Boston Noir

Juliette Choo Sheridan, the owner, clearly spent some time in the mirror. It reflected pinkish-red hair swept into a short, spiky ponytail. Blunt cut bangs that stopped short of her carefully placed false lashes-just a few spidery ones on the upper lids. And pouty pink lips. Between all that and the red boots with stiletto heels was a tight black dress to tone things down. Nina had eyed the plunging V-neck for signs of wrinkles. But Mrs. Sheridan didn’t have enough tits for cleavage. Nina figured she was forty-three.

“You should try this,” Mrs. Sheridan had suggested, pointing to a golden-hued version of the short dark wig Nina held.

Nina had smiled. “I don’t think so.”

“Ohhhh, you too conservative,” Mrs. Sheridan scolded, scanning Nina’s bare face. “You pretty lady. Don’t be afraid to jazz it up.”

Nina was standing in Bruno Magli pumps and wearing an Italian blue tweed suit worth several grand. The suit’s short skirt proved one reason Tina Turner had hired her.

When Nina responded, “I’ll bear that in mind,” the temperature in that zip code dropped ten degrees.

Nina fell asleep after talking to Devon. It couldn’t have been a deep sleep; her armpits woke her up. Or maybe it was deep and she was just one frowsy bitch. She hadn’t showered and the stink enveloped her.

Suitably deodorized, she put on a T-shirt and yoga pants. Ate some yogurt and a banana. And turned on Betty Carter.

Nina checked her e-mail while Betty sang “Spring Can Really Hang You Up the Most.”

Isaac had sent a thank-you message. He and the lawyer connected. I’m seeing her Monday. I’ll let you know what happens.

He did. The lawyer wanted cash up front, he explained in his next e-mail. He was a student. She said I was a little boy.

On Tuesday, Isaac’s case was continued. Nina considered this her cue to wish him Godspeed. Heading over to the Newton courthouse had entered her mind. Get a peek at the Collar. Check out the public record. Read the complaint. But she was saved from herself when a Berklee prof and his wife invited her to Martha’s Vineyard for a week. She rearranged her schedule and left Thursday.

From the ferry ride over to her last breakfast at The Grind, Nina continually ran into characters from her life’s first act. Most significantly Barry. Her stabbing victim.

They stared.

He did a playful bob-and-weave. “Do I dare come closer?” he asked.

Why not? It was only a superficial wound. He had easily disarmed her.

He had been a player. Did time for a mob-related shooting in the ’60s. Fresh out of Norfolk State Prison, he had cruised Boston with Nina in a spanking new ’78 Corvette one week, a ’77 Peugeot the next. Both cars compliments of the unofficial wives Nina knew nothing about. Barry was a decent bass guitarist and, these days, a vocational counselor.

It was late morning in Martha’s Vineyard. They sat outside an Edgartown café. He remembered how she drank tea instead of coffee.

“You crossed my mind the other day,” Nina told him.

“Why? Caught a foul smell or something?”

“I needed the name of a decent criminal attorney.”

“I don’t know any in Boston worth a dime,” Barry charged.

She told him why she had been tempted to call and gave the case CliffsNotes.

Barry’s lightning assessment: “This dude sounds like a jive turkey to me.” Then he told her-two types of guys volunteer to talk to cops: the ones who really are stupid, and the ones who think that they’re smarter than everyone else.

Isaac got a new lawyer. Juliette Choo Sheridan paid. The Collar asked for several more continuances. Too many and a case can get dismissed. But these gave Isaac more time to fuck up.

Late September, he and Devon came home to their Fort Hill sweet spot and couldn’t get in: locks changed. Later that night, while crashing with friends: Durango reclaimed. Juliette Choo Sheridan owned the property and knew where the tapes had been buried.

The money shot: Isaac yanking the leash on a bitch blowing his cock. Devon ’s plugging her ass. The leash was black leather and thin; the collar rhinestone-studded and delicate. Nina cataloged the scene as S &M Lite, but still unbecoming a former Marine and M.I.T. scholar-especially one facing an assault charge and looking for a university gig. The action around Isaac was more damning. Rocket from Paradise -her tits were like missiles-was one of two women being gang-raped. For insurance, the video was all over the Internet before Juliette Choo Sheridan sent copies of it to the prosecutor and the Collar’s home address. She and Sindi, former rivals, had become comrades.

Isaac took Mrs. Sheridan’s money, fucked to her satisfaction, but refused to move into her Newton contemporary mansion-which Sindi had frequently cased. And Sheridan joining an African harem had never been an option.

Early in December, Isaac’s attorney-he was back to the Roxbury sister-got a plea agreement. There was evidence of guilt but no hard proof. He could apply for a job and truthfully say he’d never been convicted of a crime.