Refresher: Who's Who in Marigolds

If you have not started the story, you SHOULD NOT READ this page. But, do remember it's here.

Cast of characters from These Marigolds Grow Too Tall

Fintan O'Keefe – Boston-based Private Detective; narrator of the story

Michael Devlin – Friend and sometimes-boss; Owns Irish-I-Were-Pestfree exterminators

Johnna “Sparky” Law – Fintan's girlfriend; a federal agent

Ivana Grdesic (Gerdisitch) – O'Keefe is hired to find her. Shortly after he does so in Portland, Maine, her body washes ashore on a Massachusetts beach_

Ante Bukovats (Antay Bukovatch) – O'Keefe's client purportedly representing the Croation Exchange Enterprise and the Grdesic family in Croatia

MA State Trooper Armand Bevilaqua – lead investigator in the case in Massachusetts

Mislava Hrvat (Mishlava Hurvatch) – Weeks later, in same condo where O'Keefe found Grdesic; attempts to hire O'Keefe to accompany her to New York; AKA Mary Francis Flaherty

Spoiler Alert: Mislava is actually Ivana and vice versa

Niko Matulich – Man who meets with Fintan and his client in New York; “mover and shaker” with loose ties to Croatian Consulate
Bo Boban - Owner of a school of language in Boston; has ties to Hrvat and Grdesic

Marigolds, Chapter 39

39

“That’s great, sure. I appreciate the help.”

Bo Boban’s assistant was Jillian Gomez. I called her to be put in touch with the school’s travel agent. Bo told her to help me in any way I asked.

“OK, Mr. O’Keefe, here we go. It’s Ye Olde Mayflower Travel. Our contact there is Dennis. I’ll give him a buzz to tell him you’ll be in touch. Here’s the number.”

“Thanks, Jillian. No last name for this Dennis?”

“Nope. Not in the file.”

I killed the fifteen minutes before I called Dennis the best way I knew. I opened a Sam Adams and tossed two papusas into the warmed oven.

“Dennis? Hi, my name is Fintan O’Keefe.”

“Sure, Mr. O’Keefe, how may I be of assistance?”

“Can you tell me if you have arranged any travel in the last week or so for Yalena Orasac?”

“That I can. Let me look up the details right here in…”

The unmistakable sound of slow keystrokes was followed by, “Here it is.”

Orasac had booked flights, separate fights, to Halifax, Nova Scotia and then on to Belfast, Northern Ireland through Shannon, all the day before yesterday.

“Do you know why she might have done it that way as opposed to connecting flights?” I asked.

“I asked the same question. It was much more expensive to do it her way. She said, oh so politely, I should mind my own business.”

“Anything else out of the ordinary with this transaction?”

“Yeah. She paid for it with her own credit card. I reminded her the school has an account and all… she told me again to butt out.”

“Dennis, can you see if she made both of her flights?”

“Hmm, I was just looking at that…it seems she didn’t make the one to Belfast out of Shannon.”

“Did she book a hotel or a car through you in either city?”

“Nope. She wasn’t supposed to be in Halifax but a few hours. And…nothing in Ireland either. Oops, Mr. O’Keefe, I have another call. May I put you on hold?”

“Dennis if you’ll check when you are done if any flight to anywhere out of Shannon had a passenger named Helen Moore and call me back…”

“Got it. Will do.”

I finished my papusas and opened another Boston Ale. My cell phone did its dance on the table next to the brown bottle. Dennis confirmed that one Helen Moore had boarded a flight for Toronto out of Shannon that morning and then another for Belfast that afternoon. Pending Bo’s approval, I asked him to look into a flight to either or Belfast and Shannon for me.

I was feeling in full detecting flower. It lasted only as long as it took me to consider what now.

What now?

I called the cell number that Bo Boban left with me. He answered on the first ring. I told him what I had learned from Dennis.

“Shit, Fintan. Yalena must be somehow connected to this then, right?”

“Has to be. Bo, do you want me to go to Ireland? I imagine that even though she flew to Shannon she’ll end up in Belfast, or somewhere up there.”

There was a pause bracketed by an audible nasal intake of air and a noisy discharge of said air.

