and to Cheryl Scibelli, the less Veronica knew, the better.
That afternoon, Veronica curled up beside me with another book by that sexy poet she’d discovered. I opened a New Yorker magazine she’d brought for me to pass the time. Seymour Hersh was at it again, exposing more details about the mishandling of the war in Iraq.
I’d spent the last eighteen years writing about the small-time thugs and liars who ran Rogue Island. Hersh had spent the last thirty-five writing about the big-time thugs and liars who ran the country. Maybe Veronica was right. Maybe it was time for me to move on, see if I could write something that would matter.
I thought about that. Then I thought about it some more. My marriage was over. My parents were dead. My sister was in New Hampshire. My brother was in California, and we weren’t talking anyway. Veronica was heading for Washington, and I couldn’t bear losing her. What was holding me here?
That evening, Veronica brought up that thing called the future again.
“Mulligan?”
“Um?”
“Have you called Woodward yet?”
“This week. I promise.”
“You really will?”
“I really will,” I said. And this time, I meant it.
* * *
Wednesday morning Veronica tried to talk me into calling in sick again, then gave it up and helped me sponge off and get into my shirt. My ribs didn’t seem to hurt quite as much as they did yesterday, the Red Sox were on a winning streak, and I was on the verge of a decision about my future. If it weren’t for Gloria’s eye, Scibelli’s corpse, the cloud of suspicion over Jack, the humiliating beating I’d taken, and five consecutive nights without sex, I might have been in a good mood.
I couldn’t find a space on the street, so I paid ten bucks to park in a mob-owned lot and walked two blocks to the paper. A couple of prowl cars were double-parked out front. As I walked up the sidewalk, their doors flew open and four uniforms climbed out.
Two got behind me, the other two in front, blocking my way. One grabbed my arms, yanked them behind my back, and snapped handcuffs on tight. Then he shoved me against a prowl car, kicked my legs apart, patted me down, and turned my pockets inside out. My vial of painkillers clattered on the curb. The pain in my ribs felt like I’d been shotgunned.
“You’re under arrest.”
Yeah. I’d figured that part out.
The only words spoken on the short drive to police headquarters were: “What’s this all about?” “Can you guys tell me what’s going on?” “What the hell am I charged with?” Maybe the authorities had found out about my parking-ticket scam and didn’t think it was funny.
60
Three TV news vans were double-parked in front of the station, and a welcoming committee of cameras and microphones waited on the front steps. Reporters started shouting questions the moment I was yanked from the prowl car. Logan Bedford pushed his way to the front of the pack and hollered:
“Why did you do it?”
Do what?
The uniforms pulled me by the arms into the station, bulled me into an elevator, and dragged me to a second-floor interrogation room. I was in too much pain to tell them how much pain I was in. A cop put his hands on my shoulders and shoved me down onto a straight metal chair. Then they left, slamming the door on the way out. Through a little window in the door, I could see that one of them had stayed behind to stand guard. Apparently I was an escape risk.
By the pattern of cigarette burns on the table, I could tell this was the same room where I had told Polecki about the little thug. I’d been sitting there in handcuffs for nearly an hour, savoring the aroma of old sweat and stale cigarettes, when Polecki and Roselli walked in grinning like idiots. My ribs ached and my arms were numb from elbows to fingertips.
“How about taking these things off?”
“Nah,” Polecki said. “You ought to wear steel more often. Looks good on you.”
“Yeah,” Roselli said, “and you’re gonna look even better in stripes.”
“They don’t wear stripes at the state prison no more,” Polecki said.
“Maybe Mulligan could be a trendsetter and bring them back,” Roselli said.
“Are you done,” I said, “or have you got some fresh material about bending over for the soap?”
“I’m done,” Polecki said. He turned to his dumber half. “You?”
“I got nothin’.”
“So, Mulligan,” Polecki said, “You doing drugs now?”
He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a plastic evidence bag, and tossed it on the table. My vial of pills was inside.
“Read the label, asshole. It’s a prescription.”
“Yeah?” Polecki said. “Then you won’t mind if we call this Doctor Brian Israel, make sure it’s all on the up-and-up.”
“This is why you dragged me in here?”
“Oh, no,” Polecki said. “There’s more.”
“Let me tell him,” Roselli said.
“We’ll take turns,” Polecki said. “Why don’t you start by reading him his rights?”
Roselli pulled a well-thumbed card from his pocket and started the spiel. Watch a few TV police dramas and you can recite Miranda backwards, but Roselli still needed that card.
“Now, then,” Polecki said, “I’m so glad you could come in for this little chat.”
“Yeah,” Roselli said. “Good of you to drop by.”