Only Money

PROLOGUE

The car headlights barely reached Tom through the fog as he made for the water. He was like an arctic explorer disappearing into a white out.

Hey, Tom, Uncle Jaffrey panted, clambering out of the car and into the frigid winter night. Slow down.

The old city pier had been filled in, now a vacant lot next to the harbor. There was no public access to the pier, but Tom drove Uncle Jaffrey’s Cadillac around the construction barriers of a new building. The pier was so big the blinking red construction warning lights were lost in the mist behind them. Off to their right, a half-mile or so away, the tall buildings of downtown Boston loomed like light-spangled cliff faces that disappeared in the low hanging clouds. The moist air muted the ambient sounds of the city. Like planets drifting in a galaxy of vapor, the car headlights glowed yellow, the only light on the deserted pier.

Tom stopped near the wooden pilings and corrugated steel seawall that stood between the pier and the water. A few minutes later, Uncle Jaffrey caught up.

Check it out, man, Tom said. He tried to sound excited. To Tom, the whole damned thing, the whole enterprise - getting past Uncle Jaffrey’s defenses, getting him drunk, getting him out to the pier - had been dreadful.

What? Uncle Jaffrey said, looking up at Tom. Uncle Jaffrey’s bald, gray head bobbed as he panted.

The water. Check it out. The harbor at night is so cool. Tom’s breath made miniature stratus clouds. He absently felt his shoulder, which he had bruised when he nudged a light pole parking Uncle Jaffrey’s car. He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten his seat belt.

Uncle Jaffrey was too drunk to see that Tom’s smile was forced. Uncle Jaffrey shuffled to the edge of the pier and looked down. It was a war zone of ice, giant, angular wrecked buildings of ice, corpses of ice, rubble, and torn pavement of ice, jutting out of the slush and black water. There were cracks and sighs from further out. In the dense fog, the lights on the opposite shore seemed unconnected to buildings or light posts, as if they might float away or drift to the ground.

Okay, it’s, uh, the harbor, Uncle Jaffrey said jovially, like it was a punch line. He looked up and was surprised to see that Tom had moved noiselessly next to him. Uncle Jaffrey’s own surprise made him laugh out loud. He bent double and slapped Tom on the back. Tom, you got me drunk, and messed up my car to show me this? Uncle Jaffrey gestured at the water.

Tom judged the right moment had arrived. He ducked behind Uncle Jaffrey and took the back of Uncle Jaffrey’s jacket. In a practiced motion, Tom lifted from his knees and launched Uncle Jaffrey over the edge of the seawall and into the water. The ice sloshed and clacked.

Tom started to walk away, relieved. Until he heard Uncle Jaffrey laughing. Uncle Jaffrey was so drunk he thought it was a joke. He thought going for a swim was the next thing on Tom’s wacky agenda. Christ, Tom thought, the evening had been so tedious, he forgot the seat belt, what else did he forget? As he checked over Uncle Jaffrey’s car for fingerprints or anything he might have left behind, Uncle Jaffrey kept yelling. How did he stand the frigid water this long? Tom wondered, irritated. And why did Uncle Jaffrey keep calling him Tom? The frustration was getting to him. Tom even called out to Uncle Jaffrey.

Who the hell is Tom?

ONE

Attorney Neville Hartley sat in his office, phone in hand, trying to persuade his client, Joe Mantegna, to pay his bill.

You saved me money. You didn’t get me money, Mantegna said heatedly.

Joe, your distributor wanted $28,000.00. I got them to cut their bill to $5,000.00, Neville said, for what seemed to be the tenth time.

That’s what I mean. I wanted you to get me money, not save me money.

No, you didn’t, Joe. You told me you owed them, max, $10,000.00.

I know I said that. But I meant I wanted to get money, not save money.

You asked me to cut my bill. I cut it to $1,000.00.

$1,000.00? $1,000.00? That’s food for my family for two months! For three months!

Neville wasn’t going to let go that easily. Mantegna took winter vacations in Aruba. His kids had been to Disneyworld. You just got a new crewcab, and you’re getting twice the work you used to, Neville said evenly.

Mantegna was suddenly quizzical. How did you know that?

Because you told me!

Mantegna sighed. Okay, Neville. This is what I’ll do. My cousin’s going to give me his panel truck. I’ll start up the delivery service again. Will that make you happy?

