Dennis Lehane - A Drink Before the War

DENNIS LEHANE

A DRINK BEFORE THE WAR

This novel is dedicated to my parents,

Michael and Ann Lehane,

and to Lawrence Corcoran, S.J.

Acknowledgments

During the writing of this novel, the following people provided advice, criticism, encouragement, and enthusiasm for which Ill always be more grateful than they could possibly know:

John Dempsey, Mal Ellenburg, Ruth Greenstein, Tupi Konstan, Gerard Lehane, Chris Mullen, Courtnay Pelech, Ann Riley, Ann Rittenberg, Claire Wachtel, and Sterling Watson.

Authors Note

Most of the action in the novel takes place in Boston, but certain liberties have been taken in portraying the city itself and its institutions. This is wholly intentional. The world presented here is a fictitious one, as are its characters and events. Any resemblance to actual incidents, or to actual persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

MY EARLIEST MEMORIES INVOLVE FIRE.

I watched Watts, Detroit, and Atlanta burn on the evening news, I saw oceans of mangroves and palm fronds smolder in napalm as Cronkite spoke of unilateral disarmament and a war that had lost its reason.

My father, a fireman, often woke me at night so I could watch the latest news footage of fires hed fought. I could smell the smoke and soot on him, the clogging odors of gasoline and grease, and they were pleasant smells to me as I sat on his lap in the old armchair. Hed point himself out as he ran past the camera, a hazy shadow backlit by raging reds and shimmering yellows.

As I grew, so did the fires, it seemed, until recently L.A. burned, and the child in me wondered what would happen to the fallout, if the ashes and smoke would drift northeast, settle here in Boston, contaminate the air.

Last summer, it seemed to. Hate came in a maelstrom, and we called it several things racism, pedophilia, justice, righteousness but all those words were just ribbons and wrapping paper on a soiled gift that no one wanted to open.

People died last summer. Most of them innocent. Some more guilty than others.

And people killed last summer. None of them innocent. I know. I was one of them. I stared down the slim barrel of a gun, looked into eyes rabid with fear and hatred, and saw my reflection. Pulled the trigger to make it go away.

I heard the echoes of my gunshots, smelled the cordite, and in the smoke, I still saw my reflection and knew I always would.

ONE

The bar at the Ritz-Carlton looks out on the Public Garden and requires a tie. Ive looked out on the Public Garden from other vantage points before, without a tie, and never felt at a loss, but maybe the Ritz knows something I dont.

My usual taste in clothes runs to jeans and divers shirts, but this was a job, so it was their time, not mine. Besides, Id been a little behind on the laundry recently, and my jeans probably wouldve hopped the subway and met me there before I got a chance to put them on. I picked a dark blue, double-breasted Armani from my closet one of several I received from a client in lieu of cash found the appropriate shoes, tie, and shirt, and before you could say, GQ, I was looking good enough to eat.

I appraised myself in the smoked-glass bar window as I crossed Arlington Street. There was a bounce to my step, a bright twinkle in my eyes, and nary a hair out of place. All was right with the world.

A young doorman, with cheeks so smooth he must have skipped puberty altogether, opened the heavy brass door and said, Welcome to the Ritz-Carlton, sir. He meant it, too his voice trembling with pride that Id chosen his quaint little hotel. He held his arm out in front of him with a flourish, showing me the way in case I hadnt figured it out by myself, and before I could thank him, the door had closed behind me and he was hailing the best cab in the world for some other lucky soul.

My shoes clacked with military crispness on the marble floor, and the sharp creases of my pants reflected in the brass ashtrays. I always expect to see George Reeves as Clark Kent in the lobby of the Ritz, maybe Bogey and Raymond Massey sharing a smoke. The Ritz is one of those hotels that is resilient in its staid opulence: the carpeting is deep, rich oriental; the reception and concierge desks are made of a lustrous oak; the foyer is a bustling way station of lounging power brokers toting futures in soft leather attach cases, Brahmin duchesses in fur coats with impatient airs and daily manicure appointments, and a legion of navy blue-uniformed manservants pulling sturdy brass luggage carts across the thick carpeting with the softest whoosh accompaniment as the wheels find their purchase. No matter what is going on outside, you could stand in this lobby, look at the people, and think there was still a blitz going on in London.

I sidestepped the bellman by the bar and opened the door myself. If he was amused he didnt show it. If he was alive, he didnt show it. I stood on the plush carpet as the heavy door closed softly behind me, and spotted them at a rear table, facing the Garden. Three men with enough political pull to filibuster us into the twenty-first century.

The youngest, Jim Vurnan, stood and smiled when he saw me. Jims my local rep; thats his job. He crossed the carpet in three long strides, his Jack Kennedy smile extended just behind his hand. I took the hand. Hi, Jim.

Patrick, he said, as if hed been standing on a tarmac all day waiting for my return from a POW camp. Patrick, he repeated, glad you could make it. He touched my shoulder, appraised me as if he hadnt seen me just yesterday. You look good.

You asking for a date?

Jim got a hearty laugh out of that one, a lot heartier than it deserved. He led me to the table. Patrick Kenzie, Senator Sterling Mulkern and Senator Brian Paulson.

Jim said Senator like some men say Hugh Hefner with uncomprehending awe.

Sterling Mulkern was a florid, beefy man, the kind who carried weight like a weapon, not a liability. He had a shock of stiff white hair you could land a DC-10 on and a handshake that stopped just short of inducing paralysis. Hed been state senate majority leader since the end of the Civil War or so, and he had no plans for retirement. He said, Pat, lad, nice to see you again. He also had an affected Irish brogue that hed somehow acquired growing up in South Boston.

Brian Paulson was rake thin, with smooth hair the color of tin and a wet, fleshy handshake. He waited until Mulkern sat back down before he did, and I wondered if hed asked permission before he sweated all over my palm too. His greeting was a nod and a blink, befitting someone whod stepped out of the shadows only momentarily. They said he had a mind though, honed by years as Mulkerns step-and-fetch-it.

Mulkern raised his eyebrows slightly and looked at Paulson. Paulson raised his and looked at Jim. Jim raised his at me. I waited a heartbeat and raised mine at everyone. Am I in the club?

Paulson looked confused. Jim smiled. Slightly. Mulkern said, How should we start?

I looked behind me at the bar. With a drink?

Mulkern let out a hearty laugh, and Jim and Paulson fell in line. Now I knew where Jim got it. At least they didnt all slap their knees in unison.

Of course, Mulkern said. Of course.

He raised his hand, and an impossibly sweet young woman, whose gold name tag identified her as Rachel, appeared by my elbow. Senator! What can I get you?