Page 31 of The First Gentleman

CHAPTER 27

Boston, Massachusetts

T hree 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 reading RESERVED .

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.

I shake my head. “No. To the rest of the world, Suzanne is nothing but a missing person in a cold case. What do you remember about her, Amber?”

“Lillian,” she mutters with a tight smile.

“Call me Lillian.”

“Yes. Lillian. Sorry.”

“Sure,” she says.

“Suzanne was great. A lot of fun. Suzanne dating Cole was an open secret on the cheerleading squad. But we were a sisterhood. Nobody would have said anything. Besides, it’s not like she was the only rule-breaker.”

“How do you mean?”

She folds her hands on the table.

“I mean, you’re in your early twenties, young and pretty, and looking to blow off steam with a hunk pulling down a major paycheck.”

“And you just hope you don’t get caught.”

“Right. Just a little innocent fun. Plenty of us did it. Maybe to make up for the fact that we were being paid less than the team mascot. A lot of girls were waiting tables to make ends meet. Most of us were just enjoying the exposure and looking for a way out.”

“But Suzanne already had another job possibility, right?”

“Yeah. With Fidelity. After she disappeared, things weren’t the same. I took off to Virginia and got my union card. Electrician.”

“So why aren’t you running wires right now?” I ask.

“Construction dried up. So I went to bartending school in Virginia Beach, got some experience. I always liked Boston. I just needed to come back as somebody else.”

“Is that when you changed your name?”

“Yup. New name. Less hair. I had an aunt Lillian. Died when I was five.”

“Why didn’t you hang around to talk to the police after Suzanne disappeared? You must’ve known you’d be a valuable witness.”

“I always thought Cole was behind it and that the cops would get him. That was before he was released from the Pats, became a famous political figure, and got off scot-free.”

“Lillian, what was Cole Wright like? I mean, back when he and Suzanne were dating.”

She stares at the table.

I can feel her choosing her words.

“Ninety percent of the time, Cole seemed smart, funny, kind. A good guy.”

“And the other ten percent?”

“If he’d been drinking a lot or lost a game or if the coaches were riding him, his temper came out, along with his prima donna complex. He thought he was entitled to anything he wanted. Anything.”

“He get rough with people?”

“Sometimes.”

“With Suzanne?”

“They had some fights. I know that for a fact.” She looks at the band, who are picking up their instruments for a second set.

“I gotta get back to work.”

“Lillian. Amber . What are you keeping from me?”

She says in a low voice, “Are you really gonna investigate Cole Wright, the First Gentleman of the United States? Are you really after the truth? Because nobody else was.”

“I am. That’s why I’m here.” I see her biting her lip.

I lean in. “You know something.”

She’s quiet for a few seconds.

Then: “Near the end of the season, the Pats were supposed to crush the Steelers. Instead, they got their balls kicked in. The after-party turned into a wake. Lots of booze, some guys fighting, really bad energy. Dark. Dangerous.”

“You were there?”

She nods.

“So was Suzanne. And Cole. But the team brass was around, so they were pretending not to be together. Cole was hanging out more with me.”

I hear the drum pounding from the corner.

The fiddle answers.

“Lillian!” a waitress calls.

“I gotta go,” she says.

“Can we talk again?” I ask.

“Give me your number. I’ll call you.”

I get the feeling she’s been wanting somebody to talk to for a long time.

I scrawl my digits on a napkin and hand it to her.

She tucks it into her jeans pocket.

I take her arm and squeeze it lightly.

“I need you. Suzanne needs you.”

She’s sniffling now.

She says, her voice shaky, “After all this time, I do want justice.” She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand.

The fiddle music is rising in pitch and urgency.

She leans close and whispers in my ear, “That night after the Steelers game?” she says.

“That’s when I learned the truth about Cole Wright.”