Dirty Old Town: A Shane Cleary Mystery

Gabriel Valjan

DIRTY OLD TOWN

A Shane Cleary Mystery #1

First published by Level Best Books January 14, 2020

Copyright © January 14, 2020 by Gabriel Valjan

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Gabriel Valjan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

First edition

ISBN: 978-1-0878-5732-9

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Contents

Praise for the Shane Cleary Mysteries

The People

Chapter 1: Bait

Chapter 2: Mushrooms

Chapter 3: A Fare to Pay

Chapter 4: Sports Night

Chapter 5: It’s A Wrap

Chapter 6: Hot Whisper

Chapter 7: Smell A Rat

Chapter 8: The Sweet Science

Chapter 9: Bonfires to Light

Chapter 10: One of The Regulars

Chapter 11: Nap Time

Chapter 12: Party in Progress

Chapter 13: Person of Interest

Chapter 14: No Hemingway

Chapter 15: Soul Food

Chapter 16: Saying No to the Devil

Chapter 17: Angles

Chapter 18: Wonderland

Chapter 19: The Animal

Chapter 20: Stakeout and Dinner

Chapter 21: Friendly Fire

Chapter 22: Closing Shop

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Praise for the Shane Cleary Mysteries

Robert B. Parker would stand and cheer, and George V. Higgins would join the ovation. This is a terrific book—tough, smart, spare, and authentic. Gabriel Valjan is a true talent—impressive and skilled—providing knock-out prose, a fine-tuned sense of place and sleekly wry style. — Hank Phillippi Ryan, nationally bestselling author of The Murder List.

Fans of Robert B. Parker’s Spenser and Dennis Lehane’s Patrick Kenzie will love Shane Cleary. Gabriel Valjan has created a fascinating new PI character who prowls the tough streets of ‘70s Boston in this compelling hard-boiled mystery. Dirty Old Townis fast, fun and first-rate! — R.G. Belsky, author of the award-winning Clare Carlson mystery series.

"Dirty Old Town hits every pitch out of the park: it’s smart, funny and consistently surprising. A great read!" — Dennis Palumbo, author of the Daniel Rinaldi Mysteries

Say hello to Shane Cleary, a down-on-his luck private detective walking the streets of dirty old Boston, circa 1975. He’s smart, sarcastic, and tough, despite a few cuts and bruises. And he’s got a gift for describing everything he sees like a painter with a brush dipped in acid. So come for the twisting plot and suspense, stay for the style. Author Gabriel Valjan has done a terrific job bringing Shane and his world to life. You’ll read it in one sitting. — William Martin, New York Times Bestselling Author of Back Bay and Bound for Gold.

Valjan paints the town, and all the colors are noir. — Tom Straw, New York Times Bestselling author, as Richard Castle.

The People

Shane Cleary: South End, Boston private investigator.

Delilah: Shane’s cat.

Catherine Braddock: Wife of Brayton and Shane’s ex-girlfriend.

Brayton Braddock: Husband of Catherine, and Shane’s childhood friend.

Delano ‘Professor’ Lindsey: Shane’s former teacher, mentor, and father figure.

Bill: Friend of Shane and an Army veteran.

Eddie: Former confidential informant and current owner of a coffee shop.

Jimmy C: Arsonist.

Nathaniel Dunbar: Auditor.

Roger Sherman: Friend of Bill’s.

Marty Savitz: Sports agent.

John: Bar and pool hall owner, and husband of Sylvia.

Sylvia: Owner of Sister Sylvia’s, a soul food restaurant in Dorchester, and John’s wife.

The Barbarian: Hit man.

Mr. B: Mafia don.

Mr. Butch: Street entertainer, Kenmore Square.

Tony Two-Times: Bodyguard and associate of Mr. B.

Chapter 1: Bait

The phone rang. Not that I heard it at first, but Delilah, who was lying next to me, kicked me in the ribs. Good thing she did because a call, no matter what the hour, meant business, and my cat had a better sense of finances than I did. Rent was overdue on the apartment, and we were living out of my office in downtown Boston to avoid my landlord in the South End. The phone trilled.

Again, and again, it rang.

I staggered through the darkness to the desk and picked up the receiver. Out of spite I didn’t say a word. I’d let the caller who’d ruined my sleep start the conversation.

Mr. Shane Cleary? a gruff voice asked.

Maybe.