What, you’ll pay me from the money you make from the delivery service?

Mantegna exploded. No! I’ll make deliveries for you for free!

Nicky Findlay crept in Neville’s open office door and took a seat opposite Neville’s desk. Findlay was small and hunched over. He wore a Red Sox warm-up jacket and his hair was short and spiky.

Neville’s office was in his house. It was formerly the parlor of the old Victorian. The room was dominated by a fireplace with an elaborate mantle, with big wings stretched out like an old grandfather’s arms pulling you in for a hug. The oriental had a pattern of wear from the door to the hall, and the molding around the outsize window frames was weathered grey in places. Across from the desk was a long couch with wear that nicely matched the rug’s. The ceiling border molding’s intricacies were ghosts through the layers of old paint. The molding was broken up by stretches of smooth plaster where it had been repaired without effort to duplicate the pattern. Neville’s high antique desk sat in the middle of the room, tethered to the walls by phone and computer cords that were incongruous with the 19th century appointments.

The house was lived in, cheerfully ramshackle, not decrepit. It suggested euphemisms: deferred maintenance, charming appointments, great fixer upper, perfect for the handyman. It was like someone who blithely ignored his own shortcomings, in so doing, making them endearing or annoying, depending on your perspective.

Neville could see his conversation with Mantegna was going nowhere. Before he said something he would regret later, he got rid of Mantegna. Then he turned back to work at his computer.

What’s up, Nicky? Neville asked gruffly.

Findlay’s eyes were dark in his pasty skin, the silver ring and globe in his eyebrow pewter grey with condensation from the temperature change of coming indoors. Oh, nothing.

Aren’t you cold in that flimsy jacket?

Me? Naw, I ain’t cold. I ain’t cold. Nicky was a journeyman union electrician. Between jobs he sometimes did gofer work for Neville, pick up this, deliver that. Neville tapped at his computer.

So, how you doing, Neville?

Neville leaned back. He was just the thin side of stocky, not too tall, strong chin, cheekbones and brow. His hair was short and beginning to recede from his forehead in a way that imparted maturity. His clear, bright eyes could be many things, from baleful to languid, but now they showed mischief, as they often did. Here’s my strategy. Make friends with the bill collectors. There’s one gal who keeps calling me who’s really sweet. She sounds sexy, too. I’m going to get her out on a date.

Yeah? No shit, huh? Hey, Neville, why’d you ever quit the police force and go to law school. You were a good cop. You liked it.

I thought I could make more money, Neville said ruefully.

Right, right. Aren’t you doing pretty good?

I’m on a first name basis with all my creditor’s collection departments, Neville deadpanned. Then he brightened. I’m doing great. It’s sunny, the weather’s a balmy New England 28 degrees, we’re in beautiful Salem, Massachusetts. Women envy me and men desire me. Wait a minute. I may have that backwards.

Hey, Nev, you were a cop. How come you sued that cop, what was his name, Kerivan? Cops must really hate you.

They don’t hate me, Neville scoffed. Kerivan fucked up and everybody knew it. When I sue cops, I have them in my office with their lawyers, and I put my portrait of Moamar Khadafy on the wall. That always gets them.

Findlay laughed, although he wasn’t sure what putting a basketball player’s picture on the wall had to do with suing a cop.

Neville continued. I have a portrait of Ronald Reagan for when I go after the department of social services. Findlay laughed at that one, too, because he knew who Ronald Reagan was.

Nicky, listen, I don’t have anything for you today. You’re welcome to hang around for as long as you want, or check in tomorrow. Right now, I have to get on with holding back all the people who are dying to pay me for my brilliant legal services.

Brilliant, huh? Nicky said, distracted. Well, I came by for a reason. My dad got himself, like, overextended.

I see, Neville said, looking at his computer screen.

He owes somebody some money.

Somebody? Not a bank? Not a credit card company?

Right. Like, a guy.

Your dad owes a guy money. What do you want me to do about it? Neville asked, not unkindly.

Findlay’s eyes flicked up at Neville and down at the floor. The dully gleaming globe in his eyebrow jerked a little.

What happened, Nicky, Neville asked.

Findlay squirmed in his warm up jacket, as if it was full of insects. He twisted his arm behind him like he was trying to get at the one spot on his back he couldn’t reach. Findlay didn’t respond.

