character. Put her down in the desert and she’d sell you sand. Not only would you pay through the nose for it, she’d make you enjoy the privilege. If she hadn’t come down with a crippling case of rheumatoid arthritis, the family would never have wound up in the projects. Every once in a while she shows a trace of me old spark, but mostly she just goes through the paces.
Paolina would be in school for the day, but I wasn’t planning on a visit.
He was sprawled on the stoop of the building next door to Paolina’s, leaning against the dirty yellow bricks, staring at something only he could see. Same guy I’d been watching for three weeks, a scrawny Hispanic with unhealthy yellowish skin drawn tight across a narrow face. He had a droopy mustache, a wispy unkempt beard. Dark shadows around his eyes made him look older than he dressed. His T-shirt had sweat circles around the armpits, and his jeans were faded to the color of the pale morning sky. He hugged a worn leather satchel.
It was the satchel that interested me. More than that, what came out of it.
Drugs and housing projects go together like cops and robbers. I know that. But not drugs and Paolina. Those two are never going to be spoken of in the same breath.
I’d noticed Wispy Beard a few times when I’d come by to pick her up. I got curious. I confided in a Cambridge cop I know, a nice enough guy, but too busy to do the kind of surveillance needed for a bust. I’m not too busy. Maybe I can’t clean up the world, but next door to my little sister, nobody is going to dole out little packets from an old leather satchel.
I sat in my car and took notes. Comings and goings. Two kids, one not more than twelve years old, gave something to Wispy Beard, got something in return. Full descriptions went down in the notebook. As soon as I got a definite pattern, I’d give my cop friend a date and a time, and make sure the bastard got himself busted good.
His days were numbered in my mind.
CHAPTER
I’d stayed at my observation post too long, so I flew down Memorial Drive, my thoughts grimly fixed on that scumbag drug dealer. I was halfway to the Boston University Bridge before I shook myself out of it, and noticed that the elm leaves were edged with gold, and high clouds filtered the sunlight into fine visible rays. With breathtaking suddenness, the road reared up and flashed a spectacular view of Boston’s church steeples, brownstones, and skyscrapers. It still gives me goosebumps after all these years.
On crisp autumn days, no city compares to Boston, especially when you sneak up on it from the Cambridge side of the Charles. It’s the river that makes the magic, frames the city with a silver band. Today the Charles was flat as glass, except for two single sculls cutting the water, gliding toward the M.I.T. boafhouse. The skyline is a jumble downtown, but off to the right the Hancock and Prudential towers guard the Back Bay. At the top of Beacon Hill, the gold dome of the State House caught a shaft of sunlight and beamed it back in my eyes, forcing me to look down and pay attention to the road.
They say fish swim in the Charles River these days. You no longer have to race to the doctor for a tetanus shot if you fall off your sailboat. Ever since I came to Boston to live with Aunt Bea after my parents died, they’ve been saying people would be able to swim in the Charles in five more years. Then five more years. Then five more.
It looked like I might have to wait that long at the foot of the B. U. Bridge. Cars honked, drivers swore, but to no avail.
The college kids were back in town, in sufficient numbers to take the right of way by force. When the swarm of students finally parted wide enough for my car to pass, I took the curve onto Park Drive and followed the Riverway out to where it turns into the Jamaicaway. The road traces Olmsted’s chain of city parks, and it’s got twists and turns enough to delight a former cabbie. I drove it too fast, but then
Paolina would be in school for the day, but I wasn’t planning on a visit.
He was sprawled on the stoop of the building next door to Paolina’s, leaning against the dirty yellow bricks, staring at something only he could see. Same guy I’d been watching for three weeks, a scrawny Hispanic with unhealthy yellowish skin drawn tight across a narrow face. He had a droopy mustache, a wispy unkempt beard. Dark shadows around his eyes made him look older than he dressed. His T-shirt had sweat circles around the armpits, and his jeans were faded to the color of the pale morning sky. He hugged a worn leather satchel.
It was the satchel that interested me. More than that, what came out of it.
Drugs and housing projects go together like cops and robbers. I know that. But not drugs and Paolina. Those two are never going to be spoken of in the same breath.
I’d noticed Wispy Beard a few times when I’d come by to pick her up. I got curious. I confided in a Cambridge cop I know, a nice enough guy, but too busy to do the kind of surveillance needed for a bust. I’m not too busy. Maybe I can’t clean up the world, but next door to my little sister, nobody is going to dole out little packets from an old leather satchel.
I sat in my car and took notes. Comings and goings. Two kids, one not more than twelve years old, gave something to Wispy Beard, got something in return. Full descriptions went down in the notebook. As soon as I got a definite pattern, I’d give my cop friend a date and a time, and make sure the bastard got himself busted good.
His days were numbered in my mind.
CHAPTER
I’d stayed at my observation post too long, so I flew down Memorial Drive, my thoughts grimly fixed on that scumbag drug dealer. I was halfway to the Boston University Bridge before I shook myself out of it, and noticed that the elm leaves were edged with gold, and high clouds filtered the sunlight into fine visible rays. With breathtaking suddenness, the road reared up and flashed a spectacular view of Boston’s church steeples, brownstones, and skyscrapers. It still gives me goosebumps after all these years.
On crisp autumn days, no city compares to Boston, especially when you sneak up on it from the Cambridge side of the Charles. It’s the river that makes the magic, frames the city with a silver band. Today the Charles was flat as glass, except for two single sculls cutting the water, gliding toward the M.I.T. boafhouse. The skyline is a jumble downtown, but off to the right the Hancock and Prudential towers guard the Back Bay. At the top of Beacon Hill, the gold dome of the State House caught a shaft of sunlight and beamed it back in my eyes, forcing me to look down and pay attention to the road.
They say fish swim in the Charles River these days. You no longer have to race to the doctor for a tetanus shot if you fall off your sailboat. Ever since I came to Boston to live with Aunt Bea after my parents died, they’ve been saying people would be able to swim in the Charles in five more years. Then five more years. Then five more.
It looked like I might have to wait that long at the foot of the B. U. Bridge. Cars honked, drivers swore, but to no avail.
The college kids were back in town, in sufficient numbers to take the right of way by force. When the swarm of students finally parted wide enough for my car to pass, I took the curve onto Park Drive and followed the Riverway out to where it turns into the Jamaicaway. The road traces Olmsted’s chain of city parks, and it’s got twists and turns enough to delight a former cabbie. I drove it too fast, but then
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