“I’ve got something for you, and I’m hoping you’ve got something for me.”
That’s how I opened the bargaining session with Lieutenant Leo Goldsmith. He may not have realized it, though probably he did, but a set of negotiations were about to take place, and he represented one side of it.
“What I’ve got is about one minute,” he replied. “We’re getting called out on another case.”
All right, this wasn’t going exactly as planned. The thing about reporting is that few things ever do. The one phone number you need will always be the unlisted one. The crucial official that you need to supply the last key fact in a story is invariably going to be away on vacation, probably in a Third World country, often on a river cruise without any use of a phone. The file you need in federal court is inevitably the one that’s inexplicably missing.
“Jill Dawson,” I said.
Before I could continue, he interjected. “I’ve got nothing on that one for you. Absolutely nothing. And take that at face value. I’m not being told anything about the case, and best as I can tell, the decisions on that one are being made way above my pay grade.”
“I’ve got her driver’s license,” I said. “It was delivered to me at the Record this morning with a note that appears to have been written by her killer.”
Silence. A long silence, which turned into a longer one, until Goldsmith sighed loudly and said, “I’m going to inform the detective running the case, Mac Foley. He’s going to send someone over to pick this stuff up and we’ll want to talk with you. Make yourself available.”
I said, “You know I’m always available for Boston’s finest.”
“Jack, take my advice: Don’t screw around on this case.”
He was serious. At least he sounded quite serious. His words lacked any trace of the locker-room-style bullshit that we’ve exchanged over the past ten or so years.
I tried to match his intensity. “Lieutenant, I’m not screwing around. I’ve done the right thing. I’ve called you about the license. I’m hoping you’ll do the right thing in return.”
I was hoping for an answer. What I got was the sound of a phone hitting the cradle. This negotiation was going to be a little more protracted than I had hoped.
There’s not a whole lot you can do in life to hurt the great and famous Vinny Mongillo, the second most talented reporter at the Boston Record. You can insult him, which I often do, but insults merely roll off his olive skin like water off a duck’s behind, or however that phrase goes. You can ignore him, and he barely notices. But the one thing you can’t do is cancel a meal with him. I’m afraid that might actually send him into an institution.
Which explains why noontime found me walking through the august doors of the University Club on the edge of Boston’s Back Bay for our prescheduled lunch. This was supposed to be a celebratory send-off right before my wedding. That wedding was, as we say in the business, yesterday’s news — or perhaps no news. Now, circumstances and decisions had made this an entirely different affair, though Vinny didn’t know that yet.
When I walked into the dining room, he had already parked his enormous frame in a corner booth and was talking with a man in a jacket and tie about two opened bottles of white wine that were sitting prominently on the table. Vinny, by the way, had just become something of an oenophile — a fact that made dining with him virtually impossible.
“Apples,” Vinny said as I slid onto the bench across from him. “I taste apples. Tart apples.”
The man in the jacket and tie snapped his fingers and said, “You nailed it. That’s exactly what it is. Try this one.”
With that, he poured a little wine into a second glass, and Vinny picked it up and pushed his long nose toward the liquid without taking a sip.
“I thought I’d smell more oak than I do,” Vinny said, looking up at the man respectfully.
I rolled my eyes and also looked up at the guy in the jacket and tie and said, “I’ll have a Fresca.”
He ignored me. So did Vinny. It was like I never arrived. Vinny took a sip of the wine and exclaimed loudly, “That is a fantastic finish.” He looked across the table at me for the first time and said, “You’re going to love how this goes with our oysters. By the way, say hello to Pedro, the new wine director at the club.”
Before I could say anything, Pam, the best food server in the city, arrived at the table with what looked like an ocean’s worth of freshly shucked oysters and said to Mongillo, “The chef culled out the very best ones for you.” To me, “Oh, hey, Jack. Great to see you.” Her tone didn’t quite match the meaning of the words, if you know what I mean.
And then came Chef Bill, padding through the dining room in his tall hat and chef whites straight toward our table, or more specifically, toward Vinny. By the way, I have the same feeling seeing a chef in a dining room as I have watching a pilot wander the cabin of an airplane: Enough of the meet-and-greet, grip-and-grin, feel-good stuff. I’d feel a lot better if they were back where they belonged.
“Mr. Mongillo, we’re so delighted to have you back,” Bill said to Vinny. Vinny beamed in return. I might as well have been a stain on the white linen tablecloth.
“My favorite restaurant in town,” he replied.
That’s just great. It’s probably worth noting here that I was the one who was the member in good standing at the University Club. In other words, I was the one who paid the significant monthly bills, who spent my monthly dining room minimum, who tipped the entire staff each Christmas — or, to use the politically correct term, holiday season. Vinny suggested eating here as often as he could, fully realizing that the dining room doesn’t accept cash, meaning he would never face the burden of a tab.
Chef Bill returned to the kitchen. Vinny said to the wine director, “Why don’t you decant the cab, Pedro. The nose had a tiny bit of funk to it.” And then we were alone.
To me, Mongillo raised his glass of white wine, the one with the fantastic finish, and said, “To matrimony. To Maggie. To a lifetime of happiness. The gods are forever smiling on you, Fair Hair. I can’t believe you’ve scammed your way to another great woman.”
The funny thing, and I mean that not in any literal way, is that nobody had actually poured wine into my glass. I didn’t even have any water. Vinny didn’t seem to notice. He was too busy sucking down a chilled oyster and dreamily exclaiming, “And I can’t believe I scammed my way into a Wellfleet and Chardonnay combination this good.”
I said, “I’m not marrying Maggie today.”
He sucked down another oyster and took a sip of wine, his eyes intently on the food and drink rather than on me.
Finally, he looked up and said, “We’re still going to finish lunch, right?”
I ignored that. He eyed my face and said, “You’re serious.”
I nodded.
He said, “Can I ask you something.” Pause. “Are you fucking stupid?”
I kept my look trained on his. “It’s not a big deal,” I said, which, of course, was a lie, and a rather obvious one. “I’ve got a story breaking, and we’ve had some complications, Maggie and me.”
“The complication meaning you’re acting like an asshole again, pulling a classic Jack.”
Truth is, I probably would have been, if Maggie hadn’t pulled a Jack before I had the chance. So in a rare moment of revelation, I said, “I do have a story going. But Maggie needed some more time.”
He finally sucked down the oyster that he had been holding in his fingers all this time. Pedro came back and refilled Mongillo’s wineglass. He put the bottle down and walked away, leaving me to pour my own. Pam showed up with a crabcake on a small plate, placed it in front of Mongillo, and said, “Chef wants you to try his new aioli sauce.”