Neville stopped pecking at his computer and turned to look at Findlay. Can’t he make a deal with the guy?

He thought it was a normal loan. There was paperwork and everything, you know, a contract. Now it’s like, it ain’t that kind of loan. It’s like, you gotta pay or… He let the thought express itself.

Jesus, Nicky, your dad? How could you let him do that?

Hey, he didn’t ask me, Neville, he did it on his own. He didn’t ask me.

This isn’t one of those things where Farah Aidid wants you to get a million dollars out of Nigeria through your e-mail, is it? Neville asked.

No, no, Christ, Neville, what do you think I am?

Neville decided not to answer. Can he talk to the guy?

I think the guy might listen. He may not listen to my dad any more, though. My dad tried to make a deal with him, and it kind of fell through.

Neville, thinking, regarded Findlay. The afternoon winter sun had moved across the sky and no longer brightened the room. The room had turned cold. What’s the guy’s name?

Findlay went back to scratching at his insects. I’m going to get you that. My dad has that somewhere.

Is the guy with a company?

Findlay pulled at his upper lip. I think he said CMF. I’m not sure. I’m going to get that for you.

I think you better. How much does your dad owe this guy?

Findlay didn’t answer right away. Twenty thousand, he finally said.

I thought you were talking really big money, Neville said. That makes things a little easier.

You got to talk to the guy, Neville. I can’t do it, my dad can’t do it.

Has the guy done anything to your dad?

No. But, I mean, that’s what’s coming, Findlay said.

Neville had abandoned his work on the computer. He leaned back in his chair, sometimes regarding Findlay, sometimes letting his eyes wander, while he thought.

It was a case Neville would unquestionably take. When Findlay and Neville’s brother had been firefighters, Findlay had pulled Neville’s brother from a burning building. In the process, Findlay had been badly injured. Findlay spent weeks in the hospital afterward. Findlay’s act was mute, unthinking selflessness. Findlay was the type that could no more have stopped himself from going back into the burning building for Neville’s brother than he could stop going to the bathroom, or give up eating. Findlay was left with a disfiguring scar on his lower back from a piece of debris that had fallen on him. The scar was huge, malevolent. That Findlay would do it again in a heartbeat didn’t need to be discussed. It never really entered Neville’s mind to refuse to help Findlay and his father.

Neville thought, it’ll probably be a few phone calls and maybe a visit to the guy’s office, and it’ll all be straightened out. Probably. Maybe. Then again, it could turn out to be something big, and cut into his time for clients who actually, sometimes, paid him.

Neville spoke. Bottom line is, your dad owes the money, right? There’s no question of that?

Right. He owes it.

You guys better know what you’re in for. These guys aren’t cupcakes. We don’t know how far this one will go. They might be the types that take your dad if they can’t get the money. Are you ready for that?

Findlay moved to the edge of his seat. Nev, you know, if you don’t want to do this for us-

Neville held up his hand. I’m just telling you. He stared at Findlay.

After a few minutes, Findlay’s eyes softened. Findlay shrugged. Okay. I get what you’re saying.

It was time to take the burden off Findlay’s shoulders. It was time to look reassuring. That was part of the deal. Get me the guy’s name, and any other information you might have on him. Phone number, address. Also any paperwork your father has. I’ll need to talk to your father, also.

Findlay looked relieved, despite not wanting to show it. Thanks, Neville.

Neville waved his hand. Think nothing of it. By the way, does your brother in law Sean still have his Mini Cooper for sale?

I think so. Why?

You think he might be willing to … lease it to me for a while?

Lease it?

Seeing as how I’m going to be helping out your father, Neville said.

What happened to your Mustang?

It wasn’t really my style. Not the image I wanted to project, Neville said.

Findlay was silent for a moment. Couldn’t keep up with the payments, huh? Did they repossess it?

Naw, I gave it back to them.

I’ll see what I can do.

TWO

Findlay’s father, Rex, wasn’t much help. He was a small, fragile man, with red-rimmed eyes and his son’s white skin. He limply shook Neville’s hand and smiled toothlessly, like he was eager to please. Findlay’s two children played on the floor on the other side of the living room. Theresa, Findlay’s wife, sat near the children. Findlay himself loitered near her.

How did you get into this? Neville asked Rex.

