Mikie and Lili Among the Tall Trees

Marigolds 43,44

2012-05-03T14:09:00.000-07:00

I arrived in Portrush, Northern Ireland with my brain and my inner ears scrambled. Driving on the left side of the road while seated on the right side of a tiny Ford all for the first time was disorienting enough, but whoever decided that all the pedals and controls, save the gear shift, would be where a North American would expect to find them should be slathered in treacle and staked to an anthill. I was exhausted.

I checked into the Clarmont bed and breakfast on Landsdowne Crescent. How could a Boston boy go wrong on Landsdowne Crescent?

The Clarmont is effortlessly eclectic with the shiniest hardwood floors I have ever encountered. My room, low ceilinged with long windows, looked to the sea. The solid wood furniture was rustic with metal accents, Mexican perhaps. Through the window the sky and the sea were the same gradient of gray as the gliding gulls. The sun, tumbling to the southwest, though muted was still useful at in the late evening.

Portrush was a summer town nearing the end of her season. Arcades, bingo halls, relaxed half-full restaurants, wine bars and pubs, and rows of fresh-faced townhouses slightly rounded to the street border a spectacular beach. Even against the salt air, if a place could smell green, this was it. Although in Northern Ireland, Portrush is south of part of the Republic of Ireland.

I walked the strand in search of fish and chips and a beer, though the walk alone would have been invigorating. The Ramore, at what appeared to be the intersection of Ramore Avenue and Ramore Street, filled the bill quite nicely if not redundantly.

Tomorrow I would find Tom Moore and probably his sister, too. Past that, who knew?

There was no answer on Bo Boban’s cell.

“Do ye know what craik is Mr. O’Keefe?” James Sullivan, who called himself, the denizen of Ramore Avenue, asked as he slid a fresh pint of Kilkenny across the table and returned to his seat.

“You can’t mean crack…as in the drug?” The word he used was pronounced as if it were.

“No, no.” He spelled it for me. “Have ye heard of it before?”

“I have not. What might it be?” I asked.

I have always been a verbal chameleon. Wherever I go, with whomever I speak, in short order I emulate their rhythms, their cadence, and their patterns. I always have; I can’t help it. After a short trip to North Carolina when I was in college I came back to Massachusetts telling people, “I’mo, I’mo, I,mo bah me a rahfle.”

“Craik is conversation just as we are having, Mr. O’Keefe. Pub conversation… whether in a pub or not.”

“I like craik Mr. Sullivan.”

“Have you been in Great Britain before, Mr. O’Keefe?”

“I have not. And you know Mr. Sullivan, until just now it had not occurred to me that is where I am. “

Mr. Sullivan confirmed my choice of accommodations as a good one. He told me stories of summers current, near and distant here on the shore. He inquired “after” my family. He shared his life-long wish to see New York and was quite excited to know I had been there. He refused to allow me to buy him a drink; I was the guest.

I left the Ramore about 10 walking to the Clarmont. Eight, maybe ten more steps and I would have been in the building.

Marigolds, Chapter 42

2012-04-29T12:13:00.003-07:00

Jalena Orasac, aka Helen Moore had flown to Belfast where her brother Berislav aka Chris Moore, lives. Dennis confirmed that a Helen Moore had rented a car at Belfast from one of the big companies. He booked me one from the same place.

Her circuitous route and the mid-journey identity swap each gave credence to the idea that Jalena wished to avoid detection. If I could track her as easily as I did whoever was behind the other killings could too. It made me squirm in my coach seat somewhere over the deep dark North Atlantic that even if I found her I might be too late. Or, worse, I surmised: perhaps the reason she is running incognito is not she was a potential victim, but because she is something else. I could not ignore the possibility that Jalena Orasac had blood on her hands. There was certainly enough to go around.

What the hell was I doing?

With whom the hell was I doing it?

“Excuse me, might I read that if you’re done?”

A woman with lucent skin, freshly painted nails and silken legs crossed in my direction was smiling wide-eyed and pointing at the Time Magazine open over my thigh. Her hair was snared tight in a long thick braid she had pulled forward over the right shoulder of her silk blouse. The knot at its end rose and fell gently over her breast. She did not look or smell as if she belonged in coach.

“Sure.” I closed the magazine and handed it to her. “Come here often?”

Her laugh had a startled edge to it as she took the magazine from me. I wondered if I looked as goofy as I felt.

“All the time,” she said. “Much more often than I would prefer.”

Although her brow was still furrowed, her smile was unthreatened and unthreatening.

“You?” she asked.

I pointed down through the window. “I’ve been on it and in it thousands of times, but this is my first time over it.” Yeow, a good response, that.

“I see.” She opened the magazine. “There’s an article in this issue about the truth and reconciliation commission in the Balkans.”

“I read it waiting to board. Sad stuff.”

“It is… but hopeful. I have friends from the UN who are involved.”

“From the UN? Really? How?”

“They were part of the team doing the forensic work that supports how we know who did what to whom, and how.”

“And knowing those two things usually answers the why questions, too,” I said.

“To be truthful, we mostly already know why when we start.”

“Right. How do you know those UN people?”

“Colleagues. That’s what I do, too. I was working in Rwanda or I’d have been there with them.”

“No shortage of work for people in your field is there these days?” I had read General Romeo Dellaire’s book on Rwanda.

“Nope. No shortage.”

“May I ask you a question?”

There was a moment of silence. “Oh, you want me to answer that? Most times people don’t, you know? They just go ahead and… sure, go ahead. Ask.”

“How does someone who does what you do come down from it?”

“Do you mean the satisfaction when the puzzle pieces begin to go together or do you mean the nature of…the constant presence of the dead?”

“I guess I was thinking the former, but the latter is likely a better question.”

“Well, in this case for both I go to Ireland. There’s a dig in County Armagh run by a former professor of mine. I am dropping in on them.”

“Sounds like fun…”

“Oh, it will be. It’s Ireland after all.”

Yeah, well, if the ancient Irish dead from…when?”

She moved her braid to her left shoulder so she could face me. “Appears to be seventh century.”

“Seventh century…if the dead are as chatty as the living you should learn a lot.”

“Right.” Her smile was unaffected. “Are you on vacation?”

I told Cynthia Washington, she had handed me her card while she was speaking, why I was en route. It took about ten minutes to outline the tale. She wrote down the Croatian names spelling them all correctly.

“All that in Boston and New York? Wow.”

“And Portland, Maine. Why did you write down those names?”

“I’ll ask my colleagues who were there among the Croats and the Serbs if any of these names mean anything to them. You said that there was a connection to someone in the diplomatic corps, didn’t you?”

“I did.” I gave her my card. “Would you contact me if it seems there is?”

“As repayment for the loan of your magazine?”

“As good a reason as any.”

Marigolds, Chapter 41

2012-04-16T21:42:00.000-07:00

There are patterns in History.

