YouTubeSock

This blog, for the moment, has become Youtubesock. This is my buddy Tim and his new invention. Tim is From Hudson Bay, Saskatchewan. Hudson Bay is the answer to the question, "Name the city in Saskatchewan that is nowhere near the body of water known as Hudson Bay?" I miss Tim. He's as close to an imp as anyone can be who is 8 ft. 13 inches tall. When he comes to Cortes this summer, hide your fish and your beer.

Note: do not try this with socks from other CFL teams, if the other teams have socks. (You know you've mined all available marketing veins when you start pushing socks on people, though look how many Tim has) Neither Tim nor I will be responsible.

Oh yeah, this is another way BC differs from SK.

Marigolds, 30

30

“So, if you decide to work for anyone in this case, will it be the guy who owns the school? Bukovats’ boss?” Bevilaqua had spoken with Bukovats and briefly with Bo Boban at the school.

I moved the phone from my left ear to my right. “Armand, were you discrete? I promised that guy…”

“I figured that out, Finn. Don’t worry, but you might have said something to me.”

He was right.

“Bukovats thinks we were there because his name popped up on a INS computer somewhere.”

“OK, good.” I should have… What did you get from him?”

“He’s a very interesting guy, based on his CV and all. He thinks his immigration status is why he’s our guest and, as you said, the Balkans has taught him as the authorities we can do with him whatever we want. At present I see no reason to disabuse him of that idea. So, if we pick you up can you come down to ID him? No sense in proceeding unless and until you say officially he’s the guy who sent you to Portland.”

“Yup.”

“Can we do that right away?”

I gave him directions to Admiral’s Hill, showered, poured some French Roast into my travel mug which I would forget and went downstairs to await my ride. My cell rang.

“Fintan, this is Miljenko Boban.”

“Hey, Bo.”

“The state police were here. They took Ante away with them. They asked me some questions.”

“I know.”

“Is there a connection in their visit to me as far as…?”

“No, there isn’t. He has no idea. Listen I am about to tend to a detail or two. I’ll call you when I am done, OK?”

“Sure. Of course. I just don’t want Ante coming back looking for me.”

“I understand. He won’t. You can also tell the rest of your staff that they should not be concerned. Remind them to stay current with their papers. You know… give them a pep talk.”

“That’s a good idea. One or two of them are edgy.”

The state trooper sent to retrieve me, one Trooper Erika Frommer, was not very talkative.

“So, you’re Bev’s partner?” I asked as we descended the hill.

“He lets you call him that? Bev?”

“He does.”

Nothing. We drove to the airport and through the Ted Williams Tunnel. The South Boston Barracks was just on the other side of the harbor. In fact, although I did not know it until we arrived on Massport Haul Road, I could see it from my balcony.

It was the right Ante Bukovats. He sat alone hunched up on himself in a soundproof room. There was a pack of unfiltered cigarettes on the table. Bukovats was spinning them on the table. There was a no smoking sign on the wall. He squinted at his own reflection in the one-way mirror.

“Let’s go get a coffee, Finn. Let his nicotine jones eat at him for a while,” Bevilaqua said. “Thanks for making the trip, Trooper Frommer.”

“Sure, Trooper Bevilaqua.”

We took our coffee outside and sat on the harbor side of the building. This neighborhood, wrapped around Northern Avenue, with its fish piers, cruise ship docks, circus tents, and restaurants had enjoyed a rebirth as a tourist destination in the last ten years. Prior to that if you came here at night it was to go to either the No Name or Anthony’s Restaurants - or to look for your stolen car. I could see Admiral’s Hill and Logan Airport across the water.

“Here’s how I would like to do this,” Bev said. “Let him stew for a while thinking he has INS issues. By the smell of him and the color of his finger nails a couple of hours without a cigarette will be excruciating for him.”

“May I suggest you give him coffee, too?” I took a mouthful from the cup Trooper Frommer had given me. The small muscles surrounding my eyes began to fire in a random sequence. My lips retracted involuntarily over my teeth. “And make sure it’s this coffee.” It was strong from evaporation, bitter from too much heat, and old. “Caffeine, especially in the quantity present in this coffee, YIKES, JESUS, will exacerbate his nicotine problem.”

“Yeah, huh? Is that right? OK, then. This time of day until the shift changes no one wants it anyway. Trooper Frommer, will you bring a beverage to our guest? Put a sign on that pot so’s it doesn’t get dumped out, too, would you?”

Large aircraft came and went from Logan to our right. Fortunes came and went in the Financial District, just across the Fort Point Channel to our left.

“She new?”

“Yup, of the brand spankin’ variety.”

“She afraid of you?”

“Absolutely.”

“I think it upset her that I called you Bev.”

His chin hit his chest.

“When the fuck did you call me Bev? Who said you could call me Bev?”

“I just thought that…I’m, I’m…”

“Man, O’Keefe,” he raised his chin. “You are easier than she is.”

Air returned to my lungs, blood returned to my extremities and Trooper Frommer returned to the picnic table.

“As I was saying, this is how we’ll play this. Frommer, in about an hour you’ll go in with more coffee and a promise to see if you can’t get me to agree to a smoke break. Fifteen minutes later you’ll deliver the sad, sad news that I won’t allow it. Bring him more coffee, too.”