Rex’s eager to please went shifty. I got, like, overextended on my credit cards. I had to pay them down.

How did you find this lender?

The yellow pages, Rex grumbled. Neville stared at him. Why the resistance? Neville wondered. Rex spoke again. I know somebody who used him.

Nicky said you made a deal with him.

Yeah, but I couldn’t keep up with it.

Neville gauged the old man. What do you think this guy’s up to, he asked. You think he’s going to rough you up?

Rex’s face darkened. I didn’t think he was going to. It was like a regular loan, like you get from a bank. I signed a paper. I thought it wouldn’t be any big deal. He sounded like the old man he was. Now I don’t know.

What’s he charging you for interest? Neville asked.

Rex turned defiant. He said nothing. Theresa spoke. Tell him, Rex, she said. It sounded to Neville like they’d discussed all this before, and it wasn’t pretty. Rex looked up at Theresa, but said nothing.

Why don’t you call the police? Neville asked.

Rex’s eyes widened. No way. He’d come after me.

The children’s voices were high and silvery. Neville watched Rex, thinking. Then he spoke. What do you want me to do? he asked.

I can pay him, just not all at once. I had a deal with him for, like, reduced payments, only I screwed it up. I can pay it now. If you talk to him, he might go back to it. If he hears it from a lawyer, you know? He might listen.

Theresa shot a look at Neville. She worked as an administrator in the local school superintendent’s office, had a master’s degree. She was petite and slim, like a gymnast in a close fitting grey pantsuit, and radiated energy the way Rex and Findlay seemed to dissipate it, uselessly, into the air around them. Rex, what the heck’s Neville going to do for you? You already tried to make a deal, and it didn’t work. I mean, no offense, Neville.

Neville shrugged. What’s it going to be? he asked Rex.

I got his name. I do. You know what? I’ll look in my desk.

As he gauged Rex, Neville sensed embarrassment, or caginess, or a lousy memory, or that Rex was blocking out the details of the loan, and the lender’s name because the situation was too frightening. Of all these, the caginess seemed most prominent. But why? Neville wondered.

Rex plodded to the dining area, a giant puff ball in his sweat pants and sweaters. The desk was a huge old roll top. Rex began pulling drawers open. Papers fell to the floor.

I’ll help you, Dad, Findlay said. He went to his father.

Can you believe this? Can you believe he did this? Theresa said, addressing Neville. He takes care of my kids during the day when Nicky and I are at work. He gets mixed up with a loan shark, excuse my French, and the man comes over here while my kids are here! While my kids are here! Theresa shook her head. Then she jumped to her feet. These two couldn’t find a hooker in a cathouse, excuse my French. She strode over to Rex’s desk.

A few minutes later Findlay came back from the dining area looking flustered. Theresa sulked in. Rex shuffled behind them. Okay, Rex said. No papers. He let himself down in a chair. Let’s see if I can remember.

There was a woman, wasn’t there, Dad? Findlay asked.

Rex brightened. Yeah, that’s right. Some gal worked for him. Like an agent or something. Now, what the hell was her name?

Theresa spoke. I’ve had enough of this. I have to get back to the school. She turned to Rex. You should call the police.

No police, Rex said.

You should call the police, Theresa repeated, her chin out. She turned to Neville. Since he won’t call the police, Neville, you’re going to have to take care of this.

I’m not going to be able to take care of anything unless I get the name of the lender, Neville said, dry.

Theresa kissed Findlay and the children goodbye, and left with a nearly audible whoosh, like a truck sucking wind behind it. The three men sat silent for a few minutes, while the soothing effects of male hormones overtook them.

What do you think, can you help us out? Findlay asked Neville.

I kind of have to have something to go on, Neville said, cranky. Like a name, some details on the loan, anything. I don’t get it. Why don’t you have all that for me?

CMF, Findlay said. We know CMF.

Jeff, Rex said.

What? Jeff might know something? Neville asked.

No, no, that’s him. That’s his name. I just remembered, Rex said.

Jeff? Neville asked. That’s it? What about a last name?

Rex got to his feet. Hey, kids, he said. You ready for your snack? I think it’s snack time.

The young girl spoke. You said we could have ice cream, she said with authority.

I did?

Yes.

