Marigolds, Chapter 26

26

Before we left the Red Hat I reminded Boban that our conversation, and the fact we had one, should be kept from Mr. Bukovats. He agreed to email me Bukovats’ employment records. Bukovats was, it appeared, hiding in plain sight using his own name. I felt more than a little inept I was unable to find him.

“Mikey, call me as soon as you can. I’ll be home by 10:30.” I called Michael just before entering the Bowdoin Street subway station.

I had suppressed the electricity that had crackled in my hands and arms when Boban told me that Ivana was HIV positive. I was having less success now as I considered how I would tell Michael and how he’d respond.

As was Michael Devlin’s habit, he returned my call by turning up at my place in Chelsea. He was sitting on the stoop when I arrived.

“If you dance you have to pay, I guess, right Finn? Or at least you have a conversation with the ticket taker?”

“Are you going to get tested? You should…”

“Of course I am, then.”

“I’ll help any way I can.”

“That’ll be fine, Finn. Thanks. I guess I’ll need to set it up, then, won’t I?”

In Boston there is no shortage of places to get an HIV test. Other options exist, too.

“Well, there are places you can go to have it done confidentially and others that will do it anonymously. You can buy a kit on line and have the results sent back to you, too.”

“Jesus, Finn, I had forgotten you knew all this stuff.” Michael said. “What’s the difference between anonymous and confidential?”

I explained all the details to my friend. I offered, more for me than him I suspect, to go with him if he chose the “walk-in” option.

“Let me know what you decide to do.”

The Importance of Punctuation

A Newfoundlander is driving down a road in  St. Johns .
A sign in front of a restaurant reads: 

HAPPY HOUR SPECIAL

Lobster Tail and Beer

'Lord  tunderin' Jaysus' he says to hisself, 'me tree favourite tings!'

Dire Wolf

Prairie folk have the coyotes to consider. Our niece Hayley happened upon one in Grandma and Grandpa's livestock pens one day, emaciated and losing her coat. The coyote, not Hayley. Suburbanites in many locales have to deal with wild turkeys; ornery, menacing and toothless as the hill people who have consumed more than a few dram of the namesake beverage. I even have a boo boo a result of a vacuum-cleaner accident. Point is we all have our crosses-to-bear, dangers in our environs. Cortes has more than her share.
Wolves wander the island at night seeking food and perhaps a nightcap, I don't know. We've found the inedible hunks of wolf prey more than once: hooves and little else. These legendary canids have snatched doggies, their own cousins, off forest paths right in front of the owners. They've taken livestock through split-rail fences. One disquieting story we heard was of a kitty grabbed up from someone's doorstep. Vigilance is the key. Truth is, wolves don't like humans very much. Considering everything, who can blame them? Have you watched the Republican debates?
I wish they liked telemarketers.
Lili was home the other day, sick. The lovely and efficient Liesa, school secretary and resident wise woman, called. I answered. She said,
"Tell her not to worry because we're handling it, but there's a lame wolf on the playground."
My gulp was audible so she continued.
"Bruce (bus driver, fireman, part-time oral surgeon, Island Sage) is here and we have all the kids accounted for and in the building."
Not knowing what else to say or the protocol in an event like this, I asked, "Is Bruce going to shoot it?"
"Of course not! He's called the conservation officer."
"Ah," says I. "Is Bruce going to shoot him?"
"Just pass on the message, please?"
Wolves are generally not solitary creatures. They don't wander around in broad daylight, either. This poor creature was/is in trouble, perhaps more than just a gamy leg. More as details come in.

Jeeze, they are beautiful.

These Marigolds Grow Too Tall, Ch 25

25

I had never been in the Red Hat Café before. It is one of the few publick houses in Boston still with larger than life signage. It would serve as my office for the evening as had so many lounges, pubs, park benches, parking lots and coffee bars before this.

The Red Hat’s evocative name, or perhaps its location on the western edge of the late, lascivious and legendary Scollay Square would suggest an ambience. I conjured up my aunt Mary at the Red Hat. She’s right at home in the stinging blue haze, lounging on red leather in a black-on-black dress, parrying wide-lapelled hipsters with her throaty laugh. With the same hand that holds her Pall Mall she is stirring a thin high ball with a paper straw.

Scollay Square, and most of Boston’s West End, was flattened in the 60s by the impatient steamrollers of urban renewal, big-money real estate developers, I-know-a-buck-when-I-see-one politicians, and naïve social reform. The Red Hat is now a family place. It sits on the Charles River side, the Government Center and Bowdoin Square side of Beacon Hill. There was no red leather except for Miljenko Boban’s tasseled loafers.

Boban and I sat on adjacent corner barstools. Triangulating us was a three-dollar mound of ten-cent chicken wings. The wings were good. Boban was tall.

Over a silk t-shirt Boban wore a Brooks Brothers pastel v-neck sweater against the evening’s unsteady swirl. It must have come from their long, lean and loaded collection. His too-big college ring and his cuffed linen trousers over silk socks extended the aura of possession.

“Mr. O’Keefe, I wish that everything we exchange to be mutually confidential between us, if my clumsy sentence construction makes sense.”

