When the Rules Don’t Apply

By Gerard Shirar

While growing up together in a Boston neighborhood, Timmy Flaherty and Donny Faye are as different as night and day. Timmy lives by the rules while Donny refuses to accept them. After the boys serve in Vietnam, Timmy earns a law degree, but Donny stays in the military—a decision that surprises everyone who knows him.

After Donny violates the army’s rules, he receives a dishonorable discharge and afterwards begins to work for Percy Dwyer, a notorious Boston crime boss. When Donny’s poor choices ultimately lead him to be charged with murder, he turns to his boyhood friend, Timmy, to defend him. Timmy is Initially reluctant to take on a murder case, but is cajoled into it by Donny. When evidence is discovered proving Donny’s guilt beyond a doubt, Timmy finds himself trapped between his obligation to a boyhood friendship, the morality of defending a murder and his oath to represent a client with fidelity. But what no one knows is that the case is about to take a surprising turn that will change everything.

In this legal thriller, boyhood friends are drawn together again as adults after one of them allegedly commits murder and asks the other to defend him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 19, 2017
• ISBN: 9781532036682

Gerard Shirar

Gerard Shirar is a Purdue University graduate, a US Army veteran, a former director of security of the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, and a former attorney who practiced in Everett, Massachusetts. Now retired, he resides in an assisted living community amid pleasant surroundings and company. This is his sixth book.

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Copyright © 2017 Gerard Shirar.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-3667-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-3669-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-3668-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017917202

iUniverse rev. date:    08/05/2019

CONTENTS

Dedication

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Part Two

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

DEDICATION

With love and affection to my wife, Muriel, now with the angels.

As the two boys walked along, they made a new compact to stand by each other and be brothers and never separate till death relieved them of their troubles.

Mark Twain, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer

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Part One

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CHAPTER 1

M Y NAME IS TIMOTHY JOSEPH Flaherty. With a name like that, I’m sure you’ve guessed that my ancestors came from Ireland and that I was brought up Catholic, and you’d be right. And if you’d heard me talk, you’d also know I’m from Boston, a place that claims it’s the home of the bean and the cod.

In fact, I was raised in a Boston neighborhood known as Roslindale; the locals called it Rozzie where the heads of the households worked at blue-collar jobs, the mothers stayed home to mind the kids, and most of the houses were three-deckers, or triple-deckers as they were sometimes called.

I’m guessing, of course, that with an introduction like that, you’re thinking this is a story about yours truly, one of those autobiographical sagas written to justify one’s life. But it’s not about me; it’s about Donny Faye, a boyhood friend, and what happened to him. I played a part, but then that comes later.

Donny and I grew up around the Fallon Field playground and first met in Miss Tobin’s kindergarten class. We bonded as boys do when they share things in common. Football, hockey, and baseball were the glue that held us together. Little League and Pop Warner hadn’t found their way into our part of town, so we played our games free of adult expectations and meddling.

Just out of high school in the summer of 1969, with an unpopular war raging in far-off Vietnam our draft numbers were drawn and we were both called up. By then, burning draft cards was in vogue, and anti-war protesters were out on the streets in force, but we answered the call since, for guys like us, there was no other way.

I did my time with the 1st Cav., serving in Sông Bé Province in III Corps, west of Saigon. It wasn’t the kind of war we saw John Wayne fight from the balcony of the Rialto Theater. There were no front lines. You couldn’t tell friend from enemy, and the heat, monsoon rains, and tropical vegetation made life miserable. It was a war that took the lives of close Army buddies who never understood why they were there in the first place. I did what was asked of me but not much more. I made corporal during my last month in the country—not because I’d earned it, but because I had survived a year over there.

When my time was up, I got out to an uncertain future, which was par for the course in the early seventies for a guy like me. I returned home to a country that regarded me as a baby killer or worse. Memories of Vietnam still come back sometimes in dreams, dreams about things I thought were over and done…but they are what they are.

After a period when I found it hard to readjust to civilian life, I got my act together, graduated from college, and got a law degree, going nights. But Donny stayed in the Army, something none of us who knew him could understand.

As a kid, Donny could best be described as trouble. At first, it was little things, like stealing the grapes the Italians grew on vines over their backyard bocce courts to make the vino, busting windows, and a little graffiti. There were other things, too, like shooting birds with his BB gun. There was a rumor that circulated about him killing some neighborhood cats just for the hell of it. But I never witnessed anything like the stuff about the cats.