“Fintan, go to a town called Portrush. That’s where she’d go. That’s where Chris Moore is. It’s the only place she’d go.”

“Bo, was Yalena one of your off-the-books imports, too?”

“Yes. Years ago. Since then her presence in the country has been validated.”

“You sound like a seasoned spinner of bureaucratic bullshit, Bo.”

“Go to Ireland, Finn. Portrush, Northern Ireland. Have Dennis book it.”

“No one is to know, Bo. Right?”

“No will know Finn.”

These marigolds Grow Too Tall, Ch 38

38

Jalena Orasac was a translator. Her CV said she spoke Serbo-Croatian, German and English. Bo put people fluent in regional languages together with travelers who were not. Her file contained records of four lengthy trips to the former Yugoslavia in the last five years. It also showed how handsomely she had been paid for her services. No doubt about it, I got to learn me some new tongues.

Orasac’ small house rested on a slightly elevated plot of land not much bigger than the house itself in the west end of Malden. The neighborhood rescued from or pounded into a craggy hillside, was adjacent to the Fells Reservation where Malden, Melrose and Stoneham sidle into one another. There was no car in the pitched driveway and her phone was still answered by her disembodied voice.

Orasac’ down slope neighbor was laying in birch bark nuggets around a scraggly young spruce in his tiny front yard. He returned my greeting with a smile.

“You looking for Helen?” He asked.

Jalena could be the Slavic version of Helen, I surmised.

“I am. Our employer is a little concerned about her.”

“I haven’t seen her for a few days. Helen’s popular. Somebody else was here, too. A girl was here looking for her.”

“Yeah? Maybe sent here before me…”

He leaned his rake against the slate and concrete retaining wall, removed his heavy denim work gloves and walked towards me. He brushed the birch bits from his jeans.

“Yup. A wicked tall girl with a thick accent sort of like Helen’s was here three days or so ago, I guess it was. Sheila…?” He raised his chin and yelled in the direction of the second floor porch. A face, Sheila’s I’d wager, appeared behind the screen. The rest of her head was wrapped in a towel.

“Honey, when was that girl here looking for Helen?” He used his sleeve to dab his brow.

“Two days ago, and she was a woman Ralphie, not a girl.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“Did she find her?” I asked.

“If she did she didn’t find her here.”

“Who’s this guy, Ralph?” Sheila’s question had an edge. She had removed the towel and was shaking out her hair, dotting the screen with droplets.

“He works with Helen. Their boss is trying to get in touch.”

Sheila seemed satisfied. She disappeared.

“Yeah, Helen’s popular alright,” said Ralph.

“The woman who was here a couple of days ago, is it possible she asked for Helen at first using a name you didn’t recognize?” I asked.

“Matter of fact she did, but we got it straightened out. What was…?” Ralph’s pursed lips and creased brow told me he was thinking. “It was Yalenia Oraclees or some shit, I mean, if I remember it right. She told me that Moore was her married name and she had known her well before she was married.”

Despite his overuse of pronouns, I thought I understood what Ralphie meant.

“Did she offer the name Moore or did you tell her that was the name by which you knew Helen?”

More pursing, more creasing: “Um, I told her, I guess.”

“I see. Well, thanks Ralph. When you see Helen, please ask her to call Finn.” I gave him a card with only my name and mobile number I had printed for just such an occasion.

“Fintan O’Keefe? Right, I will. Interesting name, Fintan.”

“Bye, Sheila,” I said loudly.

“Yeah, yeah,” tumbled down from the porch.

These Marigolds Grow Too Tall, Chapter 37 (Chapters 35 and 36 below)

                                           Marlborough Street, Boston

                                                                         37

Bo Boban did not want to return to his townhouse on Marlborough Street. I took him to my place.

“Besides the details of what you discovered this morning, did you tell Bevilaqua anything new today, Bo?”

“Other than I am scared shitless, I don’t think so.” Shitless draped in Bo’s accent had a unique sound to it.

”Is there anything new you wish to tell me?”

Miljenko Boban sat back on my futon. He was closing and opening his fists.

“May I take my shoes off, Finn?”

I nodded. Boban slipped off his loafers and folded his legs beneath him.

