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  Conley changed the subject.

  “Mr. O’Neil, how’s William these days?”

  “He’s very well. Working hard. You should get together. He always talks about the time you two fought those bullies in the park.”

  Conley had almost forgotten. He and William had been altar boys at St. Ambrose’s. William was really into the Church and seemed to be heading for priesthood. He was more principled than other kids his age, and the only time he seemed to get into trouble was when Conley led him there.

  “Damn police here bothering me with silly questions while the devil’s recruits are handing out dope needles and marijuana sticks like candy.”

  Conley opened his notebook. He didn’t really need to record anything. His goal was to capture a nugget of information, something Kendricks and Stefanos didn’t know about the murder of Victor Rodriguez, leverage to get back on the case. Probably a long shot given the bizarre nature of the visit so far.

  He wrote O’Neil in the notebook and surrounded the name with flowing brackets, wavy, curving molding. He doodled as O’Neil talked—drew a spiral so tight it almost sprang from the page, along with pyramids, squares, rectangles that became castles when he added crenellations.

  “Ocean Park’s going to hell,” O’Neil said and told him all the reasons why.

  Conley found he’d drawn two squares next to each other and connected the tops so they looked like O’Neil’s eyeglasses. He filled the squares with big eyes, careful to capture the dilated pupils, and was so absorbed in his artwork he didn’t realize O’Neil had stopped talking.

  “Matt,” O’Neil said, his face inches away, a real life doodle of eyeglasses, gray stubble, and nose covered with thin red veins, “are you getting all this?”

  Those damn milky glasses were spooky. Now Conley knew what fish in aquariums felt like.

  “Yessir,” he said, hugging notebook to chest and sliding back on the rough seat.

  “Why didn’t the colored policeman ask me about Mr. Rodriguez?”

  “You knew Victor Rodriguez?”

  “Of course I did. For many years. He hired William.”

  The bench under Conley felt colder all of a sudden. The sky over the park stilled, and nature seemed to pause for a discovery.

  “Mr. O’Neil, does William sell insurance for Victor Rodriguez?”

  O’Neil smiled, a ghastly mask. “No, Matt, he’s a manager, a very good one. Victor Rodriguez owned a restaurant downtown. Morgan’s Tap.”

  Calling Morgan’s Tap a restaurant was like calling hell a warm weather destination. Restaurant? Maybe if you called a big jar of pig’s feet in brine on the bar pub fare. Microwave pizza?—European cuisine.

  Morgan’s was the toughest bar in the city, maybe on the whole North Shore. The idea of Morgan’s being “managed” was absurd, akin to saying prison riots or cattle stampedes had oversight and organization.

  “Mr. O’Neil, are you sure Victor Rodriguez owned the Tap?”

  “Of course he did. Put William in charge some time ago. They came by here occasionally and Mr. Rodriguez always made it a point to tell me what a gem our William is.”

  Time to talk with his old friend William, the unlikely gem of a manager of a crazy house fueled with grimy shelves of cheap booze and draft beer. Conley wasn’t sure he’d even recognize William, but he was sure he dreaded visiting Morgan’s Tap. No sane person strolled into the place alone, and even Ocean Park cops weren’t allowed to enter without backup.

  He stood. Simon O’Neil looked up at him, and when he grasped Conley’s forearm, the old man’s skin felt like paper that would tear and blow away in a strong wind. His voice got louder but not stronger.

  “Matt, where are you going? We have more to talk about.”

  The hinges to the back door creaked and Mrs. O’Neil appeared, a butcher knife in each hand. Her robe was missing, one strap of her nightgown had fallen, and a white pancake breast quivered behind her upraised arms.

  “Grace,” Mr. O’Neil called as he scrambled from the bench, traipsed the path of long grass to his wife and repeated her name, chanting it as if pleading for divine assistance.

  Calling out a farewell, Conley took the opportunity to leave and found a path beside the house that led him past a handsome family of plastic deer grazing on the shriveled remains of last summer’s ragweed.

  ****

  Simon O’Neil’s house was receding in his rearview mirror when Lisa called.

  “Matt, I’ve been trying to reach you for days.”