The genocide that excised nearly one million Rwandans in the 1990s was as embarrassing as it was tragic. Whether they hacked each other to chards or shot Chinese, Eastern European and North American bullets into one another’s skulls, the blood-simple did so based on a manipulation courtesy of a long-dead king of Belgium. Though one group was the clear aggressor, had the two groups’ roles been reversed, it still would have happened.

King Leopold had created two classes in his central African private preserve: the haves and the want-to-haves. The enlightened Roman Catholic Europeans encouraged the Africans to hate and hurt one another to redirect their focus as the Belgians raped and plundered the land and the people who populated it. It was tried and true: the Persians had done it, the Greeks, the Romans, the British, the French, the Italians and the Americans, too. It’s just that in Rwanda the differences between the two groups of Africans were so artificial and so arbitrary that they fooled no one. No one except the Hutus and the Tutsis, that is. And maybe the Irish and the component ethnic groups once known as Yugoslavs.

A North American tourist of Irish descent is visiting Belfast. In a pub one evening a local sidles up and asks his origins.

“Well, I live in Chicago but my great grandfather got there through Montreal from Ireland.”

“Aahh,” says his new companion. “So you’re Irish then are ye?”

“I am. Both sides. One-hundred per cent.”

“Well, then are you Irish Protestant or Irish Catholic?”

“Um, well, I’m neither. I happen to be an atheist.”

“Ah, I see, then.” The man squinted over the rim as he sipped his stout. “But are ye a Catholic atheist or a Protestant atheist?”

Marigolds, Ch. 40

2012-04-03T22:59:00.000-07:00

I called Michael with my travel plans and to see if he’d swap a trip to Logan’s international terminal for dinner at the Border Café. I would gladly pay you Tuesday for an airport run today.

“You’re going back to the Great White North, then, are ye Finn?” Michael spoke over the top of his paper coffee cup, steering with one hand on Route 1.

“I thought I would, but there’s no need now, Mikie. Besides, Nova Scotia really isn’t any farther north than most of Maine. Yarmouth is nearly due east of Portland, in fact. So its on to Belfast, I think.”

“Really, Belfast? Are you feeling, oh I don’t know now, torn? Conflicted?”

“What? Hell no. No, not even a little.”

“Hmm.”

“Whatever bad blood might still exist among some of the Irish is someone else’s bad blood. Christ, both sides of my family, the O’Keefes and the Milnes, have been in North America for generations. I’m more concerned about the bad-tempered Croats wandering the bogs than I am any son or daughter of William of Orange.”

“Just the same, I’ll be sayin’ a rosary for ye. ”

“Yeah?” Michael Devlin was returning a favor. “Can’t hurt I guess.”

Eureka! Fixed.

2012-04-01T14:13:00.000-07:00

I have fixed the Chapter 15/15a problem I had created. Should be seamless now.

Refresher: Who's Who in Marigolds

2012-03-30T13:43:00.005-07:00

If you have not started the story, you SHOULD NOT READ this page. But, do remember it's here.

Cast of characters from These Marigolds Grow Too Tall

Fintan O'Keefe – Boston-based Private Detective; narrator of the story

Michael Devlin – Friend and sometimes-boss; Owns Irish-I-Were-Pestfree exterminators

Johnna “Sparky” Law – Fintan's girlfriend; a federal agent

Ivana Grdesic (Gerdisitch) – O'Keefe is hired to find her. Shortly after he does so in Portland, Maine, her body washes ashore on a Massachusetts beach_

Ante Bukovats (Antay Bukovatch) – O'Keefe's client purportedly representing the Croation Exchange Enterprise and the Grdesic family in Croatia

MA State Trooper Armand Bevilaqua – lead investigator in the case in Massachusetts

Mislava Hrvat (Mishlava Hurvatch) – Weeks later, in same condo where O'Keefe found Grdesic; attempts to hire O'Keefe to accompany her to New York; AKA Mary Francis Flaherty

Spoiler Alert: Mislava is actually Ivana and vice versa

Niko Matulich – Man who meets with Fintan and his client in New York; “mover and shaker” with loose ties to Croatian Consulate
Bo Boban - Owner of a school of language in Boston; has ties to Hrvat and Grdesic

Marigolds, Chapter 39

2012-03-28T21:39:00.001-07:00

“That’s great, sure. I appreciate the help.”

Bo Boban’s assistant was Jillian Gomez. I called her to be put in touch with the school’s travel agent. Bo told her to help me in any way I asked.

“OK, Mr. O’Keefe, here we go. It’s Ye Olde Mayflower Travel. Our contact there is Dennis. I’ll give him a buzz to tell him you’ll be in touch. Here’s the number.”

“Thanks, Jillian. No last name for this Dennis?”

“Nope. Not in the file.”

I killed the fifteen minutes before I called Dennis the best way I knew. I opened a Sam Adams and tossed two papusas into the warmed oven.

“Dennis? Hi, my name is Fintan O’Keefe.”

“Sure, Mr. O’Keefe, how may I be of assistance?”

“Can you tell me if you have arranged any travel in the last week or so for Yalena Orasac?”

“That I can. Let me look up the details right here in…”

The unmistakable sound of slow keystrokes was followed by, “Here it is.”

Orasac had booked flights, separate fights, to Halifax, Nova Scotia and then on to Belfast, Northern Ireland through Shannon, all the day before yesterday.

“Do you know why she might have done it that way as opposed to connecting flights?” I asked.

“I asked the same question. It was much more expensive to do it her way. She said, oh so politely, I should mind my own business.”

“Anything else out of the ordinary with this transaction?”

“Yeah. She paid for it with her own credit card. I reminded her the school has an account and all… she told me again to butt out.”

“Dennis, can you see if she made both of her flights?”

“Hmm, I was just looking at that…it seems she didn’t make the one to Belfast out of Shannon.”

“Did she book a hotel or a car through you in either city?”

“Nope. She wasn’t supposed to be in Halifax but a few hours. And…nothing in Ireland either. Oops, Mr. O’Keefe, I have another call. May I put you on hold?”

“Dennis if you’ll check when you are done if any flight to anywhere out of Shannon had a passenger named Helen Moore and call me back…”

“Got it. Will do.”

I finished my papusas and opened another Boston Ale. My cell phone did its dance on the table next to the brown bottle. Dennis confirmed that one Helen Moore had boarded a flight for Toronto out of Shannon that morning and then another for Belfast that afternoon. Pending Bo’s approval, I asked him to look into a flight to either or Belfast and Shannon for me.

I was feeling in full detecting flower. It lasted only as long as it took me to consider what now.

What now?

I called the cell number that Bo Boban left with me. He answered on the first ring. I told him what I had learned from Dennis.

“Shit, Fintan. Yalena must be somehow connected to this then, right?”

“Has to be. Bo, do you want me to go to Ireland? I imagine that even though she flew to Shannon she’ll end up in Belfast, or somewhere up there.”

