Men Who Walk Alone Read online

  But they were simply ignored, pretended to not exist, like the immigrants inside of them.

  This part of Shingleville was pure Irish. Any doubt was put to rest by the countless rosaries worn by the people on the sidewalk, the flags of green, white, and orange, the air of secrecy that seemed to pervade the tense atmosphere as the people moved about with suspicious glances.

  It was easy to get confused. Cabot Street was the city’s attempt to pass itself off as the small-town America Sinclair Lewis loved to hate. To an outsider or visitor, it seemed like a quiet, peaceful community of very stoic residents. Anyone who lived there knew better. Beverly did with twenty-five thousand people what New York did with seven million people, without the big buildings or skyscrapers.

  The ethnic divide was clear, defined. Huge Italian families crammed the apartments on Rantoul Street. Not one of them lived on Park Street, located in Irish territory. No Irishman would cross Rantoul Street except at certain intersections implied as neutral ground. The Canadians stayed together in small, close-knit communes up north.

  The rest of Beverly’s residents kept their business to Cabot Street.

  Each neighborhood was its own nation. Each had their own idiosyncrasies, their unique ways to tell strangers apart from “natives.” There was little integration; it was as if they would rather pretend no other group existed as a way to avoid fighting.

  I had developed a persona to acclimate to whatever neighborhood I entered. It was done to blunt the impact of my presence, not delude the locals. I couldn’t have behaved as though I were an informed outsider, but not pretend to be one of them.

  It was impossible. The people were poor, not stupid. It was one of the biggest rookie mistakes a cop could make.

  I walked up to the feeble door, knocked softly but loudly three times. After about thirty seconds, the door creaked open just enough for a girl’s youthful face to appear through the crack.

  She was short, had light brown hair, appeared to be in her early twenties. She was pretty, but her hardened features displayed a loss of innocence. She was dressed in a faded green skirt.

  “What do ye want?” she asked.

  She glared at me as though she was going to pull a knife on me.

  I realized this; slowly I pulled out my badge, held it up to so she could see. It implied she had no reason to fear me. I got rid of my usual slang, spoke formally.

  “How do you do, Miss?” I said in a reassuring voice. “I am Lead Detective Seth Moore. I am investigating a crime that was committed around here a while ago. Is it at all possible for me to speak to your brother Patrick?”

  I knew it came out wrong while the words were still on my tongue. What Evelyn said next confirmed it.

  “My brother hasn’t done anything wrong! Leave us be!”

  She began to shake frenziedly, convulsed like she was about to lash out at me.

  I scrutinized her behavior; unbridled anger, rage; a hereditary trait, inherited from the father. Her brother’s temper had to be worse.

  But I wouldn’t second guess it. I knew I had to play it nicely. Apologies always worked. It was all a simple routine to me by now.

  “I am deeply sorry, please forgive me.” I said. I bowed a little; my tone became empathetic. “I must have not clarified myself very well. Your brother is not the suspect. We have reason to believe that he may have witnessed the crime occur or possibly have seen the perpetrator. I just wanted to ask him if that was the case. We need his assistance to solve a mystery.”

  Evelyn’s cheeks blushed from embarrassment. She opened the door completely, allowed me to walk in.

  “Me brother is in the living room.”

  She then timidly led me inside the house. We entered a small, dimly lit hallway. I followed her hasty pace, tried to not to notice the horrible state the place was in. The air stank; the rancid thickness constricted his throat. If he wasn’t so eager to solve this case, I wouldn’t have taken one step inside.

  I could hear muffled voices, but couldn’t make out any words. They grew louder, more clearly as I progressed down the tapered passageway of crusted walls.

  The living room did not impress me, either; it had a large tattered sofa, a small Zenith radio with a crack down the side of it, as well as several picture frames put up on the grimy walls.

  Austere, meager, destitute.

  Two men sat on the sofa, their backs turned towards me. They spoke very quietly, privately conversed in each other’s ear. Evelyn walked up to one of them, diffidently tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Patrick, a policeman wants to speak to ye.”

