Devine's Providence: A Novel Read online

  “Yes, Harry. We. I know you only remember fighting that battle alone, but believe it or not other people were affected too. Don’t forget, I was the one who—”

  I slammed my palm on the table.

  “I thought we were fucking dropping it.”

  I wasn’t shouting, but my voice was considerably louder than the hushed levels we were speaking at. Terry and Chelsea both looked up at us. Zachetti sat motionless. When he spoke, his voice was flat and emotionless.

  “Whatever you say, Harry.”

  “Everything okay?” asked Chelsea.

  “Just ducky,” said Zachetti. “How are you girls getting on?”

  Terry looked expectedly at Chelsea, like a pupil waiting to find out her final grade.

  “I think,” said Chelsea, “we’re ready. Or as ready as we’re going to be.”

  Terry squealed with excitement.

  “I’m sorry, Jake,” I said under my breath.

  Zachetti leaned in closer to me, a smile on his face. I knew the smile wasn’t for me, it was for Chelsea, who was still eying us inquisitively.

  “Just know this, Harry,” he said. “You’re like a brother to me. We went way too long without speaking to each other. Despite the grim fucking circumstances, I’m happy we reconnected. But if you push me away again, you stubborn son of a bitch…”

  He put his hand on my shoulder.

  “…I’m not fucking coming back.”

  His smile broadened, but I swear I could see glimpses of tears in his eyes.

  Again, I said nothing.

  Chapter 15

  UNDERCOVER GIRL

  The plan was relatively simple. Terry would meet this George fellow at the bar. Chelsea and I would be nearby, posing as a couple out for drinks.

  “Looks like I got that date after all,” I had told Chelsea.

  “It’s not a real date,” she replied with a smirk.

  “I can pretend,” I said. “I’m pretty good with delusions.”

  “Let’s look at this as an audition.”

  Great. Now I’m even more nervous than if it were an actual date.

  Chelsea, Terry and myself would be wired up—mic packs hidden under our clothing. We’d all be sporting small, just-about-invisible wireless earpieces, able to listen to and communicate with each other discreetly, coaching Terry as needed.

  Zachetti would be overseeing the whole operation from outside, parked in an unmarked surveillance van. He had regaled us with the story of how he used his wile and cunning to procure the van and all the equipment (“I said, ‘Hey, I’m taking the van.’ They said, ‘Okay.’”).

  Terry, with hopefully only minimal steering from us, would try to get as much information about SmartPark as she could, as well as whatever else Frank Temple was up to. The hope, at least, was that we’d get enough of something to at least know where to look next.

  We all met at my office. Terry was dolled up in a dress that was only slightly less formal than her ball gown, making her look beautifully statuesque. She was enjoying this secret agent stuff a bit too much, I thought.

  Chelsea wore her leopard-print heels with skinny jeans and a t-shirt. A short, fashionable leather jacket covered her mic pack. She looked almost too good.

  No one would ever buy that we’re a real couple.

  I had originally worn my “Harry Devine: Casual” uniform—khakis and a tucked-in striped golf shirt. Terry took one look at me and made me change immediately.

  “No one would ever buy that you’re a real couple,” she said.

  The validation was bittersweet.

  She pulled out a men’s button-down shirt she just happened to bring with her, coincidentally my size, and gave it to me, telling me to roll up the sleeves and forbidding me to tuck it in. Despite my protests.

  Chelsea and I went into the joint first. It wasn’t very big, but it was crowded. Thankfully, we had reservations. We scoped the place out as we entered.

  The place was divided into two sections, with a wall running down the middle. The dining room was on one side, with white linen tablecloths and lit candles. The other side was slightly-less-formal and much more lively. An old wooden bar ran the length of the dividing wall, with booths spread out down the opposite wall. The bar stools and booth seats were covered in various animal prints, and most of the dim lighting came from abstract neon lights up above.

  An upbeat, electronic jazz song was playing above the crowd noise, but lacked both my personal taste and any assemblance of melody. Three young staff members behind the bar were flipping the bottles of liquor this way and that, barely keeping them still long enough to pour from them. Simultaneously, they held a shaker in each hand and began shaking vigorously, filling the bar with the sounds of what I imagined the Saint Valentine’s Day massacre sounded like—about half-a-dozen tommy guns firing at once.

  “Quite the bartenders,” I said.

  “They’re not bartenders,” said Chelsea. “They’re ‘mixologists.’”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “About seven dollars a drink.”

  “Ahh, gotchya.”

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  I had absently-mindedly been fiddling with the exposed hem of my shirt.

  “It’s strange not having it tucked in,” I said. “I feel like I’m wearing my pajamas.”

  “Well stop it,” she said. “You’re like a little girl wearing an Easter dress.”

  She nodded toward a man seated at the bar, sipping a martini.

  “Look,” she said.

  The man matched a description of George that Terry had given us. He looked to be about seventy, with tan, weathered skin from long days on the golf course. Or a boat. He looked like a boat guy.