“You wish me to agree that what I say stays with you and what you say will stay with me?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m sure you can see that if I cannot share tonight’s conversation - or the conclusions and hunches I draw from it - with other people I cannot get additional information from them.” Boban looked perplexed.

“If you ask me to protect you as a source I can and will…”

“Yes, yes, that is what I meant.”

“Fine, that part’s a given. Now, this is all contingent on my sticking with this case, too, right?”

“Yes. Of course it is.”

I decided I would keep the money and the options Ivana provided me, the parts of the note I had not read him on the phone this morning, to myself.

“Please, call me Fintan.”

“Of course, Fintan. Call me Bo or Bobo. Everyone does.”

Although I was grateful that I had been absolved of having to get my eyeteeth around Miljenko, this guy was unlike any Bo - never mind any Bobo - I have ever known. Anyone called Bobo and not a monkey wearing a plaid vest should have a well-worn and immediately accessible catcher’s mitt.

“I came here, to the States, to go to Bates College, class of ’90.” Boban lifted his ring finger ever so slightly. “ ‘Bobo’ is how the guys up there helped me fit in. It stuck.”

Bo or Bobo Boban – and is Shirley Ellis listening? - was drinking my aunt’s highball, stirring his with a plastic two-channeled straw. I was nursing Harpoon India Pale Ale from a thick, handled cut glass mug.

The chicken wings were being reduced to a heap of exposed bones, some – his - still joined by softer tissues and some – mine – their cartilage gone. All were tossed on a plate between us. Boban threw his napkin over them when we finished.

“How did the finger food industry get along before these little beauties?” Boban asked as he dabbed the corners of his mouth with a moistened towelette.

“I think I remember them arriving in earnest concurrently.” I answered as I cleaned between my fingers.

“Perhaps.” Boban settled back against the spindles of his stool. Employing the armrests, he drummed his fingers on the ends for just a moment. He rotated his stool scanning the room. He began to speak a second before his gaze returned to me.

“I received a call from a fellow Croat ex-pat I know who lives in Ireland, the northern part, the part that is British. He asked me if I might have a way to get two Croats into the US or Canada, where I also do some business, without, shall we call it, any notice.” Aside from the fact that Boban was rubbing the tip if his left index finger against the edge of his thumb, he sat remarkably still.

“I told this man I thought I might be able to do it, but I told him I have no interest in helping people who were fleeing justice, justice of any kind. There are a number of kinds of justice in that part of the world, Fintan.” Boban used the straw to stir his drink.

“My Northern Ireland acquaintance assured me these young women were not. If anything they were fleeing injustice. I asked him ‘how?’ He said he did not know the whole story, but that someone in the old country was trying to silence them. The caller had convinced him the women needed protection from someone in Croatia. They were worried, and it seems with good reason, that they had been discovered in Northern Ireland and had to move.”

“Seems they were right,” I said.

Boban nodded, sipped his drink and looked around the room once more. I had the distinct impression this was the end of act one.

A young couple with a sleeping infant in one of those front-loaded papoose contraptions took the table at the end of the bar. They smiled at us.

“Hey, hon, check it out.” He was sliding out of his windbreaker as he spoke; spoke with that center-of-the-country accent that can’t make up its mind if it’s Chicago or Little Rock. “ Look, the Cards are on TV. That’s something, ain’t it?”

“May I ask what business you are in, Bo?”

“I own a school to teach languages here in Boston, on Boylston Street. Serbo-Croatian, Slovenian, Hungarian, Romanian… dialects of the region. Other regions as well. And English to those here who need that. We also have provided translators for those whose international language needs are better met that way.”

“And that would allow you to bring to this country speakers of those languages?” The end of tonight’s first intermission was indicated by a nod.

“Yes. With short term, job specific work visas I’m able to get native speakers of all those languages and others here quickly as need arises. It is too bad.”

“What is?”

“Under other conditions I would have been able to bring these women here quite quickly through normal channels. Our services extend to government officials and diplomats and people who work for NGOs, as well, so we are treated very well by immigration authorities here in the US.”

“NGOs?”

“Non-governmental organizations. Like the Red Cross, Unitarian Universalist Service Committee, Doctors Without Borders, those people. Many have interests or a stake in places where they need to know the language or travel with someone who does.”

“Interesting. But these two women…?”

“ Apart from my business, I have helped people from the region needing a haven, though I would never acknowledge this. It is good that I… this way can help others who need it and…I am happy to do it when conditions are right, or perhaps conducive to… ” Boban chose his words carefully. He delivered them clumsily.

“And the conditions with Mislava and Ivana were right?”

“It appeared they were. So I arranged things from this end.”

“Mislava was carrying some of Ivana’s ID when she was found,” I said. I told him about Niko Matulich and his identifying and claiming the body. “Ivana was carrying some of Mislava’s, too. They seemed to think there was some benefit for them to have people, including me, think that each was the other.”

“I did not know that… I don’t know why.”

“And the name Matulich?”

“I do not know that name, in this country at least. It is not an uncommon name among Croats, however.”