  The man instantly got up. He huffed like a smokestack, faced me with suspicion.

  Patrick Malone: square chest, stocky arms, tall stature, six feet in height, maybe more; light blue eyes, short red hair. Skin pale as a ghost.

  I threw back my reservations as I approached Patrick to extend my hand.

  “Lead Detective Seth Moore; please to meet you, Mr. Malone.”

  Patrick did not move. He stood there with his arms crossed, as if he had expected me or someone of my nature to show up that day. After a long pause, he reluctantly accepted my gesture.

  “Patrick Malone.”

  His voice was like his sister’s, emotional, distraught, though more blunt and direct.

  Patrick put his hand down to his side, his lips pressed stiffly.

  “So, what can I help ye with, detective?”

  A more pleasant voice called out.

  “Aren’t ye going to introduce me?”

  We turned heads to the sofa where the voice had come from. The shadowy figure, cloaked by the weak lamplight, had a portentous appearance. The voice, however, didn’t fit with the visage. It was friendly, amenable, optimistic.

  “I guess,” Patrick replied reluctantly.

  “This is me friend, Sean Blood.”

  Sean Blood promptly got up from the sofa, moseyed over to us. I raised his eyebrows slowly, wasn’t certain what I thought.

  The “man” looked no older than twenty-one, a youthfulness that didn’t sit well. Dressed in black trousers, white striped shirt, faded suspenders, a cap tucked into his belt. Physical characteristics fascinated me; tall, slim, sturdily built, but he had an air of vulnerability to him. His dark brown hair was parted neatly on the right side of his face, sapphire blue eyes that shone like lanterns. Handsome, polite.

  He had a very amiable expression on his face as we shook his hands. His grip was firm, confident.

  “Seth Moore,” I said. “I’m lead detective from the homicide bureau.”

  “Pleased to meet ye, sir.” Sean said.

  “Same here.”

  “So, detective,” Patrick said. “As I was sayin’, what can I help ye with?”

  “Perhaps we can talk about it outside and alone?” I asked as I waved towards the door. “It will only take a minute.”

  “No!” Patrick said in an apoplectic voice. “Ya have anything to ask me, ya shouldn’t be afraid to ask me in front of them.”

  I put my hands in my jacket pockets, tilted my head. I seemed tentative, faked bewilderment. I was pleased with the reaction. I had prepared it before, anticipated response; an actor well-rehearsed before the performance.

  “Here,” Sean said, trying to be diplomatic about it. “Before we do that, let’s all just relax for a moment.”

  He motioned for us to take seat. I sat on the fringe edge of the sofa; Patrick occupied the opposite side. Sean stood self-consciously for a moment, gaped awkwardly, eventually sat between us. Patrick greased his palms together; they were sweaty, glistened, signified a guilty conscience.

  “I was telling your sister about it at the door,” I explained in an official tone. “You are not a suspect of anything, in case you are worried. There was a crime committed around here a few days ago, and I have reason to believe that you may have seen it happen and possibly gotten a look at the perpetrator. I was hoping you could provide us with some information on it.”

  I saw Eve
lyn out of the corner of my eye; she immediately looked at Patrick; her lips quivered. She couldn’t hide it; a part of her normal behavior, an instinctive move, almost out of protection.

  Patrick was emotionless, almost smug. He glanced back at me, his arrogant expression unchanged.

  “Really?” he said. “And where did this happen?”

  “Off Cabot Street, about half a mile south of the Theatre. Two days ago. At around ten o’ clock. Did you happen to be anywhere near there?”

  The response was quick. “No.”

  “I see. If that is the case, then my sources were incorrect.”

  “That they were.”

  “Perhaps you could tell me where you were precisely at ten o’ clock, so I can tell my sources that they need to do a better job.”

  Patrick didn’t reply. He sat in his seat, gawked blankly at me. Evelyn still gazed at her older brother with a concerned expression. She leaned over to the side of the couch, lifted a small doll in sight, tucked it in her lap. The doll was small, a classic model; black hair, green eyes, and red rosy cheeks.

