Dennis Lehane (Editor) - Boston Noir

“All right, Mandy it is.”

She peered down at the skiff. “It looks so small.”

“It’s big enough for where we’re going,” I said.

“Are you sure?”

“I grew up around here, Miss-”

“Mandy.”

“Mandy, I grew up around here.” I looked about the water, at the lights coming on at the shoreline of Boston Harbor and the islands scattered out there at the beginnings of the Atlantic Ocean. “I promise you, I’ll get you out and back again in no time.”

She seemed to think about that for a moment, and nodded. Then she moved closer and gingerly put one foot into the boat, as I held her hand. Her hand felt good. “Up forward,” I said. “Take the seat up forward.”

My client clambered in and I followed. I undid the stern line and gently pushed us off, then primed the engine by using a squeeze tube from the small fuel tank. A flick of the switch and a couple of tugs with the rope starter, and the small Mercury engine burbled into life. We made our way out of the docks and toward the waters of the harbor, motoring into the coming darkness, my right hand on the throttle of the engine.

After about five minutes she turned and said, “Where are the life jackets?”

“You figuring on falling in?”

She had a brittle laugh. “No, not at all. I’d just like to know, that’s all.”

I motioned with my free hand. “Up forward. And nothing to worry about, Mandy. I boated out here before I went to grade school and haven’t fallen in yet.”

She turned into herself, the purse on her lap, and I looked over at the still waters of the harbor. It was early evening, the water very flat, the smell of the salt air pretty good after spending hours and hours on Scollay Square. Off to the left, the north, were the lights of the airport, and out on the waters I could see the low shapes of the islands. Over to the right was the harbor itself, and the lights of the moored freighters.

One of the islands was now off to starboard and Mandy asked, “What island is that?”

“Thompson,” I said.

“I see buildings there. A fort?”

I laughed. “Hardly. That’s the home of the Boston Farm and Trades School.”

“The what school?”

“Farm and Trades. A fancy name for a school for boys who get into trouble. Like a reform school. One last chance before you get sent off to juvenile hall or an adult prison.”

She turned, and in the fading light I could make out her pretty smile. “Sounds like you know that place firsthand.”

“Could have, if I hadn’t been lucky.”

Soon we passed Thompson and up ahead was a low-slung island with no lights. The wind shifted, carrying with it a sour smell.

“What in God’s name is that?” Mandy asked.

“ Spectacle Island. That’s where the city dumps its trash. Lots of garbage up there, and probably the bodies of a few gangsters. Good place to lose something.”

“You know your islands.”

“Sure,” I said. “They all have a story. All have legends. Indians, privateers, ghosts, pirates, buried treasure…everything and anything.”

Now we passed a lighthouse, and I said, “ Long Island,” but Mandy didn’t seem to care. There was another, smaller island ahead. “That’s Gallops. You ready?” I asked.

“Yes,” she replied, her voice strained. “Quite ready.”

I ran the skiff aground on a bit of sandy beach and waded in the water, dragging a bowline up, tying it off some scrub brush. There was a dock just down the way, with a path leading up to the island, and by now it was pretty dark. From my gym bag I took out a flashlight and cupped the beam with my hand, making sure only a bit of light escaped.

“I want to make this quick, okay?”

She nodded.

“I asked around,” I said. “I know where the barracks are. Do you happen to know where his bunk was located?”

“Next to a window overlooking the east, in the far corner. He always complained that the morning sun would hit his eyes and wake him up before reveille.”

“All right,” I said. “Let’s go.”

From the path near the dock, it was pretty easy going, much to my surprise. The place was deserted and there were no lights, but my own flashlight did a good job of illuminating the way. We headed along a crushed stone path; halfway there, something small and furry burst out of the brush, scaring the crap out of me and making Mandy cry out. She grabbed my free hand and wouldn’t let it go-I didn’t complain. It felt good, and she kept her hand in mine all the way up to the barracks.

A lot of the windows were smashed, and the door leading inside was hanging free from its hinges. We moved up the wide steps and gingerly stepped in. I flashed the light around. The roof had leaked and there were puddles of water on the floor. We went to the left, where there was a great open room stretching out into the distance. I slashed the light around again. Rusting frames for bunks were piled high in the corner, and there was an odd, musty smell to the place. Lots of old memories came roaring back, being in a building like this, taking in those old scents, of the soap and gun oil…and the smell of the men, of course.

I squeezed Mandy’s hand and she squeezed back. Here we had all come, from all across the country, to train and to learn and to get ready to fight…and no matter what crap the RKO movies showed you, we were all scared shitless. It was a terrible time and place to come together, to know that so many of you would never return…torn up, blown up, shattered, burned, crushed, drowned. So many ways to die…and now to come back to what was called peace and prosperity and hustle and bustle and try to keep ahead. What a time.

“Let’s go,” I whispered, not sure why I was whispering. “I want to get out of here before someone spots our light.”

“Yes,” she whispered back, and it was like we were in church or something. I led my client down the way, our footsteps echoing off the wood, and I kept the light low, until we came to the far corner, the place where the windows looked out to the east, where a certain man rested in his bunk, the sun hitting his face every morning.

“Here,” she whispered. “Shine the light over here.”

She knelt down in the corner of the room, her fingers prying at a section of baseboard, and even though I half expected it, I was still surprised. The board came loose and Mandy cried out a bit; I lowered the flashlight and illuminated a small cavity.

“Hold on,” I said, “you don’t know what-”

But she didn’t listen to me. She reached her right arm down and rummaged around, murmuring, “Oh, Roger. Oh, my Roger.”

Then she pulled her hand back, holding a box for Bass shoes, the damp cardboard held together with gray tape. She clasped the box against her chest and leaned over, silently weeping, I thought, her body shaking and trembling.

I gave her a minute or two, and then touched her shoulder. “Mandy, come on, we have to get out of here. And now.”

And she got off her knees, wiped at her eyes, and with one hand held the cardboard box and her small leather purse against her chest.

Her other hand took mine, and wouldn’t let go until we got back to the boat.

In the boat I pushed off and fired up the engine, and we started away from Gallops Island. The wind had come up some, nothing too serious, but there was a chop to the water that hadn’t been there before. With the box in her lap, she turned and smiled, then leaned in toward me. I returned the favor and kissed her, and then kissed her again, and then our mouths opened and her hand squeezed my leg. “Oh, Billy…I didn’t think it would work…I really didn’t…Look, when we get back, we need to celebrate, okay?”

I liked her taste and her smell. “Sure. Celebrate. That sounds good.”