William Brown - The Undertaker

The goon tried to clear his head, but Sandy gave him a second kick to the face and a third, followed by a sweeping smash to the kneecap that buckled his leg, a straight fist to the throat, and a hard kick to the groin. That one dropped him to his knees, groaning. With his head finally down at her level, she finished him off with a spinning heel to the temple. His eyes rolled back in his head and he toppled sideways on the ground like a felled oak, out cold. She stood over him breathing hard, bobbing up and down. “Come on you turkey!” she screamed, daring him to get back up, but he never did. Lucky for him. She was a lethal little package riding a huge adrenaline high and I had no doubt she would have killed him.

“Hey.” I got to my feet and laid my hand on her shoulder. “You won.”

Eyes wild, she spun around and would have kicked me too if I hadn't backed up. For that instant, I wasn't certain she recognized me and I wanted no part of those size-six feet or those delicate little fists. I raised my hands in mock surrender and smiled. “Sandy, remember me? I'm on your side.”

Finally, she blinked and looked down at the unconscious goon. “Jeez!” she giggled with an embarrassed smile. “Did I do that?”

“It must have been something he said.” I bent over and felt around the dark alley, trying to find his pistol. My fingertips skimmed across the rough concrete, knowing it had to be there somewhere. Finally, I felt the barrel in one of the deep ruts. Picking it up, I brushed the dirt off and slipped it into the waistband of my pants, as she stepped behind the line of cans and rattled around back there in the dark. She let lose with an angry moan as she came out cradling her broken camera in her hands.

“Look what you did!” She glared at me accusingly.

“Me? What did I do?”

“You threw me back there.”

“The guy had a gun. He was shooting at us, remember? I'll buy you a new one.”

She didn't seem to make the connection or care about it. “I don't want a new one,” she mumbled and began to cry.

“Sandy, come on. It's only a camera,” I said, immediately realizing that was a big mistake. “I'll buy you another one, I promise! We gotta get out of here.”

She looked at the broken camera and then placed it gently, almost reverently, in her shoulder bag. “You owe me!”

I bent down and rifled through the goon's pockets. I found his wallet and a spare magazine of bullets for his pistol. I opened the wallet and pulled out a thick stack of fresh one-hundred dollar bills, several thousand dollars worth, which I jammed in my pocket. Any contribution to our cause was appreciated. I also found a Massachusetts Driver's License bearing the name Anthony Grigiatto and his photo, but what I did not find was a badge or government ID. Well, at least he wasn't a fed or a local cop.

Sandy came up behind me, trying to brush the dirt off her new clothes. “Who is he?” she asked as she looked down at the muscular goon. He was wearing an open collar silk shirt, gold chains around his neck, and Italian loafers. She looked at the driver's license. “Grigiatto? Look at him — he's a miniature Gino Parini. Gotta be Mafia. Bet they call him “Griggs”, or “fat Tony” or something. I told you Gino would come after us.”

“We don't know that. The guy could be local help working for Tinkerton.”

“What if Parini knows about the spreadsheets and the flash drives?”

“How could he?” I asked, just as confused as she was. “We need to call Hardin. He's right, we need to go in.” I walked over to the dark spot between two garages where the goon had been hiding in the shadows. I found a small, two-way radio propped against the window ledge. “It doesn't look like he's alone, either.”

I picked up the radio and pushed the microphone button. “Ey,” I mumbled, sounding like the goon. “You dere?”

“Yah. What's wit dose two? You see where dey went?”

“Nah. Nuttin’.”

“Well fuckin' stay awake next time.”

I grabbed her by one hand and the radio in the other, and took off running.

Don't crush a da grapes…

The faster we got away from Doug's townhouse and lost ourselves in a big crowd, the safer I'd feel. When we reached the first cross street, we geared down to a quick, huddled walk and turned south toward Commonwealth Avenue and the Mall. No sense attracting any more attention. We crossed the westbound lanes and entered the park, then turned east toward downtown. The curving walkways, bushes, and tall canopy of trees might be lovely on a bright sunny day, but on a dark, wet night with the town full of bad guys, every shadow was a threat I didn't want to deal with.

“Tell me something,” I asked Sandy as we hurried away. “All that flashing-feet karate stuff? Between beautician school, photography classes, and your graduate degree in auto theft, how did you have time to get a black belt?”

“After I threw Eddie out, I developed an intense desire to kick guys. I switched over to The North Avenue Tae-Kwan-Do and Karate School, because they let me do that without going to jail. You'd be amazed how fast you can work your way up to black belt when all you want to do is smash somebody.”

“I'll bet you won Miss Congeniality, too?” I said as I sprinted away.

“No, the Class Clown,” she answered, narrowly missing the back of my head.

I kept the goon's radio turned on as we headed east. It was a standard Motorola model with no special markings, none of the usual “Property of U. S. Government” warnings, and no Boston Police Department bar codes or inventory numbers. So far, their channel was dead quiet. Not a squawk. Not a peep. No one came on for a communication or time check. In fact, Sandy and I were almost back to Arlington, the busy north-south street and a half-mile away, before we heard anything. Then, all hell broke loose.

They must have found the goon or he must have finally gotten up and found them, because we heard a quick staccato of half-coherent messages over the radio. It was hard to tell how many people or cars were involved, but I had been in the Army. From the language they used, these were not police calls or calls from any other government agency I had ever heard of. There was no standard radio procedure, no call signs, and no unit designations, only angry grunts, swearing, threats, and a lot of chatter. They were not the Boston Police Department. They were not the FBI, the DEA, the CIA, or any of the other flavors in the Federal law enforcement alphabet soup either. But whoever they were, they were too late.

We crossed Arlington, where the Commonwealth Mall ended, and hurried on into the Public Garden, the western third of the Boston Common. A quarter mile in, along a curving walkway around the lake, we came to a park bench and a trashcan sitting under the dim light of a decorative Victorian street lamp. The can had one of those black plastic liner bags inside. I dug all the way to the bottom, but all I found was newspapers and old beer bottles.

Sandy stood there watching me “What are you looking for?” she finally asked.

“Some string or something,” I said in frustration. “If I can tie down the transmit button on the radio, we can block the frequency and completely screw up their communication for a while.” I looked up at her and said, “See? I get some good ideas, and I didn't even go to Catholic Schools or know Bobby McNally.”

She gave me a pitying look, reached into the trashcan, and pulled out the whole bag. In ten seconds flat, she had dumped the trash back into the can, ripped the thick top strip off the bag, and tied it around the radio. She found a large pebble on the ground and slipped it under the plastic, forcing the transmit button down and open the frequency.