There was a pause bracketed by an audible nasal intake of air and a noisy discharge of said air.

“Fintan, go to a town called Portrush. That’s where she’d go. That’s where Chris Moore is. It’s the only place she’d go.”

“Bo, was Yalena one of your off-the-books imports, too?”

“Yes. Years ago. Since then her presence in the country has been validated.”

“You sound like a seasoned spinner of bureaucratic bullshit, Bo.”

“Go to Ireland, Finn. Portrush, Northern Ireland. Have Dennis book it.”

“No one is to know, Bo. Right?”

“No will know Finn.”

These marigolds Grow Too Tall, Ch 38

2012-03-26T09:35:00.001-07:00

Jalena Orasac was a translator. Her CV said she spoke Serbo-Croatian, German and English. Bo put people fluent in regional languages together with travelers who were not. Her file contained records of four lengthy trips to the former Yugoslavia in the last five years. It also showed how handsomely she had been paid for her services. No doubt about it, I got to learn me some new tongues.

Orasac’ small house rested on a slightly elevated plot of land not much bigger than the house itself in the west end of Malden. The neighborhood rescued from or pounded into a craggy hillside, was adjacent to the Fells Reservation where Malden, Melrose and Stoneham sidle into one another. There was no car in the pitched driveway and her phone was still answered by her disembodied voice.

Orasac’ down slope neighbor was laying in birch bark nuggets around a scraggly young spruce in his tiny front yard. He returned my greeting with a smile.

“You looking for Helen?” He asked.

Jalena could be the Slavic version of Helen, I surmised.

“I am. Our employer is a little concerned about her.”

“I haven’t seen her for a few days. Helen’s popular. Somebody else was here, too. A girl was here looking for her.”

“Yeah? Maybe sent here before me…”

He leaned his rake against the slate and concrete retaining wall, removed his heavy denim work gloves and walked towards me. He brushed the birch bits from his jeans.

“Yup. A wicked tall girl with a thick accent sort of like Helen’s was here three days or so ago, I guess it was. Sheila…?” He raised his chin and yelled in the direction of the second floor porch. A face, Sheila’s I’d wager, appeared behind the screen. The rest of her head was wrapped in a towel.

“Honey, when was that girl here looking for Helen?” He used his sleeve to dab his brow.

“Two days ago, and she was a woman Ralphie, not a girl.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“Did she find her?” I asked.

“If she did she didn’t find her here.”

“Who’s this guy, Ralph?” Sheila’s question had an edge. She had removed the towel and was shaking out her hair, dotting the screen with droplets.

“He works with Helen. Their boss is trying to get in touch.”

Sheila seemed satisfied. She disappeared.

“Yeah, Helen’s popular alright,” said Ralph.

“The woman who was here a couple of days ago, is it possible she asked for Helen at first using a name you didn’t recognize?” I asked.

“Matter of fact she did, but we got it straightened out. What was…?” Ralph’s pursed lips and creased brow told me he was thinking. “It was Yalenia Oraclees or some shit, I mean, if I remember it right. She told me that Moore was her married name and she had known her well before she was married.”

Despite his overuse of pronouns, I thought I understood what Ralphie meant.

“Did she offer the name Moore or did you tell her that was the name by which you knew Helen?”

More pursing, more creasing: “Um, I told her, I guess.”

“I see. Well, thanks Ralph. When you see Helen, please ask her to call Finn.” I gave him a card with only my name and mobile number I had printed for just such an occasion.

“Fintan O’Keefe? Right, I will. Interesting name, Fintan.”

“Bye, Sheila,” I said loudly.

“Yeah, yeah,” tumbled down from the porch.

These Marigolds Grow Too Tall, Chapter 37 (Chapters 35 and 36 below)

2012-03-24T10:18:00.002-07:00

Marlborough Street, Boston

Bo Boban did not want to return to his townhouse on Marlborough Street. I took him to my place.

“Besides the details of what you discovered this morning, did you tell Bevilaqua anything new today, Bo?”

“Other than I am scared shitless, I don’t think so.” Shitless draped in Bo’s accent had a unique sound to it.

”Is there anything new you wish to tell me?”

Miljenko Boban sat back on my futon. He was closing and opening his fists.

“May I take my shoes off, Finn?”

I nodded. Boban slipped off his loafers and folded his legs beneath him.

“OK, we need to decide if you are going to work for me.” Bo said.

“Because there are things you would tell me if I were that you would not if I weren’t?”

“Yes.”

“Then here’s the deal…”

I laid out what he needed to do to employ me. He took a blank check drawn on the school from his wallet and placed it on the table.

“Do you have a pen?”

Boban wrote the check for the minimum retainer. He spoke as he signed it.

“Everything I have told you is true. But there are things you… I… will tell you now I did not before. There are things I did not tell the police I wish to tell you. There are things that I do not know…”

“And it is the unknown things that have you frightened?”

“Mostly, yes. But much of what I know frightens me, too.”

At my request Boban told me again about his side business of securing safe passage for Croats needing to come to North America. He added details about the life that Ivana and Mislava led in Northern Ireland.

“It is true that I did not ask why they needed to come here. Of course I knew that it was critical for their safety that they do so, but I did not ask why. I never do. I always add the disclaimer that I would not help anyone fleeing from justice, but of course I know that these people would not need me if they were not fleeing from something. I leave those things to Berislav Orasac, my acquaintance in Northern Ireland.”

“AKA Chris Moore.”

“Yes.”

“How did the two of you find one another? Did you know each other in Croatia?”

“No. In fact we have never met. He is the brother of someone connected to my school.”

Boban’s body language was now an equal partner in our conversation. He was more animated, in a disjointed sort of way.

“Someone here in Boston?”

“Well, she was. I have not seen her and I have not heard from her for a while. I did not think much of it until today. For obvious reasons I am now concerned for her.”

“Have you tried to contact her?”

“I have not. After this morning I do not think it wise to do so. Perhaps the first thing you can do for me is that…please try and contact her.”

Bo handed me her business card. Her name was Jalena Orasac. She lived in Malden. I got her answering machine when I called.

“OK, Bo, Let’s see if I can find Ms. Orasac. Meanwhile, would you gather up any paperwork you have on her? Maybe…”

“Of course. As soon as the police allow me – or allow us I hope - back into the school. Then I am going on a trip. In the meantime, may I impose on you to stay here?”

Two days later Boban and I were allowed back into the school. Bo called a toxic waste cleanup company, his assistant, and the school’s travel agent. He gave me Jalena Orasac’s file and contact information for her brother in Northern Ireland.

“I do not know yet where I will end up. Here’s my cell phone number and email address.” He wrote them on the folder. “If you need me use them. Otherwise…”

I nodded.

