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CHAPTER
27
Boston, Massachusetts
Three hours later, with a name embedded in my brain, I pull up to the curb across from a bar in South Boston, a brick and stone pub called the Lord Mayor’s.
I have to admit, my neck hairs are prickling a bit. It’s an involuntary response. This used to be enemy territory for people with my skin color. They say things have changed. We’ll see.
I step forward and grab the big brass handle on the oak door. Deep breath. I swing the door open and step in.
I’m blasted by a rush of warm air and the sound of loud Irish music. It’s coming from a trio in the corner: a tall, skinny fiddler, a small guy with a drum in his lap, and a huge man playing a penny whistle. The six-holed woodwind looks like a toothpick in his large hands.
I scan the crowd as I make my way toward the bar. I’m not the only Black person in the place. We’re outnumbered, for sure, but everybody seems to be having a great time. When I sit down, I start to relax. A little.
Working the far end of the bar is a burly redheaded guy in a collared shirt and a green vest. The bartender nearest me is a tall woman wearing skintight jeans and a black tank top printed with the Lord Mayor’s logo. Her dark hair is cropped short and streaked with purple. She looks to be around forty but has the figure of a much younger woman.
“Lillian!” A waitress is calling to her from behind the service rail. “I need two Guinnesses!”
Lillian. The name Teresa gave me. This must be her. The former Amber Keenan.
The bartender draws two perfect pints from the tap and slides them down the bar. She sets a coaster in front of me, then leans forward to make herself heard over the music. “What can I get you?”
“Hennessy neat,” I call back. She grabs a tulip glass from the overhead rack with one hand and the Hennessy bottle with the other and pours my drink in record time. “Enjoy!”
I swirl my cognac in the glass, take a sip, and let the warmth wash through me. What I need is an opening. And a little quiet. But the Irish music is still pumping from the corner, and the buzz of the crowd is getting louder. I sip my drink and wait.
Just as I take my last swallow, my luck changes.
The music stops. The man with the penny whistle quiets the applause by leaning into the microphone. “Thanks, folks. We’ll be taking a short break now. See you soon!”
I turn toward the band and join the applause. When I turn back, the bartender’s there.
“Another Hennessy?”
I shake my head. No time to waste. “Actually, I came here to talk to Amber.”
She freezes. The smile melts. Her eyes turn cold. She looks up and down the bar, then back at me, and says in a low voice, “Who are you?”
The words tumble out. “My name is Brea Cooke. I’m working on a book. It involves Suzanne Bonanno.”
She turns and grabs the Hennessy bottle. This time, her hands shake a little as she pours it into my glass.
I try to stop her. “No, I don’t need—”
“Be quiet,” she says under her breath. “Pretend you’re a normal patron and that this is a normal interaction. In two minutes, take your drink to the booth marked ‘reserved’ in the back. I’ll meet you there.”
“You promise?”
“That’s what I said.”
She turns her smile back on and draws another round of beers. I see her catch the eye of the redheaded bartender and give him a hand signal. He nods. She ducks under the bar’s service rail and disappears.
I lay some cash on the bar and pick up my glass. I walk through the crowd until I spot an empty booth with a card readingRESERVED. I slide in. And pray.
A minute later, the former cheerleader slides onto the bench across from me. “Did they find Suzanne’s body?”
That’s her first question. I definitely have the right person.