“OK, we need to decide if you are going to work for me.” Bo said.

“Because there are things you would tell me if I were that you would not if I weren’t?”

“Yes.”

“Then here’s the deal…”

I laid out what he needed to do to employ me. He took a blank check drawn on the school from his wallet and placed it on the table.

“Do you have a pen?”

Boban wrote the check for the minimum retainer. He spoke as he signed it.

“Everything I have told you is true. But there are things you… I… will tell you now I did not before. There are things I did not tell the police I wish to tell you. There are things that I do not know…”

“And it is the unknown things that have you frightened?”

“Mostly, yes. But much of what I know frightens me, too.”

At my request Boban told me again about his side business of securing safe passage for Croats needing to come to North America. He added details about the life that Ivana and Mislava led in Northern Ireland.

“It is true that I did not ask why they needed to come here. Of course I knew that it was critical for their safety that they do so, but I did not ask why. I never do. I always add the disclaimer that I would not help anyone fleeing from justice, but of course I know that these people would not need me if they were not fleeing from something. I leave those things to Berislav Orasac, my acquaintance in Northern Ireland.”

“AKA Chris Moore.”

“Yes.”

“How did the two of you find one another? Did you know each other in Croatia?”

“No. In fact we have never met. He is the brother of someone connected to my school.”

Boban’s body language was now an equal partner in our conversation. He was more animated, in a disjointed sort of way.

“Someone here in Boston?”

“Well, she was. I have not seen her and I have not heard from her for a while. I did not think much of it until today. For obvious reasons I am now concerned for her.”

“Have you tried to contact her?”

“I have not. After this morning I do not think it wise to do so. Perhaps the first thing you can do for me is that…please try and contact her.”

Bo handed me her business card. Her name was Jalena Orasac. She lived in Malden. I got her answering machine when I called.

“OK, Bo, Let’s see if I can find Ms. Orasac. Meanwhile, would you gather up any paperwork you have on her? Maybe…”

“Of course. As soon as the police allow me – or allow us I hope - back into the school. Then I am going on a trip. In the meantime, may I impose on you to stay here?”

Two days later Boban and I were allowed back into the school. Bo called a toxic waste cleanup company, his assistant, and the school’s travel agent. He gave me Jalena Orasac’s file and contact information for her brother in Northern Ireland.

“I do not know yet where I will end up. Here’s my cell phone number and email address.” He wrote them on the folder. “If you need me use them. Otherwise…”

I nodded.

Marigolds, Chapter 36 (Ch 35 posted below)

hought I had a pretty good grasp of the events. There were questions, still, but what I knew was pretty well ordered. I was sure that Ante Bukovats would be the key for law enforcement. I even allowed myself the luxury of a guess: Niko Matulich killed the woman whose body he claimed at the ME’s office. The cops, perhaps the New York cops, would mind that end.

My immediate task was to decide whether I was going to work for Bo Boban. I was leaning towards no. The puzzle for me was complete. All accounts were paid in full. Plus, I had a bag of money.

As I dressed to go get a paper my phone chirped. It was the ever well-dressed Mr. Boban in a state of emotional dishevelment.

“Fintan, you can come to my school.” It was a statement not a question.

“Why?”

“They have killed Ante. Right here. Down the hall. In his classroom. He is in pieces in his classroom. You can come here now.”

“Have you called Trooper Bevilaqua?”

The pause said no. Under this stress Bo was transported back to Croatia and the authorities were not first on the must call list.

“Listen, Bo, I’ll call him and then I’ll come.”

“OK. Call. And then come, yes.”

I called Bevilaqua at the South Boston barracks. By the time I got to Boylston St. the Staties and BPD had the building secured. Trooper Erika Frommer was in charge at ground level. She gave me a half smile half wince and waved me through.

Most of the activity was in the hallway outside of the classroom I surmised to be Bukovats’. In a moment when the crowd had thinned at the entrance I looked inside. There, on the mid-grade wall-to-wall was a body bag. It was occupied. Six feet away was an hour glass-shaped lagoon of blood. It was dark around the edges.

Armand and Bo sat in Bo’s office, although it now appeared to be much more Armand’s than Bo’s.