“It seems that Matulich and the guy who hired me might not have known the women from one another either.”

“ Implication, then, is he was merely hired?” Boban raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders. He held his glass up towards the bartender.

“Another beer, Fintan?” Boban told me as much as he asked. Act two had come to a close.

“Bo, have you been here long enough to develop a taste for baseball?” I raised my head toward the close-captioned TV that held the attention of the family to my right.

“How long does one have to be in New England before that affliction sets in, eh? I was the student-manager of the team at Bates for a couple of years.”

“Were you?”

“A nice title for the water boy and the butt of the team’s practical jokes. My fraternity brothers played on the team. They taught me not just to watch the game, but also to observe it, to find patterns. I like the game very much. When I discovered Roger Maris and Mickey Lolich were famous ballplayers and Croat…”

“Roger Maris?”

“Yes. He anglicized his name. It was Mar as’.”

“Hmm. Maras? I can see why. Here’s to Roger…” I lifted my new beer. “…and tragic heroes everywhere.”

“Zhavali, to life,” Miljenko Boban said softly.

“May I ask you a few more questions Bo?” Let chapter three commence.

“Of course.”

“How did the women get to Portland?”

“One of my students… a Bates guy… we became friends. When he went off to Rwanda…”

“Sorry? You teach African languages, too?”

“French. It’s widely spoken in central African countries. So, I had worked out a sublet of this fellow’s condo in Portland in lieu of tuition when I knew these women to be coming. He knew nothing of his renters other than they were connected to me. He still does not I imagine.”

“He will at some point. Both the New York PD and I have kept the Portland PD apprised.”

“Hmm. He’ll be unhappy with me.”

“Yesterday when we spoke on the phone you said something I thought odd.”

“Oh?”

You said that perhaps Ivana’s and Mislava’s deaths were for the better, or something like that.”

“Oh, yes… I am sorry, Fintan. I assumed you knew. Both women were HIV positive.”

Boban was slowly shaking his head. He sipped his highball.

“Ivana showed symptoms from time to time, at least from how she was described to me,” he added.

“Really?” HIV would explain the weight loss evident in the photos. “Does that mean you never met her?”

“Yes. Neither of them. It’s always best if I do not. Their HIV was another reason that they wished to come here… without notice. They were concerned their it might complicate or slow down more conventional entry methods.”

“Bo, do you know a guy named Ante Bukovats?” One more try to find the guy who hired me to locate Ivana Grdesic. Boban seemed startled.

“Ante? Sure. He is one of my teachers. He works for me. Why…how do you know Ante?”

What's Your Blues Name?

I'm Jailhouse Hips Rivers. If it wasn't for bad luck, I wouldn't have no luck at at all.

Lili is Old Liver Davis. Been down so long it looks like up to me.

whah, WHAH whah whah...

Marigolds, Chapter 24

24

We released the raccoon where we told Mrs. Pickering we would. It scuttled off still humming without a hint of disorientation.

Michael dropped me at home. Holding Ivana’s note in front of me, I called Miljenko Boban.

“Yes, Mr. Boban. She asked me to call you to share with you what happened to her.” I read him most of the note. I told him much of the story.
“Jesus Christ…are you a friend of hers, Mr. O’Keefe?” Boban’s accent, speech patterns, and use of the definitive article were indicative of someone who had spent much more time in the US than Ivana Grdesic had.

“Well, as I said I am a private investigator…”

“Perhaps. But she trusted you it seems?”

I wasn’t sure that I concurred with that. She didn’t trust me enough to tell me who or what she was. She didn’t trust me enough to tell me she had planned to shoot Niko and then herself. She didn’t trust me enough to tell me why she’d even consider doing those things. She trusted me with money that she would never need, I suppose. But no, I didn’t agree with Miljenko Boban’s assessment.

“With some things, yes.” I said.

“Perhaps you and I should meet Mr. O’Keefe.”

“Perhaps, but Ivana never told me who you were, Mr. Boban…I mean in this context.”

“Suffice it to say I was integral in her arrival, make that timely arrival to the US.”

“Had you anything to do with my finding her?”

“No, Mr. O’Keefe, I did not. You see, I knew where she was. I put her there, both Mislava and Ivana. Do you know if Mislava is dead then too, Mr. O’Keefe?”

“I’m sorry, yes.”

“I feared as much. Some things are for the best in some ways, do you know what I mean Mr. O’Keefe?” His voice had lost some structure.

I did not. Miljenko Boban and I agreed to meet.

Do We Need Smarter Hams?

I don't know how to pose this question(s). Should it be, "If you only need a grade of 50% to pass high school and college courses in Canada, why do you need a 70 to pass the Ham radio operator's test?" Or, is it, "If you need a 70% to pass the Ham radio exam, why do you only need 50% to pass high school and college courses." See my dilemma? I don't know which of the two conditions should concern me? Which should be adjusted? Should the ham radio test be dumbed down or academic achievement be smartened up? Opinions?

These Marigolds Grow Too Tall, Chapter 23

Marblehead Harbor

23

Some questions persisted after I spoke with Frank McClain. As Michael and I drove back across the causeway to Marblehead proper, with the natural wonder that is the harbor to our right and the North Atlantic over the seawall to the left, we kicked them around.