Donny was a big, strong, good-looking kid with a full head of curly light-brown hair he wore in a shaggy style that made him appear younger than he was. I think his mother must have cut his hair since, in those days, the neighborhood barbers cut your hair close around the ears no matter what you asked for, but I’m only guessing about the haircut since I never asked him. It wasn’t considered manly back then to talk about how you looked or other personal things like that.

Donny had the best hand-eye coordination, the best stamina, and the fastest legs in the neighborhood, which allowed him to excel in sports. That and his Irish good looks should have meant a promising life, but he seemed unable to take advantage of his gifts. He didn’t go out for sports in high school, and he never made much of an effort to please the girls. He was a guy who preferred to be alone, had difficulty with schoolwork, enjoyed challenging authority, and balked at following society’s rules. He was also frequently impetuous and apt to act with little thought for the consequences.

Up until he was about fifteen or so, he would confide in me sometimes. Once, he told me that the rules we were expected to follow were stupid and that he was like someone he called Him—someone who pretended to be good but was evil. I never knew quite what he meant, that is, until our lives crossed again later, but that’ll come out as the story unfolds.

Despite it all, I liked him. Maybe it was the fact that I got satisfaction from helping him with his schoolwork, that we were both good athletes, or that I sensed vulnerability beneath his rebellious, tough-guy exterior. Then again, maybe it was the fact that he was reckless and took risks that I wished I had the nerve to take. To this day, I still haven’t figured it out.

His home life was, as it’s termed today, troubled. His father was out of work often and drank too much. A couple of times when Donny came out to play, there were welts on his legs and arms, and once, I noticed his face was swollen. When I asked what had happened, he said, Nothing. In those days, you didn’t talk much about what went on behind a family’s closed doors, but I was sure it was his father who had done it.

When Donny began high school at Boston Trade, he fell in with bad company. He also began to drink heavily and, like his father, developed an alcohol problem. When he started drinking, he seemed able to hold it at first, but then he reached a point where he suddenly turned mean. It was like he had a split personality, a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and when he drank, he became Hyde.

In the winter of 1979, just before Christmas, Donny was in the neighborhood on leave, so the old gang got together one evening at the bar where we had done most of our high school drinking. As it turned out, it was the last time the whole gang was together. The evening ended badly, with Donny drinking too much and getting into a fight with some other guys in the bar.

I didn’t hear from Donny again until the late fall of 1997 when he was arrested for murder and called me from the Suffolk County Jail on Boston’s Nashua Street to ask for my help.

So, where to begin? I guess the best place to start is where Donny said it all started for him—during his time in Germany.

CHAPTER 2

I T’S 1981. LIGHT FROM A full October moon broke through the clouds, illuminating the wide, sloping valley, the low-lying mountain ranges that straddled it, and the floodlit parallel row of fifteen-foot-high fencing; the kill zone in between, that cut across the valley floor. A lookout tower manned by East German border police, Grenztruppen, stood watch.

Thirty yards or so to the west, a dirt road ran parallel to the fence. A US Army jeep displaying 11th Cavalry bumper markings moved slowly down the road, the light from its headlights playing erratically on the light fog drifting in from the nearby marsh as the jeep navigated the ruts in the road.

Suddenly, the watchtower searchlight came alive and began probing the darkness, its beam sweeping along the fence line, the road, and finally settling on the jeep. After following the jeep for a short while, the light shut off, the afterglow from its tungsten filament lingering for a few seconds as it powered down and darkness again reclaimed the landscape.

Those fucking commie guards are touchy tonight, the jeep’s driver, Carlton Judson, said as he yanked its steering wheel to avoid a deep rut. When the fuck are they gonna fix this goddamn road? It’s beating the shit out of my kidneys.

Quick, pull up, Donny Faye, sitting beside him in the passenger seat, said urgently. I thought I saw movement on our side just before the commie searchlight went out. Cut the engine and lights and pull over.

I didn’t see anything, Judson said as he brought the jeep to a halt. If you think you saw something, let’s radio for backup.

