The Undertaker

Back Bay had been the old Charles River marshes that land speculators had filled in the nineteenth century, so it was the only part of the old city with a sensible grid pattern. It had five boulevards — Beacon, Marlborough, Commonwealth, Newberry, and Boylston Streets — plus some short side streets. Commonwealth ran down the middle, with a wide, park-like strip of trees, grass, formal gardens, and flowerbeds called the Mall in its median. Back Bay was nice, with big trees overhanging the sidewalks and streets. From there it was an easy walk to Harvard, Fenway Park, the Band Shell, Filene's, the Markets downtown, and the financial district. That made a Back Bay townhouse one of the most fashionable and expensive addresses in Boston. Obviously, Doug's lifestyle had improved since his nine-hundred square foot apartment in Glendale.

The sun was setting. I had my arm around Sandy's shoulder and she had her arm around my waist as we walked, looking to all the world like lovers out for a stroll. As darkness set in, we made circled Doug's block, turning west one street short of Marlborough and walked up Commonwealth a few streets, turning north again and crossing Marlborough, then walking east on Beacon back to Exeter. The streetlights came on, the pavement glistened beneath our feet as we walked, and it was surprisingly quiet. Perhaps the lush canopy of dripping oaks screened out the big city noise. Whatever, my docksiders sounded like Clydesdale hoofs on the cobblestones. I checked the parked cars even more closely. Still, I saw nothing. Were they that good? Was I that stupid? Or, had no one been there to begin with?

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Boston: the Flying Wallendas meet Stephen King…

At night, nothing looks more sinister than an old 19^th century brownstone, with the lights out and the shades drawn. They'd make great locations for a Stephen King movie, and Doug's townhouse on Marlborough Street was no exception. We walked by on the other side of the street where we had a full view of his place and all the cars on the street, continuing down to the corner. His was a narrow, three-story townhouse, the fifth one from the far corner. It couldn't have been more than forty feet wide. As with most of the other homes on the street, the first floor and front door were a half- storey above ground level. Ten wide, but badly worn granite steps led to a to a raised stoop and a massive, hand-carved Victorian front door. There were carved, limestone balustrades on each side and cut glass sidelights and a stained-glass transom around the door. All in all, very distinguished.

“You gonna try the door?” Sandy whispered.

“That thing? Not without the key or dynamite,” I told her as I continued checking each parked car, doorway, and rooftop we passed. “Let's look around back.”

We crossed the street at the corner and continued south to the alley.

“There's no way they know we're here.”

“No? All I did was mention Eddie's name to Tinkerton, and they were all over you before I even got to Chicago. The other names in the obituaries were from Phoenix, Portland, and Atlanta, and I'll bet Tinkerton sent a bunch of his men to those cities too.”

“But the odds...”

“There are no odds. That term doesn't apply to Tinkerton.”

We entered the alley and walked quietly along the rear side of the houses. It was like being in a dark, narrow canyon, with an unbroken line of tall, board fences, garage doors, and trashcans on each side, lit by an occasional security light mounted high on a telephone pole. The small circles of light they cast shimmered off the puddles in the alley's ruts and potholes, leaving a hundred dark places for someone to hide.

From the rear, Doug's house looked much like his neighbors, except none of his lights were on. He had a stout brick garage with an overhead door, and a tall board fence that spanned the gap to the garage next door. The fence had a thick wooden gate. Along the fence ran a line of dented metal garbage cans, but there was nothing that offered a hand or even a toehold to scale the fence. Even if you did manage to climb it, Doug had added a looping double spool of razor wire along the top.

Sandy stood in the alley and looked up at the tall barrier. “Jeez, and I thought you were paranoid,” she said glumly.

“Good fences make good neighbors.“

“Who said that? Carl Sandburg or O. J. Simpson?” she asked, pushing on the fence and the gate, sizing them up. “Your surfer boy built himself a good one.” She stepped over to one of the garbage cans. Rummaging inside, she pulled out several sections of newspaper. “I think it's time the “Fuckin’ Wallendas” made an encore,” she said.

“You can't get over that thing,” I tried to tell her.

“We lived in a second floor apartment and my old man never let us out on school nights. I learned the fine art of escape and evasion from my older sister Louise. Piece of cake, Talbott, let's go.”