  I stared at it while we took a short pause, not quite sure what to think of it. Most people at the age of twenty didn’t play with dolls. But then again, I suspected Evelyn was not like most people; the child inside of her unable to die.

  Sean looked curious, totally unaware as to what we discussed. He attempted to ease the tension, offered to get some tea. Neither one of us said anything. He left for the kitchen, came back with a full tray of cups for everyone. I drank my forcefully when I discovered the awful taste.

  After a while, Patrick answered. For the first time since I had been there, the Irishman sounded nervous.

  “I…donna recall where exactly. I just know that I wasn’t there. I don’t go near that area.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just donna go there, alright?!” Patrick answered. Now he was furious. “Why don’t ya go after the Mafiosos instead of questioning me? Ya know, like coppers are supposed to do?!”

  Evelyn shivered in her seat like she had a fever. With each angry comment, she shook even more. Sean seemed to notice it as well, shared a quick exchange of glances with me. He then timidly nudged Patrick on the side of his arm.

  “Patrick,” he said. “I think ye need to—”

  “I’m no git!”

  “Mr. Malone, if you were there, then you must help us,” I said.

  “I wasn’t there! I had nothing to do with whatever happened, I tell ya!”

  “I said this before, you are not the suspect. You are a potential witness.”

  “Bah! I’ve heard that before!”

  “Have you ever been in trouble before?”

  “Don’t ye know? Ya a bloody copper, ain’t ye? Ya playin’ games with me?”

  I stared at him seriously.

  “I don’t play games. Not when the stakes are more than I am willing to pay up if I lose. Are you playing those kinds of stakes?”

  Patrick didn’t respond, his fists angrily cocked with bent elbows. Evelyn whimpered several times, started to cry softly, tenderly hugged the doll in her arms.

  Sean picked it up first, perceived it before she had even shed a tear. He ran over to calm her, embraced her, discomfited. His eyes met with mine again; grief, misery, compounded by the lingered pains of a wound that would never completely heal. The girl was a burden they had to cope with for the rest of their lives.

  Patrick refused to stir an inch as he sat on the couch, stolid to his sister’s sobs. His pale face flushed, his cheeks reddened, exhibited his uncontrollable rage. I remained aloof, let the scene play itself out.

  Sean got Evelyn to calm down, comprehended the severity of her condition. He discreetly strove over to his friend for a second time, whispered in his ear. He spoke for a longer amount of time. I leaned slightly on his foot, attuned my ears, but I couldn’t make it out.

  I did, however, see the outcome.

  Patrick growled like a dog as he pushed Sean away viciously. He then leapt to his feet, his voice like a lion’s roar.

  “Don’t tell me what to do! I can make me own decisions!”

  “Patrick!” Sean begged. “Don’t start ructions now, not in front of ye sis.”

  “What’s wrong with her?” I asked. I had to get the wound to reopen. I had to expose the source of his rage.

  It worked beautifully. Patrick stormed over to me, unafraid of a bullet in his chest. He stuck his sharp nose into my face, his breaths heavy.

  “My sister saw the two bloody bastards kill our ma and da!” he exclaimed. “The docs say she won’t ever recover! She can’t stand any kind of carry-on. That’s what’s wrong with her!”

  I remained nonchalant, let the man rant for a while. The confession would be easier.

  Patrick finally stopped, waited a couple of seconds to let his explanation sink in. His breath stank of cheap whiskey. I twisted his head, yearned for fresh air. His nasty breath made me nauseated

  “The coppers who investigated the crime didn’t do a bloody thing about it,” Patrick continued, now embittered. “They were all bloody bent ones at that. Instead of living on her own now, me sis’ has to depend on me, ‘cause the docs say she can’t live by herself.”

  Evelyn threw herself into another bought of sobs, her face in both hands. Sean pulled away from his friend, hurried back to her as ran his hand through her hair.

  I sensed my time had come. Curtain call. Time to end the performance. The last bell in the match had rung. We had sparred long enough; time for the haymaker.

  “Fine,” I said. I casually reached for my pack of cigarettes. I resorted to my normal, relaxed grammar, which slipped back into place effortlessly.

