glinted off the golden statehouse dome and I closed my eyes, indifferent to the throng of rowdies boarding at Charles Street Station. Among local Brahmins, name repetition abounds. My blue-eyed bifocaled Adam might be Adam Mayhew, the third, the fourth, the fifth. Not to mention a totally unrelated Adam Mayhew.
Sure. I believe in coincidence. Right up there with the Easter Bunny, astrology, and long-term weather forecasts.
Did I believe in the detailed reminiscences of elderly caretakers? Would he remember a twenty-four-year-old funeral? He hadnât volunteered to check any records. Why should he bother to lie?
I sighed, covering it with a fake cough as I observed my seatmate eyeing me speculatively. He wore a long beard, a skullcap, and a black cassock. A heavy cross on a metallic chain dangled to his knees. He looked as though he might be searching for converts, followers, donations.
Face facts: I have a suspicious nature. I gave it free rein on the T, but at no point did a broad-shouldered male, wearing an unnecessary jacket of any hue or packing a piece in a shoulder holster, make an appearance. The train was so crowded I couldnât be absolutely sure he wasnât on board, so I switched at Park Street, waiting eight minutes for the next jammed southbound cars, maintaining careful surveillance.
If it werenât so damned hot in the tunnels I might join the MBTA police, enjoy the benefits of a regular paycheck.
But would they let me wear bizarre halter tops like Rozâs?
Would I wear one given the latitude? Given the body?
Sometimes Roz makes me feel like a gutless wonder; at other times a veritable saint, a reservoir of common sense. No wonder I value her presence in my life.
As I treasure Mooneyâs.
Mooneyâs simply one of the best cops around. Hadnât been for him, Iâd never have gotten into plain-clothes work, never have earned my detectiveâs tin. Or rather, Iâd have earned it, I just wouldnât have gotten it, passed over for some guy whose dear old dad and five Irish uncles put in time with the Boston PD.
The trouble with Mooney is he makes me feel guilty, as if I should have stayed a cop no matter what, because he really did climb on to a swaying limb for me. And I paid him back by quitting.
Guilt plays such a major role in my life that my Mooney guilt usually gets shoved to the back of the bus. But today, because I needed a favor, it crept stealthily to the fore, nudging me as I waited on the stoop by the gas pumps for a detective I knew, someone I could tail into the station without causing undue comment. While I climbed the stairs, automatically avoiding the creaky fourth step and the loose rubber runner on the sixth, I ran a mental credit check.
Who owed whom?
I had the uneasy feeling that I was down major points, and about to sink deeper. Maybe I ought to crawl into his office on hands and knees, a true supplicant. No. Cops love to gossip. I wouldnât give them the satisfaction.
âWhat do you want?â Mooney barked as soon as I opened the door. He glanced up warily, peering over tiny rectangular lenses. Noticing me notice them, he quickly lifted them off his nose and stuffed them in a desk drawer, out of sight.
Vanity: not quite one of the seven deadlies, but Mooney was seldom vain.
I merely raised an eyebrow. If I want help I usually invite him out for doughnuts; I donât drop by unannounced, uninvited.
âBreak up with the boyfriend?â he asked.
The best defense is a sneak attack; Mooney knows.
I ignored his question. I wouldnât visit Mooney to discuss my sex life. Heâs aware of that.
âHowâs Sam?â he went on, mentioning another former flame since we were on the subject.
The subject of Sam Gianelli is a tender one. We werenât an item when he got injured in an attack on the Green & White garage, but weâve been off-again, on-again lovers for years.
âConvalescent center,â I said.
Sure. I believe in coincidence. Right up there with the Easter Bunny, astrology, and long-term weather forecasts.
Did I believe in the detailed reminiscences of elderly caretakers? Would he remember a twenty-four-year-old funeral? He hadnât volunteered to check any records. Why should he bother to lie?
I sighed, covering it with a fake cough as I observed my seatmate eyeing me speculatively. He wore a long beard, a skullcap, and a black cassock. A heavy cross on a metallic chain dangled to his knees. He looked as though he might be searching for converts, followers, donations.
Face facts: I have a suspicious nature. I gave it free rein on the T, but at no point did a broad-shouldered male, wearing an unnecessary jacket of any hue or packing a piece in a shoulder holster, make an appearance. The train was so crowded I couldnât be absolutely sure he wasnât on board, so I switched at Park Street, waiting eight minutes for the next jammed southbound cars, maintaining careful surveillance.
If it werenât so damned hot in the tunnels I might join the MBTA police, enjoy the benefits of a regular paycheck.
But would they let me wear bizarre halter tops like Rozâs?
Would I wear one given the latitude? Given the body?
Sometimes Roz makes me feel like a gutless wonder; at other times a veritable saint, a reservoir of common sense. No wonder I value her presence in my life.
As I treasure Mooneyâs.
Mooneyâs simply one of the best cops around. Hadnât been for him, Iâd never have gotten into plain-clothes work, never have earned my detectiveâs tin. Or rather, Iâd have earned it, I just wouldnât have gotten it, passed over for some guy whose dear old dad and five Irish uncles put in time with the Boston PD.
The trouble with Mooney is he makes me feel guilty, as if I should have stayed a cop no matter what, because he really did climb on to a swaying limb for me. And I paid him back by quitting.
Guilt plays such a major role in my life that my Mooney guilt usually gets shoved to the back of the bus. But today, because I needed a favor, it crept stealthily to the fore, nudging me as I waited on the stoop by the gas pumps for a detective I knew, someone I could tail into the station without causing undue comment. While I climbed the stairs, automatically avoiding the creaky fourth step and the loose rubber runner on the sixth, I ran a mental credit check.
Who owed whom?
I had the uneasy feeling that I was down major points, and about to sink deeper. Maybe I ought to crawl into his office on hands and knees, a true supplicant. No. Cops love to gossip. I wouldnât give them the satisfaction.
âWhat do you want?â Mooney barked as soon as I opened the door. He glanced up warily, peering over tiny rectangular lenses. Noticing me notice them, he quickly lifted them off his nose and stuffed them in a desk drawer, out of sight.
Vanity: not quite one of the seven deadlies, but Mooney was seldom vain.
I merely raised an eyebrow. If I want help I usually invite him out for doughnuts; I donât drop by unannounced, uninvited.
âBreak up with the boyfriend?â he asked.
The best defense is a sneak attack; Mooney knows.
I ignored his question. I wouldnât visit Mooney to discuss my sex life. Heâs aware of that.
âHowâs Sam?â he went on, mentioning another former flame since we were on the subject.
The subject of Sam Gianelli is a tender one. We werenât an item when he got injured in an attack on the Green & White garage, but weâve been off-again, on-again lovers for years.
âConvalescent center,â I said.
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