Marigolds, 28

28

Massachusetts State Trooper Armand Bevilaqua arrived at Ashburton Place as I did, screeching his two-toned cruiser to a nose-dive stop at the curb. A sign reading STATE POLICE VEHICLES ONLY made it impossible for him to open his door. Bevilaqua restarted his car, slammed the shifter into reverse and lurched back. He exited a car still bouncing from its sudden stop. I watched from the doorway.

“Fintan O’Keefe, I presume.” Good guess, I thought.

“Present.” I took his extended hand.

Bevilaqua’s physical presence matched his voice. He was large though proportionate in every dimension. His deep set, brown eyes held mine as we shook hands.

“Let’s go inside, shall we?”

Bevilaqua held the door open for me. We entered to a chorus of “Yo, Bev,” and “Whadayasay Armand,” rising up from the troopers in the room.

“Hiya, boys. Got an empty room where me and my buddy Fintan can talk?”

A collection of parallel index fingers indicated we should go to our immediate right. The only guy in the room with stripes on his sleeve, smiling, yelled to Bevilaqua.

“Hey, Bev… need some help parking?” Laughter resonated around the room.

“I’m good Sarge. Thanks for asking.”

We sat in straight-backed oak chairs at an oak table some fool had painted. There were white “chalk” boards behind me and to my left. Wood-framed black and white head and torso portraits of state cops sporting hairstyles from a number of eras hung on wires to my right. The fourth wall was windows overlooking an alley.

“I’d offer you coffee, but words can’t describe how bad it is. Tea?”

“Hot water would be great.” I nodded as I spoke. “I have some tea with me.”

Trooper Bevilaqua left the room looking at me bemused over his shoulder. I walked to the window arms folded. On the other side of the alley, through a window slightly below me and badly in need of ammonia and a squeegee, sat a young woman. She was transcribing something at her computer. She wore headphones. Her straight hair curled in at the jaw line. Next to her keyboard was a pair of half-glasses. Her collarless blouse was either low-grade silk or good acetate. She was entirely unaware she was being observed and I was acutely aware of it. She stopped what she was doing and shook her hair back in a cathartic toss. Arching her back she locked her hands behind her head, her breasts taut against the material of her blouse. I don’t know why, but I found the moment to be exhilarating. Perhaps that’s the wrong word for what I felt.

Bevilaqua returned with a mug of steaming water for me and a coffee for himself.

“This shit isn’t good enough for visitors. In fact it isn’t good enough for felons…” he raised the cup in his right hand, “… but it’s all there is if you don’t want tea or water. And I don’t.”

For the next forty-five minutes I answered questions, drank chamomile tea, made observations and sought nuance and connections among the facts with Bevilaqua. He was smart and he was thorough. He filled three pages with notes never once making me feel I had to slow down to accommodate him.

“How’d those cops in New York treat you, pretty good?” Bevilaqua put his ballpoint down, sat back in his chair and rubbed his face with both hands.

“They did. They even kept me in the loop after they were done with me. Considering the fact that I wasn’t working for anyone associated with the case at that point, there was no reason for them to do that.”

“Nice of them, I guess, but you are a witness to a murder/suicide aren’t you?” He started to shade in the Os in what he had written but stopped.

I raised my eyebrows in assent to his point.

“ Are you working for anyone now, Fintan? It seems you might be.” As I said, he was smart.

“It does seem that way. I need to decide.”

I shared the duffle bag full of money story. I was going to show him the note, which I had been carrying with me, but it contained Miljenko Boban’s name. It stayed in my pocket.

“So, how did you find this guy, what’s his name?”

“Bukovats?”

“Yeah. How’d you track him down?”

“Solid detective work.” I lied. “Although there is no such thing as the Croatian Exchange Enterprise and I suspect he rid himself of the cell phone on which he took calls from me as soon as I told him where to go in Portland, Bukovats has taken no great pains to hide. He lives on Braddock Street in the South End. His mailbox says N.T. Buko. Cute, huh?””

“I think I need to have a conversation with Mr. Bukovats,” said Bevilaqua.

“May I punch him in his nose when you are through with your conversation.”

“Your fist, his nose…none of my business.” Bevilaqua stood and moved to the door. “I’m going to need a compelling reason for that chat, though.”

“How about his immigration status?” I asked.

“Perhaps, though I’d like to keep it as uncomplicated as I can and immigration stuff means the Feds.”

“He won’t know that, will he?”

“Probably not. I like the way you think, Fintan.”

I paraphrased the great Tip O’Neill. “Where Ante comes from, ‘all authority is local.’”