“Come in, Fintan,” Bevilaqua said.

“So, we’re sure it’s Bukovats?” I asked.

Bevilaqua said, “Oh yes. In his component parts, his disassembled state, his varied and sund…”

“I do not find that funny or in good taste, Trooper Bevilaqua,” said Boban without looking at him.

I wished I had said that.

“Right. It probably isn’t.”

My head was swiveling between the two men.

“May I ask what happened?”

“Let us get Mr. Boban downstairs and on his way to the ME. Then we’ll talk.”

“Bo?” It took a few seconds for him to focus his attention on me.

“Yes?”

“Call me when your interview is over. I’ll come get you.”

“I would be grateful.” He was nodding. “Thanks.”

As it was part of their on-going investigation the state police had jurisdiction. Frommer appeared in the doorway. She said they were ready downstairs.

Bo stepped towards her just as the body bag rolled by in the narrow hallway on a two-manned gurney. He retreated into the office asking softly to be excused: an involuntary response. Frommer, sensitive to the moment, stepped into the office. She suggested to Bo that they should wait a minute or two. Good police work. Better humanity. Then they were gone.

“Hope you haven’t eaten yet.” Bevilaqua handed me a Polaroid.

“Mother of God.”

The photo had been taken before Bukovats had been placed in the bag. Eyes open, he lay on his back. His trousers and his briefs were around his ankles. His hands palms up were outstretched. His tongue had been sliced, removed and replaced cut side out. There were lumps of something fleshy in each of his hands.

“Are those his testicles?” I asked. “In his hands I mean.”

“Probably, as his are not where we would expect to find them,” Bevilaqua answered.

“Man,” was all I could muster.

“Ante wasn’t just killed, he was made a poster boy for something, probably talking to the cops, but who knows?”

“Had Bukovats told you anything that might shed some light on who might do this?”

“Nope. Come with me Fintan. I got to get these guys out of here.”

I stood in the hallway as Bevilaqua checked in with each of his remaining team. Equipment was packed, samples were secured, and forms were signed. Bevilaqua asked the ranking Boston cop on scene to assign someone to stay after the doors were sealed.

“Somebody has to tell the students when they start showing up that they have a snow day.”

Marigolds, Chapter 35

35

I heard Michael rustle and leave the next morning. The note he wrote and taped to the door was simple and the quintessential Michael Devlin.

Finn,

I guess now we truly are blood brothers,

Mikie

Mr. Dr. Fr. Sanitorium, I presume?

How is it that a person who appears so genuine, has a fairly extensive vocabulary (hundreds of ways of saying, "You are a bad person"), and can string words, phrases and clauses together in coherent and recognizable patterns still sounds so stupid? How can one man miss so many points all at the same time? My father-in-law is right. His last name should be Sanitorium and it should also be his address.

Santorum: Obama daughter’s Mexico trip ‘sets a very bad precedent’

The children of politicians are normally off limits during campaigns but Rick Santorum is lashing out at President Barack Obama for allowing his daughter to go to Mexico, claiming it could endanger Americans.

Speaking to GBTV’s Glenn Beck on Tuesday, the Republican presidential candidate reacted to the news that the president’s daughter, Malia, had asked permission to spend her spring break in Mexico, even though the State Department had issued warnings for other areas of the country.

“What I would say is that the president’s actions should reflect what his administration is saying,” Santorum declared. “If the administration is saying that it’s not safe to have people down there, then just because you can send 25 Secret Service agents doesn’t mean you should do it. You should set an example. I think that’s what presidents do. They set an example. And when the government is saying this is not safe, then you don’t set the example by sending your kids down there.”

“I think you have a higher duty when you’re president to set that example,” he added. “You’re not above the law. You’re not someone who’s, who can say one thing to one group and then do something else. It sets a very bad precedent.”

Early Tuesday morning, Politico reported that several publications like The Huffington Post and AFP had removed their reports about the first daughter’s vacation plans over privacy concerns.

“From the beginning of the administration, the White House has asked news outlets not to report on or photograph the Obama children when they are not with their parents and there is no vital news interest,” Michelle Obama’s communication director Kristina Schake told Politico. “We have reminded outlets of this request in order to protect the privacy and security of these girls.”

