“Hey, don’t look at me! I just got here.”
He laughed again. Good thing one of us did.
My flat was a one bedroom rented apartment on the top floor of a small Victorian just off Massachusetts Avenue. It was as close to Harvard as I was likely to get. My destiny, always a few blocks from the Ivy League. Handed me an envelope not nearly as fat as the one Boyle had given me.
“The key’s in there along with a small wedge. I own the building under another name, so no one will bother ya here. It should be a while till I call again, so relax a bit. Learn the city’s charms, which are legion. Catch a ball game at Fenway. Locally, there’s a fine barbeque establishment just down the block and bookstore around the bend there on Mass Ave.”
“Thanks, Rudi.” Shook his hand.
“If things work as I hope, please God, it’s me that’ll be thanking you. By the way, feel free to use the phone and the appliances. Enjoy yer time in Boston.”
Watched him drive away, the taillights of his old Cadillac disappearing around the corner. Between Finney and Rudi their rides were older than time itself. At least Rudi’s Caddy had solid floorboards. And they call Jews cheap. No, it was real estate above all else made an Irishman feel wealthy. The rest of the trappings were inconsequential. Boyle too had most of his holdings in real estate. Guess maybe they had a point.
The apartment had its own entrance in the rear and was spotlessly clean and stocked with furniture older than manned space flight. But it was good solid furniture, if not exactly trend-setting in style. The appliances, however, were bizarrely incongruous. There was like a huge flat screen TV in the living room. There was a restaurant quality Viking stove and a Sub Zero fridge in the kitchen. Assumed all the appliances had fallen off the truck at Logan Airport or on the piers. It was just the same at JFK. If it fell off the truck on Monday, I was wearing it, using it, or selling it by Wednesday.
Unpacked my suitcase and checked out the fridge. It was empty but for a six pack of Sam Adams. Took one and plopped myself down on the plaid cushions of the colonial couch and learned the ins and outs of my big screen TV. Strange, but an hour had passed without me once thinking of Philly or Leeza or O’Connor. Thought I might get to like Boston. Even fell into the first dreamless, peaceful sleep I’d had in some time.
Waking, I felt as if I could breathe again. Leeza was there, front and center, but some of the bitter edge had been bevelled off. The windows had darkened and, for a change, the hunger was in my belly instead of my heart.
After a half rack of ribs, pulled pork and a beer at the barbeque joint Rudi had recommended, walked past my new house on the way to the bookstore he’d mentioned.
It wasn’t like any kind of bookstore I’d ever been in before. It was on the ground floor of a red clapboard house and the only stuff they stocked were mysteries and detective novels. Never been much for fiction, let alone crime novels. I mean, like I didn’t have to make it up, right? The occasional book next to my bed would be about WWII or the building of the atomic bomb or some such shit.
Felt more lost in that bookstore than I did in Philly. It was like wall to wall books with huge stacks piled up in the aisles. The paperbacks were squeezed so tightly together you wouldn’t’ve been able to fit a dancing angel between any two of them.
“You seem like you can use some help,” an invisible voice called to me.
Looked around and there, seated behind the counter, was a big earth momma with a friendly face. She wore glasses, let her hair straggle, but had a presence that was hard to explain.
“Not much for fiction,” I said.
“Don’t read this stuff, huh?”
“Never.”
She called out to someone lurking in the stacks. “Continental Op. Maltese Falcon. Red Harvest. The Long Goodbye. Farewell, My Lovely. The Little Sister.” Then she turned back to me. “Visiting?”
“Moved in around the corner.”
A spinster-ish woman appeared before us with six paperbacks in her hands. She placed them on the counter and receded into the shadows.
“Here,” the earth momma said, putting the books in a bag. “You take those and see what you think.”
Reached for my wallet, but she waved me off. “You’ll be back. Pay me then.”
“Seem pretty sure about that.”
“I been in the business a long time. I’ll take my chances on you.”
Didn’t argue. Thanked her and dropped the bag at the apartment. Stared at the phone and thought about calling Nick. Didn’t. What would I have said? That I had bought books? Might have impressed Nick’s dad, but not Nicky. Wasn’t sure what would impress him anymore. Felt the walls closing in. Like I said, the edge was off a bit, not gone.
Found a bar near Harvard Square, an Irish pub. Big surprise, right? Like finding salt in the ocean. It was pretty empty. Ordered a Harpoon Ale, turned to watch the Red Sox game on the tube. Didn’t actually give a fuck about the Red Sox. No Yankee fan could say that. Sometimes, it seemed Yankee fans like Nick cared more about the Red Sox failing than the Yankees winning. Failing, now there’s something I was well acquainted with, being raised a Mets fan and all.
When I turned away from the game, noticed a cute blonde in jeans and a Red Sox sweatshirt had seated herself two stools away from me. She ordered a Jack Daniel’s with no back and began chatting with the barman. He didn’t seem terribly interested. Under normal circumstances I would have shared his lack of enthusiasm. Short, perky blondes with cropped hair, a little thick through the hips, aren’t usually my type, but she had such fiery blue eyes that I found myself staring at her. Suppose I wasn’t doing a very good job of disguising my curiosity.
“Fah chrissakes, mista, ya stare any hadah at me and ya’ll see into my childhood.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize, just buy a girl a drink.”
Told the bartender to put her drinks on my tab. Between Rudi and Boyle’s scratch, I was well set for cash. She moved over to sit beside me. We clinked glasses.
“New Yawka, huh?” she said.
“Brooklynite.”
“Yankees?”
“Mets.”
“Both bad answers in this town, but ya got some stones on ya fer saying. Here’s to ya.”
“To the Sox,” I said.
We both emptied our glasses. Gave the sign to the bartender for another round.
“Kathleen Dolan.”
“Todd Rosen.”
We shook and finished the second round at a reasonable pace. Explained that she worked at Harvard as a square badge. It bored the shit out of her, but it paid the rent. I ad-libbed some crap about being a consultant to a computer company and that I had a couple of weeks in town before I started.
“Evah been to Fenway?”
“Nope.”
“Friday night. They’re playing Detroit. I got two tickets, wanna come?”
“Sure.”
“Meet me here at five-thirty.”
“Deal.”
We shook on it.
Three beers later, headed back to my new place. Kathleen was finishing her last Jack when I left. She’d probably have come home with me if I asked. Didn’t. The more I drank, the more present Leeza became. If I ever bedded Kathleen, didn’t want Leeza looking over my shoulder. That night in bed it was just me and Raymond Chandler.
Kathleen and I went to the Sox game that Friday night and sat next to the foul pole in the right field corner. Baseball in Fenway was a much more intimate experience than at Shea or Yankee Stadium. There was a charm to it. Charm is not a New York thing. The grand scale of everything in New York suffocates charm in the crib. The Sox won like fifteen to twelve, a real fucking pitchers’ duel.