Bruce DeSilva - Cliff Walk

“Hey,” I said, “a boy can dream.”

“Who’s playing the violin?” Black Shirt asked.

“Neighbor’s daughter,” I said.

“She’s good,” he said. And with that, they took their leave.

When they were gone, I turned the dead bolt and took the shadow box down from the wall. I pried the pistol from the frame, fetched the gun oil and the cartridges from the cabinet over the refrigerator, and spread an oilcloth on my scuffed, fake-brick linoleum kitchen floor. I’d gotten a permit to carry last year, after the trouble in Mount Hope. I’d never made use of it, but if I broke my promise to Black Shirt and Gray Shirt, it might come in handy.

I sat on the floor, broke down the weapon, cleaned it, and reassembled it. Then I got up, assumed the combat shooter’s stance I’d learned at the Providence Revolver Club-left leg forward, knees bent, both hands on the grip-and dry-fired at the refrigerator. It didn’t fall down or shoot back. I sat back down on the floor and loaded the magazine with standard military-load cartridges.

Lomax stood over my desk, a printout of the obituary I’d just filed clutched in his hand. He smiled wanly and began to read aloud:

Margaret O’Hoolihan, 62, of 22 Hendrick Street, Providence, died yesterday at Rhode Island Hospital after a short illness. Her reputation as a whimsical flibbertigibbet was belied by her lifelong love of Proust.

“Precisely so,” I said.

“Unusual lead for an obituary, though, don’t you think?”

“I thought I’d try to liven things up.”

“Maybe not the best approach for the obit page.”

“I see your point.”

“Flibbertigibbet?”

“It means flighty chatterbox.”

“I know what it means, Mulligan.”

“Of course you do.”

“Because I looked it up.”

“Okay.”

“Tell me, Mulligan. How many of our subscribers do you suppose are in the habit of reading the paper with a Webster’s in their laps?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“I do.”

“Enlighten me.”

“None of them.”

“Ah.”

“Rewrite this piece of shit so I can put it in the paper.”

“Right away, boss.”

“Something else I need to ask you about,” he said. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Planning to gun somebody down today?”

“Not just now. Maybe later.”

That morning, the big Colt dug into the small of my back as I smuggled it into the newsroom under my leather bomber jacket. At my desk, I slipped it out and locked it in my file drawer. I thought I was discreet about it, but Lomax must have caught a glimpse.

“Some reason you feel the need to be armed?”

“There is.”

“Care to share?”

“Last night a couple of Schwarzeneggers who work for Vanessa Maniella paid me a visit.”

“Oh, shit. You okay?”

“Fine and dandy.”

“What did they want?”

“For me to mind my own business.”

“But you’re not going to, are you?”

“Of course not.”

“Sounds like she has something to hide.”

“It does.”

“Any idea what?”

“Not a clue.”

“Maybe we should call the police,” he said.

“Won’t do any good.”

“I suppose not.”

“So I figure on being ready when the Arnolds come back.”

“Got a permit to carry?”

“I do.”

“There’s a rule against firearms in the newsroom, Mulligan.”

“I suppose there would be.”

“You’re breaking it.”

“I guess I am.”

“People start bringing guns in here and this might as well be Dodge City.”

“Only if we lay in a case of rotgut whiskey and hire some dance hall girls.”

“You could get canned for this, Mulligan. The bean counters are itching to trim a few more bodies.”

“Then maybe we could keep this between us.”

“Just keep it locked up and out of sight, okay?”

“Sure.”

“And don’t shoot any copy editors no matter how much they deserve it.”

Late that afternoon, I nursed a Killian’s at Hopes and pondered my next move. Mason strolled into the place, claimed the stool next to mine, and slapped his Dunhill briefcase on the bar.

“Ready for another?”

“No thanks, Thanks-Dad. I was just heading out.”

“Going home for the evening?”

“Not just yet. I thought I’d make a courtesy call on one of our local hooligans.”

“Mind if I tag along?”

“You sure you want to? Where I’m going, you won’t exactly blend in.”

“That’s okay,” he said. “Just consider it part of my continuing education at the Mulligan School of Journalism.”

“Fine,” I said, “but when we find my guy, it would be best for all of us if you keep your mouth shut.”

“I can do that.”

“See that you do.”

Fifteen minutes later, Secretariat cruised slowly down Broad Street past KFC, where fat mamas and their fat toddlers trudged ankle-deep through crushed fried chicken buckets and flattened paper cups. The roadway was rotten with commuters. Most of them were heading to their homes in the Elmwood section of Providence and the neighboring city of Cranston, but a few were hunting for the stroll that migrated up and down the main drag through South Providence. We crawled by Miss Fannie’s Soul Food Kitchen, Jovan’s Lounge, Empire Loan, the Bell Funeral Home, and the Rhode Island Free Clinic. Just past Calvary Baptist Church, at the corner of Broad Street and Potters Avenue, we found what we were looking for. I rolled through the intersection, pulled to the curb, and parked.

We were still sitting there five minutes later when two hookers, both shivering in halter tops and hot pants, separated from the pack, dashed across Potters, and startled Mason by rapping on his window. One of them was a tall, ample black woman pushing forty. The other was a short, skinny Asian who looked young enough to cartwheel for the Nathanael Greene Middle School cheerleaders. I powered down the window on Mason’s side of the car.

“Ready for your booty call, baby?” the tall one asked. “Girlfriend and I are bop !”

Mason turned to me and said, “Bop?”

“They are proficient at oral sex,” I said.

“You got that right,” the short one said.

“I appreciate the offer, ladies, but no, thank you,” Mason said.

“Come on, baby,” the tall one said. “You got the green.” She smacked herself on the ass and added, “You know you want to hit dat donk.”

Mason looked at me and raised an eyebrow.

“Baby got back,” I said.

“Huh?”

“Her ass.”

With that, the hookers turned their backsides to us and dropped their drawers.

“I’m sorry,” Mason said, “but we are not in the market for your services.”

The short one stuck her head in the window, scowled, and looked at me.

“Yo’ friend is buggin’,” she said.

“Buggin’?” Mason said.

“Acting weird.”

“Fo’ shiggidy, my weeble,” the tall one said.

Mason glanced at me again. “Sorry,” I said. “No idea. I think she’s just playing with us now.”

The hookers spun on their heels and trudged back across the street. I slid Mason’s window up, started the engine, and cranked the heater.

“Getting anywhere with the campaign contribution lists?” I asked.

“I’m still working on it,” Mason said.

“Want to tell me what you’ve got so far?”

“Not until I have something solid.”

I took a Partagás from my shirt pocket, set fire to it, and cracked my window to let the fumes escape. On the corner behind us, commuters pulled their cars to the curb to check out the stroll. Now and then, one of them opened a car door so a girl could climb in. Others, displeased with the price or the merchandise, pulled out alone. A squad car crawled by, but the girls didn’t scatter the way they did in the old days. Instead, they gave the cops a wave. Under Rhode Island’s weird prostitution statute the stroll was against the law, but few cops paid it any mind. Why bust streetwalkers when indoor prostitution was legal? It wasn’t worth the hassle of paperwork and court appearances.