Painted Ladies

3

Today, Prince had on a gray tweed suit and a polka-dot bow tie.

“We’re supposed to go west on Route Two,” he said when I got in his car. “They’ll call me on my cell phone and tell me where to go next.”

The car was an entry-level Volvo sedan, which was a little tight for me.

“Do they know I’m along?” I said.

“I told them I was bringing a friend because I was afraid to come alone,” he said.

“And?”

“They said you’d have to stay in the car and not get in the way.”

I nodded.

“Do you have a gun?” he said.

“Of course,” I said.

“Have you ever used it?” he said.

“Yes.”

“To shoot somebody?”

“Mostly I use the front sight to pick my teeth,” I said.

He smiled a little.

We drove west on Storrow along the river. It was bright today, and pretty chilly. But the boat crews were hard at it, as they would be until the river froze. To our left, we passed the former Braves Field, now a BU athletic field. The old stucco entrance was still there on Gaffney Street, and maybe vestiges of the right-field Jury Box. An elevated section of the Mass Pike ran above the railroad tracks outside of left field.

“When the Braves played there,” I said, “an outfielder named Danny Litwhiler is alleged to have hit a ball that cleared the left-field wall and landed in a freight car headed to Buffalo, thus hitting the longest measurable home run in baseball history.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t believe I understand what you’re saying,” Prince said.

“Never mind,” I said.

No one was tailing us as we went west on Route 2. Or if they were, they were better than I was. Which seemed unlikely to me. Probably had somebody set up to spot us when we got to a certain point, and then they’d call. I looked for a spotter. But I didn’t see one.

We were approaching Route 128, which in this section was also known to be Interstate Route 95. The phone rang. Prince answered and listened.

After a minute of listening he said, “Okay.”

He looked at me.

“Cross the overpass on One twenty-eight and turn around on the other side and start back, driving slowly,” he said.

I glanced back. The spotter was probably standing on one of the cross-street overpasses. We crossed above 128 and drove on into Lincoln until we found a place to turn around, and then we drove toward where we’d been. Prince had the cell phone to his ear. He nodded.

“Stop under the first overpass we come to,” he said. “Okay . . . I get out with the money . . . Okay . . . And climb up with it and stand in the middle of the bridge.”

Prince looked at me.

“You’re to stay in the car or there’s no deal.”

I nodded.

We pulled over to the side under the first overpass. He swallowed audibly and got out of the car. I reached in back and got the suitcase full of money, and handed it out to Prince.

“Break a leg,” I said.

He nodded and turned and lugged the big suitcase slowly up the ramp behind us. A suitcase full of money is heavy.

From where I sat, directly beneath the overpass, I couldn’t even see the swap. I put the windows down and shut off the engine, and listened intently. Cars went by on Route 2. Above me I thought I heard one. Maybe it stopped in the middle. Maybe its door opened. About thirty seconds later, maybe it shut. And maybe the car drove off. I waited. Silence. I looked back at the slope that supported the down ramp. In a moment I saw Prince scrambling down, carrying a surprisingly small paper-wrapped square. Maybe this was going to work out.

It didn’t. Just as he came into sight, the package exploded and blew him and itself into a mess.