“So, ok, what we know…? We know that the dead woman in New York was Ivana Grdesic. We know it was Mislava down in Nantasket. We know this Niko guy was involved somehow.” I started to tick things off on my fingers.

“Ah, and that Ivana is the daughter of some power and privilege in Croatia. Right? We know her body is about to be shipped back there.”
“Yup,” Michael said as he pulled into the Devereux Beach parking lot at the end of the causeway. He thickened his brogue to sweet-talk the khaki- uniformed parking lot attendant. She directed us to a spot in the soft-sand lot.

“We also know she had exquisite taste in men,” Michael added.

“Yeah, yeah. Too bad for you she’s dead.”

Flynny’s On the Beach stands where a wooden L-shaped arcade of penny candy, tonic – the erstwhile New England word for soda pop - and hot dog stands, their rickety vertical shutters propped open against the elements, had tempted the pre-sun block sons and daughters of Marblehead’s 1940s and 50s.

We climbed the switchback ramp and ordered at the take out window. The co-mingled aroma of frying seafood and the ocean conjures up both the appetite and a fleet of memories.

“We know that I IDd the wrong woman in Portland for someone who had lied to me, and …”

“You know, Finn, I don’t know if it matters, but it appears that our Niko guy mightn’t have known one of these women from the other either, or…

“Or he didn’t care. I hadn’t thought of that. I felt that I had inadvertently set up Mislava when, perhaps, Matulich had nefarious designs on both the women.”

“Right. Nefarious. Might not mean anything, though…”

“ We’ll see, I guess. Good thinking, though Mikie.”

Truth was we might not ever know any more than what we already knew. I wasn’t working for anyone anymore.

Number 77. Number 79. Numbers 77 and 79. Our lunches were ready.

What we didn’t know was going to require many more fingers than we had between us.

“I wish I knew where Mislava’s body was.”

We returned to the truck after eating every morsel of our fried shrimp and clams with what was left of our tonics in plastic-lidded waxed cups. The sack full of raccoon was self-propelling around the truck’s cargo compartment. There was emanating from the bag a low hum that got a little louder each time it collided with something.

“There’s got to be a use for that technology.” I said as I cocked my head towards the sack.

Marigolds, Ch 22

22

I agreed to go to work with Michael in the morning. I felt I could wait to talk to this Boban guy, though I took the number with me. Someone on Marblehead Neck had something rummaging around in the attic and not appraising the antiques. Irish I Were Pest-Free to the rescue.

Mr. And Mrs. Leland Pickering were both at home when we arrived. Mr. Pickering’s Boston commodities firm “could run itself for the morning,” and Mrs. Pickering said the Marblehead Historical Society “would just have to make due for a few hours.” The Pickerings were going to be here when we caught whatever it was to be caught. It took ten minutes for me to track and half that for Michael to sack the raccoon.

“Whatever shall you do with it, Mr. Devlin?” Asked Mrs. Pickering as her husband bid us farewell with a half-regal wave through a half-opened window of the rear seat of a very long car. I saluted him.

“They’re darn fine eating from the barbecue, ma’am.” Michael kissed the tips of his fingers sending them away from his mouth with a flourish. The raccoon was buzzing and squirming against the canvas.

“You shall do no such thing, Mr. Devlin.”

“Would you want that I loose it in your neighbor’s yard, Mrs. Pickering?”

“I believe you are having sport at my expense, are you not, Mr. Devlin?” It was apparent Mrs. Pickering had chided the help before.

“He is, ma’am. I’ll make him stop.” I offered.

Michael turned toward me. He hoisted the sack over his shoulder. I waited until he was perfectly still.

“Stop, Michael.” I said with feint conviction.

“We’ll take it out to Old Salem Road in Swampscott and let it go there. It’ll be fine.” I said.

“There’s a fraternity of the critters we’ve taken there, ma’am,” said Michael. “They come a-scampering down the hill when they see the van because they know there’s a new member coming.”

My phone chirped on my belt as Michael was settling accounts with his client. I had left a message for McClain on his cell’s voice mail.

“McClain here.”

“Morning Detective.”

“Here’s the latest, Finn. Your dead woman down here was Ivana Grdesic. Franjo Salata at the consulate recognized her and we sent a picture to her family in Croatia. I have spoken with her father and the body is to be flown back as soon as the medical examiner releases it, probably no later than tomorrow.”

“Anything unusual or out of place about any of this to you, Frank? It was supposed to be Ivana Grdesic’s father who identified and claimed the body found on the beach up here.”

“Yeah, well, on that front, we heard from our guy at the Mass state cops…”

“Bevilaqua?’

“Umm hmm. It was the guy what's-her-name killed down here who identified and claimed that body up there. Bevilaqua confirmed from the photo we sent him.”

“So how do we know there isn’t more funny stuff afoot? How can you be sure that the guy in Croatia who’s having the body shipped there is really her father?”

“ Afoot? Man.” I could feel McClain shaking his head two hundred miles away.