  “I’ve been pretty busy.”

  “I’m sorry for what I said the other day.”

  “So am I.”

  “I spoke to Father McCarrick. He told me you’re leading the Rodriguez investigation. Shows you what I know. I’m very proud of you.”

  “He said that, huh?”

  Long silence before she spoke again. “When are you coming by?”

  He stopped at the light on Chestnut Street. A canopy of oaks spread over him, and he was losing reception. Lisa’s voice was garbled. “Love” snuck through before static. The word “babe” made its way out of the crackle.

  The sound finally cleared. “When, Matt?”

  “Soon.” The light turned green. “Very soon.”

  Chapter 7

  The crowd was a gathering of impressive proportions, maybe the largest in Ocean Park history. White, black, Hispanic, Asian, all were in attendance for the political event of the year—a fundraiser for Congressman Hector Diaz’s re-election. Samay stayed as close to Diaz as he inconspicuously could as the politician waded into a sea of constituents. Diaz hugged a fat old woman who wore eye-watering perfume. Her husband was next—fragrant stale breath and a hint of Ben Gay. Handshake followed with a middle-aged man with large, calloused hands and beer breath. Young woman with good cleavage next. The baby in her arm, a chubby infant who smelled of milk and talcum powder and dirty diaper, squirmed as if to defend his mother’s breasts.

  The Hispanic Social Club, the largest hall in Ocean Park, was the unofficial headquarters of the Latin Kings gang. On this Friday night the club was the venue for one of Diaz’s campaign speeches, and its doors were open to every prospective voter in the city—including Asian Boyz. The congressman brushed past the long, elegant drapes alongside the tall windows, looked at his reflection in a wall mirror, and adjusted his red tie and pocket hankie. His pencil mustache danced when he smiled.

  He crossed the hall, shaking hands, hugging, and complimenting everyone in his path. Heavy girl with a tight dress. Boy in a wheelchair. A rabbi. A nun. The politician swiveled from one vote to another as he made his way through the kitchen to the small club bar. Diaz left happy people behind, still talking about the speech he’d given, the promise of jobs, tax cuts that would somehow coexist with more services, and the silly drivel about progress that his opponent, Lisa Conley, was preaching. Everyone laughed with him.

  Samay and Vithu followed into the crowded bar. The clack of pool balls interrupted the drone of a hockey game on the high television. The club bar was a place where gangbangers mingled with upright club members like Congressman Diaz.

  Ramon, the Social Club manager, joined Diaz at a table along with a red-faced cop named Madigan. Ramon’s long hair and eyelashes would have made him look effeminate if not for his five-o’clock shadow, square jaw, and dark goatee.

  A waitress brought them a bottle of tequila and glasses. Samay and Vithu found cue sticks and racked the balls at the pool table next to them. Diaz and his companions spoke softly, too softly to overhear in the crowded space—until they opened their second bottle.

  “Tommy Lopez is dead,” Ramon said. “Someone fucked him up real bad.”

  Break. Three-ball dropped in the corner pocket. Samay positioned himself with his back to them and pretended to study his next shot.

  “Life’s not for everyone,” Diaz said. “Who killed him?”

  “Fuck if I know,” the policeman said.

  “We need to know.” Diaz poured himself
a drink.

  Vithu finally made a shot and contemplated his options. Samay circled slowly until he could see Diaz’s table.

  Madigan reached into the pocket of his jacket and produced a packet of paper. He unfolded it slowly, slid the creased page across the table, and lifted his hand from a photo nestled inside. A young girl’s face was blurred but angelic, tilted upward to a dark-haired woman as they descended the steps from the Ocean Park police station, past two white cops and a black one. Samay recognized the girl from the River Street courtyard.

  Diaz inspected the photo before he drained the rest of his drink.

  “She knows who killed Victor,” the cop said. “She was there. Cambodian.”

  “Cambodians,” Ramon said. “Cockroaches. What stinks more, the foul river they live near or their filthy tenements?”

  “Why haven’t you made an arrest?” Diaz demanded.

  Madigan shrugged. “State Police took over the investigation, and they ain’t sharing names.”