The obnoxious noise in my ear indicated the phone had been handed to someone else. The crusty voice was playing operator for the real boss.

Shane, old pal. It’s BB.

Dread as ancient as the schoolyard blues spread through me. Those familiar initials also made me think of monogrammed towels and cufflinks. I checked the clock.

Brayton Braddock. Remember me?

It’s two in the morning, Bray. What do you want?

Calling him Bray was intended as a jab, to remind him his name was one syllable away from the sound of a jackass. BB was what he’d called himself when we were kids, because he thought it was cool. It wasn’t. He thought it made him one of the guys. It didn’t, but that didn’t stop him. Money creates delusions. Old money guarantees them.

I need your help.

At this hour?

Don’t be like that.

What’s this about, Bray?

Delilah meowed at my feet and did figure eights around my legs. My gal was telling me I was dealing with a snake, and she preferred I didn’t take the assignment, no matter how much it paid us. But how could I not listen to Brayton Braddock III? I needed the money. Delilah and I were both on a first-name basis with Charlie the Tuna, given the number of cans of Starkist around the office. Anyone who told you poverty was noble is a damn fool.

I’d rather talk about this in person, Shane.

I fumbled for pen and paper.

When and where?

Beacon Hill. My driver is on his way.

But—

I heard the click. I could’ve walked from my office to the Hill. I turned on the desk light and answered the worried eyes and mew. Looks like we both might have some high-end kibble in our future, Dee.

She understood what I’d said. Her body bumped the side of my leg. She issued plaintive yelps of disapproval. The one opinion I wanted, from the female I trusted most, and she couldn’t speak human.

I scraped my face smooth with a tired razor and threw on a clean dress shirt, blue, and slacks, dark and pressed. I might be poor, but my mother and then the military had taught me dignity and decency at all times. I dressed conservatively, never hip or loud. Another thing the Army taught me was not to stand out. Be the gray man in any group. It wasn’t like Braddock and his milieu understood contemporary fashion, widespread collars, leisure suits, or platform shoes.

I choose not to wear a tie, just to offend his Brahmin sensibilities. Beacon Hill was where the Elites, the Movers and Shakers in Boston lived, as far back to the days of John Winthrop. At this hour, I expected Braddock in nothing less than bespoke Parisian couture. I gave thought as to whether I should carry or not. I had enemies, and a .38 snub-nose under my left armpit was both insurance and deodorant.

Not knowing how long I’d be gone, I fortified Delilah with the canned stuff. She kept time better than any of the Bruins referees and there was always a present outside the penalty box when I ran overtime with her meals. I meted out extra portions of tuna and the last of the dry food for her.

I checked the window. A sleek Continental slid into place across the street. I admired the chauffeur’s skill at mooring the leviathan. He flashed the headlights to announce his arrival. Impressed that he knew that I knew he was there, I said goodbye, locked and deadbolted the door for the walk down to Washington Street and the car.

Outside the air, severe and cold as the city’s forefathers, slapped my cheeks numb. Stupid me had forgotten gloves. My fingers were almost blue. Good thing the car was yards away, idling, the exhaust rising behind it. I cupped my hands and blew hot air into them and crossed the street. I wouldn’t dignify poor planning on my part with a sprint.

Minimal traffic. Not a word from him or me during the ride. Boston goes to sleep at 12:30 a.m. Public transit does its last call at that hour. Checkered hacks scavenge the streets for fares in the small hours before sunrise. The other side of the city comes alive then, before the rest of the town awakes, before whatever time Mr. Coffee hits the filter and grounds. While men and women who slept until an alarm clock sprung them forward into another day, another repeat of their daily routine, the sitcom of their lives, all for the hallelujah of a paycheck, another set of people moved, with their ties yanked down, shirts and skirts unbuttoned, and tails pulled up and out. The night life, the good life was on. The distinguished set in search of young flesh migrated to the Chess Room on the corner of Tremont and Boylston Streets, and a certain crowd shifted down to the Playland on Essex, where drag queens, truck drivers, and curious college boys mixed more than drinks.

The car was warmer than my office and the radio dialed to stultifying mood music. Light from one of the streetlamps revealed a business card on the seat next to me. I reviewed it: Braddock’s card, the usual details on the front, a phone number in ink. A man’s handwriting on the back when I turned it over. I pocketed it.