“Well, for one thing, he’s with the Croatian ministry of health. Our friend Franjo at the consulate confirmed it and I got a document faxed here from the ministry this morning. The documents are in order at any rate.”

“One more question, Frank, if I might? Where’s the body Niko Matulich claimed under pretense here in Boston?”

“Beats the shit out of me and it’s not my problem.”

“And why did Matulich do it? Who sent him?”

“You said one more question.” And he was gone. My news for him would have to wait.

Ham Tastes and Works Better at Night

As you know, Lili and I are members in good standing of Cortes Island's Emergency Social Services Team. Who's more social that we? In that capacity I went to an informational meeting last Saturday on Quadra Island on Ham radio operation and licencing. Frank, our host, shared his knowledge and passion for the art and craft of amateur radio. We were attentive and enthusiastic; right up to the moment we weren't.
The day was not without its moments of Zen.
The boat ride that beautiful morning, my first "walk-on" trip, was unlike any other crossing. Besides the differnce in view/perspective from the boat's third deck, I was in the untethered proximity of humans other than Lili. The other walk-ons sat vacant-looking or paced arms folded, reading or rereading evacuation flyers or pamphlets from bicycle tour companies. Some punctuated their mindless meanderings with sleep. Some used the head... that's the bathroom to you landlubbers.
Frank was kind enough to pick me up at the landing. He, his wife Shirley and pups Katie and Dexter offered me shelter, the exam manual, instant coffee and a hand-held radio with which I made my acquaintance until the meeting started. The fact that Ham radios now look like walkie/talkies surprised me as much as the fact they still make instant coffee.
Frank's vehicle looks as if he bought it at a war surplus sale sponsored by the Lybian rebels. It sports a roof-top assembly resembling a home-made rocket launcher. Its purpose is to elevate his Ham antenna in the low-lying areas of the island, though it looks as if it should be more fun than that.
The test one needs pass to use a Ham radio - one is not supposed to even possess one if you have not - is what you'd expect, if you expect a graduate level exam in electronics. Resistance, ohms, amperes, Rf, VHF, UHF, BAH, HUM, BUG, Hertz, megaHertz, fredMertz... the whole schmeer. Radio operators' rights and myriad responsibilities are also among those things a Ham must know. Try to avoid jail time is their mantra.
Things that piqued my curiosity:

• Marconi's first transatlantic transmission was hacked. The signal that arrived first to the Cape Cod, Massachusetts reception site was not what they expected and not what Marconi sent. If Marconi gets hacked, what chance do the rest of us have?
• The guy who proctors the Ham exam (?) is named Juan. So, radio jamon anyone?
•  Franks hand-held antenna, not to be confused with his truck-installed weapon of mass destruction appears more a combination of a trident made by a blind guy with a sense of humor and a laundry drying rack.
•  Ham radios and pacemakers are contraindicated. It would be a riot to watch it, though.
•  The reason there is so much electronics knowledge in the exam is to keep the riff raff out. As one of the people in the room said, "You don't want a ham in the hands of every Tom, Dick, and Harry." Even at Easter? Besides, some of my best friends are riff raff.
• Ham transmission travel best at night. Insert your own line about nocturnal transmissions here.
• The number one topic discussed in Ham discourse is the weather. Number two generally starts this way, "Have we talked about the weather yet?" They also like to share how they built their own radios or antennae as many, many of them have. Or, missile launchers in Frank's case.
• There's a reason there are cleared areas and high fences around large Ham antennae? They can cook your ass which gives Ham a whole new meaning.
• After you pass the test, one's knowledge of Morse Code can elevate your level of certification.  Once again to quote Lou Reed, just watch me now:      .   .   .   _   _   _   .   .   .    Fork over the sash, Juan.

If and when I pass the test and some fool has put a radio in my hand, the very first thing I will say will come from one of the following two  questions. "Is it rolling , Bob?" or "What's the frequency Kenneth?" We'll find out real fast if Hams are Hip.

I have always been puzzled by the word Ham in Ham radio.* I now know what it means. When Frank was giving us a primer on the difference between AC (alternating current) and the dreaded DC (direct current), he stuck his finger into an open DC circuit, doing two things. One, he closed the circuit so current flowed and two, he absorbed a fair amount of electrons. My sense of smell gave me the answer I have always sought. Smoldering human flesh smells like ham.

*Ham is derived etymologically from an insulting term meaning "incompetent." Think "a ham actor." It was levied at amateur radio operators by that notoriously uppity bunch, telegraphers. The pejorative term was eventually co-opted and embraced by the Hams themselves. Why it's capitalized, I cannot say.

Too Good to be True

I have re-posted this entry because I felt it necessary. It's worth re-reading given what follows.

Blog Entries do not Have to be Lengthy.

This gem is from the Salem News Police Blotter

Chester P. Szczawinski, 44, of 11 Burke St., Lynn, was arrested and charged with larceny over $250 from Walmart on Highland Avenue at 5:11 p.m. Security told police they observed Szczawinski place four MP3 players valued at $99.98 apiece in his hat along with a $21.97 package of Extenze. 