The old man stopped, perplexed. Okay. If that’s what I said. The kids ran into the kitchen and Rex shuffled after them. His white, scaly heels stood out against his dark sweats and slippers. Jesus, Neville thought. Anybody can snow this guy. Neville followed Rex into the kitchen. Rex, before I go, any chance you can remember the name of the woman, the agent, you were talking about?

Rex didn’t pay attention to the question. Jeff. That’s what he called himself.

Jeff. Your friendly neighborhood gangster, Neville said.

He’s real personable, Rex said. Always a kind word. He spoke to the little girl. Gretchen, sit over there.

Can’t remember? Neville said. He turned to Findlay. I have to be going. If he thinks of any-

Arizona, Rex said.

Jeff’s from Arizona? Neville asked.

No, that’s her name. The agent’s name.

The agent’s name is Arizona. Sounds like a song from the ‘forties, Neville said, sour. Like, Susan Arizona? Linda Arizona?

No. Arizona Douglas.

Arizona Douglas, Neville mused to himself, heading for the front door. Jeff and Arizona Douglas. Be sure not make things too easy, guys.

The air outside was biting and fresh, the sun bright. Neville skipped down the front steps to the Mini Findlay got for him from Sean.

Hey, Neville, Findlay called from the front door. Neville turned. Dad says the guy’s name isn’t Jeff. It’s Uncle Jaffrey.

THREE

Neville sat in the waiting area at the Boston Daily News, his right heel raised, bouncing his bent leg up and down on the ball of his foot. It either released tension or made him more tense, he was never sure which. He’d been waiting for over an hour. Still, he believed picking Hanford Crawford’s brain was going to work. Crawford wrote a weekly column called Corky’s Corner, that betrayed an uncanny knowledge of local underworld figures. Crawford was big; it was likely that he was personally responsible for a large percentage of the News’ circulation, so Neville was always unsure about whether Crawford would see him. Neville watched a female staffer with long, wavy hair and tight jeans rush by. Jesus, they have some hot chicks here, Neville thought. His leg was really hammering. Crawford did take my call, he reasoned, and he made an appointment. He didn’t always do that.

The wavy haired staffer went by again and caught Neville watching. She gave him a nasty look. Neville looked away quickly, and Crawford appeared. Neville stood. Crawford smiled faintly and put out his hand.

It’s the Flying Cop, Crawford said. How you doing?

Neville’s connection to Crawford was that when Neville was a policeman, he rescued two children whose car went into a rainstorm swelled stream. Their mother had been swept downstream and, luckily, rescued. The rising torrent looked like it was going to sweep the kids away before the firemen could get a line across the stream to rescue them. Neville grabbed a rope swing hanging from a nearby tree and swung out to the kids. He got dunked three times, suffered lacerations on his back and legs from submerged debris, and fractured his collar bone. But he got the kids to the shore safely. Crawford did a column on him and dubbed him the Flying Cop.

Crawford led Neville back through the newsroom, ridiculing the newspaper’s management and dropping names like crazy. Crawford’s office was the size of a walk-in closet. It had linoleum floors and bare grayish beige walls. Crawford settled himself behind a tiny metal desk of a grayish beige similar to the walls. The style of the desk was so institutional it looked like it had been thrown out after a middle school remodeling in 1967. There was a new computer on the desk, however, and a new phone. The single window behind Crawford’s desk had frost on the inside. There was an unfamiliar object on the window sill with keys, like a computer keyboard’s, and a horizontal black cylinder. An electrical cord was draped over it. As Neville sat down in the only other chair in the office, Crawford noticed him staring at the object in the window.

It’s called a typewriter, Crawford said with relish. Ever seen one?

Neville knew what it was. Maybe in cave paintings, he said. Neville had learned from past experience that it wasn’t productive to suck up to Crawford.

Crawford cracked a smile. His index and middle fingers were stained yellow where he held the cigarette he’d just lit. He put the cigarette to lips that looked as if his flesh had been torn open to make his mouth and healed wrong. His wide face was puffy and discolored with age, early sixties, giving the overall impression that if he was cut up into steaks, they’d be condemned as tainted meat.

Crawford put his cigarette up over his shoulder and flipped ashes out the window he’d opened a crack. The ashes blew back inside. Jeez, back when you were a cop you were polite as pie. You get a mouth on you in law school?

Neville looked puzzled. "How