Marigolds, Chapter 36 (Ch 35 posted below)

2012-03-24T10:10:00.000-07:00

hought I had a pretty good grasp of the events. There were questions, still, but what I knew was pretty well ordered. I was sure that Ante Bukovats would be the key for law enforcement. I even allowed myself the luxury of a guess: Niko Matulich killed the woman whose body he claimed at the ME’s office. The cops, perhaps the New York cops, would mind that end.

My immediate task was to decide whether I was going to work for Bo Boban. I was leaning towards no. The puzzle for me was complete. All accounts were paid in full. Plus, I had a bag of money.

As I dressed to go get a paper my phone chirped. It was the ever well-dressed Mr. Boban in a state of emotional dishevelment.

“Fintan, you can come to my school.” It was a statement not a question.

“Why?”

“They have killed Ante. Right here. Down the hall. In his classroom. He is in pieces in his classroom. You can come here now.”

“Have you called Trooper Bevilaqua?”

The pause said no. Under this stress Bo was transported back to Croatia and the authorities were not first on the must call list.

“Listen, Bo, I’ll call him and then I’ll come.”

“OK. Call. And then come, yes.”

I called Bevilaqua at the South Boston barracks. By the time I got to Boylston St. the Staties and BPD had the building secured. Trooper Erika Frommer was in charge at ground level. She gave me a half smile half wince and waved me through.

Most of the activity was in the hallway outside of the classroom I surmised to be Bukovats’. In a moment when the crowd had thinned at the entrance I looked inside. There, on the mid-grade wall-to-wall was a body bag. It was occupied. Six feet away was an hour glass-shaped lagoon of blood. It was dark around the edges.

Armand and Bo sat in Bo’s office, although it now appeared to be much more Armand’s than Bo’s.

“Come in, Fintan,” Bevilaqua said.

“So, we’re sure it’s Bukovats?” I asked.

Bevilaqua said, “Oh yes. In his component parts, his disassembled state, his varied and sund…”

“I do not find that funny or in good taste, Trooper Bevilaqua,” said Boban without looking at him.

I wished I had said that.

“Right. It probably isn’t.”

My head was swiveling between the two men.

“May I ask what happened?”

“Let us get Mr. Boban downstairs and on his way to the ME. Then we’ll talk.”

“Bo?” It took a few seconds for him to focus his attention on me.

“Yes?”

“Call me when your interview is over. I’ll come get you.”

“I would be grateful.” He was nodding. “Thanks.”

As it was part of their on-going investigation the state police had jurisdiction. Frommer appeared in the doorway. She said they were ready downstairs.

Bo stepped towards her just as the body bag rolled by in the narrow hallway on a two-manned gurney. He retreated into the office asking softly to be excused: an involuntary response. Frommer, sensitive to the moment, stepped into the office. She suggested to Bo that they should wait a minute or two. Good police work. Better humanity. Then they were gone.

“Hope you haven’t eaten yet.” Bevilaqua handed me a Polaroid.

“Mother of God.”

The photo had been taken before Bukovats had been placed in the bag. Eyes open, he lay on his back. His trousers and his briefs were around his ankles. His hands palms up were outstretched. His tongue had been sliced, removed and replaced cut side out. There were lumps of something fleshy in each of his hands.

“Are those his testicles?” I asked. “In his hands I mean.”

“Probably, as his are not where we would expect to find them,” Bevilaqua answered.

“Man,” was all I could muster.

“Ante wasn’t just killed, he was made a poster boy for something, probably talking to the cops, but who knows?”

“Had Bukovats told you anything that might shed some light on who might do this?”

“Nope. Come with me Fintan. I got to get these guys out of here.”

I stood in the hallway as Bevilaqua checked in with each of his remaining team. Equipment was packed, samples were secured, and forms were signed. Bevilaqua asked the ranking Boston cop on scene to assign someone to stay after the doors were sealed.

“Somebody has to tell the students when they start showing up that they have a snow day.”

Marigolds, Chapter 35

2012-03-24T10:05:00.002-07:00

I heard Michael rustle and leave the next morning. The note he wrote and taped to the door was simple and the quintessential Michael Devlin.

Finn,

I guess now we truly are blood brothers,

Mikie

Mr. Dr. Fr. Sanitorium, I presume?

2012-03-21T12:57:00.000-07:00

How is it that a person who appears so genuine, has a fairly extensive vocabulary (hundreds of ways of saying, "You are a bad person"), and can string words, phrases and clauses together in coherent and recognizable patterns still sounds so stupid? How can one man miss so many points all at the same time? My father-in-law is right. His last name should be Sanitorium and it should also be his address.

Santorum: Obama daughter’s Mexico trip ‘sets a very bad precedent’

The children of politicians are normally off limits during campaigns but Rick Santorum is lashing out at President Barack Obama for allowing his daughter to go to Mexico, claiming it could endanger Americans.

Speaking to GBTV’s Glenn Beck on Tuesday, the Republican presidential candidate reacted to the news that the president’s daughter, Malia, had asked permission to spend her spring break in Mexico, even though the State Department had issued warnings for other areas of the country.

“What I would say is that the president’s actions should reflect what his administration is saying,” Santorum declared. “If the administration is saying that it’s not safe to have people down there, then just because you can send 25 Secret Service agents doesn’t mean you should do it. You should set an example. I think that’s what presidents do. They set an example. And when the government is saying this is not safe, then you don’t set the example by sending your kids down there.”

“I think you have a higher duty when you’re president to set that example,” he added. “You’re not above the law. You’re not someone who’s, who can say one thing to one group and then do something else. It sets a very bad precedent.”

Early Tuesday morning, Politico reported that several publications like The Huffington Post and AFP had removed their reports about the first daughter’s vacation plans over privacy concerns.

“From the beginning of the administration, the White House has asked news outlets not to report on or photograph the Obama children when they are not with their parents and there is no vital news interest,” Michelle Obama’s communication director Kristina Schake told Politico. “We have reminded outlets of this request in order to protect the privacy and security of these girls.”

Marigolds, Ch 34

2012-03-07T11:45:00.001-08:00

Michael’s blood tested negative for the antibodies to HIV. He sat mostly upright, on a backless stool in an overpriced “bistro” across the street from Quincy Market. He was still in his bug-killer’s clothes. Though the place was crowded, the stools were vacant to either side of him. Yuppie babies; that smell didn’t bother me.

In front of Michael on the bar were his cell, a mound of change, and a drained shot glass. Head bobbing to the jukebox, he held his pint in both hands in his lap. His eyes had a certain glassy shimmer.

“Live to fight another day, eh, Finn?”

I ordered a Sam Adams and asked the bartender for an approximation of Michael’s consumption. He pulled the keys to Michael’s truck from his pocket jingling them in my direction.

“Good man, the barman,” Michael said. “Maybe he can recall where it’s parked.”

A nurse from the clinic had called earlier in the day with the news. Michael had asked her to fax him the confirmation. He read it aloud to me.

Dear Mr. Devlin,

It is our pleasure to inform you that our testing indicates no HIV antibodies present in your blood. You are not HIV positive.