Extenze has a specific function. Mr Szczawinski has yet again misread the instructions.

Had he made his escape, how might he have used the MP3 players?

From Saturday's Salem News...




BEVERLY — A "big nosed" man showed what appeared to be the handle of a gun, jammed down his pants, in robbing the Super Petroleum on Cabot Street Saturday, according to the police log at 4:25 p.m.


He used the Extenze to make his pistol longer.

Winter in Canada... Summer in Canada

http://www.youtube.com/watch_popup?v=vJRDpTUIrJI&vq=medium

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_PX-H4Uid3w&feature=related

For those of you below the 49th Parallel, Rick mercer is a CBC TV personality who is unabashedly in love with his country. The first video is his trip to Northern Ontario to count the bear population. The second: he visits Campbell River BC to swim with the salmon.

You know, while I'm at this You Tube thing, I might as well chuck this up. If you like Spanish Rock and Roll - what? there's Spanish Rock and Roll? Dios mio. Well, there is. This is a band from Murcia called Mclan. Play it through good speakers/headphones.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hEKJnaHwihw&ob=av2e

Blog Entries do not Have to be Lengthy.

This gem is from the Salem News Police Blotter

Chester P. Szczawinski, 44, of 11 Burke St., Lynn, was arrested and charged with larceny over $250 from Walmart on Highland Avenue at 5:11 p.m. Security told police they observed Szczawinski place four MP3 players valued at $99.98 apiece in his hat along with a $21.97 package of Extenze. 


Extenze has a specific function. Mr Szczawinski has yet again misread the instructions.

Had he made his escape, how might he have used the MP3 players?

These Marigolds... Chapter 21

21

We were nearly two beers into what was to be a six or seven beer night. Michael sat with his stocking-clad feet crossed in front of him, resting them on the coffee table. Both hands held the bottom of his beer as it rested on the stomach of his black-worn-gray Dropkick Murphys tee shirt. It reminded me of an inter-continental ballistic missile rising from its silo, Michael’s navel.

My Kooks’road shirt was draped over the back of my chair. I still had the rest of the uniform on.

I told Michael of the homicide/suicide in midtown Manhattan yesterday noon. Before I was able to share what had happened since, Michael, wide-eyed, personalized it.

“Holy…you know I slept with her, Finn?”

“I surmised as much.”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I don’t think I have ever slept with a woman who then died…well, except for Shelly from the neck northward. That, however, was a pre-existing condition.”

We both snort-giggled self-consciously. I rose to go to the kitchen.

“I guess that makes her my suicide squeeze.” Michael said.

“Clever, Michael. Fucking morbid, but clever. Here’s the kicker. It appears that you may have been with someone other than with whom you thought.”

Michael rotated in his seat so he could face me as I passed him leaving the room. When he could turn no more, he stood and followed me into the kitchen. His brow was creased, his mouth ill-formed.

“What are ye saying, man?”

“She had some ID that said she was Mislava Hrvat and some saying she was Ivana Grdesic. Mary Frances Flaherty, too, for that matter. The NYPD…”

“Wait a minute, Finn. Wasn’t Grdesic the name of the woman who washed ashore down in Hull while you were in Canada? The selfsame one you found up in Portland?”

“Same name, yes, but wait. The NYPD…”

“Jesus.”

“The detectives in New…”

“I can guaran-damn-tee ye she was not a Mary Frances Fucking Whoever.” Michael’s hands were spread, palms up. His shoulders were hunched up under his ears.

“Flaherty.”

“Flaherty, aye. A daughter of the sod she was not.”

“The NYPD is trying to get to the bottom of just who is - and who isn’t - who, as it were.”

“It’s not whom in that sentence?”

“Follows the verb to be therefore subjective case and…”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it.”

I handed a fresh long-necked El Presidente to my friend as I passed him in the doorway and sat back down. My last statement hadn’t done much to firm up the lines of his mouth.

“So, she never said anything that caused you to believe her name wasn’t Mislava?”

“No, not a blessed thing. Wow, Fintan. It seems typical of me luck that not only have I had memorable carnal relations with a dead woman, but I can’t even tell ye which dead woman it was. So much for the telling of the tale.”

“Therein may be your tale, Michael.”

“I suppose it is, though it’ll be a while before I am able to embellish this one even a tiny bit. It’s sort of creepy, don’t you know?”

We finished the beers mostly in silence. I excused myself to shower. Michael turned on the TV.

“Think about what you’d like to eat, Mikie.” I was removing my baseball socks, flicking them up over my shoulder with my toe to catch behind my back as I have done since I was kid. ”When I’m cleaned up I’ll go and…”

In the bathroom under the sink sat the orange duffel bag Ivana had brought with her from Portland... when she was still Mislava. It seemed to be pulsing but that was probably just the blood in my temples. There was a note with my name attached to the handle. I gently removed it so not to tear, unfolded and read it. The printing was both shaky and delicate.