  He had three distinguishable characteristics that when added up equaled “old money”: A flashy ring on his pinky finger, a shirt collar that looked disproportionately big for his neck, and a three-weeks-overdue need of a haircut. His blindingly white dentured-smile contrasted against his tailored-to-a-tee pinstripe suit, but complimented his shiny red silk necktie.

  If the devil himself had a spawn with the city of Providence, it would surely be this guy.

  “There’s our mark,” said Chelsea.

  “Try to stay close by,” said Zachetti in our ears.

  The hostess checked us in and started to lead us toward the dining room, but Chelsea stopped her.

  “Actually,” she said, “would it be possible to sit on the bar side? More lively atmosphere.”

  “Of course,” said the hostess, and led us to the only empty booth.

  It was at the perfect distance from George; close enough to keep an eye on him, but far enough away to not be noticed.

  “Okay,” I said, once we were seated. “We’re in position. Send her in.”

  “Roger,” said Zachetti. A few moments later, Terry came through the door. George looked up from his martini and waved her over. She gave him a polite hug and joined him sitting at the bar. Through our earpieces, we could hear their conversation crystal clear.

  “It was so lovely to hear from you,” George was saying.

  “Um…yes, it was,” said Terry.

  Oh boy.

  I shared a worried look with Chelsea.

  Thankfully, George laughed.

  “Tell him you had a good time dancing with him the other night,” I said.

  “I had such a good time with you the other night,” said Terry.

  Excellent.

  “Tell him he was a good dancer,” I said.

  “You’re a wonderful dancer.”

  “Nice touch,” said Chelsea.

  “You have a nice touch,” said Terry.

  Oops.

  George laughed again. “The pleasure was entirely mine,” he said.

  “Careful,�
�� I mouthed silently to Chelsea. She nodded, returning my amused smirk.

  “Now,” George continued, “is this purely a business meeting, or may I buy you a drink?”

  Terry was silent.

  I shot Chelsea a panicked look.

  Are we going to have to feed her ALL of her lines?

  “A drink would be lovely,” said Chelsea.

  “A drink would be lovely,” said Terry.

  “OH, FOR FUCK’S SAKE,” said Zachetti.

  “Oh no,” Chelsea and I said at the same time.

  I could see Terry smile, but miracle of miracles, she didn’t repeat.

  Maybe I haven’t been giving her enough credit.

  “So,” said Terry, “To do what is it that you do, do, George?”

  Shit.

  George laughed yet again. Either he was genuinely tickled by Terry, or he was the most polite date ever.

  He then launched into a very long-winded explanation of his position that could have been avoided by just saying, “lawyer.” Terry was nodding along, feigning interest.

  “Ahem…folks?”

  I didn’t know how long the waiter had been standing over us, watching Chelsea and I appearing to just stare down at the table, occasionally muttering to ourselves.

  “Oh, so sorry,” said Chelsea, clearly caught as off guard as I was.

  “Sorry,” said Terry, interrupting George mid-sentence.

  “No…” I said.

  “No,” said Terry.

  “No…what?” asked the waiter.

  “No?” asked George.

  “Oh, Christ. Ignore them for a moment, Terry,” said Zachetti. “They’re talking to someone else.”

  “No, I didn’t see you there,” I said to the waiter, laughing. “I guess we were in our own little world, right dear?”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Chelsea.

  “No, I’m sorry,” said Terry, “I thought you said something else. Please, continue!”

  “Nice save, doll,” said Zachetti. “Harry, I’m killing the feed from you two. Turns out this is more confusing than anything.”

  “Wait,” said Chelsea.

  “I’ll give you guys a few more minutes,” said the waiter. He walked away, shaking his head.

  Terry was still smiling and nodding at George, but she glanced in our direction and shook her head ever so slightly.

  “We can’t leave Terry on her own,” Chelsea said.

  “I can handle her,” said Zachetti. “And you’ll still be able to hear. But I’ll need you as my eyes. I’ll check back in if I need you, text my burner if you need me.”

  Chelsea looked at me, as if for an answer. I shrugged.

  “Copy,” I said.

  “Okay,” said Zachetti. There was a small click and the sound from both of our mics went away. We could still hear George talking about himself. I caught Terry’s glance and gave her a discreet wink.

  We listened as Zachetti guided Terry through natural conversation, until she was relaxed enough to take the wheel herself. Soon, Zachetti was feeding her fewer and fewer lines and she was riding solo. She actually seemed like she was starting to really hit it off. George liked talking about George, so Terry obliged and kept him on the topic of himself.

  Our waiter returned, and we ordered drinks. A Scotch for myself, and a double bourbon for Chelsea.

  I must have given her some kind of look, or at least she thought I did.

  “What?” she asked defensively.

  “Nothing,” I said. “But…a double?”

  “Really, Harry? Another lecture? You’re really not one to talk, you know that?”

  “I know,” I said. “I’m not judging, believe me.”

  “Kinda sounds like you are.”

  “No, really. It’s just…I know better than anyone how easy it is to lose control. And after everything you’ve been through…”

  Chelsea stared at me with cold, piercing eyes. It was a look I did not like being on the receiving end of, not one bit.