We know that this experience is a sobering one, and in that spirit please allow us to remind you that every act of unprotected sex or intravenous drug use may lead…

The letter was not very different in content or tone from the one that I had received years ago. My response was, as I recall, similar to Michael’s. His results’ turnaround time, however, was much quicker.

“Fintan, isn’t it an ironic piece of irony…now look at me Fintan, are ye lookin’ at me, Fintan…”

I was indeed, right into his swimming eyes.

“… that this clinic thinks this is sobering? Huh? I’ll bet it is anything but sobering for most people who get that fuckin’ letter, now. Am I right? Mormons maybe or old ladies might maybe find it sobering, but then again those bastards are always sob…”

“Right you are, Mikie.” I handed him back his letter.

“I guess now I’ll be about the business of the organizing and the telling of this story…now that it has a happy ending.”

Even drunk Michael caught himself.

“Shit…a happy ending for me, anyway…poor girl.”

That night, after I trundled up my friend and drove us back to Chelsea, I told Michael my story. He knew I had been tested, but he didn’t know the details. I had let him assume what happened to me was more or less what happened to him.

It was not.

About ten years ago I had spent the evening in a smoky bar on Water Street. In those days Boston’s financial district after dark was a neighborhood with some jagged edges, poorly illuminated jagged edges.

That night in the emergency room at Tufts New England Medical Center, where I had taken myself in a cab, I would have lied to the nurse had I been able to compose one remotely plausible. She held my chin in her plastic-coated hand as she spoke.

“Sweetie, you are not the first man to be assaulted this way. These are interesting times.”

When BPD arrived I described the three men. I felt it necessary to tell the cops more than once I was not gay. At one point an exasperated detective told me, “Probably neither were they, Mr. O’Keefe. This wasn’t about sex; it was about power and humiliation. As a matter of fact, it was most likely about one of the three guys who did this to you showing the other two who’s boss… just how he’s… he’s the alpha male, know what I mean?”

Whether that cop was right or not, I never knew. I’d like to think I didn’t care, but the truth is I never figured out how to integrate this into my sense of self: three men in an alley off Milk Street in downtown Boston had raped me.

Later, just after dawn I walked slowly out of that hospital holding close a list of clinics and not much else.

Marigolds Ch 32 and 33

2012-03-05T15:32:00.000-08:00

Ante Bukovats was not burdened with loyalty. Perhaps it was just that it was not as immediate or as tangible as his need for nicotine, but he told Bevilaqua everything of which he could think: about himself, his connections in Boston and New York, and his connections in the former Yugoslavia, why he loved Paris in the springtime.

Bukovats acknowledged that he had lied when he hired me but said he was not aware that anyone was to be hurt. The man who contacted him from New York, the late Niko Matulich, seemed genuinely interested in finding a lost relative. Matulich had a high profile, an association of sorts with the Croatian diplomatic corps. He expected confidentiality and suggested how Ante should ensure it. Bukovats also feared for his own safety when he heard that the young woman he had asked me to find was dead. Or so he said. He also appeared relieved that Matulich had joined her. The next day, after confiscating his passport, Armand Bevilaqua released Bukovats.

“If we find he’s involved in the homicides… eventually some dickhead lawyer will hear what we’ve already done and raise hell about it…so…”

“That’s probable, but I would bet that Ante would have little trouble securing another passport.”

“Yeah, huh? Unless good old Niko was to be his source for one,” Armand snorted. “Anyways, we’re keeping our eye on him. We’ll see where he goes, who he contacts.”

“You mean whom, not who. It’s objective…”

“What?”

“Not what, whom.” What was I thinking? “Sorry, forget I said anything.”

I asked if he would keep me up to date. He said he would. I asked if he had informed the cops in New York. He said he had. I asked if he thought I was in any danger.

“Keep your head up, O’Keefe. You are a known commodity.”

“Mr. O’Keefe tells me you were helpful, Mr. Boban. We are grateful to you.” Armand and I were sitting in Bo’s small but tasteful office. Two large windows, especially large for the space, overlooked Boylston Street. “I have a few more questions, for you, if you don’t mind.”

This building, between Exeter and Fairfield, had been built as residential but was now commercial. Boban’s school, The Boston Institute for Applied Language Arts, filled two floors. The classrooms, formerly parlors, dining rooms and bedrooms for Boston’s elite, all seemed to be in use. Hallways formed by hollow walls and inexpensive carpet connected the irregularly shaped rooms.

“Of course. Needless to say I am a bit…I am not sure what words to use…”

“Taken aback?” I suggested.

“Yes, taken aback. It is not every day that one of my teachers is arrested as part of a homicide investigation.”

Boban told us how Bukovats had answered an advertisement he had posted last summer with an on line international employment agency, one he often used.

“It seems I will now need to do so again.”

He said as far as he knew Ante had no more contact with the old country than any of the other teachers he had hired: friends and family.

“Bo, is there any possibility Bukovats knows your friend from Northern Ireland?” I asked.

The implications of the question registered quickly and discernibly on Boban’s face.

“I don’t know.”

Bevilaqua continued the questioning.

“Can you tell us his name, your friend in Ireland? There is a warrant being issued as we speak to search Bukovats’ apartment. What name might we be looking for?”

“His name is Berislav Orasac. He lives in Portrush.”

“What…? Doesn’t sound too Irish to me,” Bev said

“Bo, does Mr. Orasac have another name?” I asked. “Is there a more Irish name he might use from time to time?” A man who it appeared had little difficulty creating Irish identities for Mislava and Ivana might have done so for himself.

“He often goes by Chris Moore. At least that is what he’s told me.”

Marigolds, Chapter 31

2012-03-04T22:05:00.000-08:00

“Why…who was that man just in here?” Ante Bukovats asked Bevilaqua. He was very agitated

“Who?” Bevilaqua sat with his back to me as Frommer and I watched through the one-way glass.

“That man who came in here.” Bukovats, now up and pacing, described me.

“Oh, him? He’s a private investigator. I think his name is O’Brien. He’s here a lot. Do you know him?”

“Ah, no. No I do not.”

“Hmm.”

Trooper Frommer entered the interview room. She told Bev he was needed elsewhere.

With slipping composure and a choked voice Bukovats asked if there were somewhere he could have a cigarette. Neither Bev nor Frommer responded as the door closed behind them.

“Please…officers…”

“Frommer, Bring him more coffee. One more cup should do it. Ask him if he has a lawyer while you’re in there, too. Don’t offer anything, just ask.”
“Trooper, you are peeling the skin off that man…” I said. “…one layer at a time.”

In the interview room Bukovats responded to Frommer that the school must have lawyers, no, he didn’t have one, and he hoped he wouldn’t need one. He then asked her if she knew what I was doing there. The surface of the coffee vibrated in his hand.

“He’s here to see my partner about something. I don’t know... He’s in and out of here all the time, though. Why? Know him?”