Marigolds, Ch 34

34

Michael’s blood tested negative for the antibodies to HIV. He sat mostly upright, on a backless stool in an overpriced “bistro” across the street from Quincy Market. He was still in his bug-killer’s clothes. Though the place was crowded, the stools were vacant to either side of him. Yuppie babies; that smell didn’t bother me.

In front of Michael on the bar were his cell, a mound of change, and a drained shot glass. Head bobbing to the jukebox, he held his pint in both hands in his lap. His eyes had a certain glassy shimmer.

“Live to fight another day, eh, Finn?”

I ordered a Sam Adams and asked the bartender for an approximation of Michael’s consumption. He pulled the keys to Michael’s truck from his pocket jingling them in my direction.

“Good man, the barman,” Michael said. “Maybe he can recall where it’s parked.”

A nurse from the clinic had called earlier in the day with the news. Michael had asked her to fax him the confirmation. He read it aloud to me.

Dear Mr. Devlin,

It is our pleasure to inform you that our testing indicates no HIV antibodies present in your blood. You are not HIV positive.

We know that this experience is a sobering one, and in that spirit please allow us to remind you that every act of unprotected sex or intravenous drug use may lead…

The letter was not very different in content or tone from the one that I had received years ago. My response was, as I recall, similar to Michael’s. His results’ turnaround time, however, was much quicker.

“Fintan, isn’t it an ironic piece of irony…now look at me Fintan, are ye lookin’ at me, Fintan…”

I was indeed, right into his swimming eyes.

“… that this clinic thinks this is sobering? Huh? I’ll bet it is anything but sobering for most people who get that fuckin’ letter, now. Am I right? Mormons maybe or old ladies might maybe find it sobering, but then again those bastards are always sob…”

“Right you are, Mikie.” I handed him back his letter.

“I guess now I’ll be about the business of the organizing and the telling of this story…now that it has a happy ending.”

Even drunk Michael caught himself.

“Shit…a happy ending for me, anyway…poor girl.”

That night, after I trundled up my friend and drove us back to Chelsea, I told Michael my story. He knew I had been tested, but he didn’t know the details. I had let him assume what happened to me was more or less what happened to him.

It was not.

About ten years ago I had spent the evening in a smoky bar on Water Street. In those days Boston’s financial district after dark was a neighborhood with some jagged edges, poorly illuminated jagged edges.

That night in the emergency room at Tufts New England Medical Center, where I had taken myself in a cab, I would have lied to the nurse had I been able to compose one remotely plausible. She held my chin in her plastic-coated hand as she spoke.

“Sweetie, you are not the first man to be assaulted this way. These are interesting times.”

When BPD arrived I described the three men. I felt it necessary to tell the cops more than once I was not gay. At one point an exasperated detective told me, “Probably neither were they, Mr. O’Keefe. This wasn’t about sex; it was about power and humiliation. As a matter of fact, it was most likely about one of the three guys who did this to you showing the other two who’s boss… just how he’s… he’s the alpha male, know what I mean?”

Whether that cop was right or not, I never knew. I’d like to think I didn’t care, but the truth is I never figured out how to integrate this into my sense of self: three men in an alley off Milk Street in downtown Boston had raped me.

Later, just after dawn I walked slowly out of that hospital holding close a list of clinics and not much else.

Marigolds Ch 32 and 33

32

Ante Bukovats was not burdened with loyalty. Perhaps it was just that it was not as immediate or as tangible as his need for nicotine, but he told Bevilaqua everything of which he could think: about himself, his connections in Boston and New York, and his connections in the former Yugoslavia, why he loved Paris in the springtime.

Bukovats acknowledged that he had lied when he hired me but said he was not aware that anyone was to be hurt. The man who contacted him from New York, the late Niko Matulich, seemed genuinely interested in finding a lost relative. Matulich had a high profile, an association of sorts with the Croatian diplomatic corps. He expected confidentiality and suggested how Ante should ensure it. Bukovats also feared for his own safety when he heard that the young woman he had asked me to find was dead. Or so he said. He also appeared relieved that Matulich had joined her. The next day, after confiscating his passport, Armand Bevilaqua released Bukovats.