  “Harrison Devine, let’s get one thing straight, here and now. You do not know what I’ve been through. You do not even have a glimmer of an idea of what I’ve been through.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “I can’t even begin to know. But I know how much Marc Winters meant—means—to you. I know you’re no stranger to loss and grief. And I can tell you that you won’t find any answers at the bottom of any bottle. Trust me, I’m checking them all myself.”

  “I can handle myself, Harry.”

  “I’m just looking out for you.”

  “I don’t need looking out for.”

  “Okay. I’m sorry.”

  Our waiter arrived with our drinks, perhaps sensing the perfect timing as only waiters can do. Like when a dentist asks you a question as soon as he gets your mouth full of tools and tubes.

  “No, I’m sorry,” said Chelsea as soon as were alone again. “I know you mean well…”

  I tapped my ear to indicate I was listening to the earpiece. George was finally steering the conversation toward business.

  “So, my dear,” he said, “you’re interested in making a lot of money?”

  “Oh yes,” said Terry. “Please, tell me more about this park smart.”

  “SmartPark,” George corrected. “It’s the way of the future, baby.”

  George went on, verbosely, to tell Terry (and unknowingly us) all about the fledgling tech company.

  Apparently, SmartPark hadn’t even launched yet, but it was already assured that it would be getting a heap of city contracts. Their business was “parking solutions,” which meant automated meters and lots.

  Unlike traditional meters, their hardware interacted directly with your smartphone. You could make payments, find available spots, even remember where you parked your car, all through their handy app. Gone would be the days of meter maids and lot attendants; everything would be handled online, including the distribution of fines and tickets.

  Specially-placed cameras could read license plates of even those citizens not using the app. The software would even be in direct contact with law enforcement, should a car’s tag be pinged for multiple violations.

  Parking rates citywide would just about triple, of course, but hey, that’s the cost of progress.

  The company was still taking money from financial investors to be ready as soon as possible. The guarantees from city hall and the PPD were as good as golden, but because nothing was official yet, they were relying on discreet word-of-mouth to woo potential capital.

  George explained how a project of this magnitude could only feasibly be accomplished by private funding. Frank Temple was the main benefactor, and secretly the guy pulling the marionette strings from up above. George assured Terry, quite bluntly, that Temple was able to keep everyone in line in order to pull the endeavor off.

  “And the return,” he said, “is going to be staggering. Money the likes of which we’ve never seen.”

  “Doesn’t add up,” said Zachetti. “Just from people feeding the meters? Once the city takes their cut, which has got to be the bulk of it, there can’t be too much left to go around to all these investors.”

  “I was thinking the same thing,” I said, though only Chelsea could hear me.

  “Staggering?” asked Terry. “Just from feeding the meters, huh? Even after the city takes their cut?”

  She was finally getting the hang of this.

  George laughed. “Well of course, it is Frankie Temple behind this. So obviously there are other pieces in play. I’m sure you’ve heard stories of how he works.”

  Other pieces in play? Money the likes of which we’ve never seen?

  A “staggering” amount of money might be just the kind of persuasion someone would need to get rid of a planning commission chair who opposed all this progress. Or a cri
me blogger asking too many questions. The motive for Marc’s murder was becoming clearer.

  But what’s the missing piece? What’s the real racket?

  “What kind of stories?” asked Terry.

  I saw George reach out and place a hand on her knee. If she wanted to recoil, she was doing a tremendous job at covering it up.

  “Enough money talk for now,” he said. “Let’s leave something for the second date.”

  Terry giggled.

  “Let’s talk about you, sweetheart.”

  “Don’t push it,” said Zachetti. “Humor him. We’re not in any rush.”

  Terry flirted back and forth with George, with Zachetti hardly needing to interject at all. After about five minutes of George’s cheesy come-ons and Terry’s giggles, Chelsea removed her earpiece.

  “Let me know when they get back to business,” she said.

  “Will do.”

  She finished her drink and motioned to the passing waiter for another round.

  “Listen, Harry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “No, it’s not. I was acting like you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I felt backed into a corner. It was either talk honestly about myself, or become aggressive.”

  She reached across the table and took my hand in hers.

  “I guess we are a lot alike in some ways,” she said.

  “Indeed,” I said with an arched eyebrow. She laughed. I smiled.

  “You know,” she said, “After my husband’s death, I spiraled down pretty low. I never said I’m not without my demons. I’m no stranger to substance abuse. Since I started Smooth Criminals though, my work’s been my drug of choice. But I’m an adult, Harry, I can have a drink when I want one, same as you.”

  “No judgement here, I promise. I know life really tries to beat you down sometimes,” I said. “Especially for those who grieve. I don’t begrudge anyone for just trying to cope. We’re all just trying to do the best we can, just to get by. But I’ve seen what a slippery slope addiction can be. I’ve been down that road.”

  “Your wife?”

  I nodded, and then added, “Ex-wife.”

  She caressed my hand.

  “It started with booze with her, too. With both of us. But when the bottle couldn’t calm her mind, she started looking elsewhere.”