All I saw in front of me from my angle in the backseat was a five-cornered hat, not unlike a policeman’s cover, and a pair of black gloves on the wheel. On the occasion of a turn, I was given a profile. No matinee idol there and yet his face looked as familiar as the character actor whose name escapes you. I’d say he was mid-thirties, about my height, which is a liar’s hair under six-foot, and the spread of his shoulders hinted at a hundred-eighty pounds, which made me feel self-conscious and underfed because I’m a hundred-sixty in shoes.

He eased the car to a halt, pushed a button, and the bolt on my door shot upright. Job or no job, I never believed any man was another man’s servant. I thanked him and I watched the head nod.

Outside on the pavement, the cold air knifed my lungs. A light turned on. The glow invited me to consider the flight of stairs with no railing. Even in their architecture, Boston’s aristocracy reminded everyone that any form of ascent needed assistance.

A woman took my winter coat, and a butler said hello. I recognized his voice from the phone. He led and I followed. Wide shoulders and height were apparently in vogue because Braddock had chosen the best from the catalog for driver and butler. I knew the etiquette that came with class distinction. I would not be announced, but merely allowed to slip in.

Logs in the fireplace crackled. Orange and red hues flickered against all the walls. Cozy and intimate for him, a room in hell for me. Braddock waited there, in his armchair, Hefner smoking jacket on. I hadn’t seen the man in almost ten years, but I’ll give credit where it’s due. His parents had done their bit after my mother’s death before foster care swallowed me up. Not so much as a birthday or Christmas card from them or their son since then, and now their prince was calling on me.

Not yet thirty, Braddock manifested a decadence that came with wealth. A pronounced belly, round as a teapot, and when he stood up, I confronted an anemic face, thin lips, and a receding hairline. Middle-age, around the corner for him, suggested a bad toupee and a nubile mistress, if he didn’t have one already. He approached me and did a boxer’s bob and weave. I sparred when I was younger. The things people remembered about you always surprised me. Stuck in the past, and yet Braddock had enough presence of mind to know my occupation and drop the proverbial dime to call me.

Still got that devastating left hook? he asked.

I might.

I appreciate your coming on short notice. He indicated a chair, but I declined. I have a situation, he said. He pointed to a decanter of brandy. Like some…Henri IV Heritage, aged in oak for a century.

He headed for the small bar to pour me some of his precious Heritage. His drink sat on a small table next to his chair. The decanter waited for him on a liquor caddy with a glass counter and a rotary phone. I reacquainted myself with the room and décor.

I had forgotten how high the ceilings were in these brownstones. The only warm thing in the room was the fire. The heating bill here alone would’ve surpassed the mortgage payment my parents used to pay on our place. The marble, white as it was, was sepulchral. Two nude caryatids for the columns in the fireplace had their eyes closed. The Axminster carpet underfoot, likely an heirloom from one of Cromwell’s cohorts in the family tree, displayed a graphic hunting scene.

I took one look at the decanter, saw all the studded diamonds, and knew Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton would have done the set number of paces with a pair of hand-wrought dueling pistols to own it. Bray handed me a snifter of brandy and resumed his place in his chair. I placed my drink on the mantel. Tell me more about this situation you have.

Quite simple, really. Someone in my company is blackmailing me.

And which company is that?

Immaterial at the moment. Please do take a seat.

I declined his attempt at schmooze. This wasn’t social. This was business.

If you know who it is, I said, and you want something done about it, I’d recommend the chauffeur without reservation, or is it that you’re not a hundred percent sure?

I approached Bray and leaned down to talk right into his face. I did it out of spite. One of the lessons I’d learned is that the wealthy are an eccentric and paranoid crowd. Intimacy and germs rank high on their list of phobias.

I’m confident I’ve got the right man. Brayton swallowed some of his expensive liquor.

Then go to the police and set up a sting.

I’d like to have you handle the matter for me.

I’m not muscle, Brayton. Let’s be clear about that. You mean to say a man of your position doesn’t have any friends on the force to do your dirty work?

Like you have any friends there?

I threw a hand onto each of the armrests and stared into his eyes. Any talk about the case that bounced me off the police force and into the poorhouse soured my disposition. I wanted the worm to squirm.

Watch it, Bray. Old bones ought to stay buried. I can walk right out that door.

That was uncalled for, and I’m sorry, he said. This is a clean job.

Unexpected. The man apologized for the foul. I had thought the word apology had been crossed out in his family dictionary. I backed off and let him breathe and savor his brandy.

I needed the job. The money. I didn’t