inspiring
to know so many women are rising to their full potential.”
“Reggie, Ms. French and I have been talking about our StyleSmart ladies modeling their new career clothes for a luncheon benefit
event. It’s a fashion show that Ms. French is chairing next month in Newton.”
Newton, the home of Boston College, the Chestnut Hill Mall, many large and lovely homes.
“Such a paradigm, your store,” Caroline French says in well-modulated tones. “Your women bravely helping themselves to a better
life… and the great determination of your people to get going.”
Your people, so different from hers. From the shop’s front window, I notice that Ms. French gets going in a Mercedes SUV.
Nicole says, “Reggie, Ms. French tells me the Alliance hopes to name StyleSmart as the beneficiary of their fund-raising this
year.”
It’s my cue. “How wonderful! StyleSmart so very much appreciates the opportunity to work with your organization. Did Ms. Patrick
tell you she envisioned this store after years as a social worker? No? Well, the store is flourishing. With the help of groups
such as the Newton Home and Garden Alliance, we can continue to work with the women whose self-esteem and economic independence
we strive to advance.”
This goes on. We all look at our calendars and commit to a plan. Caroline French rises, and we all promise to finalize the
specifics.
After she leaves, Nicole practically orders me to script and direct the Newton fashion show. “You can talk that white talk,
Reggie. Those home and garden ladies can do us a world of good.”
Opportunity knocks. Like Nicole, I can strike a bargain. I look her in the eye. “Before I say yes, Nicole, I want to know
who lived in a group house on Eldridge Street about thirteen years ago. I want to know what happened to the red-robed preacher
who was called Doc or Big Doc. The house was destroyed by a fire, and I want to know who were the people in that house and
where they went.”
“Well, that’s a bundle.”
“There’s more. I need to know about a man named Henry Faiser. He’s black, and he lived in that house. He’s now in prison for
a murder he possibly did not commit.”
Silence falls like a winter night. What I hear next is a ticking sound in Nicole’s throat. She lowers her voice to a throaty
whisper and says, “Reggie, you got a nice new life goin’ for yourself. You got a roof over your head and lights in the darkness
and taps running hot and cold water. You got kids, maybe one day some grandkids. You got spirit, Reggie, just like your Aunt
Jo said. But you got to be careful it doesn’t turn into ‘vexation and vanity of spirit’ or you’ll have ‘no rest in your spirit.’
So don’t you go looking for new trouble. Take a word of good advice. Mind your business. Stay away from evil dealings.”
Chapter Six
I n Boston, regular coffee means with cream. I sip, wipe off donut glaze icing from my fingertips, and look at my watch. It’s
3:14 p.m. Finally, Frank Devaney appears.
“Reggie, sorry. Couldn’t get away. Let’s sit in the back. I’ll grab a coffee. You all set?”
We move to the farthest of the fast-food pink plastic molded seats, which allow you ten minutes before your spine cries out
for a chiropractor. Devaney balances coffee and a cream-filled donut. With his back to the wall, he can see whoever comes
in. He likes fluorescent light and quick customer turnover. They appeal to his idea of public privacy. I resist a joke about
the cop-donut connection as he sits down. His eyes are bloodshot, and he could use a shave. He scans the room, flips his necktie—chrome
yellow with red comets— over one shoulder, arranges a plastic fork beside a napkin, and centers his donut as if it’s a first
course.
“Gloomy weather.” In Bostonese, it comes out “wetha.”
“Bet you used to be in Florida this time of year, didn’t you? Or the islands.”
“Something like that.”
“Must
to know so many women are rising to their full potential.”
“Reggie, Ms. French and I have been talking about our StyleSmart ladies modeling their new career clothes for a luncheon benefit
event. It’s a fashion show that Ms. French is chairing next month in Newton.”
Newton, the home of Boston College, the Chestnut Hill Mall, many large and lovely homes.
“Such a paradigm, your store,” Caroline French says in well-modulated tones. “Your women bravely helping themselves to a better
life… and the great determination of your people to get going.”
Your people, so different from hers. From the shop’s front window, I notice that Ms. French gets going in a Mercedes SUV.
Nicole says, “Reggie, Ms. French tells me the Alliance hopes to name StyleSmart as the beneficiary of their fund-raising this
year.”
It’s my cue. “How wonderful! StyleSmart so very much appreciates the opportunity to work with your organization. Did Ms. Patrick
tell you she envisioned this store after years as a social worker? No? Well, the store is flourishing. With the help of groups
such as the Newton Home and Garden Alliance, we can continue to work with the women whose self-esteem and economic independence
we strive to advance.”
This goes on. We all look at our calendars and commit to a plan. Caroline French rises, and we all promise to finalize the
specifics.
After she leaves, Nicole practically orders me to script and direct the Newton fashion show. “You can talk that white talk,
Reggie. Those home and garden ladies can do us a world of good.”
Opportunity knocks. Like Nicole, I can strike a bargain. I look her in the eye. “Before I say yes, Nicole, I want to know
who lived in a group house on Eldridge Street about thirteen years ago. I want to know what happened to the red-robed preacher
who was called Doc or Big Doc. The house was destroyed by a fire, and I want to know who were the people in that house and
where they went.”
“Well, that’s a bundle.”
“There’s more. I need to know about a man named Henry Faiser. He’s black, and he lived in that house. He’s now in prison for
a murder he possibly did not commit.”
Silence falls like a winter night. What I hear next is a ticking sound in Nicole’s throat. She lowers her voice to a throaty
whisper and says, “Reggie, you got a nice new life goin’ for yourself. You got a roof over your head and lights in the darkness
and taps running hot and cold water. You got kids, maybe one day some grandkids. You got spirit, Reggie, just like your Aunt
Jo said. But you got to be careful it doesn’t turn into ‘vexation and vanity of spirit’ or you’ll have ‘no rest in your spirit.’
So don’t you go looking for new trouble. Take a word of good advice. Mind your business. Stay away from evil dealings.”
Chapter Six
I n Boston, regular coffee means with cream. I sip, wipe off donut glaze icing from my fingertips, and look at my watch. It’s
3:14 p.m. Finally, Frank Devaney appears.
“Reggie, sorry. Couldn’t get away. Let’s sit in the back. I’ll grab a coffee. You all set?”
We move to the farthest of the fast-food pink plastic molded seats, which allow you ten minutes before your spine cries out
for a chiropractor. Devaney balances coffee and a cream-filled donut. With his back to the wall, he can see whoever comes
in. He likes fluorescent light and quick customer turnover. They appeal to his idea of public privacy. I resist a joke about
the cop-donut connection as he sits down. His eyes are bloodshot, and he could use a shave. He scans the room, flips his necktie—chrome
yellow with red comets— over one shoulder, arranges a plastic fork beside a napkin, and centers his donut as if it’s a first
course.
“Gloomy weather.” In Bostonese, it comes out “wetha.”
“Bet you used to be in Florida this time of year, didn’t you? Or the islands.”
“Something like that.”
“Must
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