Charlesgate Confidential by Scott Von Doviak

Author:Scott Von Doviak
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Titan

OCTOBER 16, 1986

The Angels went down without a fight in the last two games of the series. Oil Can Boyd started on Tuesday in a game the Red Sox blew open with five runs in the third inning. About a halfdozen of us watched Game 7 in the Love Room, and after the bottom of the eighth, with the Sox comfortably ahead 8−1, Murtaugh and I ventured down to Kenmore Square to take in the celebration.

It was a harrowing victory party indeed. Bodies crowded shoulder to shoulder and back to belly, spilling off the sidewalks and deep into Commonwealth Avenue, which was closed to vehicular traffic. The heavy police presence didn’t stop the drunken revelers from dancing on top of parked cars, spraying each other with foaming beers and chanting “Yankees suck!” for no really good reason. But who needed a reason?

“This is crazy,” I said.

“Yeah, it’s awesome,” said Murtaugh.

It wasn’t awesome for some poor bastard who had parked his Toyota Corolla in front of the Pizza Pad. Three townies were doing a jig on its roof and hood, pounding deep dents into its frame. Their dancing intensified and the roof began to cave in. The windows shattered, bringing screams from those closest to the car. Then the townies started chanting “Tip it! Tip it! Tip it!” A half-dozen BU frat rats took them up on the offer, piling along the curb side of the car and rocking it back and forth. The townies stage-dived into the crowd and the frat rats managed to rock the Corolla completely off its driver’s side tires and flip it towards Comm Ave. More screams as the crowd backed away and the car’s roof came crashing to the ground.

“Chief, I dunno about you, but I’ve had enough celebrating,” I said. “I’m getting the fuck out of here.”

“Pussy!”

“Yep. Smell ya later.”

I made it home without incident. The next day, I met Shane Devlin at the McDonald’s at Downtown Crossing. He was wearing the uniform with golden arches over his heart and pushing a mop across the floor. “I’ll be done in five,” he told me. “Why’ncha order a Filet-O-Fish or something?”

I ordered some fries and a small Coke and waited for him to finish. A few minutes later he joined me at the table, now dressed in civilian clothes.

“We gotta find these paintings, kid,” he said. “This is the job my parole officer got me. When I went in the joint in ’46, they didn’t even have McDonald’s. I’d see the commercials when I was locked up, always made me hungry. Must be good if so many people love it. Turns out it’s crap.”

I shrugged. “The fries are pretty good.”

“If you say so. But listen, I did my share of mopping up in Walpole. I don’t intend to make a living at it out here.”

“I guess we better get started then.” I tossed my half-eaten fries and we headed out to the Park Street T station.

“Food ain’t the only thing that’s changed,” he told me. “I felt like going to a movie yesterday.

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