Roxbury.
During his surgical training, Will had done several rotations through Boston City Hospital, which drew many patients from that section of the city. The population there was largely black and poor, and the area’s reputation was, simply put, that whites should avoid it after dark.
Bewildered, Will wrote down the address and carefully replaced the original sheet in its envelope. Charles Newcomber had been dead less than a day. Was this note from his killer? What did the foppish little radiologist have to do with Roxbury? Will had a street map of Boston in the car but had only driven through a few blocks of the community while taking the kids on excursions to the Franklin Park Zoo. He had absolutely no idea of the layout of the streets. Was he insane just to bop on in there at night? Should he notify Jack Court about the note? And perhaps the most perplexing question of alclass="underline" Did he even have $500 in his bank account?
CHAPTER 29
“What’d you say?”
The elderly black man, dapperly dressed in a sports coat, dress shirt, vest, tie, and plaid walking cap, had been ambling past a row of shops that were all secured with metal accordion gates. Now, in no apparent rush to get anyplace despite the inclement weather, he hunched down by the open window of the Jeep beneath his small black umbrella and squinted in at Will. It was already twenty minutes after eight. Dusk had come and gone, yielding to another in what seemed an unending string of raw, drizzly nights. The tangled, narrow streets of Roxbury, many dating to Colonial times, had completely overwhelmed Will’s tattered street guide-or at least his ability to read it.
“Dennis Street,” he said, in the exaggerated voice he had unfortunately developed over years of treating older patients in hospitals and nursing homes. “D-E-N-N-I-S. I’m looking for the corner of Spruce and Dennis. That’s Spruce right over there”-he pointed to the cross street behind him-“but I can’t find any Dennis off it or on my map.”
“Hey,” the man said, “no need to shout. Just because I been on this earth longer ’n most, don’t automatically mean I’m deaf.”
Will managed a grin at himself.
“Sorry, bad habit.”
“You sure these streets are in Roxbury?”
The man-maybe in his eighties-had a creaky, high-pitched voice that reminded Will of a child in a school play trying to portray an old man.
“That’s what the guy wrote. Roxbury. See, right here.”
Careful to cover up the part about bringing $500, Will showed the man the note, and he studied it for a time.
“You know what?” he cackled suddenly. “I think I know why you been havin’ trouble. I don’t think Dennis is a street at all. I think it’s like an alley-Dennis Way, it’s called-two blocks, maybe three, down Spruce that way. If there’s a sign, and as I recall, there usually is one, it’s nailed to one of the buildings, not on a pole.”
“Thanks, you’re great.”
Will moved to put the Jeep in gear, but the man stopped him with a raised hand.
“I don’t think the alley’s wide enough for a car,” he said, “especially this one. You’d best park someplace near and walk.”
“I’ll do that.”
“You know what would even be a better idea?”
“What?”
“Go on home and come back tomorrow during the day. Take it from ol’ Lionel. At night the-excuse me for cussin’-darn gangs own this part of the city. Cabs almost never come here. The cops only come ’round when they have to, and then they only stay long enough to say they did it. I never carry more’n a dollar with me when I go for my evening constitutional. The Cobras used to shake me down if they were particularly desperate for money, but now they’ve pretty much given up on me. You go walkin’ about these streets-especially back in there where Dennis Way is-an’ they’ll know you’re there quicker ’n you do. It’s doubtful that you’ll make it out with your wallet or maybe even your car, for that matter. Most of them’s pretty good boys, but they don’t have much in the way of parentin’, if you know what I mean.”
“I’ll be careful, Lionel.”
“Careful’s good,” Lionel said, “but it might help for you to be bulletproof, too.”
That does it, Will thought as he drove away from the man down the virtually deserted street and made a slow left onto Spruce, I am out of here.
With cars parked on both sides, Spruce was barely more than a lane wide. To either side, Will now noticed narrow alleys, each with a name bolted in some way to the brick facade of a tenement. Alley 114, one of them read, Wright’s Path, another. The fourth sign he saw was Dennis Way.
Will opened the passenger window and peered down the alley, which was illuminated by a single low-wattage, hooded lamp jutting out from a building halfway down to the next street. There were two small Dumpsters, several trash cans, and enough loose trash to fill a good portion of them. He reread the mysterious note. If he drove off now, would he ever get another chance to find out what Charles Newcomber had left for him? If he didn’t leave, would he still be alive in half an hour?
At that moment, as if by divine intervention, the lights on a parked car pierced the night two blocks ahead. Moments later, it pulled out and drove away. Will raced to the spot, although there was absolutely no competing car on the street. Silently, he promised himself that if the space was by a hydrant, he was out of there and on the way back to Fredrickston. He had mixed emotions that there was no hydrant and so no need to put the deal to a test. In less than a minute, after a brilliant job of parallel parking, he was standing on the sidewalk in a gloomy, windblown drizzle, peering uncertainly down a deserted street in one of the toughest, most dangerous neighborhoods in Boston.
Perhaps whoever had left the note had waited and was gone, he thought, confirming on his Casio that he was a full half an hour late. Again, he thought about leaving. Again, he talked himself out of it and headed cautiously back toward Dennis Way. Although both the street and the alley seemed deserted, he couldn’t shake the heavy feeling that he was being watched. He stopped at the mouth of the alley, zipped his windbreaker, and debated whether to stay where he was or move ahead. The note had instructed him to be at the corner of the alley, not down it. He was about to turn and leave when the muzzle of a gun was pressed tightly into the small of his back.
“Don’t turn around,” the youthful, almost certainly black, voice said. “You Grant?”
Will waited until his pulse rate had dropped back below a thousand.
“Yes,” he managed. “You don’t need that gun.”
“I’ll decide what I need and don’t need. Now jus’ head down that alley. All the way down. Eyes straight ahead.”
Will did as he was told, hesitating halfway down as a rat the size of a cat scurried across his path, less than a foot from the toes of his sneakers.
“No collar,” he said. “I wonder if it’s had all its shots.”
The response to his nervous humor was a sharp nudge from behind. They passed under the light and were almost at the far end of the alley when the gunman grabbed him by the jacket.
“Take this off,” he said.
He patted Will down from behind, lingering a beat, it seemed, by the front of his jeans. Then he pushed him out of the alley and onto the sidewalk of the street that seemed to run parallel to Spruce. Finally, he turned Will around and tossed his jacket back. He was, in fact, a teen, maybe sixteen-seventeen, tops-baggy chinos, pricey leather-sleeved jacket with Chris embroidered in script over the left breast, ornately stitched Rasta cap. His unlined, richly black face was equal parts pretty and handsome. His eyes, even in the dim light, were bright and intelligent enough, but they were way past being the eyes of a youth, and Will sensed the hard times they had seen. Cradled in the young man’s right hand was a snub-nosed revolver-a Saturday-night special. In his left was a large manila envelope, the sort used for transporting or mailing X-rays. The buildings at this point blocked most of the wind and rain, and Will noted with relief that, aside from a few drops, the envelope was dry.