“OK,” Frommer said.

It should have been OK, Bev or OK ,Armand or OK, partner, but it was just OK. It sounded both unfinished and deferential. I hate deferential.

“Fintan, shortly thereafter you’ll walk in, look surprised, mumble something, and walk out. Then I’ll go in. We’ll see what shakes out.”

These Marigolds... Chapter 29

29

Michael had decided he wanted his HIV test done in a clinic. He had done a little phone book research and made an appointment at one in the Fenway neighborhood. He called me and asked if I’d meet him up there.

I had time to walk the three miles or so from Ashburton Place. The day had grown overcast. The golden dome of the State House was set in relief against the flat gray sky. Bullfinch’s creation appeared more vivid, held more contrast and majesty on days such as this.

Sitting in the brightly painted, very tidy waiting room Michael and I both were reading travel magazines. Michael was tapping his foot and breathing loudly.

All of the magazines were current. Today’s New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and Bay Windows shared the newspaper rack with the Boston Globe.

“I wish they had a Sports Illustrated.” Michael said.

A thin muscular man sat to my right. He was the only other person in the room.

“This is tough,” he said.

“It is.” I responded”

“I do it regularly, but it doesn’t get any less nerve wracking.”

I nodded.

“How long have you two been together?” he asked gesturing toward Michael and me. I turned and looked at Michael.

“Six years.” I answered.

“That’s sweet. Impressive these days.”

Michael’s face became a collection of obtuse angles. He leaned towards me.

“Together? Fintan? I think he means together together.”

“You’re right Mikie.” I turned back to the man on my right. “We’ve known each other for six years…”

Michael tried to reassemble his face into a sincere, or at least not goofy, smile. He failed.

“… but, we’ve only been together for four.” I said.

Michael swallowed audibly, closing his eyes. A nurse called number twenty-one and our new friend, giggling, rose from his chair.

“Good luck, gentlemen,” he said as he passed us. He bent down, patting Michael on the knee. “You make a lovely couple.” Number twenty-one and his nurse disappeared behind a white door.

“Fintan, what the hell…?”

“What? I’m not good enough for you?”

“I will get you for this.” Michael was shaking his fist playfully at me. It seemed a little limp to me.

“Look at it this way, my friend. Perhaps you just had your conversation with the ticket taker. Plus, it broke the tension.”

“Like hell it did. It replaced one tension with another is what it did.”

“Not for old number twenty-one,” I said. “He thought we were cute as hell. Took his mind off why he was here for a moment, too, I suspect.”

“Maybe, but you're here for old number twenty-two, remember? You are a jerk of the first order, Fintan O’Keefe.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

“Twenty-two?” Another nurse, this one male, carrying a metal clipboard, and rocking from heel to toe, waited for one of us to stand.

“There’s ticket takers all over the goddamn place.” Michael said over his shoulder as he followed his nurse down the short hallway. They disappeared from my view. I said a Hail Mary, my first one in at least ten years. Since the day I walked down a similar hallway in another part of town.

Michael was back in the waiting room in less than twenty minutes. There was no color in his normally ruddy face. He thanked his nurse. Back out on Queensbury Street he said,

“I should know tomorrow, or the next day at the latest. What do you say to a Guinness or six, Finn?”

“What do I always say to a Guinness, Mikie?”

St. James' Gate, Dublin

Digital Communication

Driving on this island is an aerobic activity. Some of the uphill/downhill hairpin turn into the setting/rising sun can cause a driver to lift right out of the seat. One's abs must be finely tuned... although regular old power steering works OK, too.
There's a custom here that drivers recognize oncoming drivers with a Cortes salute. It's demonstrated here by renown actor, Academy Award winner, Morgan Freeman.

Right

Thank you, Mr. Freeman. It's something people expect. I like doing it. I like getting it back. In fact, if someone fails to return this gesture, I wonder aloud, "What's wrong with that guy" or "You think you better'n me, lady?" All bets are off, however when I am negotiating one of the going-three-directions-at-once turns. Both hands on the wheel is necessary or the next guy to see the Cortes salute will be St. Peter's receptionist, Lyle.

Lyle, on the job

There are many incorrect ways to throw the Cortes. This one, as demonstrated by Star Trek's Captain Uhura, is my favorite

Wrong

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.’”

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.”

Fun With Side of Fries

From the Salem News Police Log, 02/02/12
A woman who had already been issued a no-trespass order for Wendy's on Lafayette Street was reportedly in the restaurant throwing food at other patrons at 4:21 p.m. She left before police arrived.


Insert your own "Where's the Beef" joke here. We should also not lose sight that this is Super Bowl week. Perhaps she was throwing food to patrons (root word "Patriots") and not at them.

And this...


Kiara M. Ravelo, 19, of 15 Palmer St., Salem, was arrested and charged with being a disorderly person and trespassing at 5:39 p.m. on East India Square after being issued a no-trespass order to the East India Square Mall. Police said Ravelo was uncooperative and somewhat resistant when being arrested.


Not mentioned: she had a Baconator in her pocket