Faye peered into the darkness. I’m not sure. It mightn’t be anything, so why don’t you get out and check. I thought it was just over that slight rise…up by the fence. Remember what Top told us at the briefing tonight, that intelligence says the East Germans have been infiltrating agents through the fence line. It might be something like that. Then again, maybe it’s nothing.

Then why don’t you do it? Judson said, his irritation evident.

I’m the fucking sergeant, that’s why, Faye replied. Now, get the fuck out there and do what you’re told. I’ll back you up and circle around on the flank. Just make sure you keep your ass down in case there’s someone there.

Judson reluctantly grabbed his rifle from the rear seat and, mumbling under his breath, got out and started walking in a crouch toward the fence line.

The goddamn stoolie bastard, Faye thought as he watched Judson move off. When Judson was out of sight, Faye hurried to the trunk of a large tree twenty feet or so from where the jeep was parked. Reaching down, he picked up the AK-47 assault rifle hidden under a pile of leaves at the tree’s base. Until placed by the tree trunk the night before, the gun, taken from a dead NVA officer he’d killed in Vietnam, had been kept disassembled, hidden among the socks and underwear at the bottom of his footlocker. No one knew he had it.

I got to do this right, he thought. Just make believe you’re Him.

Faye hefted the AK-47, his mind focused on the moment and what he had to do. He moved to a point about twenty yards in the direction Judson had gone. Crouching down behind the trunk of a large oak, he set the gun’s selector on single fire and waited, his adrenalin pumping. Fuck him, he thought. My partners saw him talking to the CID and them buying him drinks. He knows too much, so fuck the stoolie bastard.

Fifteen minutes later, Judson reappeared walking casually toward the jeep. When he was about ten feet away, Faye stood up and stepped out from behind the tree. Caught by surprise, Judson managed only three words: What the fuck?

The first round struck Judson in the chest just above his heart. The second passed through the center of his forehead, propelling him backward, the back of his head and shoulders striking the ground at the same instant.

Faye hurried to where he lay and checked his carotid artery for any sign of life. Nothing. The casings from the two rounds ejected from the AK-47 lay on the ground a few feet from Judson’s body. Faye ignored them. He laid the AK-47 down and slung Judson’s M16 over his shoulder. Then he picked Judson’s body up and half-carried, half-dragged it toward the fence line, ending up at the top of a slight rise five yards or so from the fence. After he placed the body there, he fired a single round from Judson’s rifle toward the grove of trees that bordered the road. Then he placed the M16 beside Judson’s body.

Just then, the searchlight on the East German lookout tower came on and began playing along the fence line.

Shit.

Faye hadn’t counted on the reaction the gunfire might cause on the other side. He quickly lay down, hugging the ground as he swore and muttered under his breath, Fuck, Christ, goddam, shit.

He realized now the sound from the shots had probably carried farther through the night air than he’d thought—possibly all the way to the 11th Cavalry observation post. If so, they would be trying to reach him on the radio. He hadn’t planned on that or the delay the searchlight was now causing.

Goddamn it. I should have thought things through better. Maybe I should have picked another place along the fence line.

Pressing his body closer to the ground, he lay motionless. He began breathing heavily and sweating profusely, the sweat running down his back.

After a few minutes, the searchlight went out. He quickly got up and retraced his steps, spreading leaves about, trying to cover up any signs that moving Judson’s body might have left.

When he reached the place where he’d shot Judson, he stooped to pick up the AK-47 and the two shell casings ejected from the gun. As he did so, the moon slipped from behind the clouds, and in the light, he saw blood on his gloves and on the front of his field jacket.

Christ, he thought. Judson’s blood must have dripped from his wounds as I dragged him. I should have planned better. How am I going to explain it?

Then he noticed the large pool of blood on the ground where Judson had fallen, and a sense of panic overwhelmed him. What if they find that? Suddenly, an idea formed.

Originally, he had planned to make it appear that the shots that had killed Judson had come from the East German side; he fired the single round from Judson’s gun to make it appear as if he had returned fire across the border. But if they discover the pooled blood, he thought, wouldn’t it show Judson was shot by someone on the western side? And wasn’t intelligence saying the commies were infiltrating spies across the border? So, by leaving the AK-47 casings, it might suggest that a commie infiltrator killed Judson. That Judson found nothing at the fence and was returning to the jeep when he stumbled on the infiltrator. All I need to do is tell the story the way I originally planned and let the pooled blood, AK-47 casings, and any uncovered drag marks suggest another possibility. And the blood, I’ll say, is from trying to help Judson. However, everything will depend on not finding the AK-47.