“No…it is just that he came in here to this room and said something I did not understand. I do not know him. Why would I know him?” Bukovats tried to pick up his coffee cup. He stopped and put his shaking hands back in his lap. Bevilaqua saw what he needed to see.

“Let’s go see Ante.”

YouTubeSock

2012-02-14T22:27:00.000-08:00

This blog, for the moment, has become Youtubesock. This is my buddy Tim and his new invention. Tim is From Hudson Bay, Saskatchewan. Hudson Bay is the answer to the question, "Name the city in Saskatchewan that is nowhere near the body of water known as Hudson Bay?" I miss Tim. He's as close to an imp as anyone can be who is 8 ft. 13 inches tall. When he comes to Cortes this summer, hide your fish and your beer.

Note: do not try this with socks from other CFL teams, if the other teams have socks. (You know you've mined all available marketing veins when you start pushing socks on people, though look how many Tim has) Neither Tim nor I will be responsible.

Oh yeah, this is another way BC differs from SK.

Marigolds, 30

2012-02-13T23:34:00.000-08:00

“So, if you decide to work for anyone in this case, will it be the guy who owns the school? Bukovats’ boss?” Bevilaqua had spoken with Bukovats and briefly with Bo Boban at the school.

I moved the phone from my left ear to my right. “Armand, were you discrete? I promised that guy…”

“I figured that out, Finn. Don’t worry, but you might have said something to me.”

He was right.

“Bukovats thinks we were there because his name popped up on a INS computer somewhere.”

“OK, good.” I should have… What did you get from him?”

“He’s a very interesting guy, based on his CV and all. He thinks his immigration status is why he’s our guest and, as you said, the Balkans has taught him as the authorities we can do with him whatever we want. At present I see no reason to disabuse him of that idea. So, if we pick you up can you come down to ID him? No sense in proceeding unless and until you say officially he’s the guy who sent you to Portland.”

“Yup.”

“Can we do that right away?”

I gave him directions to Admiral’s Hill, showered, poured some French Roast into my travel mug which I would forget and went downstairs to await my ride. My cell rang.

“Fintan, this is Miljenko Boban.”

“Hey, Bo.”

“The state police were here. They took Ante away with them. They asked me some questions.”

“I know.”

“Is there a connection in their visit to me as far as…?”

“No, there isn’t. He has no idea. Listen I am about to tend to a detail or two. I’ll call you when I am done, OK?”

“Sure. Of course. I just don’t want Ante coming back looking for me.”

“I understand. He won’t. You can also tell the rest of your staff that they should not be concerned. Remind them to stay current with their papers. You know… give them a pep talk.”

“That’s a good idea. One or two of them are edgy.”

The state trooper sent to retrieve me, one Trooper Erika Frommer, was not very talkative.

“So, you’re Bev’s partner?” I asked as we descended the hill.

“He lets you call him that? Bev?”

“He does.”

Nothing. We drove to the airport and through the Ted Williams Tunnel. The South Boston Barracks was just on the other side of the harbor. In fact, although I did not know it until we arrived on Massport Haul Road, I could see it from my balcony.

It was the right Ante Bukovats. He sat alone hunched up on himself in a soundproof room. There was a pack of unfiltered cigarettes on the table. Bukovats was spinning them on the table. There was a no smoking sign on the wall. He squinted at his own reflection in the one-way mirror.

“Let’s go get a coffee, Finn. Let his nicotine jones eat at him for a while,” Bevilaqua said. “Thanks for making the trip, Trooper Frommer.”

“Sure, Trooper Bevilaqua.”

We took our coffee outside and sat on the harbor side of the building. This neighborhood, wrapped around Northern Avenue, with its fish piers, cruise ship docks, circus tents, and restaurants had enjoyed a rebirth as a tourist destination in the last ten years. Prior to that if you came here at night it was to go to either the No Name or Anthony’s Restaurants - or to look for your stolen car. I could see Admiral’s Hill and Logan Airport across the water.

“Here’s how I would like to do this,” Bev said. “Let him stew for a while thinking he has INS issues. By the smell of him and the color of his finger nails a couple of hours without a cigarette will be excruciating for him.”

“May I suggest you give him coffee, too?” I took a mouthful from the cup Trooper Frommer had given me. The small muscles surrounding my eyes began to fire in a random sequence. My lips retracted involuntarily over my teeth. “And make sure it’s this coffee.” It was strong from evaporation, bitter from too much heat, and old. “Caffeine, especially in the quantity present in this coffee, YIKES, JESUS, will exacerbate his nicotine problem.”

“Yeah, huh? Is that right? OK, then. This time of day until the shift changes no one wants it anyway. Trooper Frommer, will you bring a beverage to our guest? Put a sign on that pot so’s it doesn’t get dumped out, too, would you?”

Large aircraft came and went from Logan to our right. Fortunes came and went in the Financial District, just across the Fort Point Channel to our left.

“She new?”

“Yup, of the brand spankin’ variety.”

“She afraid of you?”

“Absolutely.”

“I think it upset her that I called you Bev.”

His chin hit his chest.

“When the fuck did you call me Bev? Who said you could call me Bev?”

“I just thought that…I’m, I’m…”

“Man, O’Keefe,” he raised his chin. “You are easier than she is.”

Air returned to my lungs, blood returned to my extremities and Trooper Frommer returned to the picnic table.

“As I was saying, this is how we’ll play this. Frommer, in about an hour you’ll go in with more coffee and a promise to see if you can’t get me to agree to a smoke break. Fifteen minutes later you’ll deliver the sad, sad news that I won’t allow it. Bring him more coffee, too.”

“OK,” Frommer said.

It should have been OK, Bev or OK ,Armand or OK, partner, but it was just OK. It sounded both unfinished and deferential. I hate deferential.

“Fintan, shortly thereafter you’ll walk in, look surprised, mumble something, and walk out. Then I’ll go in. We’ll see what shakes out.”

These Marigolds... Chapter 29

2012-02-12T14:31:00.001-08:00

Michael had decided he wanted his HIV test done in a clinic. He had done a little phone book research and made an appointment at one in the Fenway neighborhood. He called me and asked if I’d meet him up there.

I had time to walk the three miles or so from Ashburton Place. The day had grown overcast. The golden dome of the State House was set in relief against the flat gray sky. Bullfinch’s creation appeared more vivid, held more contrast and majesty on days such as this.

Sitting in the brightly painted, very tidy waiting room Michael and I both were reading travel magazines. Michael was tapping his foot and breathing loudly.

All of the magazines were current. Today’s New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and Bay Windows shared the newspaper rack with the Boston Globe.

“I wish they had a Sports Illustrated.” Michael said.

A thin muscular man sat to my right. He was the only other person in the room.

“This is tough,” he said.

“It is.” I responded”

“I do it regularly, but it doesn’t get any less nerve wracking.”

