Bruce DeSilva - Providence Rag

“I see. I also understand that Diggs assaulted a guard again last year, and that on another occasion a bag of marijuana was found in his cell. Do you remember any of that?”

“I musta been off on those days, too.”

This wasn’t getting Mason anywhere, so he decided to come at it from another angle. “I hear security is pretty tight at Supermax.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“That makes me wonder. How could someone smuggle a bag of marijuana in there?”

“You’d be surprised,” Jefferson said. “Inmates got all kinds of tricks.”

“Such as?”

“Like sometimes one of their bitches will stick a plastic bag in her mouth and pass it to her man when they kiss in the visitors’ room.”

Mason just stared at him.

“What?” Jefferson said.

“I’ve been in the visitors’ room. Assuming they could fool the drug-sniffing dog, just how would they manage to kiss through that thick sheet of plate glass?”

“Fuck you. Finish your beer and get the hell out.”

Mason set the half-full Red Stripe on the floor, went out the door, tramped down the stairs, and pointed his Prius toward the next name on his list.

June 2006

Except for his waking dreams, books are the only thing that sustain him .

In the dim overhead light, he squints at the final page of Africans in America: America’s Journey through Slavery, written by a brother named Charles Johnson and a sister named Patricia Smith. He wonders idly if the two of them are fucking.

He had read the book swiftly, lingering only over the chapters about Denmark Vesey, Gabriel Prosser, and Nat Turner, ferocious brothers who led bloody rebellions against their white masters.

He closes the book, drops it on the floor beside his cot, and picks up a paperback from the prison library. Soul on Ice, by Eldridge Cleaver. On the first page, a dateline: Folsom Prison, Jan. 25, 1968. He smiles at that.

And he loves the brother’s last name.

May 2012

Mulligan grabbed his desk phone and started to dial. Then he thought better of it. He hung up, stood, and peeked over the top of his cubicle. Mason was just a few feet away, bending over several sheets of paper that were spread across his desktop.

“Whatcha got there?” Mulligan asked.

“A list of guards and former guards at Supermax. You probably know some of these guys. Maybe you can point out the ones who are straight shooters.”

“Sure thing,” Mulligan said.

Mason gathered up the sheets of paper and handed them over the top of the cubicle.

Mulligan flipped through the names, recognizing about thirty of them. He picked up a red marker and made checks beside the ones who would lie to a reporter about the weather.

“Here you go, Thanks-Dad,” he said, handing the list back. “Try the twelve I marked first.”

“Thanks, Mulligan.”

“You’re welcome.”

Mulligan tugged on his jeans jacket and headed for the elevator. Mason watched him go. Then he glanced at the names Mulligan had checked. One of them was Wyclef Jefferson. It didn’t surprise him any. He figured his colleague could be counted on to weed out the guards who wouldn’t tell him anything.

Mulligan took the elevator down, stood on the sidewalk, fired up a Partagás, and placed the call from his cell.

“Warwick Police Department.”

“Andrew Jennings, please.”

“Lieutenant Jennings retired from the force last November.”

That was news to Mulligan. He and his old friend had lost touch a couple of years back.

“He’s an old pal of mine. Do you know how I can reach him?”

“I’m not permitted to give out his phone number, but you can find him at the FOP lodge on Tanner Avenue most afternoons.”

When Mulligan pulled up to the lodge a half hour later, there were only four cars in the parking lot. He found Jennings alone at the bar, the former cop’s right arm curled around a bottle of Narragansett and a whiskey back. His forearms were still roped with muscle, but his hair had thinned, and he seemed smaller than Mulligan remembered. He looked gaunt, as if something more than the job had drained out of him.

Mulligan took the adjoining stool, tapped him on the shoulder, and said, “How you doing, Andy?”

“Mulligan? Long time.” His voice still rumbled like a muscle car. “I’m doin’ jess fine. And you?”

“About the same.”

“Really? Cuz from what I been hearin’, things aren’t too good at the paper.”

“We’ve had a lot of layoffs, but I’m still hanging on.”

“I ever tell you I was a paperboy when I was a kid?” Jennings asked.

“I don’t think you ever did.”

“In those days, the Dispatch was so fat I could only carry ten at a time. Now it looks like a fuckin’ pamphlet.”

The bartender wandered over, wiped a wet spot with a bar rag, and gave Mulligan the once-over.

“Don’t remember seeing you in here before,” he said. “You on the job?”

“I’m not.”

“It’s members only here, buddy.”

“He’s a friend of mine, Rico,” Jennings said.

“Then the first one’s on the house. What’s your poison?”

“Whatever Andy’s having. And bring him a reload on me.”

“Thanks, pal,” Jennings said.

“You’re welcome, Andy. So tell me, how’s Mary?”

“She’s good.”

“Still teaching at the high school?”

“She is.”

“I hear you finally turned in the badge.”

“Yeah. It was time.” But the look in his eyes said he wasn’t so sure.

Rico delivered their order, moseyed toward the other end of the bar, and gazed up at a television tuned to a Fox News show hosted by a blond airhead named Megyn Kelly.

Mulligan swallowed his shot of bourbon and took a swig of beer. He was eager to get to the point, but he knew Jennings liked to chat about this and that before getting down to business.

“So,” Mulligan asked, “what are you doing with yourself these days?”

“Mornings I putter around the house. Most afternoons I drop in here to play a little pool and shoot the shit with old friends. ’Course, I’ll have to find another job if the Republicans on the city council get their way. They’re tryin’ to slice all the city pensions in half.”

“Already happened in Central Falls,” Mulligan said. “From what I hear, Providence and Pawtucket could be next.”

“Hard times,” Jennings said.

“Unless you’re on Wall Street.”

“Jesus, don’t get me started. They keep shipping jobs overseas and the whole country’s gonna be outta work. One of these days, you’ll dial 911 and find yourself talking to some moron in Bangladesh.”

They sipped their beers, Mulligan hoping they’d chatted enough.

“So,” Jennings said. “Workin’ on anything interesting?”

“I am. I was thinking you might be able to help.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Twenty-one years ago, somebody broke into a house on Inez Avenue and attacked a woman with a knife.”

“Sue Ashcroft,” Jennings said.

“You remember this?”

“Oh yeah. It was maybe my third or fourth case after I made chief of detectives.”

“Her name’s Susan Zucchi now,” Mulligan said. “One of my colleagues tracked her down through her marriage license. Found her living in a nice house in Coventry.”

“That so?”

“Yeah.”

“How is she?”

“She’s good. Got herself an attentive husband, a couple of fine sons.”

“Glad to hear it. But why would the Dispatch go looking for her now, after all these years?”

“To ask her about Kwame Diggs.”