Just then, the radio in the jeep came alive. Unit Alfa Five, this is Romeo Seven. We heard gunfire. What’s your situation? A pause. Unit Alpha Five, do you copy?

Faye picked up the AK-47 and ran into the grove of trees. Finding the tree he wanted, he placed the AK-47 muzzle first into the deep hole he had previously dug at the base of the tree. Slipping the magazine into the hole beside the gun, he filled the hole with the dirt piled beside it and smoothed the ground over, finally covering everything with leaves. He would not retrieve the gun. It had served its purpose.

After burying the gun, he ran to the jeep and said excitedly into the mike, All units, this is Alfa Five. We’ve taken fire from the East German side. I got one killed here. I repeat, we have taken hostile fire.

About fifteen minutes later, two jeeps and an armored personnel carrier arrived on the scene. The soldiers in the vehicles fanned out and took positions behind ground cover facing the fence line. With all the movement on the Western side, the East Germans had turned on the searchlight and were shining it into the western sector.

The sergeant in charge of the arriving soldiers shouted to his men, Be careful! Don’t do anything to provoke them. Keep your weapons down.

After giving the order, the sergeant and another NCO approached Faye, who was standing by the jeep, smoking a cigarette. Faye knew the sergeant. He was Master Sergeant Tyler Jackson from Battalion, but he didn’t know the NCO with him.

Sergeant Jackson was a muscular black man with a distinct Texas drawl with the appearance of authority about him. He began questioning Faye immediately.

What happened? Your jeep’s some ways from the fence line. How come they shot at you?

How the hell do I know, Sergeant? You know how those crazy sons of bitches are. They got my partner, Judson. He’s dead. You’ll find him up by the fence line just over that rise. He pointed as he spoke. I sent him to check on some movement I thought I saw near the fence line while I circled around on the flank so if there was someone there, we would come up on him from both sides. I think the commies shot him, but from where I was, I didn’t see what actually happened.

Jackson turned to the NCO. Have a look where he said.

The NCO hurried off in the direction Faye had pointed, and a few minutes later, he returned accompanied by a medic. He’s dead, Sergeant. Got one through the head and another through the chest. Nothing we can do for him now.

Okay, Jackson said. I’ll assign a couple of men to stay with the body till the morgue people and the CID get here. He turned back to Faye. Give me your weapons and get in my jeep. I’ll take you back with me when I’m done here.

In the weeks that followed, Faye was questioned, his barracks room and possessions were searched, and the clothing he’d worn the night of the incident was sent to the CID laboratory in Wiesbaden for examination. But Faye stuck to his story, and the discovery of the pooled blood, AK- 47 casings, and drag marks led the CID to conclude an infiltrator had probably shot Judson.

Several months after the CID closed the Judson case, a series of drug overdose deaths occurred in the 11th Cav. The CID planted undercover agents in the unit, which ultimately led to the arrest of Faye and four others for drug trafficking. In exchange for his testimony in the German trial of his Moroccan and Turkish drug suppliers, Faye received a lesser court-martial sentence. After serving his time at the confinement facility in Mannheim, Germany, he received a dishonorable discharge.

CHAPTER 3

O N A CLOUDY DAY IN late November 1983, Faye returned to the United States. With a dishonorable discharge limiting his prospects for the future, he felt that since he had been born and raised in Boston, his best opportunity lay in settling in a place he knew. But he figured there would be too many questions if he returned to Roslindale, so he chose South Boston, also known as Southie, where he had friends from his Boston Trade School days. His plan was to avoid jobs where there would be questions about his past and do the best he could to survive.

