Boston Noir

She knelt down in the corner of the room, her fingers prying at a section of baseboard, and even though I half expected it, I was still surprised. The board came loose and Mandy cried out a bit; I lowered the flashlight and illuminated a small cavity.

“Hold on,” I said, “you don’t know what-”

But she didn’t listen to me. She reached her right arm down and rummaged around, murmuring, “Oh, Roger. Oh, my Roger.”

Then she pulled her hand back, holding a box for Bass shoes, the damp cardboard held together with gray tape. She clasped the box against her chest and leaned over, silently weeping, I thought, her body shaking and trembling.

I gave her a minute or two, and then touched her shoulder. “Mandy, come on, we have to get out of here. And now.”

And she got off her knees, wiped at her eyes, and with one hand held the cardboard box and her small leather purse against her chest.

Her other hand took mine, and wouldn’t let go until we got back to the boat.

In the boat I pushed off and fired up the engine, and we started away from Gallops Island. The wind had come up some, nothing too serious, but there was a chop to the water that hadn’t been there before. With the box in her lap, she turned and smiled, then leaned in toward me. I returned the favor and kissed her, and then kissed her again, and then our mouths opened and her hand squeezed my leg. “Oh, Billy…I didn’t think it would work…I really didn’t…Look, when we get back, we need to celebrate, okay?”

I liked her taste and her smell. “Sure. Celebrate. That sounds good.”

But I kept looking at the water and kicked up the throttle some more.

It didn’t seem to take too long, and as we motored back to the docks of the Shamrock Fish & Tackle, Mandy turned to me and started talking, about her life in Seattle, about her Roger, and about how she was ready to start a new life now that she had this box. I tried to ignore her chatter as we moved toward the dock, and when I looked up at the small parking lot, I noticed there was an extra vehicle there.

A Packard, parked underneath a street lamp.

As we drew close to the docks, doors to the Packard opened up and two men with hats and topcoats, their hands in their coats, stepped out.

Mandy was still chattering.

I worked the throttle, slipped the engine into neutral, and then reversed. The engine made a clunk-whine noise as I backed out of the narrow channel leading into the docks, and Mandy was jostled. “What the-”

“Hold on,” I snapped, backing away even further. I shifted into neutral again, then forward, and finally sped away. Turning back, I saw the two guys return to the Packard and head out onto L Street. I immediately grabbed my flashlight and switched the engine off. We began drifting in the darkness.

Mandy gaped and asked, “Billy…what the hell is going on?”

“You tell me,” I countered.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Mandy…what’s in the box?”

“I told you,” she said, her voice rising. “Souvenirs! Letters! Photos! Stuff that means so much to me…”

“And the guys in the Packard? Who are they? Friends of Roger who want to giggle over old photos of him in the army?”

“I don’t know what you mean about-”

I pointed the flashlight in her face, flicked it on, startling her. I reached forward, snatched the damp box from her hands, sat back down. The boat rocked, a bit of spray hitting my arm.

“Hey!” she cried out, but now the box was in my lap.

I lowered the flashlight, seeing her face pursed and tight. “Let’s go over a few things,” I said. “You come into my office with a great tale, a great sob story. And you tell me you get hooked up with me because you just happened to run into one of the sleaziest in-the-bag cops on the Boston force, a guy who can afford a pricey vacation home on a New Hampshire lake on a cop’s salary. And right after you leave my office, a sweet girl, far, far away from home, you climb into somebody’s Packard. And now there’s a Packard waiting for you at dockside. Hell of a coincidence, eh? Not to mention the closer we got to shore, the more you blathered at me, like you were trying to distract me.”

She kept quiet, her hands now about her purse, firmly in her lap.

“Anything to say?” My client kept quiet. I held up the box. “What’s in here, Mandy?”

Nothing.

“Mandy?”

I set the box back in my lap, tore away at the tape and damp cardboard, and the top lifted off easy enough. There was damp brown paper in the box, and the sound of smaller boxes moving against each other. I turned the big box over a bit, shone the light in. Little yellow cardboard boxes, about the size of small toothpaste containers, all bundled together. There were scores of them. I shuddered, took a deep breath. I knew what they were.

“Morphine,” I said, looking her hard in the eye. “Morphine syrettes. Your guy…if there was a guy there, he wasn’t training as a radioman. He was training as a medic. And he was stealing this morphine to sell later, once the war was over. Am I right? Who the hell are you, anyway?”