Marigolds, 27

27

Ante Bukovats was one of those teachers with a skill set described by Boban as a godsend for the diplomatic and business communities. His resume said he spoke English, French, Serbo-Croatian and Russian fluently. He was wearing what appeared to be a uniform of some kind – brass buttons and epaulets – in the photocopy of his passport photo, though his CV mentioned no time in the military. He was a teacher and servant for the public people in Bosnia and Croatia, or so said the papers.

Bukovats lived in the South End, just below the mall and hotels complex at Copley Place, on Braddock Street. After lunch I walked through the neighborhood to make sure the address was real. It was. An “N.T. Buko.” was next to one of the brass-faced mailboxes in the cramped lobby. Cute: Ante becomes N.T.

Boston's Southend

Now, what the hell was I going to do about all this? Being a solid citizen I called the cops.

The Massachusetts State Police has an outpost on Beacon Hill, on Ashburton Place, behind the state house. I asked if I might be connected with Trooper Armand Bevilaqua.

“Trooper Bevilaqua works out of the South Boston Barracks. Hold on, I’ll see if I can’t connect you.”

Odd idiom: “I’ll see if I can’t connect you”? It should be “…can connect you,” should it not?

“Trooper Bevilaqua,” The voice was robust and confident. I told him my name.

“Ah, I have had you on my list, Mr. O’Keefe, since that little dust up you had in New York City. Thought we might compare notes.” The robust and confident voice became downright disarming.

“Then we are of one mind.”

“Can you meet me at Ashburton Place in, say, twenty minutes?” he asked.

“I can. I am walking in that direction as we speak.”

“Good. Be right up.”