“If we find he’s involved in the homicides… eventually some dickhead lawyer will hear what we’ve already done and raise hell about it…so…”

“That’s probable, but I would bet that Ante would have little trouble securing another passport.”

“Yeah, huh? Unless good old Niko was to be his source for one,” Armand snorted. “Anyways, we’re keeping our eye on him. We’ll see where he goes, who he contacts.”

“You mean whom, not who. It’s objective…”

“What?”

“Not what, whom.” What was I thinking? “Sorry, forget I said anything.”

I asked if he would keep me up to date. He said he would. I asked if he had informed the cops in New York. He said he had. I asked if he thought I was in any danger.

“Keep your head up, O’Keefe. You are a known commodity.”

33

“Mr. O’Keefe tells me you were helpful, Mr. Boban. We are grateful to you.” Armand and I were sitting in Bo’s small but tasteful office. Two large windows, especially large for the space, overlooked Boylston Street. “I have a few more questions, for you, if you don’t mind.”

This building, between Exeter and Fairfield, had been built as residential but was now commercial. Boban’s school, The Boston Institute for Applied Language Arts, filled two floors. The classrooms, formerly parlors, dining rooms and bedrooms for Boston’s elite, all seemed to be in use. Hallways formed by hollow walls and inexpensive carpet connected the irregularly shaped rooms.

“Of course. Needless to say I am a bit…I am not sure what words to use…”

“Taken aback?” I suggested.

“Yes, taken aback. It is not every day that one of my teachers is arrested as part of a homicide investigation.”

Boban told us how Bukovats had answered an advertisement he had posted last summer with an on line international employment agency, one he often used.

“It seems I will now need to do so again.”

He said as far as he knew Ante had no more contact with the old country than any of the other teachers he had hired: friends and family.

“Bo, is there any possibility Bukovats knows your friend from Northern Ireland?” I asked.

The implications of the question registered quickly and discernibly on Boban’s face.

“I don’t know.”

Bevilaqua continued the questioning.

“Can you tell us his name, your friend in Ireland? There is a warrant being issued as we speak to search Bukovats’ apartment. What name might we be looking for?”

“His name is Berislav Orasac. He lives in Portrush.”

“What…? Doesn’t sound too Irish to me,” Bev said

“Bo, does Mr. Orasac have another name?” I asked. “Is there a more Irish name he might use from time to time?” A man who it appeared had little difficulty creating Irish identities for Mislava and Ivana might have done so for himself.

“He often goes by Chris Moore. At least that is what he’s told me.”  

Marigolds, Chapter 31

31

“Why…who was that man just in here?” Ante Bukovats asked Bevilaqua. He was very agitated

“Who?” Bevilaqua sat with his back to me as Frommer and I watched through the one-way glass.

“That man who came in here.” Bukovats, now up and pacing, described me.

“Oh, him? He’s a private investigator. I think his name is O’Brien. He’s here a lot. Do you know him?”

“Ah, no. No I do not.”

“Hmm.”

Trooper Frommer entered the interview room. She told Bev he was needed elsewhere.

With slipping composure and a choked voice Bukovats asked if there were somewhere he could have a cigarette. Neither Bev nor Frommer responded as the door closed behind them.

“Please…officers…”

“Frommer, Bring him more coffee. One more cup should do it. Ask him if he has a lawyer while you’re in there, too. Don’t offer anything, just ask.”
“Trooper, you are peeling the skin off that man…” I said. “…one layer at a time.”

In the interview room Bukovats responded to Frommer that the school must have lawyers, no, he didn’t have one, and he hoped he wouldn’t need one. He then asked her if she knew what I was doing there. The surface of the coffee vibrated in his hand.

“He’s here to see my partner about something. I don’t know... He’s in and out of here all the time, though. Why? Know him?”

“No…it is just that he came in here to this room and said something I did not understand. I do not know him. Why would I know him?” Bukovats tried to pick up his coffee cup. He stopped and put his shaking hands back in his lap. Bevilaqua saw what he needed to see.

“Let’s go see Ante.”