“Boley says he’ll be right out,” she said.
I nodded and sipped my beer. The girl on the pole was a kid, maybe eighteen, nineteen, looking deadly serious, starting her long climb to stardom. A man came out of the office and walked down the bar and sat on the stool next to me.
“How ya doin’,” he said. “I’m Boley LaBonte.”
We shook hands.
“I’m looking into a case involving Elizabeth Boudreau,” I said. “I understand you were married to her.”
He had dark, curly hair, worn sort of long and brushed back. He had a thin mustache. His flowered shirt was unbuttoned to his sternum, showing a hairy chest and a gold chain. The material of the shirt stretched a little tight over his biceps.
“That was a trip,” he said.
“What can you tell me about her?” I said.
“Jesus,” he said, and looked at the bartender. “Mavis, gimme a Coke.”
She put it in front of him, and he drank some and looked at my beer bottle.
“You okay?” he said.
I said I was.
“Beth Boudreau,” he said. “I heard she’s doing good.”
“Married money,” I said.
“Good for her,” Boley said. “You know anything about where she come from?”
“I talked with her mother this morning,” I said.
“Alberta?” Boley said. “She still alive?”
“Sort of,” I said. “Is there a Mr. Boudreau?”
“Nope,” Boley said. “Never was. Alberta got knocked up.”
“Jesus,” I said.
“Yeah,” Boley said. “Hard to think about.”
I nodded.
“Anyway,” Boley said. “Alberta Boudreau was always fat and homely, and my old man says never had a date. Then one day she comes up pregnant. It was a joke in town, Alberta was one for one, you know?”
“Who was the father?”
“Don’t know. Nobody seems to,” he said.
He drank some more Coke.
“This ain’t Boston,” he said. “Or Cambridge. Everybody’s like shocked back, what? Thirty-six years ago, something like that. But goddamn, Alberta has the kid. Everybody thought she had it to prove she’d gotten laid.”
“Could be other reasons,” I said.
“Could be,” Boley said.
He finished his Coke, and the bartender delivered a second one without being asked.
“How they get along?” I said.
“Beth and her mother?” Boley said. “Don’t know. Don’t know anybody was ever in the house.”
“I was,” I said.
Boley made a face.
“I don’t want to know,” he said.
“No,” I said. “You don’t. How about school. Beth catch any grief about all this in school?”
“I dunno. I’m ten years older than her. But…” He drank some Coke. “You know how school is.”
“I do,” I said. “How’d you meet her?”
“She was working the pole here,” Boley said. “At the time, I’m the bouncer. Used to box a little-Golden Gloves and stuff.” He shrugged. “Good enough for here.”
“And now you own it,” I said.
“Yeah,” Boley said. “Guy owned it was a lush, he was going under. My old man died, left me a little insurance dough. I got it cheap.”
“Great country,” I said.
Boley was looking at me.
“You used to fight,” he said. “Am I right?”
“Yep.”
“It’s the nose, mostly,” Boley said. “And around the eyes. Ever fight pro?”
“Yep.”
“Heavy?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You good?” Boley said.
“I was good,” I said. “Not great.”
“So you was never gonna be champ,” Boley said.
“No.”
“But I bet you ain’t lost many on the street,” Boley said.
“Not many,” I said.
“Thing about boxing,” Boley said, “you know. You may not win, but you got a plan.”
I nodded.
“And,” Boley said, “when you box, you learn that getting hit ain’t the end of the fucking world.”
I nodded again.
“Just another day at the office,” I said.
He grinned. We were quiet for a time, watching the girl making love to the brass pole.
“Beth was like that kid,” Boley said. “She come here thinking she was a performer, you know? Thinking this was her ticket out of Palookaville.”
“But it wasn’t,” I said.
“Not from dancing,” he said.
“You sleep with her?” I said.
“Course,” Boley said. The bartender brought him another Coke. “Sleep with them all, part of the deal. I hire ’em to strip for the customers and fuck the owner.” He grinned. “Which is me.”
“You sleeping with this kid?” I said.
“Sure.”
“How old is she?”
“She’s eighteen,” Boley said. “Gotta be eighteen to do this, and I’m careful about that.”
“Any of the dancers freelance with the clients?”
“On their own time,” he said. “Not on mine. Don’t look like much now, but most nights we’re jumping. It’s a nice business for me. I’m not gonna hire anybody underage. I’m not gonna serve anybody underage. I’m not gonna allow no soliciting on my premises.”
I nodded.
“You still bouncing?” I said.
He shook his head.
“I hire it done now,” he said.
“How was the marriage?”
He shrugged.
“She was hot enough,” he said. “And she tried to be nice to me. I mean, I was not only her husband, I was her income, you know?”
“She still, ah, dance?”
“No, I wouldn’t tolerate that when she was married to me.”
“Propriety,” I said.
“Whatever. But the thing I always knew was she didn’t like me. It was… she liked to fuck me, but she resented the rest of it. And man, did she have a temper. Come a point it would blow and she couldn’t control it.”
“That why you divorced?” I said.
“Nope.”
“Why’d you divorce?” I said.
“She was fucking other people,” he said. “I cut her loose.”
I nodded.
“You know where she went next?” I said.
“Nope.”
“You get married again?”
“Yep. Nice woman. I didn’t meet her here. Two daughters. Nice house in Andover,” he said.
“Your wife understand the arrangement with the strippers?” I said.
Boley grinned at me.
“Don’t ask,” he said. “Don’t tell.”
The music stopped. The kid on the pole stopped dancing and, wearing only a G-string, walked unself-consciously off the stage.
“At night the G-string goes,” Boley said. “But I ain’t wasting it in the middle of the afternoon on a couple shitkickers in down vests.”
“It’s a hard life,” I said.
“It is, and most of them are too stupid to do anything else,” he said.
“Hard for Beth,” I said.
“Hard for everybody,” Boley said. “You need to be tough if you’re gonna get anywhere.”
“And smart,” I said.
“Yeah,” Boley said. “That helps.”
“You think Beth was smart?” I said.
“She was tough, okay,” he said. “But she didn’t know much.”
“You can be smart and not know much,” I said.
He nodded and drank some Coke.
“Smartest broad I ever fucked,” he said.
And that in itself must be some kind of fame.
Chapter 55
THIS ONE GOT Quirk’s interest. He stood with Belson and me, looking down at the body of Estelle, facedown near the edge of the Frog Pond in the Common.
“According to the contents of her purse,” Belson said, “her name is Estelle Gallagher. And she works at Pinnacle, where she is a certified physical trainer.”
“Appears to be the same Estelle,” I said.
She had been shot by someone who had apparently put the gun right up against the back of her head. She’d been shot twice. The second time probably as she lay facedown on the ground. One of the bullets had exited her face somewhere in the area of her nose, and it rendered a visual ID problematic. The three of us looked down at her in the harsh light of the crime-scene lamps. It made everything bright enough so that the crime-scene people could scoot about with cameras and tape measures and brushes and powders, and various kits containing nothing I understood. Several Boston cops, of lesser rank than Quirk, were going over the area foot by foot.