  “Then ask her,” Diaz ordered Ramon and tapped the picture twice, fast, as if his fingertip would burn if left there too long.

  “What?”

  “Ask the girl.”

  Diaz crumpled the paper into a ball, crushing it ever smaller with manicured fingers.

  Ramon, still looking stunned, said, “I can use Tommy’s gang, but I’ll need a translator.”

  Diaz nodded, then steepled his hands under his chin and issued a command to Madigan.

  “Don’t respond to 911 calls on River Street. Keep your people away.”

  ****

  “Now?” Samay whispered hours later.

  “It’s time,” Vithu said.

  They opened the closet door from the inside and stepped into the dark, quiet Hispanic Club kitchen. Samay retrieved the pipe cutter from his baggy pant leg. Dim moonlight poured in through the six-pane windows. Vithu flicked the light switch on and Samay climbed onto the wide industrial stove and braced himself across its hood. Legs dangling, arms and torso wedged between steel and wall, he fit the open jaw of the cutter on the copper gas pipe. Steel or black iron would have been difficult, but the tool cut through the copper after ten turns, and natural gas hissed. He righted himself. Vithu collected wet rags from the bar and wadded them under the doors to the bar and hall. The steady hiss of gas filled the room, along with a stink like sulfur. They closed the kitchen door, stepped into the dark hall, and paced the thirty-seven steps they’d counted earlier when they walked behind Diaz.

  The deadbolt on the side door slid easily, as did the two high-quality Schlage locks. They stepped into the parking lot and eased the metal door closed behind them.

  Vithu paused, turning to admire the impressive two-story building with stylish awnings over doors and windows. He ran a hand over the wall.

  “Pon says the war begins today,” he whispered to the bricks. “Say goodbye to your castle, Hector.”

  The moon was a bright coin, but dark factories and close tenements gave cover as they ran. Blocks later, they climbed the steep berm to the railroad tracks for the commuter train to Boston. Their legs pistoned the hill and a small avalanche of soil and coal tumbled down.

  Vithu reached the top and slid his new SIG Sauer out of his holster. He planted the handle of the gun on the back of his left hand, pointing the barrel at the square target of light in the kitchen they’d just left. He squeezed the trigger and a fireball bloomed from the Hispanic Social Club. Windows shattered, car alarms crowed. He pulled Samay to the worn walking path between the rails and the fireball grew as they raced toward the river.

  Chapter 8

  Dares, death wishes, and drunkenness brought normal people to Morgan’s Tap. Conley had visited twice years ago—a combination of dare and drunkenness called him and his college buddies.

  He cruised past the bar on Saturday afternoon and parked across the street. An overhead railroad bridge and a brick warehouse cast a shadow on Morgan’s for most of the day. Though bridge and building appeared responsible for the perpetual darkness, it seemed more likely God had decided not to waste His sunshine on Morgan’s Tap.

  A pit bull rooted in the gutter out front, stopping and sniffing energetically when it found something interesting. A bum wrapped in dirty blankets slept peacefully on the sidewalk under the bridge, prayer-ready hands providing a pillow like a sleeping child’s.

  The bar wore a façade of broken and faded bamboo slats. Conley opened the windowless door, and loose slats waved a greeting and chattered ominously when the door slammed shut.

  Three people were in Morgan’s—bartender sitting on a silver beer chest, studying the television on the wall—old guy leaning forward on a stool and sleeping on the bar, spill of long black hair over folded arms—platinum blonde working a video game with both hands, thin muscles visible under the narrow straps of her halter top.

  Conley rested his forearms on the bar. The bartender slid off the beer chest and raised his chin in question.

  “William O’Neil around?” Conley asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Know where he is?”

  “Ain’t none of my business.”

  “Think he’ll be back soon?”

  “That ain’t my business neither.”

  The girl at the game turned her head, but managed to keep the rest of her body focused on the game.

  “How about a drink?” Conley asked. “That your business?”

  The barkeep held out his hands, palms up.

  Conley studied the gaudy plastic beer tap handles, surveyed the shelves of hard liquor on the wall, and said, “Club soda. No lime.”