I nodded.

“How long have you two been together?” he asked gesturing toward Michael and me. I turned and looked at Michael.

“Six years.” I answered.

“That’s sweet. Impressive these days.”

Michael’s face became a collection of obtuse angles. He leaned towards me.

“Together? Fintan? I think he means together together.”

“You’re right Mikie.” I turned back to the man on my right. “We’ve known each other for six years…”

Michael tried to reassemble his face into a sincere, or at least not goofy, smile. He failed.

“… but, we’ve only been together for four.” I said.

Michael swallowed audibly, closing his eyes. A nurse called number twenty-one and our new friend, giggling, rose from his chair.

“Good luck, gentlemen,” he said as he passed us. He bent down, patting Michael on the knee. “You make a lovely couple.” Number twenty-one and his nurse disappeared behind a white door.

“Fintan, what the hell…?”

“What? I’m not good enough for you?”

“I will get you for this.” Michael was shaking his fist playfully at me. It seemed a little limp to me.

“Look at it this way, my friend. Perhaps you just had your conversation with the ticket taker. Plus, it broke the tension.”

“Like hell it did. It replaced one tension with another is what it did.”

“Not for old number twenty-one,” I said. “He thought we were cute as hell. Took his mind off why he was here for a moment, too, I suspect.”

“Maybe, but you're here for old number twenty-two, remember? You are a jerk of the first order, Fintan O’Keefe.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

“Twenty-two?” Another nurse, this one male, carrying a metal clipboard, and rocking from heel to toe, waited for one of us to stand.

“There’s ticket takers all over the goddamn place.” Michael said over his shoulder as he followed his nurse down the short hallway. They disappeared from my view. I said a Hail Mary, my first one in at least ten years. Since the day I walked down a similar hallway in another part of town.

Michael was back in the waiting room in less than twenty minutes. There was no color in his normally ruddy face. He thanked his nurse. Back out on Queensbury Street he said,

“I should know tomorrow, or the next day at the latest. What do you say to a Guinness or six, Finn?”

“What do I always say to a Guinness, Mikie?”

St. James' Gate, Dublin

Digital Communication

2012-02-07T14:31:00.000-08:00

Driving on this island is an aerobic activity. Some of the uphill/downhill hairpin turn into the setting/rising sun can cause a driver to lift right out of the seat. One's abs must be finely tuned... although regular old power steering works OK, too.
There's a custom here that drivers recognize oncoming drivers with a Cortes salute. It's demonstrated here by renown actor, Academy Award winner, Morgan Freeman.

Right

Thank you, Mr. Freeman. It's something people expect. I like doing it. I like getting it back. In fact, if someone fails to return this gesture, I wonder aloud, "What's wrong with that guy" or "You think you better'n me, lady?" All bets are off, however when I am negotiating one of the going-three-directions-at-once turns. Both hands on the wheel is necessary or the next guy to see the Cortes salute will be St. Peter's receptionist, Lyle.

Lyle, on the job

There are many incorrect ways to throw the Cortes. This one, as demonstrated by Star Trek's Captain Uhura, is my favorite

Wrong

Marigolds, 28

2012-02-03T15:00:00.000-08:00

Massachusetts State Trooper Armand Bevilaqua arrived at Ashburton Place as I did, screeching his two-toned cruiser to a nose-dive stop at the curb. A sign reading STATE POLICE VEHICLES ONLY made it impossible for him to open his door. Bevilaqua restarted his car, slammed the shifter into reverse and lurched back. He exited a car still bouncing from its sudden stop. I watched from the doorway.

“Fintan O’Keefe, I presume.” Good guess, I thought.

“Present.” I took his extended hand.

Bevilaqua’s physical presence matched his voice. He was large though proportionate in every dimension. His deep set, brown eyes held mine as we shook hands.

“Let’s go inside, shall we?”

Bevilaqua held the door open for me. We entered to a chorus of “Yo, Bev,” and “Whadayasay Armand,” rising up from the troopers in the room.

“Hiya, boys. Got an empty room where me and my buddy Fintan can talk?”

A collection of parallel index fingers indicated we should go to our immediate right. The only guy in the room with stripes on his sleeve, smiling, yelled to Bevilaqua.

“Hey, Bev… need some help parking?” Laughter resonated around the room.

“I’m good Sarge. Thanks for asking.”

We sat in straight-backed oak chairs at an oak table some fool had painted. There were white “chalk” boards behind me and to my left. Wood-framed black and white head and torso portraits of state cops sporting hairstyles from a number of eras hung on wires to my right. The fourth wall was windows overlooking an alley.

“I’d offer you coffee, but words can’t describe how bad it is. Tea?”

“Hot water would be great.” I nodded as I spoke. “I have some tea with me.”

Trooper Bevilaqua left the room looking at me bemused over his shoulder. I walked to the window arms folded. On the other side of the alley, through a window slightly below me and badly in need of ammonia and a squeegee, sat a young woman. She was transcribing something at her computer. She wore headphones. Her straight hair curled in at the jaw line. Next to her keyboard was a pair of half-glasses. Her collarless blouse was either low-grade silk or good acetate. She was entirely unaware she was being observed and I was acutely aware of it. She stopped what she was doing and shook her hair back in a cathartic toss. Arching her back she locked her hands behind her head, her breasts taut against the material of her blouse. I don’t know why, but I found the moment to be exhilarating. Perhaps that’s the wrong word for what I felt.

Bevilaqua returned with a mug of steaming water for me and a coffee for himself.

“This shit isn’t good enough for visitors. In fact it isn’t good enough for felons…” he raised the cup in his right hand, “… but it’s all there is if you don’t want tea or water. And I don’t.”

For the next forty-five minutes I answered questions, drank chamomile tea, made observations and sought nuance and connections among the facts with Bevilaqua. He was smart and he was thorough. He filled three pages with notes never once making me feel I had to slow down to accommodate him.

“How’d those cops in New York treat you, pretty good?” Bevilaqua put his ballpoint down, sat back in his chair and rubbed his face with both hands.

“They did. They even kept me in the loop after they were done with me. Considering the fact that I wasn’t working for anyone associated with the case at that point, there was no reason for them to do that.”

“Nice of them, I guess, but you are a witness to a murder/suicide aren’t you?” He started to shade in the Os in what he had written but stopped.

I raised my eyebrows in assent to his point.

“ Are you working for anyone now, Fintan? It seems you might be.” As I said, he was smart.

“It does seem that way. I need to decide.”

I shared the duffle bag full of money story. I was going to show him the note, which I had been carrying with me, but it contained Miljenko Boban’s name. It stayed in my pocket.

“So, how did you find this guy, what’s his name?”

“Bukovats?”

“Yeah. How’d you track him down?”

