Frames Per Second by Bill Eidson Page A

had been trying to think of. Peter had used him as a source when Whitey Bulger had hit the road.
    Sean Deegan, an ex-cop who had been out on disability for years.
    Ben called Sarah’s cell phone and but she didn’t pick up. He left a message at the office for her to call him, and then he started off toward South Boston. Ben had once tagged along with Peter to buy Deegan lunch, and, as Ben remembered it, Deegan had pretty much drunk his meal. If Ben was going to get anything useful, he knew he’d want to get to the man before too late in the afternoon.
    Even though Ben had only a few miles to travel, the road construction from the Greater Harbor project slowed him down. Then, it took him forty-five minutes to find the bar. When he finally saw the dirty windows and faded green door under a flickering Budweiser sign, Ben was sure he’d found the place. “The Waterford Men’s Tavern,” the sign read.
    Ben stepped into the gloom of the bar. There was old-world charm to the place: a beautiful wooden bar, high-backed wooden booths, a tile floor. But masking this was a layer of grime, the definite odor of urine, and the smell of old and unwashed men. There were half a dozen of them there already. “Help you?” the bartender said, managing to make it sound like a threat.
    “I’m looking for Sean Deegan.”
    “Why?”
    Ben smiled. “Because I owe him some money.”
    The bartender grinned, showing yellow teeth. “A comedian.” He looked at the clock. “Buy yourself a beer while you wait. He’ll sniff the stuff out within ten minutes, I guarantee it.”
    And, a little before one, he did arrive. He was a formerly big man, his chest now shrunken and his stomach a hard medicine ball thrust in front of him. Ben thought of the cop, Calabro. Deegan walked by Ben, glancing at him with no apparent recognition, and then said to the bartender, “I’ll get started properly in a minute, Tommy. Just give me something to clear my head?”
    Tommy handed a broom over the bar. “Clear the cigarette butts off the floor first, then we’ll talk.”
    Deegan’s face flushed, but he took the broom and began sweeping.
    Tommy drifted over to Ben and winked. “Don’t interrupt him, ‘til he’s done. He’s damn useless after that first few drinks, and I’ve got to get some work out of him until his disability check arrives next week. Then he goes back to being a paying customer.”
    Ben laid a ten on the bar. “Two beers. Keep the change.”
    The bartender grinned, and bellowed down the bar. “Deegan! Put the goddamn broom down, the man wants to talk to you.”
    Ben took the beers down as Deegan turned around to look at him. The old man moved in a kind of shuffle, and Ben thought to himself that he had almost certainly just wasted ten dollars when Deegan said, quietly, “Fucking shame what happened to Gallagher.”
    Deegan downed his beer quickly, and slid Ben’s in front of himself. “You don’t need this shit, son. It’s bad for you. Now what do you want?”
    “Some information.”
    “My name can’t be used. Me and Gallagher were real clear on that. And keep your goddamn camera to yourself. I’m like a Boston version of Deep Throat. You got that?”
    Ben said that he did.
    Deegan leaned forward, his eyes sharp even though his face was filled with broken blood vessels. “You’re smart to get me early. Past two o’clock, I don’t make much sense to myself.”
    “What can you tell me about Jimbo McGuire?”
    “One, to keep your goddamn voice to a whisper if you’re gonna talk about that son-of-a-bitch. Two, don’t call him Jimbo to his face. He thinks he’s all grown up.”
    “You hear anything about him being behind killing Peter?”
    “The first piece of advice was my only freebie,” Deegan said. “Let’s see some cash.”
    Ben put a twenty on the table, but kept his hand on it. “Tell me something I don’t know and it’s yours.”
    The old man began talking, speaking clearly enough, but so that he couldn’t