  I had to make them realize I wasn’t one of the softies who pushed pencils, warmed chairs for a living.

  “I ain’t gonna push ya,” I said as I lit up a cigarette in my mouth. “If ya don’t want to help me lock away lowlifes like the one who killed ya parents, that’s ya problem. No biggie for me. I’ll let the next officer deal with ya.”

  I brought the cigarette out of my mouth, blew a cloud of smoke into his face. I then stabbed at him with the cigarette like a knife.

  “Trust me, boyo; they won’t be as accommodating as I. Believe me, I know this lousy town better than ya micks think I do. Ya want to stay out of trouble, ya better be on the level with me.”

  I didn’t give Patrick a chance to reply before I marched off. I found my way back to the hallway, where I allowed myself to smile self-satisfyingly.

  Patrick yelled at me from the living room.

  “That’s right! Don’t waste me bloody time unless ya know what bloody hell yer blathering about!”

  I ignored it. Malone was a fool. He would get himself into trouble. He ran his mouth off to the wrong people. Had it been another cop other than myself, all three of them would have eaten lead for lunch. Drunks had no sensibilities.

  My hand grappled the fragile doorknob; someone grabbed me by the shoulder, tugged at me. I turned around to find Sean, who acted exceedingly apologetic.

  “Please donna go do nothing angry now, Detective Moore. Me friend’s life has been in flitters lately.”

  A puff of smoke erupted from my open mouth. I growled dubiously.

  “I can tell.”

  “No, it’s more than ye know.”

  “Well, he ain’t helpin’ my case.”

  Sean’s eyes lit up. “Perhaps I can, then. I know this area well, as good as anyone else.”

  He motioned out to the street, nodded his head.

  “I just don’t want ye to think he’s a header. He’s a good fella, really.”

  I leaned on my right foot, took a long, contemplative peer as I smoked. This was not expected; I couldn’t get out of it without having the friend tail after me, mention it at the station. It’d draw Hardy’s undesired attention.

  Then again, Sean could prove useful; a close connection, viable lead, possible informant in the precinct. I had several, none of them Irish.
The boy would know about Patrick’s behavior, his whereabouts during the night. Perhaps he already knew, covered it up for him, hoped to ascertain what the police had on him.

  I gave Sean a smile as I opened the front door for him.

  “Alright, let’s go for a drive.”

  We walked outside of the house, ambled onto the sidewalk. Just as we reached my car, a peculiar voice cried out from the shack next to the Malone’s, followed by a painful cackle.

  “Whatcha doin’, detective?”

  I stopped, turned to the house. My hand slipped inside my jacket, my fingers curled around my revolver.

  “Who’s there?” I called.

  Sean took my arm, tried to pull me away; he seemed rather anxious to leave.

  “Ignore him, sir. He’s nobody.”

  “Damn right, I’m nobody!” the person answered. “Why are ya going after this guy? Ya think ya can stop him? No one can stop him. He’s a demon!”

  I kept my composure, more curious than irritated. I listened carefully, inquisitive.

  “That all ya know?” I asked. “Or do I have to come inside ya house to learn more?”

  “Don’t do that, sir,” Sean begged. “That fella doesn’t want anyone to be in his home. Ya donna want to see him.”

  “Why? Are ya two afraid of me?” the man sneered.

  “Why would I be afraid of you?” I asked.

  “Because I’m your worst nightmare!” the man replied, laughing.

  “He’s nobody, sir,” Sean explained. “This fella got attacked by mobsters out by Cabot Street a while back. They beat him pretty badly. His face is all messed about, so he doesn’t leave his house. Also, he is kinda of mental in the head, if ye know what I mean.”

  “Damn right he knows what I mean!”

  I narrowed his eyes as I peered at the shadowy figure. When he didn’t speak further, I yanked my cigarette out of my mouth, extinguished it on the curb with the edge of my black shoes. I dismissed the man’s words as I turned to my car, discounted the strange man’s cries as they reverberated in my head.

  Inside the car, I gave Sean a very subtle nod.

  “Lovely neighborhood ya got here.”