“There was this chick.”

“And what was this chick’s name?”

“Shit,” he said. “This was, like, four years ago.”

“It was four years ago.”

“And it’s hard to remember,” he said. “I was kind of fucked up myself.”

“But Julie had this friend.”

“Yeah, she went to Southie High, too. Shit, she was always with Julie. You didn’t see one without the other. Frick and fucking Frack.”

“Was she spotted in the company of a Thin Man?”

“I don’t know,” Touchie said. “I don’t remember him.”

“Never mind,” I said. “Would this girl’s name happen to be Theresa?”

“Yeah, Theresa Donovan,” he said. “She had great tits, too. I wonder if she’s still around? I bet we’re into the same shit, knowing the same people and all.”

“What are you into, Touchie?”

“Having a good time before my dick quits working.”

“A noble goal.”

“You got a wife?”

“Sort of,” I said.

“What’s that mean?”

“It means I’ve got total commitment but don’t need a piece of paper to make it so.”

“You been married?”

“Nope.”

“Then what makes you different than me?” he said. “If you get the milk for free, then why buy the cow?”

“‘Soul and body have no bounds,’” I said. “‘To lovers as they lie upon.’”

“What is that, Bon Jovi?”

“Auden.”

“Some old-school shit.”

“Yep.”

Touchie took out a pocket comb and slicked back his dark hair. Damn if it wasn’t old-fashioned grease. I wondered if he carried a switchblade, too. He stood and shook my hand.

“Anything else you recall?” I asked. You always ended the interview like that. One more question, ma’am. Over the years, I’d perfected it.

“You didn’t ask me about the old guy.”

“And I say, ‘What old guy?’”

“Older ’an you,” Touchie said. “I seen him with Julie a lot before Mickey killed her. I figured you’d be all over that.”

“Name?”

“Don’t know,” Touchie said. “He was somebody. You know, like a guy who thought he was top dog or used to be one. I was in the pub and kind of trashed when I met him.”

“I’m sensing a pattern.”

“One night, I go up to Jules and say, ‘How’s the kids, how’s your ma, how you doin’ in the McCormack?’ and all that shit. I guess we was talking a little too close, and this old guy comes up and nearly takes my fucking head off. Just for talking to her.”

“What’d he say?”

“Didn’t say nothin’,” Touchie said. “He just reached over, grabbed my hand, and pulled my arm off Jules. He had a grip like a gorilla. Strong as an ape. A big crazy mick. A couple old guys pulled him away and tried to calm him down ’cause he’d just gotten out of the joint.”

“What’d you do?”

“Not shit,” he said. “Guy was nuts. Old men get a piece of young tail and they lose their mind. Fuckin’ nuts. People were grabbing me and telling me to get lost, that he’d kill me or something. A lot of drunk shit. Pub stuff. Me? I like to joke around. Have a drink. Have a smoke. Have fun.”

“People tell me you’re a riot,” I said.

“What can I say? It’s a gift.”

Touchie smiled. He was very pleased with himself.

“You know anyone who’d recognize the old guy?”

“Nah,” he said. “Like I said, my memory ain’t so good. I mean, the big guy coulda been you.”

“Wasn’t me.”

“Shit, I don’t know,” he said. “He was a big old tough guy.”

“You remember any detail about him?”

“He was a mean bastard.”

“Would it help if I brought some photos?”

He shook his head. “I was pretty trashed.”

I nodded. I made a mental note. I would ask around.

“Jules was a sweet girl.” He looked out into the Common and smiled, thinking some sweet and faraway thought. Wind kicked up flecks of snow and scattered bits along twisting paths. The smile was frozen on his face. “Real sweet. She was a mess, but she sure loved her kids.”

I gave him a card. And twenty bucks. “Ask around about the old guy,” I said.

Touchie Kiley thanked me before running off to park a Cadillac. He waved in the shiny new car as it passed me on the half-circle drive. He looked very at home behind the wheel.

24

Peter Contini, attorney at law, kept an office on Washington Street, not far from Kneeland. I once had an office in the same neighborhood, when it was known as the Combat Zone. I still recalled the Teddy Bare Lounge, the Two O’clock Club, and the Naked I with great fondness. The Naked I had a terrific sign with a neon eye flashing over a woman’s crotch. There were dancers like Princess Cheyenne and Fanne Foxe, the Argentine Firecracker. Dozens and dozens of peep shows and burlesque clubs and dirty movie houses.

But then came redevelopment and home video. Men could watch naked women on their computers. No need for a raincoat and sunglasses. Now most of the old Combat Zone was filled with electronics stores and Vietnamese restaurants.

There was a cold rain that afternoon, and I had my collar turned up on my coat. The rain slickened the neon streets, signs shining in Asian symbols and letters.

My Sox hat was soaked by the time I knocked on Contini’s office door.

When he opened it, I could tell he was slightly drunk.

“I’d like to talk to you about Mickey Green,” I said brightly.

Contini looked at me like I was the Ghost of Christmas Past. I smiled reassuringly at him. He did not smile back. He just walked back into his small office, which was cluttered in papers and thick bound files.

He sat at his desk and took a sip from a coffee mug. Contini was a small, skeletal man with very white, very bad skin. His suit had probably been purchased at a warehouse sale. And even ten years ago it must’ve been just as ugly.

He face was pockmarked. He was in need of a shave.

“How’s the coffee?” I asked.

“I don’t drink coffee,” Contini said.

I smiled.

“Mickey Green?” he said. “Sorry. I think he fired me. Someone else is doing his appeals.”

“Can’t imagine why,” I said. “Top legal beagle like you.”

“Hey, what the hell?”

“Do you have a chair?”

Contini pointed one out under an avalanche of documents and bills. I moved the pile to the floor, careful not to dismantle his ornate filing system.

“Do I know you?” he asked.

I gave my name and profession.

He wrote it out on a pad.

“With an S,” I said. “Like the English poet.”

Contini scratched out what he’d written. He nodded as if he were a great fan of Elizabethan poetry.

“Mickey Green told me you were a lousy lawyer.”

“Mickey Green’s family still owes me money.”

“He said you missed several hearings.”

“I don’t recall that.”

“He said you failed to consult forensic experts.”

“Hiring your own experts costs money.”

“And that you never presented a single alibi witness.”

“Because he didn’t have any.”

“Tiffany Royce,” I said. I crossed my legs. My jacket was flecked with rain.

“Who’s that?”

“Alibi witness,” I said. “Manicurist. Woman Mickey slept with at her house that night. Very nice body. Butterfly tattoo on her lower back.”

“Mickey lied to me so many times I didn’t know what was what.”

“Did you know Julie Sullivan had a boyfriend at the time of her murder?”

Contini’s left eye twitched. How I’d love to take his money at poker. I leaned into the chair, placing my elbows across my knees.

“She was also seen in the company of a pair of Southie shitbags hours before the killing.”

“Says who?” Contini asked. The legal mind was awake. Ready to fence.

“Julie Sullivan’s daughter,” I said. “She hired me to find out who killed her mother.”

“You work for a kid?” Contini asked. “Jesus Christ.”

He placed a pair of big unpolished black shoes on his windowsill. He laughed. “What’s she pay you in? Girl Scout cookies?”