“Solid detective work.” I lied. “Although there is no such thing as the Croatian Exchange Enterprise and I suspect he rid himself of the cell phone on which he took calls from me as soon as I told him where to go in Portland, Bukovats has taken no great pains to hide. He lives on Braddock Street in the South End. His mailbox says N.T. Buko. Cute, huh?””

“I think I need to have a conversation with Mr. Bukovats,” said Bevilaqua.

“May I punch him in his nose when you are through with your conversation.”

“Your fist, his nose…none of my business.” Bevilaqua stood and moved to the door. “I’m going to need a compelling reason for that chat, though.”

“How about his immigration status?” I asked.

“Perhaps, though I’d like to keep it as uncomplicated as I can and immigration stuff means the Feds.”

“He won’t know that, will he?”

“Probably not. I like the way you think, Fintan.”

I paraphrased the great Tip O’Neill. “Where Ante comes from, ‘all authority is local.’”

Marigolds, 27

2012-02-02T23:06:00.000-08:00

Ante Bukovats was one of those teachers with a skill set described by Boban as a godsend for the diplomatic and business communities. His resume said he spoke English, French, Serbo-Croatian and Russian fluently. He was wearing what appeared to be a uniform of some kind – brass buttons and epaulets – in the photocopy of his passport photo, though his CV mentioned no time in the military. He was a teacher and servant for the public people in Bosnia and Croatia, or so said the papers.

Bukovats lived in the South End, just below the mall and hotels complex at Copley Place, on Braddock Street. After lunch I walked through the neighborhood to make sure the address was real. It was. An “N.T. Buko.” was next to one of the brass-faced mailboxes in the cramped lobby. Cute: Ante becomes N.T.

Boston's Southend

Now, what the hell was I going to do about all this? Being a solid citizen I called the cops.

The Massachusetts State Police has an outpost on Beacon Hill, on Ashburton Place, behind the state house. I asked if I might be connected with Trooper Armand Bevilaqua.

“Trooper Bevilaqua works out of the South Boston Barracks. Hold on, I’ll see if I can’t connect you.”

Odd idiom: “I’ll see if I can’t connect you”? It should be “…can connect you,” should it not?

“Trooper Bevilaqua,” The voice was robust and confident. I told him my name.

“Ah, I have had you on my list, Mr. O’Keefe, since that little dust up you had in New York City. Thought we might compare notes.” The robust and confident voice became downright disarming.

“Then we are of one mind.”

“Can you meet me at Ashburton Place in, say, twenty minutes?” he asked.

“I can. I am walking in that direction as we speak.”

“Good. Be right up.”

Fun With Side of Fries

2012-02-02T12:29:00.000-08:00

From the Salem News Police Log, 02/02/12
A woman who had already been issued a no-trespass order for Wendy's on Lafayette Street was reportedly in the restaurant throwing food at other patrons at 4:21 p.m. She left before police arrived.

Insert your own "Where's the Beef" joke here. We should also not lose sight that this is Super Bowl week. Perhaps she was throwing food to patrons (root word "Patriots") and not at them.

And this...

Kiara M. Ravelo, 19, of 15 Palmer St., Salem, was arrested and charged with being a disorderly person and trespassing at 5:39 p.m. on East India Square after being issued a no-trespass order to the East India Square Mall. Police said Ravelo was uncooperative and somewhat resistant when being arrested.

Not mentioned: she had a Baconator in her pocket

Marigolds, Chapter 26

2012-01-31T22:48:00.000-08:00

Before we left the Red Hat I reminded Boban that our conversation, and the fact we had one, should be kept from Mr. Bukovats. He agreed to email me Bukovats’ employment records. Bukovats was, it appeared, hiding in plain sight using his own name. I felt more than a little inept I was unable to find him.

“Mikey, call me as soon as you can. I’ll be home by 10:30.” I called Michael just before entering the Bowdoin Street subway station.

I had suppressed the electricity that had crackled in my hands and arms when Boban told me that Ivana was HIV positive. I was having less success now as I considered how I would tell Michael and how he’d respond.

As was Michael Devlin’s habit, he returned my call by turning up at my place in Chelsea. He was sitting on the stoop when I arrived.

“If you dance you have to pay, I guess, right Finn? Or at least you have a conversation with the ticket taker?”

“Are you going to get tested? You should…”

“Of course I am, then.”

“I’ll help any way I can.”

“That’ll be fine, Finn. Thanks. I guess I’ll need to set it up, then, won’t I?”

In Boston there is no shortage of places to get an HIV test. Other options exist, too.

“Well, there are places you can go to have it done confidentially and others that will do it anonymously. You can buy a kit on line and have the results sent back to you, too.”

“Jesus, Finn, I had forgotten you knew all this stuff.” Michael said. “What’s the difference between anonymous and confidential?”

I explained all the details to my friend. I offered, more for me than him I suspect, to go with him if he chose the “walk-in” option.

“Let me know what you decide to do.”

The Importance of Punctuation

2012-01-29T18:08:00.000-08:00

A Newfoundlander is driving down a road in St. Johns .
A sign in front of a restaurant reads:

HAPPY HOUR SPECIAL

Lobster Tail and Beer

'Lord tunderin' Jaysus' he says to hisself, 'me tree favourite tings!'

Dire Wolf

2012-01-27T12:24:00.000-08:00

Prairie folk have the coyotes to consider. Our niece Hayley happened upon one in Grandma and Grandpa's livestock pens one day, emaciated and losing her coat. The coyote, not Hayley. Suburbanites in many locales have to deal with wild turkeys; ornery, menacing and toothless as the hill people who have consumed more than a few dram of the namesake beverage. I even have a boo boo a result of a vacuum-cleaner accident. Point is we all have our crosses-to-bear, dangers in our environs. Cortes has more than her share.
Wolves wander the island at night seeking food and perhaps a nightcap, I don't know. We've found the inedible hunks of wolf prey more than once: hooves and little else. These legendary canids have snatched doggies, their own cousins, off forest paths right in front of the owners. They've taken livestock through split-rail fences. One disquieting story we heard was of a kitty grabbed up from someone's doorstep. Vigilance is the key. Truth is, wolves don't like humans very much. Considering everything, who can blame them? Have you watched the Republican debates?
I wish they liked telemarketers.
Lili was home the other day, sick. The lovely and efficient Liesa, school secretary and resident wise woman, called. I answered. She said,
"Tell her not to worry because we're handling it, but there's a lame wolf on the playground."
My gulp was audible so she continued.
"Bruce (bus driver, fireman, part-time oral surgeon, Island Sage) is here and we have all the kids accounted for and in the building."
Not knowing what else to say or the protocol in an event like this, I asked, "Is Bruce going to shoot it?"
"Of course not! He's called the conservation officer."
"Ah," says I. "Is Bruce going to shoot him?"
"Just pass on the message, please?"
Wolves are generally not solitary creatures. They don't wander around in broad daylight, either. This poor creature was/is in trouble, perhaps more than just a gamy leg. More as details come in.

Jeeze, they are beautiful.