  The bartender’s face reddened. He plucked a glass out of the plastic rack in front of him, scooped ice out of a bucket, and shot squirts from a chrome soda gun into the glass like he was banging nails.

  Conley felt warm flesh against his arm and turned. The blonde’s arm was pressed tight.

  She nodded sideways at him as she addressed the bartender. “Bill collector or salesman, Teddy? What do you think?”

  “Donna, I ain’t got a guess about this asshole,” he said, and then, “salesman, maybe.”

  “Smart guess,” Conley said, raising his glass in salute. “We’re all selling something.”

  Teddy’s eyebrows furrowed, actually sliding toward each other before the right one climbed high.

  “I ain’t a fucking salesman,” he said.

  Conley took a long drink. “You certainly aren’t, Ted. Don’t mind my bullshit. That’s just the club soda talking.”

  Donna barked a loud “Hah!ˮ and smiled wide enough to wrinkle her makeup. Teddy even grinned, figuring he’d won.

  Conley glanced at the door. Clever repartee with barflies wasn’t going to help find William O’Neil. He considered leaving and weighed it against waiting it out with a relatively tame crowd here at Chaos Central.

  The hair at the end of the bar stirred like a mass of floating seaweed.

  “What’s so funny?” Seaweed Head asked, sleepy eyes still closed.

  Donna’s voice dropped an octave. “Maybe the handsome salesman here grabbed my ass and it felt pretty good, Rocco. Maybe it made me laugh, okay?”

  Rocco lifted his head and stared through swollen eyelids and greasy bangs.

  “Go back to sleep, honey,” Donna said. “I’ll wake you when I’m ready to go.” She bumped Conley with her arm again. Fast friends already. “Unless, of course, I get a better offer.”

  Rocco slid off the stool and swayed dangerously before he steadied. He was wiry, barely over five feet, and unless there was a suicide bomb vest under his ratty sweatshirt, he was probably the least dangerous person to ever pass through Morgan’s bamboo portal.

  Donna laughed again. A faint rumble sounded outside.

  Teddy poured Rocco a beer and set it on the bar. “Cool down, Rocco. Here. On the house.”

  “Don’t want your beer, Teddy.” He shoved the mug and it slid off the back of the bar top and crashed on the floor.

  Conley fin
ished his drink and stood. Time to go.

  The outside rumble grew louder, building like the beginning of a thunderstorm.

  Donna clutched his forearm with both hands and swung toward him, along with the tart smells of fresh beer and body odor. “Where you going, honey? Don’t mind Rocco, he don’t bite. Hell, he hardly got any teeth.”

  Thunder had come to ground and decided to visit Morgan’s Tap. Conley looked through the window and saw at least a dozen Harleys, angled to the curb, throaty motors dying one by one.

  Bikers poured into the Tap, giant hairy Vikings.

  Rocco ran to the biggest one, turned, and pointed a dirty, accusing fingernail at Conley. His skinny hand was shaking, and when he spoke he sounded hysterical.

  “Tony, that creep goosed Donna.”

  Rocco found some courage and spent it on a lazy roundhouse that Conley blocked with his forearm. But he didn’t block the grubby underside of Tony’s hammering fist, and fell to the floor, kissing the edge of the bar on the way. He scrambled to his feet, glanced at the door, but that path was blocked by an army in denim and leather. Conley turned to Teddy, considered flashing his badge, decided not to.

  “Call 9-1-1,” he said, and tasted the coppery tang of his own blood.

  Teddy turned his palms up once more and smiled.

  A fist rapped the back of Conley’s head and he visited the floor again. Vision blurring, he crawled through a gauntlet of buckled black boots that stomped shoulders, back, legs. Suddenly the front door opened and shiny brown shoes appeared, a sight as improbable as a sunbeam. The mob parted. No one spoke. Heavy boots shuffled backward. The newcomer bunched Conley’s jacket in the middle of his back and lifted him as easily as a lion lifting a cub. He passed his free hand over Conley’s hanging, bleeding head, no doubt finalizing the baptism he had just received.

  “Rocco, Tony, all of you,” his savior said in a voice as deep and final as a grave, “touch my friend Matt again and I’ll kill you.”

  Chapter 9