For Fintan Okeefe

I am sorry for lie to you. I could not make what I need happen if I do not lie. I am Ivana Grdesic. Was best for me to be Mislava to you. Mislava was woman you saw in Portland. You had looked at wrong person in picture you had and thought you found me, Ivana. It was Mislava. Please call number at bottom and ask for Miljenko Boban. Please tell Boban what happened and where my self was take after I shot me. The money in bag is for you. If Boban asks you and you can help Boban it is your pay. If cannot it is for trouble I bring you. Is your money, Fintan. Please tell Michael I am sorry. He was kind to me as you were kind. He is very good lover.

Ivana Grdesic

“Michael, come in here. I found out who your fuck buddy was.” There was eleven thousand, four hundred seventy-one dollars in the bag. There was Croat currency, too. Lots of it. The phone number had a 617 area code: Boston.

“Mother of… Finn… what’s all this then?”

How BC and Saskatchewan are Different

This piece of deconstructionist wisdom comes to us courtesy of Kathy Smith, Lili's mum. Just try and guess where she lives.


Premier of B.C. Christy Clark is jogging with
her dog along a nature trail...
A coyote jumps out, attacks and kills the dog...

#1. The Premier starts to intervene,
reflects upon the movie "Bambi" and then realizes
he should stop; the coyote is only doing what is natural...

#2. She calls animal control...
Animal control captures coyote and spends $200 testing it for
diseases and $500 to relocate it...

#3. She calls veterinarian...  Vet collects dead dog and
spends $200 testing it for diseases...

#4. Premier goes to hospital and spends $3,500 getting checked
for diseases from the coyote and on getting
small scratch wound bandaged...

#5. Running trail gets shut down for 6 months while
wildlife services conducts a $100,000 survey to
make sure the area is clear of dangerous animals...

#6. Premier spends $50,000 of Provincial funds implementing a
"coyote awareness" program for residents of the area...

#7. B.C. Legislature spends $2 million investigating
how to better handle rabies and how to possibly
eradicate the disease...

#8. Premier's security agent is fired for not stopping
 the attack and for letting the Premier intervene...

#9. Cost: $75,000 to train new security agent...

#10. PETA protests the coyote relocation
and files suit against the Province...

BC Premier Christy Clark holds the leather-bound Auditor General's report on her extra-human/human confrontation. Chapters in Vancouver report 60,000 units sold

Saskatchewan:

Premier Brad Wall of Saskatchewan is jogging with
his dog along a nature trail...  A coyote jumps out and attacks the dog...

#1. Premier shoots coyote and keeps jogging...

#2. Cost: Premier has spent $0.50 on a .45 ACP hollow-point cartridge...

#3. Crows eat dead coyote...

Saskatchewan Premier demonstrates to the legislature how he and the well-armed coyote got the drop on each other. He then blamed everything on Saskatchewan teachers.


Disclaimer of sorts: this piece was originally circulated when Gordon Campbell was Premier of BC.  Christy Clark would be much more likely to order the round-up and extermination of the all coyotes, especially if the oil companies would benefit from it.

-----------------

These Marigolds Grow Too High, Chapter 20

There's a batch of new folks finding their way to this blog. I'd like to remind those folks to start These Marigolds Grow Too Tall at the start. It's the third Fintan O'Keefe story. The first two are available at  www.lulu.com  entitled Spineless (first) and Cancer in the Family.

20

Michael was pacing behind the ancient wood and steel bleachers on the first base side of a dusty diamond in Waltham. He was antsy were I even a little late. First pitch was five minutes away: I was more than a little late.

“Miran, chicos. Miran…” Fidel Arrojo addressed the team. “…el maestro esta aqui.”

He removed his cap, spread his arms wide, and bowed in my direction eliciting a mock cheer from the guys on the bench. Slipping my Adidas sandals off and my coach’s shoes on, I thanked them in two languages. I trotted out to my spot and started flashing the tools of the third base coach’s trade, a jumble of mostly meaningless words and gestures. Later in the game in certain combinations they might mean something, even produce something significant. In the first inning with no one on base, however, they were exercise.

Arrojo doubled to right center after two were out and died there as Gustavo Gutierrez took a called third strike. Bat still on his shoulder, he glared at the umpire as he slowly crossed the plate returning to the bench. I nudged him along.

“Nice wide plate tonight, huh, Ben?”

“Just like always, Finn.”

“Right. OK. Have a good game.”

And it was. Ben Salerno wanted teams to win or lose with their bats and their gloves. His games were generally quick and efficient. Tonight was no exception. Except for Gutierrez who argued always, with everybody, about everything and to no avail, no one had any complaints.

We scored two in the fourth, two more in the sixth and held off their last inning rally to take it 4-2. Waltham left the tying run at second.

What turned out to be our insurance run scored on a suicide squeeze, a baseball term the same in Spanish as it is in English. I hear it’s the same in Japanese. Michael loved the suicide squeeze.

“Michael, can you come by tonight?”

“Aye and to hear your New York stories, then?”

“Yeah, New York stories.”

Marigolds, 17,18,19

17

It was raining when I parted the heavy drapes the next morning. I like Manhattan in the rain. The thick gray light, shadows chased away and yet shadows everywhere, lends a film noir quality that suits this city as no other.