He went immediately to Southie, got a room, and started looking up old classmates, one of whom worked for a Southie gang boss with the unlikely name of Percy Dwyer. The former classmate introduced him to one of Dwyer’s lieutenants, and after the classmate enthusiastically vouched for him, Faye was given one of the mob’s more lucrative drug territories: Boston’s financial and theater district. The mob lieutenant was vague about the fate of the guy who’d had the territory before him, and Faye was wise enough not to ask. In exchange for his services, Faye could keep a small percentage of what he brought in. Working Boston’s financial and theater district required good clothes and a degree of sophistication, which, to a limited degree, Faye possessed. After a while, Faye was able to establish relationships with those who worked and owned businesses in the area, allowing him to more or less conduct his business in the open. Over time, he also became friendly with some of his wealthy and influential customers: partners in large, respected law firms, State Street investment brokers, politicians, and famous actors who appeared at the Shubert and Colonial theaters. He not only provided them with drugs but also with the better-looking women from the Dwyer mob’s escort service. In exchange, they introduced him to their friends, allowing Faye to expand his customer base: customers willing and able to pay top dollar for a good product, one superior to that available from the typical street peddler.

Dwyer personally became aware of Faye when another drug dealer attempted to move in on Fay’s territory; Faye sent the guy to the Mass General Hospital’s emergency room. After learning of how Faye had handled that situation, Dwyer gave him several delinquent loans to collect, which Faye took care of quickly and enthusiastically. When one of the debtors went to the cops and Faye was charged with assault, he turned to Dwyer for help. However, Dwyer’s response was: Kid, you got to take care of things like this yourself. I can’t be seen to be involved.

A couple of nights before the case was scheduled for trial, Faye set fire to the three-decker the complainer owned and lived in. Luckily, the house was a half-mile from a fire station and equipped with smoke detectors. While no one was hurt, two cats the women of the house fawned over didn’t make it, and the complainer’s apartment suffered extensive damage. Faye saw that word reached the complainer that if he appeared at the trial, Dwyer would see to it that the entire place went up in flames. When the case was called, the prosecutor couldn’t find the complainant, and none of his witnesses showed. The judge dismissed the case.

Dwyer was impressed with Faye’s handling of the situation despite his warning to keep him out of it, and a few days later, he sent one of his gofers to tell Faye he wanted to see him at his office. It was the first time Faye had been there—the back room of Broadway Liquors at the corner of East Broadway and Dorchester Streets—as all other previous meetings had been conducted in bars or coffee shops.

It took a few moments for Faye’s eyes to adjust to the low light in the room. Dwyer was smoking a cigar, seated in an overstuffed chair with a side table to the right of it, on which a whiskey bottle rested, and a floor lamp on the left side. The only light in the room came from the floor lamp. Opposite Dwyer’s chair was a couch covered with an old quilt hiding soiled and torn cushions. The only window in the room was on the rear wall, covered on the outside by a piece of plywood. A door, reinforced on the inside with a steel plate, led to the alley behind the store. There were cases of liquor and beer stacked in the corner, and a TV on a rollaway stand was pushed up against the liquor cases. A rolltop desk with a telephone resting on it and a wooden swivel chair stood against the wall that separated the office from the store area. An old safe on wheels and with gold scrollwork on its door sat beside the desk. A large braided rug covered the center of the floor. A feeling of grubbiness and the smell of cigar smoke permeated the room.

Dwyer motioned Faye to take a seat on the couch. Since Faye knew from his brief prior contacts with Dwyer that he spoke softly, Faye sat on the edge of the couch so as to hear him better.

Next time, kid, don’t invoke my name like you did with that deadbeat’s house you burned. I don’t like that. Get my drift? Dwyer said, drawing hard on his cigar and then blowing the smoke in Faye’s direction. He studied the cigar’s tip. But I got to admire you. You got balls. He took another puff on the cigar. You know, kid, occasionally, I got extra work for someone with balls and guts like I think you got. Sometimes, the work is delicate and needs finesse, if you know what I mean. He gave Faye a knowing look.

Faye had no idea what he meant, but he didn’t think it wise to let Dwyer know this, so he kept quiet and just nodded his head in agreement.

It’s getting rid of someone who’s a bother. Get my drift?

Faye still wasn’t sure, but he figured Dwyer would get to his point soon, so he nodded again.

We call it ‘fixing’ someone, Dwyer said by way of further explanation.

You mean killing someone? Faye asked, finally realizing Dwyer’s meaning.

We don’t say it quite that way, but I think you got it.

Faye sat back. I did that when I was in Special Forces. Done a couple of hits. Big Russian guys.

