“Throw him on the third rail,” he explains. “Fry him. Show the rest of the spooks in this city what happens if they come down to our part of town.” He looks at the blood slowly consuming his coat and the tape she’s wrapped around it. His skin is the blue-white of mackerel. “Jules didn’t like that. She kept saying let him go.” He snorts. “We couldn’t let him go. No. I told them, ‘Fuck that. Fry him.’ The boys, they listened — boys do that. They picked the kid up and were about to toss him between the second and third rail, and yeah, that’s when she hit him. Which ended any idea that it was a fucking accident, thank you very much. He was dead the second he hit the ground.”
She watches him steadily. Thinks it’s odd how the worst of us look no different than the best of us. Like someone’s son, someone’s husband, someone’s father. Loved. Capable of love. Human.
“And you couldn’t forgive her, could you?” she asks. “For the mercy?”
He hisses against the pain for a moment. “If she was weak there, where else would she be weak? In a police station? On the stand? I’m sorry, Mary Pat, but you know there’s a code down here. Live and die by it.”
She reaches into her bag, comes out with her .38, and is about to blow his fucking brains all over the granite behind him when she hears a vehicle approaching.
The car pulls right into the fort. Doors open. Headlights sweep the parade grounds.
Marty Butler calls, “Time for a reckoning, Mary Pat.”
30
Bobby’s let it be known throughout Division that he’d appreciate being notified should anything violent connected to the Butler crew occur in the next week or two.
It doesn’t take long.
Bobby shows up on West Ninth in front of Tombstone Frankie Toomey’s house and listens to the witnesses — a neighbor, Frank’s wife, and Frank’s eight-year-old daughter — give their statements. Both the neighbor and Agnes Toomey conclusively identify Mary Pat Fennessy as the assailant and kidnapper. The kidnapping is problematic — by all rights, they should call in the FBI immediately and hand over the case.
Another day, perhaps, Bobby decides. Not tonight.
They find blood on the sidewalk and Frank’s boot on the street. More blood there from the impact with the car and also streaks of it where Mary Pat dragged him. It takes Bobby a moment to realize what looks like a decapitated mop head lying in a puddle of blood is a wig.
Bobby calls in to headquarters from his radio, gets through to Vincent, and asks him to spread the word to anyone who has a source in Southie. Someone has to have seen a crazed blond woman driving a piece-of-shit ’59 Ford Country, racing through the night with a gutshot hit man in the backseat.
Bobby’s back at the station when a beat cop working City Point calls in that he saw a car racing up Day Boulevard about twenty minutes ago, filled with what looked to be Butler guys.
There’s only one possible destination at the end of Day Boulevard.
Bobby says, “Heading toward the castle?”
“Well, it’s a fort actually, Detective.”
Bobby closes his eyes and opens them. Takes a breath. “Heading for the fort, Officer?”
“Yes, Detective.”
“Thanks.” Bobby hangs up, speed-walks to his lieutenant’s office.
31
Marty calls out a second time, “The more you make us wait, the longer we’ll draw out the pain.”
Frank opens his mouth to call back, and she puts the muzzle of the .38 to his nose. Raises her eyebrows at him. He shuts his mouth.
Judging by the strength of the headlight beams, the volume of Marty’s voice, and the stray scuffing she hears as they mill around out there, she guesses they’re pretty close. Maybe fifteen yards. No more. She counted four car doors opening and closing, so that means there’s at least four of them, maybe six if they went full clown-car. But that would have been conspicuous, and Marty’s not known to be conspicuous.
Four, then.
She can hear them spreading out, footsteps of varying distance on the dirt of the parade grounds. And one set of footsteps is growing very close.
She lifts Frank to his good foot and leads him toward the doorway.
The footsteps outside the doorway stop. The owner, she assumes, can hear them.
Mary Pat steps out with her gun to Frank Toomey’s neck.
Brian Shea, caught by surprise three feet from Mary Pat, starts to raise his gun.
“No, no, no,” Mary Pat says.
Brian takes one look at Frank Toomey — the mangled leg, the bloody coat duct-taped around his bloody waist — and lowers his gun.
“Drop it to the ground,” Mary Pat says. “This is my only warning.”
He looks in her eyes. Looks in Frank’s. Drops the gun.
The other three are fanned out in a crescent about ten yards past Brian. Larry Foyle is the farthest away, taking up the left side of the crescent. Marty stands in the middle of the curvature, like one bad tooth in an ugly smile, and Weeds loiters to the far right. They all have pistols held loosely by their sides.
“You all right there, Frank?” Marty asks.
“Pretty far from that, Marty,” Frank says.
“We’ll get you patched right up.”
“I know you will, Marty. Thanks.”
“You sure about that?” Mary Pat pulls the trigger and blows a tunnel from one side of Frank Toomey’s neck to the other.
For men used to casual violence, none of them seems to have prepared for this moment. Larry and Weeds just look shocked, mouths agape.
Marty screams, “Noooooooo!” as if his heart is breaking for the first time in his life.
Brian Shea reaches for his gun.
Frank drops to the ground, his body nothing but a bag for nonfunctioning organs, his soul already halfway to hell.
She shoots Brian somewhere in the middle of his body and hears him scream.
Marty is raising his pistol when she fires right at him — Bang! Bang! Bang!
She has no idea if she hits him, only that he’s not there anymore as the other two return fire, the bullets hitting high on the walls behind her, Larry and Weeds running for cover behind the car and not taking much aim as they shoot.
She grabs the back of Brian Shea’s collar. He’s arching his back and kicking his heels against the ground. Making loud yips and yelps. She stays low, keeps his body in front of her as best she can, and pulls him back into the storage room with her. Once they’re in there, he grabs her around the knees and slams his head into her stomach. She boxes his ears, one of her hands holding that heavy .38, and he lets go.
She pushes him into the corner and she kicks the ever-living shit of him. Literally kicks. Over and over, fast and dirty and indiscriminate. She doesn’t stop until long after she knows he’s no longer a danger.
“Is that all you motherfuckers understand?” she hisses at him. “Is there nothing else?”
He curls into a ball and she gives him a minute in case he might puke, then she comes behind him and pulls him tight to her, straddling him, her legs hooked over his. She tosses aside the .38 — she emptied it out there — and reaches in her bag for Frank’s .45. She pulls it out, flicks the safety off, places the extra clip on the dirt floor beside her. There’s no way out for her, but there’s only one way in. They have to stick their heads through that doorway if they want to get to her. She keeps Brian in front and points the .45 at the doorway.
“You just fucking killed him,” Brian Shea says eventually, as if he can’t comprehend the tragedy of Tombstone Frank Toomey’s death. As if he’s just been stripped of all the illusions he’s held of a gentler world.
“Sure did.”
“And you blew my fucking hip off.”