Jack was assured he'd have no trouble finding the street, especially since it also bisected the park, meaning it was the street Jack had used to get into the car park where his rent-a-car was waiting. Armed with that information and the advice that he should wander westward, down through the maze of Beacon Hill, Jack left the courthouse.
Again, Jack scanned for signs of Franco, but he was nowhere to be seen, and Jack chuckled at his paranoia. Having been told the general direction was opposite the courthouse's entrance, Jack made his way around the courthouse building. The streets were narrow and twisty, hardly the grid he'd become accustomed to in
New York. Following his nose, Jack found himself on Derne Street that mysteriously became Myrtle. The buildings for the most part were modest, narrow four-story brick town houses. To his surprise, he suddenly came upon a charming toddler playground awash with kids and moms. He passed aptly named Beacon Hill Plumbing with a friendly chocolate Labrador doing a poor job of guarding the entrance. As Jack crested the hill and began a slow descent, he asked a passerby if he was going in the right direction for Charles Street. He was told he was but advised to take a left at the next corner where there was a small convenience store, and then a quick right onto Pinkney Street.
As the street became progressively steeper, he realized that Beacon Hill was not just a name but a real hill. The houses became larger and more elegant, although still understated. On his left he passed a sun-filled square with a stout wrought-iron fence circling a line of hundred-year-old elms and a patch of green grass. A few blocks on, he came to Charles Street.
In comparison with the side streets he'd been following, Charles Street was a major boulevard. Even with parallel parking on either side, there was still room for three lanes of traffic. Lining the street on either side were a wide variety of small shops. After stopping one of the many pedestrians and asking for a hardware store, Jack was directed to Charles Street Supply.
When he walked into the store, he silently questioned if purchasing the pepper spray was necessary. Away from the courthouse and Craig's lawsuit, Franco's threat seemed a distant possibility. But he had come that far, so he bought the pepper spray from the square-jawed, friendly proprietor, whose name coincidentally was Jack. Jack had learned this fact by chance when another employee had called out the owner's name.
Turning down the offer of a small bag, Jack slipped the pepper spray into his right jacket pocket. As long as he made the effort to buy the narrow canister, he wanted to keep it handy. Thus armed,
Jack strolled the rest of the way along Charles Street to the Boston Common and retrieved his Hyundai.
While in the dim, dank, deserted underground garage, Jack was glad he had the pepper spray. It was in just such a circumstance that he would not like to confront Franco. But once in his car and on his way to the tollbooth he again laughed at his paranoia and wondered if it was misplaced guilt. In retrospect, Jack knew he should not have kneed the man in Stanhope's driveway, although there was a lingering thought that had he not done so, the situation could have quickly gotten out of hand, especially with Franco's apparent lack of impulse control and penchant for violence.
As Jack pulled out of the murky depths of the garage and into the bright sunshine, he made a conscious decision to stop thinking about Franco. Instead, he pulled to the side of the road and consulted Alexis's city map. As he did so, he felt his pulse quicken with the thought of a good pickup basketball game.
What he was searching for was Memorial Drive, and he quickly found it running alongside the Charles River Basin. Unfortunately, it was in Cambridge on the opposite side of the river. Judging from his Boston driving experience, he guessed that getting there might be somewhat of a struggle, since there were few bridges. His concerns were well founded as he was hampered by a confusing interplay of no left turns, one-way streets, the spottiness of street signs, and the overly aggressive Boston drivers.
Despite the handicaps, Jack eventually managed to get on Memorial Drive and then quickly found the outdoor basketball courts Warren 's friend David Thomas had described. Jack parked on a small side street, got out, and raised the trunk of his car. Pushing aside the autopsy supplies he'd gotten from Latasha, he got out his basketball gear and looked around for a place to change. Not finding any, he climbed back into the car, and like a contortionist managed to get out of his clothes and into his shorts without of-fending any of the multitudes of bicyclists, in-line skaters, and joggers along the banks of the Charles River.
After making sure the car was locked, Jack jogged back to the basketball courts. There were about fifteen men, ranging in age from about twenty up. At forty-six, Jack assumed he'd be the senior player. The game had yet to begin. Everybody was shooting or showboating, with a bit of playground trash talk being exchanged by the court's regulars.
Being wise to the complicated playground etiquette from his many years of experience in a similar environment in New York, Jack acted nonchalant. He began by merely rebounding and passing the balls out to those people who'd made their practice shots. Only later did Jack begin shooting, and as he expected, his accuracy caught the attention of a number of players, although nothing was said. After fifteen minutes, feeling loose, Jack casually asked for David Thomas. The person he'd asked didn't answer, he merely pointed.
Jack approached the man. He'd been one of the more vociferous of the trash-talkers. As Jack had surmised, he was African-American, mid- to late thirties, slightly taller than Jack, and heavier. He had a full beard. In fact, he had more hair on his face than on the crown of his head. But the most distinguishing characteristic was the twinkle of his eye; the man was quick to laugh. It was evident he enjoyed life.
When Jack approached and introduced himself, David unabashedly threw his arms around Jack, hugged him, and then pumped Jack's hand.
"Any friend of Warren Wilson is a friend of mine," David said enthusiastically. "And Warren says you're a playmaker. Hey, you're running with me, okay?"
"Sure!" Jack said.
"Hey, Aesop!" David called out to another player. "It's not your night, man. You ain't running with us. Jack is!" David gave Jack a thump on the back and then added as an aside, "That boy always has a story. That's why we call him Aesop!"
The play turned out to be terrific: as good as Jack had experienced in New York. Very quickly, Jack realized he'd been lucky to be included on David's pickup team. Although the games were all close, David's team continually triumphed, which meant that for Jack the play was continuous. For more than two hours, he, David, and the three others David had selected for the evening's run did not lose. By the time it was over, Jack was exhausted. At the sidelines, he looked at his watch. It was well after seven.
"You going to come by tomorrow night?" David asked as Jack gathered up his things.
"Can't say," Jack said.
"We'll be here."
"Thanks for letting me run with you."
"Hey, man. You earned it."
Jack walked out of the chain-link fenced court on slightly rubbery legs. Although he'd been drenched with sweat at the end of the play, it was already gone from the dry, warm breeze wafting in off the river. Jack walked slowly. The exercise had done him a world of good. For several hours, he'd not thought of anything besides the immediate requirements of the game, but now reality was setting in. He was not looking forward to his conversation with Laurie. Tomorrow was Thursday, and he didn't even know what time he'd be able to start the autopsy, much less when it would be over and when he'd be able to fly back to New York. He knew she was going to be understandably upset, and he wasn't sure what he should say.