He sat in his rented Saturn parked within view of the entrance. He wore a Red Sox cap and was barely recognizable.
He watched the customers enter.
A teenage boy with a bad case of acne. A man in glasses and an ill-fitting blazer, who could have been an accountant. An overweight woman in her twenties wearing a pantsuit. He gave a second look to a man who looked as if he worked with his hands but decided he was probably a construction worker.
He had nothing but fragmentary memory to go on. A shamrock tattoo on the man’s wrist and not much more. He’d seen that only close up. Leathery hands. But the man he was waiting to meet would be powerfully built and in his fifties or older, maybe closer to sixties. Rick was twenty minutes early but wouldn’t have been surprised if the man-Shamrock, he’d call him-arrived early, too. He’d look around, probably make a circuit, before he got his coffee.
Then at five minutes before seven a man came striding purposefully along the sidewalk and up to the restaurant. There was little question this was Shamrock. A bull-necked man of around sixty with a hard look, wearing an expensive-looking black leather jacket and a gray tweed scally cap. He had a pug nose and a scowl and big hands. He looked like a tough SOB. He was chewing gum. The cap was the giveaway. It was a flat cap, a longshoreman’s cap with a small brim. It might as well have been a neon sign with an arrow.
The man squinted and cast a glance around the exterior, then entered.
Rick got out of the car and, making sure Shamrock wasn’t looking out, crossed the street.
Directly across the street was a dive bar. It had a green awning with a Guinness sign on it and a green-painted door. There were four or five customers in here. The ones at the bar looked like regulars. The window in the front door had a good view of the Dunkin’ Donuts.
He texted Shamrock:
Saw someone I know in DD. Meet me in bar across street.
He wondered if this change in plans would screw things up. He watched out the bar window.
But not a minute later Shamrock came striding out. It was hard to tell whether he was pissed off or that was his normal glower.
He crossed the street and entered the bar. His eyes shifted side to side. He must have known what Jeff looked like; they’d probably met before.
Rick sat in a booth near the bar.
Thirty seconds later Shamrock’s eyes slid past Rick’s face and kept moving.
An instant later his eyes slid back and alit on Rick’s.
A moment of recognition, and then he smiled nastily.
He approached Rick’s booth and slid in next to him. Rick could feel something poking into his side. The blood drained from his face.
Shamrock leaned in close and whispered into Rick’s ear. Rick could smell the barbershop and feel Shamrock’s humid breath.
“So it’s the other fella’s body in the house, not yours. Ballsy gobshite, I’ll give you that. But stupid as shit.”
Rick’s pulse accelerated wildly. He knew this was it and that it could go any number of ways. He tried to look unafraid but couldn’t help a slight twitching in his left eye muscle.
“Here’s how we’re going to play it, boyo,” Shamrock whispered. “You and I are going to walk out of here nice and quiet. My nine millimeter’s safety is off. I will not hesitate to put a bullet in your spine.”
Rick swallowed, nodded.
The gun in Shamrock’s windbreaker pocket was hard in Rick’s ribs.
“Get up after me and if you try to fuck around, it’ll be the last time.”
Shamrock got up from the booth, and Rick slid out, light-headed, heart jackhammering.
Shamrock helped him out, grabbing hold of his elbow as he did so, yanking him roughly to his feet.
This was, Rick realized, the most foolish thing he’d ever done. Bravery was akin to stupidity. He was about to die. He looked around the bar frantically but kept going. Shamrock’s arm was around his shoulder. They could have been two friends who’d had too much to drink.
Shamrock shoved the front door open and Rick felt a gust of cold air hit his face.
He took a breath, then said, blandly, “You’re surrounded.”
Shamrock laughed disdainfully.
Three men in blue FBI windbreakers seemed to materialize out of thin air. As they shouted, “FBI!,” Rick dropped to the ground as he’d been instructed to do. He felt the sting of asphalt on his face.
Shamrock didn’t even struggle. He knew there was no point.
As Rick got up, he caught Shamrock staring at him with burning hostility. “You goddamned son of a bitch,” he said. “You don’t know what you just did.”
65
Rick was surprised-pleasantly-at how quickly he was able to write the exposé. He knew the subject matter well.
Still, it took him all night. He was powered by caffeine and outrage.
In the morning he e-mailed the piece to Dylan, the copy desk guy at Back Bay.
Half an hour later Rick’s phone was ringing.
“Dylan.”
“Dude, you’re serious?”
“Absolutely.”
“I post this, I could lose my job.”
“Dylan, I wouldn’t want to put you in a situation where you-”
“No, no,” Dylan interrupted. “I put that in the plus column.”
It had been one gaseous speech after another. The head of the Boston Redevelopment Authority boasting about the Olympian Tower-“the tallest structure in Boston at twelve hundred feet high and sixty-five stories”-and the mayor had talked about “this gleaming silver tower on the site of what was once Boston’s blighted Combat Zone.” A brass band played a John Philip Sousa march. Confetti fluttered down over the VIPs, blasted high into the air from six confetti cannons. The TV lights barely made a difference on this bright sunny day.
Groundbreakings were deadly dull, no matter how much confetti you pumped in, whether you use a silver spade or gold. Everyone wanted to claim some piece of credit. Nobody really wanted to be there. No ground was actually broken. Everything was theater.
Thomas Sculley understood this instinctively. He’d had countless groundbreaking ceremonies for the buildings he had put up. So his remarks were blessedly brief.
The mayor of Boston had introduced Sculley, whom he called “a man of singularly philanthropic bent.” Sculley, dressed in a beautiful blue suit, had taken the microphone and spoken just a few sentences.
“When I came to this country fifty-two years ago from Belfast with just a shovel and a wheelbarrow, I’d never in a million years have imagined that one day I’d be standing up on a stage with the mayor of Boston. I’d never have imagined people would someday be waiting just to hear the words come out of my mouth. Oh, wait. As my wife reminds me, they’re not.” Polite laughter. “So with no further ado, let’s break ground for the greatest building in the greatest city on earth!”
Andrea hadn’t been invited to the ceremony, but it took no more than a quick call to Sculley’s office to wangle an invitation for her and a guest. After all, Geometry Partners was to be given office space in the new Olympian Tower. She was here to celebrate, too.
After the dignitaries had dug a few symbolic shovels of dirt, to wild applause, Andrea sidled up to the low stage. She was beautifully dressed in a white dress and looked poised, but Rick could see she was nervous. Of course she was.
Reporters thronged around the mayor. Sculley they largely left alone. Finally, Andrea found her moment. She slid up to Sculley and handed him a folded sheet of paper.
Rick watched intently as Sculley looked at the note wonderingly, grinned, then took out a pair of reading glasses from his suit pocket. His brow creased.
He read the note. It was only a few sentences. His eyes lifted from the page and met Andrea’s. Then they scanned the crowd, squinting, right to left, then left to right.