Rain only appears to fall straight when seen from the ground. From twenty-six floors up the paths and arcs of the droplets are random, tumbling. They scrum and dart and collide. Some drops seem to fall faster than others and some never reach the ground. Some cleanse and some sully. Some puddle while some seem to seek and soak the unslickered. A simple shower is anything but from twenty-six floors up.

A closing hotel room door has a unique sound. One slammed behind me at the Beekman right at checkout time. I felt rested but aimless. The dark clouds had moved to the east, out over Long Island and the Sound, I figured.

Fishman and McClain told me they would stay in touch, although I figured it more Pilsner-driven courtesy than anything else. Though I had no client, no legitimate interest, I made the same promise to them.

The same guy manned the booth at the parking garage. He was dressed as he had been yesterday except today he chose a New York Jets, Jets, Jets beret to complete his ensemble. There was a still-moist accumulation of cream cheese at the sides of his mouth and the remains of a bagel sitting on an open phone book to his right.

I wondered if I were on a hidden camera show when he asked me if I had enjoyed my stay. It seemed he was not as attuned to my dishevelment as I was to his.

“Yes. It was lovely. Thanks for asking.”

“Yeah? Well…whatever the fuck…”

18

“…and that’s what I know.” I switched the cell phone from my right ear to my left.

“Holy shit, Finn.”

“Holy shit indeed.”

“Where does that leave you?”

“I don’t know, I guess I’m out of it.” The connection between the rest stop tourist information center in southern Connecticut and Johnna’s Spartan though tasteful office in Springfield, Massachusetts was clear even as the thunder rolled to the south. I had been right about the direction of the storm clouds.

“So you’re going home?” Johnna asked.

“Un huh. There’s this legendary pizza place in New Haven called Pepe’s, I think. I might give it a try. If I can find it.”

“If you can get anywhere near it.”

“Even at lunch? Have you been there?”

“Yup, there and to Sally’s, too. They’re both amazing. Right up there with Regina’s. Listen, Finn, I have to go. I have someone here with whom I need to meet.”

“Sure, I’ll call you tonight. Nice use of the objective case, too, by the way.”

As I clicked off an image of Mislava/Mary Frances/Ivana from yesterday morning rose above the atmospheric fireworks that seemed to be approaching from the southwest. My appetite dried up. Pepe’s and Sally’s would have to wait.

An hour and some later I was in Rhode Island, in the southern suburbs of Providence. My phone rang.

“Frank McClain here. Want to hear about Niko Matulich?”

“Sure.”

“Their people at the UN never heard of him, but the guy at their consulate had. Niko was a businessman living in New York. His specialty seemed to be finding jobs for Croats who came to the tri-state area. The consulate used his services informally. They’d just give out his name and number to Croats looking for work. The guy at the consulate…”

“Frank, may I ask the guy’s name?”
“Ah, Franjo Salata’s his name…” I wrote it down as McClain spelled it. “…said Niko’s been doing that since before his, Franjo’s, posting to New York. He‘d met him at functions and parties but didn’t really know him.”

“Interesting. May I make a suggestion?” I interpreted the quiet as a yes.

“If you haven’t yet, could you fax Niko’s picture up to Bevilaqua? If no one is acknowledging Ivana’s, whichever one she was, and Mislava’s deaths as having a connection to either the mission or the consulate…

“We don’t now that for sure yet.”

“Still, it was somebody from New York claimed that body up in Boston, right? Maybe it was Niko.”

“Yeah, all right. What the hell, it’s worth a shot, I guess. Sending it up there might nudge Bevilaqua towards calling us back down here. He hasn’t yet.”

“How’d the Staten Island detectives make out?”

“Nothing special. Niko lived there, alone it seems, in a shitty little house close to the Verrazano Narrows Bridge.”

“Frank, thanks for doing this. I know you could have…”

“Yeah, yeah. Stay in touch O’Keefe."

19

The phone was quiet for the rest of the drive. It was quiet because I had turned it off. I stopped in Providence for gas and coffee. My head was awash in details I didn’t need. I wasn’t sure why I cared about them.

I decided sorting the information might be of some value. My imagination produced for its own edification a “plinko board.” At the bottom were categories such as I know, I don’t know, I think but can’t prove, might be important and need to know. I imagined dropping each manageable, bite-sized piece of information at my disposal into the maze from the top. Each disk-shaped chunk would bounce off the nails, redirecting itself any number of times before nestling into one of the spots at the bottom. Thus: order from chaos. Yeah, right.

I had to be road weary, or terribly distracted, or suffering from a brain-wasting disease if I thought this plinko strategy was going to produce anything meaningful. Man. I’d be home soon and was glad for it.

My mailbox contained nothing of consequence. I tossed it all with my keys and wallet next to the phone and blinking answering machine on the table beneath the intercom. The first message was from Michael – I was going to have to recount what happened for Michael – asking if I needed a ride to Waltham for tonight’s Cucarachas’ game.

“So, then, you’ll call me back by five if you do…”

It was already too late to reply. Baseball is therapeutic. I needed therapeutic. I put on my Kook’s uniform and was off to Waltham.