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Authors: Camille Minichino
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hardest chore was entering the narrow hallwaythat ran the length of my bedroom and living room—a curious structural feature of my apartment. A trap door in the ceiling of the two-foot wide corridor provided access to the attic, which had been the scene of the only physical violence I’ve ever experienced. It was enough for a lifetime, however, and I hadn’t been in the attic since a bullet bounced off my shoulder and into its wall.
I took a flashlight and made my way up the short ladder that was designed to hook into slots on the attic floor. I trained my light around the musty loft, coughed out some dust, and saw that it was empty except for Galigani memorabilia and the boxes I’d kept there in storage. My eyes fell on the cartons labeled AG in thick black marker, and I remembered finding Al’s book, retrieved from the pocket of his robe in one of the boxes.
Back in my living room, I checked again on the officers below my window and decided I’d had enough of fearful cowering for one night. I tried to convince myself that I was overreacting. For one thing, I told myself, it was entirely possible that Rocky had overheard someone say I’d just come from California, or that I was a “Doctor.” But I didn’t really think so. To my knowledge, I’d never laid eyes on either Buddy or Rocky until that moment, and they had only been in the parlor a matter of minutes.
I needed to get to the bottom of Rocky Busso. In the safety of my flat, with no one under my sink, and two policemen within shouting distance, I was beginning to be angry at him. If he was deliberately trying to intimidate me, it had worked for a while.
I always considered myself a neat person, and this situation was remarkably untidy. Could the threads of my investigations, as slight as they were so far, be intertwined? I wondered. The idea that there was a connection between Hurley’s death two days ago and Al’s thirty-four years ago seemed even more far-fetched than a female pope before I died.
First, how did he know me? The only possible connection was Al Gravese. Maybe Rocky’s organization, as I chose to call it, had a tap on the Journal ’s microfiche system, and when I accessed the records for 1962, an alarm went off in a dark, smoky room over a bar. Too far-out, I thought, but I had to start somewhere.
Al’s book was in my briefcase, with the Journal articles I’d printed out. I piled the notebook and papers on my kitchen table, which was actually at the edge of my living room, prepared a snack of cannoli and coffee, and set to work.
I got out my best magnifying glass, with a battery-operated light attached, and studied the photos in the articles. The crash had occurred in the Point of Pines section of Revere, at the northern end of the city, where it meets Saugus. It was a single-car accident, in which Al’s enormous Buick sedan apparently flew off the road and fell into the Pines River. The photos were mostly of the crash scene, with only one of Al, taken when he won a prize for his tulips at Boston’s Horticultural Show.
I sat back in my chair, swallowing the last daub of cream cheese from the cannoli, and asked myself how I expected to recognize Rocky Busso as he looked thirty-four years ago. Al was ten years older than me, thirty-one at the time of his death. If Rocky were the same age, he’d be sixty-six now. I didn’t think so. But, from what I remembered of his slightly graying hair and leathery face, he could be in his early fifties, making him Al’s teenaged friend.
After a half-hour of racking my brain for ideas, I came up with: check the 1962 Boston Globe for photos, since Al was living in Boston’s North End, not Revere, when he died; ask Frank, who’d lived in Revere all his life, if he’d ever seen Rocky or any of Buddy’s other escorts before this evening; and check the Journal ’s crime pages for any mention of Rocky Busso.
It took a brief stretching session to ease my stiffness, and another glance at the
I took a flashlight and made my way up the short ladder that was designed to hook into slots on the attic floor. I trained my light around the musty loft, coughed out some dust, and saw that it was empty except for Galigani memorabilia and the boxes I’d kept there in storage. My eyes fell on the cartons labeled AG in thick black marker, and I remembered finding Al’s book, retrieved from the pocket of his robe in one of the boxes.
Back in my living room, I checked again on the officers below my window and decided I’d had enough of fearful cowering for one night. I tried to convince myself that I was overreacting. For one thing, I told myself, it was entirely possible that Rocky had overheard someone say I’d just come from California, or that I was a “Doctor.” But I didn’t really think so. To my knowledge, I’d never laid eyes on either Buddy or Rocky until that moment, and they had only been in the parlor a matter of minutes.
I needed to get to the bottom of Rocky Busso. In the safety of my flat, with no one under my sink, and two policemen within shouting distance, I was beginning to be angry at him. If he was deliberately trying to intimidate me, it had worked for a while.
I always considered myself a neat person, and this situation was remarkably untidy. Could the threads of my investigations, as slight as they were so far, be intertwined? I wondered. The idea that there was a connection between Hurley’s death two days ago and Al’s thirty-four years ago seemed even more far-fetched than a female pope before I died.
First, how did he know me? The only possible connection was Al Gravese. Maybe Rocky’s organization, as I chose to call it, had a tap on the Journal ’s microfiche system, and when I accessed the records for 1962, an alarm went off in a dark, smoky room over a bar. Too far-out, I thought, but I had to start somewhere.
Al’s book was in my briefcase, with the Journal articles I’d printed out. I piled the notebook and papers on my kitchen table, which was actually at the edge of my living room, prepared a snack of cannoli and coffee, and set to work.
I got out my best magnifying glass, with a battery-operated light attached, and studied the photos in the articles. The crash had occurred in the Point of Pines section of Revere, at the northern end of the city, where it meets Saugus. It was a single-car accident, in which Al’s enormous Buick sedan apparently flew off the road and fell into the Pines River. The photos were mostly of the crash scene, with only one of Al, taken when he won a prize for his tulips at Boston’s Horticultural Show.
I sat back in my chair, swallowing the last daub of cream cheese from the cannoli, and asked myself how I expected to recognize Rocky Busso as he looked thirty-four years ago. Al was ten years older than me, thirty-one at the time of his death. If Rocky were the same age, he’d be sixty-six now. I didn’t think so. But, from what I remembered of his slightly graying hair and leathery face, he could be in his early fifties, making him Al’s teenaged friend.
After a half-hour of racking my brain for ideas, I came up with: check the 1962 Boston Globe for photos, since Al was living in Boston’s North End, not Revere, when he died; ask Frank, who’d lived in Revere all his life, if he’d ever seen Rocky or any of Buddy’s other escorts before this evening; and check the Journal ’s crime pages for any mention of Rocky Busso.
It took a brief stretching session to ease my stiffness, and another glance at the
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