do.”
16
_________________________
Scollay Square, Downtown
NEAR DUSK CAL wandered Scollay’s back alleys and side streets. He’d made the rounds of the abortion doctors in the West End down to Fort Point and back again, asking about Sheila, but none of them remembered a girl of her description. Only Chang on Milk Street had given him any grief, but he’d put an end to that, too, by threatening to bring the detectives down on him to investigate the death of a Chinatown teenager, named Anita Chan, from the year before. She’d died from a botched abortion—Fierro had told him about that one—and Cal had always known that Chang had to be involved.
In the Square the lights of the Old Howard, ringed in phosphorescence, blazed across the sidewalk. Fresh-shaved young men, Harvard students, gray middle-aged businessmen, hair patted down with pomade, stood around smoking, stamping their feet in the cold, waiting for the burlesque star Sharon Harlow, main attraction of the marquee skin show, to come out. Cal heard the hollers as she exited the side doors. Slick-haired Harvard boys from over the bridge in Cambridge and young ruddy-faced hicks down from New Hampshire and Maine called out her name or waited red-cheeked and silent as she slowed to autograph napkins and photographs.
At the other end of the Square, beyond the cold glitter of the burlesque shows and bars, a flatbed and truck were parked before the two intersections of Tremont Row, blocked by BPD sawhorses. On both sides of the truck large placards announced CONGRESSMAN MICHAEL FOLEY FOR U.S. SENATE and showed the stoic, strong-jawed face of the congressman, his prematurely silver hair held down with oil and combed back from his forehead. At the tailgate, volunteers were handing out voter registration slips and bread rolls and, from the spigot of a dented vat, cups of steaming soup to a growing crowd of down-and-outs. Cal stopped for a moment, sheltering out of the wind, and watched the spectacle. A group of bums with their backs to him stood a little ways away, looking at the same scene.
The line at the flatbed was forty deep, and more were quickly pressing in. Off to the side of the flatbed, six cops stood with billy clubs in gloved hands, leather collars up and hats lowered just above the eyes. There were two other cops farther down the street, standing by a black limousine. Smoke billowed from the tailpipe, reflected the red neon lights of the Crescent Grill.
A gasoline-powered generator chugged dully on the flatbed and from speakers mounted atop poles on the cab of the truck came a distorted and crackling version of Boston College’s fight song, “For Boston,” the words altered to sing the praises of the congressman. The sound reverberated tinnily throughout the Square so that the barkers for the vaudeville shows halfway down the block might have been calling from miles away. During the chorus one of the volunteers shouted through a bullhorn, “Who you gonna vote for?” And the other volunteers shouted, “Foley!”
With the urging of the volunteers and the promise of hot soup and bread, the crowd slowly began to reply in the same manner to each subsequent rallying call, and gradually a hesitant response rose to a loud if monotone refrain. When a few dozen registration slips had been handed out, a volunteer clambered onto the rear of the truck and slid its door up. From the back he began to heft frozen hams to other volunteers, who handed them to those with slips, crowding the truck in staggered lines.
Cal watched as a group began to gather by the idling limousine. Someone was stepping out of the car; flashes from camera bulbs lit the air. He heard one of the bums say, “There he is.”
“Who?”
“Michael Foley.”
There seemed to be a photographer from each of the five city papers snapping shots of the congressman talking and shaking hands with several bums handpicked for the purpose. Another pair of policemen wearing long navy trench
16
_________________________
Scollay Square, Downtown
NEAR DUSK CAL wandered Scollay’s back alleys and side streets. He’d made the rounds of the abortion doctors in the West End down to Fort Point and back again, asking about Sheila, but none of them remembered a girl of her description. Only Chang on Milk Street had given him any grief, but he’d put an end to that, too, by threatening to bring the detectives down on him to investigate the death of a Chinatown teenager, named Anita Chan, from the year before. She’d died from a botched abortion—Fierro had told him about that one—and Cal had always known that Chang had to be involved.
In the Square the lights of the Old Howard, ringed in phosphorescence, blazed across the sidewalk. Fresh-shaved young men, Harvard students, gray middle-aged businessmen, hair patted down with pomade, stood around smoking, stamping their feet in the cold, waiting for the burlesque star Sharon Harlow, main attraction of the marquee skin show, to come out. Cal heard the hollers as she exited the side doors. Slick-haired Harvard boys from over the bridge in Cambridge and young ruddy-faced hicks down from New Hampshire and Maine called out her name or waited red-cheeked and silent as she slowed to autograph napkins and photographs.
At the other end of the Square, beyond the cold glitter of the burlesque shows and bars, a flatbed and truck were parked before the two intersections of Tremont Row, blocked by BPD sawhorses. On both sides of the truck large placards announced CONGRESSMAN MICHAEL FOLEY FOR U.S. SENATE and showed the stoic, strong-jawed face of the congressman, his prematurely silver hair held down with oil and combed back from his forehead. At the tailgate, volunteers were handing out voter registration slips and bread rolls and, from the spigot of a dented vat, cups of steaming soup to a growing crowd of down-and-outs. Cal stopped for a moment, sheltering out of the wind, and watched the spectacle. A group of bums with their backs to him stood a little ways away, looking at the same scene.
The line at the flatbed was forty deep, and more were quickly pressing in. Off to the side of the flatbed, six cops stood with billy clubs in gloved hands, leather collars up and hats lowered just above the eyes. There were two other cops farther down the street, standing by a black limousine. Smoke billowed from the tailpipe, reflected the red neon lights of the Crescent Grill.
A gasoline-powered generator chugged dully on the flatbed and from speakers mounted atop poles on the cab of the truck came a distorted and crackling version of Boston College’s fight song, “For Boston,” the words altered to sing the praises of the congressman. The sound reverberated tinnily throughout the Square so that the barkers for the vaudeville shows halfway down the block might have been calling from miles away. During the chorus one of the volunteers shouted through a bullhorn, “Who you gonna vote for?” And the other volunteers shouted, “Foley!”
With the urging of the volunteers and the promise of hot soup and bread, the crowd slowly began to reply in the same manner to each subsequent rallying call, and gradually a hesitant response rose to a loud if monotone refrain. When a few dozen registration slips had been handed out, a volunteer clambered onto the rear of the truck and slid its door up. From the back he began to heft frozen hams to other volunteers, who handed them to those with slips, crowding the truck in staggered lines.
Cal watched as a group began to gather by the idling limousine. Someone was stepping out of the car; flashes from camera bulbs lit the air. He heard one of the bums say, “There he is.”
“Who?”
“Michael Foley.”
There seemed to be a photographer from each of the five city papers snapping shots of the congressman talking and shaking hands with several bums handpicked for the purpose. Another pair of policemen wearing long navy trench
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