Dennis Lehane: Moonlight Mile

Brandon:Talk to me.

(Really. And people continued to contact him.)

Dominique: Hey.

Brandon: Oh, hey . Shit. Hey! You around?

Dominique: I will be.

Brandon: Well, come here.

Dominique: You forget we Skyped. I wouldn’t sleep with you there wearing a hazmat suit.

Brandon: So you’re thinking about sleeping with me finally. I never met a whore decided who she’d do it with.

Dominique: You ever meet one who looked like me?

Brandon: No. And you’re, like, near my mom’s age. And still. Shit. You’re the hottest chick I ever-

Dominique: How sweet. And let’s clarify something-I’m not a whore. I’m a carnal service provider.

Brandon: I don’t even know what that means.

Dominique: I’m totally unsurprised. Now go cash a bond or a check or whatever you do and meet me.

Brandon: When?

Dominique: Now.

Brandon: Now now?

Dominique: Now now. I’m in town this afternoon and this afternoon only. I won’t go to a hotel, so you better have another place, and I won’t wait long.

Brandon: What if it’s a real nice hotel?

Dominique: I’m hanging up now.

Brandon: You’re not hang-

She hung up.

Brandon cursed. He threw his remote into a wall. He kicked something. He said, “Only overpriced whore you’ll ever meet? You know what, bra? You can buy ten of her. And some blow. Go to Vegas.”

Yes, he actually called himself “bra.”

The phone rang. He must have tossed it along with the remote, because the ringtone was distant and I heard him scramble across the room to get to it. By the time he reached it, the ringtone had died.

“Fuck!” It was a loud scream. If I’d had my window rolled down, I could have heard it from the car.

It took him another thirty seconds before he prayed.

“Look, bra, I know I did some shit, but I promise, you get her to call back again? I’ll go to church and I’ll deposit a boatload of the green in one of those baskets. And I’ll be better. Just have her call back, bra.”

Yes, he actually called God “bra.”

Twice.

His ringtone had barely burped before he flipped his phone open. “Yeah?”

“You get one shot here.”

“I know it.”

“Give me an address.”

“Shit. I-”

“Okay, I’m hanging-”

“ Seven seventy-three Marlborough Street, between Dartmouth and Exeter.”

“Which unit?”

“No unit. I own the whole thing.”

“I’ll be there in ninety minutes.”

“I can’t get a cab that fast around here, and it’s rush hour soon.”

“Then get the power of flight. See you in ninety. Ninety-one? I’m gone.”

The car was a 2009 Aston Martin DB9. Retailed for two hundred thousand. Dollars. When Brandon pulled it out of the garage two town houses over, I checked it off the list on the seat beside me. I also snapped five photos of him in it while he waited for traffic to thin so he could enter it.

He hit the gas like he was launching an expedition to the Milky Way, and I didn’t even bother chasing him. The way he weaved in and out of traffic, even someone with the awareness of meat loaf, like Brandon, would see me riding his ass. I didn’t need to follow him anyway-I knew exactly where he was going and I knew a shortcut.

He arrived eighty-nine minutes after the phone call. He ran up the stairs and used a key on the door, and I caught it on film. He ran up the interior stairs, and I entered behind him. I followed him from fifteen feet away, and he was so wired that he didn’t even notice me for a good two minutes. In the kitchen on the second floor, as he opened the fridge, he turned when I snapped off a few shots on the SLR and he fell back against the tall window behind him.

“Who the fuck’re you?”

“Doesn’t much matter,” I said.

“You paparazzi?”

“Why would paparazzi give a shit about you?” I snapped a few more shots.

He leaned back to get a good look at me. He grew past the fear of a stranger popping up in his kitchen and moved on to threat-assessment. “You’re not that big.” He cocked his surfer’s head. “I could kick your bitch ass out of here.”

“I’m not that big,” I agreed, “but you definitely couldn’t kick my bitch ass out of anywhere.” I lowered the camera. “Seriously. Just look in my eyes.”

He did.

“Know what I’m saying?”

He half-nodded.

I slung the camera onto my shoulder and gave him a wave. “I’m leaving anyway. So, hey, have a good one, and try not to brain-damage any more people.”

“What’re you going to do with the pictures?”

I said the words that broke my heart. “Pretty much nothing.”

He looked confused, which was hardly uncommon for him. “You work for the Mayles family. Right?”

My heart broke just a tiny bit more. “No. I do not.” I sighed. “I work for Duhamel-Standiford.”

“A law firm?”

I shook my head. “Security. Investigations.”

He stared back at me, mouth open, eyes narrowed.

“Your parents hired us, you dumb shit. They figured you’d eventually do something moronic because, well, you’re a moron, Brandon. This little incident today should confirm all their fears.”

“I’m not a moron,” he said. “I went to BC.”

In place of a dozen comebacks, a shiver of exhaustion rippled through me.

This was my life these days. This.

I left the kitchen. “Best of luck, Brandon.” Halfway down the stairs, I stopped. “By the way, Dominique’s not coming.” I turned back toward the top of the stairs and leaned my elbow on the railing. “And, oh yeah, her name’s not Dominique.”

His flip-flops made a sloppy-wet-kiss noise as he crossed the floorboards and appeared in the doorway above me. “How do you know?”

“Because she works for me, dumbass.”

After I left Brandon, I met Dominique at the Neptune Oyster in the North End.

When I sat down, she said, “That was fun,” her eyes a bit wider than usual. “Tell me everything that happened when you got to his house.”

“Can we order first?”

“Drinks are already on their way. Dish, dish.”

I told her. Our drinks came, and we found time to scan the menu and decide on lobster rolls. She drank a light beer. I drank sparkling water. I reminded myself it was better for me than beer, particularly in the afternoon. But part of me still felt like a sellout. What I was selling out was less clear to me, but I felt it all the same.

When I finished recounting the tale of my encounter with Brandon Flip-Flops, she clapped her hands and said, “Did you really call him a moron?”

“Called him a few other things, too. Most weren’t complimentary.”

As our lobster rolls arrived, I removed my suit jacket, folded it, and laid it over the arm of the chair to my left.

“I’ll never get used to it,” she said. “You, all dressed up.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not like the old days.” I bit into my lobster roll. Maybe the best lobster roll in Boston, which made it, arguably, the best lobster roll in the world. “It’s not the dressing-up I have a hard time with. It’s the hair care.”

“It’s a nice suit, though.” She touched the sleeve. “Very nice.” She bit into her roll and appraised the rest of me. “Nice tie, too. Your mom pick it out?”