That, of course, is a lie, Faye thought. I never spent a day in Special Forces. In fact, the only guy I ever killed the way Dwyer means was Judson. In Vietnam, I killed some NVA, but that was high-adrenaline action when I felt I was invincible, and it was a patriotic thing anyway. War was a license to kill, and I enjoyed it. Apparently, what Dwyer is asking me to do is kill someone like I did Judson, and I have no trouble with that if the price is right.

He leaned closer to Dwyer and said softly, Who do you want me to whack?

Instantly, Dwyer’s eyes hardened, and he pounded his fist on the end table, sending it and the whiskey bottle rocking. Are you stupid, kid? he said, spitting the words, his voice mounting to the level of hysteria. This ain’t no game, and it ain’t no movie. We don’t use them words. You’re in the real world. You’re with guys now who know how each other thinks. The words we use are ordinary but important. I say someone’s in the way, you got to know what it means. You get my goddamn drift?

Dwyer’s body had tensed, his eyes bulged, and the veins in his temple and neck stood out as he stared intently at Faye, his mouth twitching.

The guy’s crazy, Faye thought as he prepared to defend himself. He had been warned by one of his friends, Lenny Dowling, about Dwyer’s schizophrenia. Apparently, when Dwyer was off his medication and got that way, he was uncontrollable and apt to do anything, including killing objects of his rage for no rational reason. Dowling had also told him that Dwyer was known to keep a Russian automatic in the drawer of the end table, so Faye kept his eye peeled for any move in that direction.

But then, as suddenly as it began, Dwyer’s rage waned. Hey, kid, I was only kidding. We’re friends, right? I just wanted to make a point. His voice was much calmer now. The job pays five thousand. Interested?

Faye nodded. Yes. But in the Special Forces, they also paid us a bonus.

Dwyer ignored Faye’s mention of a bonus. The guy’s in the way of something I’m interested in, but that’s nothing that need concern you. He runs a dog track in Cranston, Rhode Island. Now, you sure you can do it? I don’t want no fuckups.

This is my chance, Faye thought. Doing this will finally make me an insider. Dwyer wouldn’t be asking just anybody to do this. Life means nothing. I haven’t given Judson another thought. This guy will be the same. Whatever his name is. It doesn’t matter.

Like I said, Faye said reassuringly, I done jobs like that in the Army. I can handle it…no sweat.

Dwyer pulled a Polaroid photograph from the breast pocket of his shirt and handed it to Faye. This is a photograph of him. His name is Rolf Clarkston. On the back is where he lives, the car he drives, and where his girlfriend lives. She’s a stripper at the Golden Princess in Cranston and works a couple of nights a week pole dancing. I caught her act a week or so back. She’s a brunette, a real looker, but a plastic surgeon done her tits. I don’t like fake tits. Tits got to sag naturally—just a little. He fucks her in her apartment on her nights off and then goes home to his wife and kids. The wife doesn’t know about her. Stripper’s name’s Susan White. Now, you got two weeks to do it. Look over the picture and the information on the back. Memorize it and then put the picture in the center-top drawer of the desk over there when you’re done. He pointed to the rolltop desk. How you do it is up to you, and I don’t want to know. Like they say, what I don’t know won’t hurt me. Do it right, with no screw-ups, and I’ll appreciate it.

His business with Faye now concluded, Dwyer got up, grimacing as he did so. He had a slipped disc but refused to do anything about it. The rumor circulating was that he feared one of his enemies or a rival might take the opportunity to do him in while he was sedated and unable to protect himself. He sometimes used an ex-boxer named Dobbs Finnegan to drive him, but he had no bodyguard, his way of telling the world he was tough and didn’t fear anyone. Dwyer was in his forties, about ten years older than Faye. He had thinning blond hair, a potbelly, and an attitude about him that said he was above other people. It was in the way he walked and held himself. He wore a Boston Red Sox hat most of the time, and some speculated he even slept in it. Rumor also had it that the money he’d made through his criminal enterprises had made him a millionaire, but from the way he dressed and lived, there was no indication of it. He was quoted often as saying, Flaunting the money you have is what gets the feds on you. That’s what done that syphilitic Chicago wop, what’s his name, Al Capone, in. I keep a low profile because I ain’t dumb like him.

After getting up from his chair, Dwyer pulled the TV stand around and then sat back down again. As Faye studied the photograph and the information written on its back, he heard the theme for the soap opera The Guiding Light begin playing on the TV. Dwyer was soon engrossed in