Boston Noir

She walked by the tiny cemetery where many a dog went to defecate against the mildewed tombstones, and by the old church they were developing into more condominiums. She waited at the light, and when it changed she walked past the hairdressing salon, the Syrian shoe repair shop, the Greek diner, and the Miles Pratt house, taken over by dentists now. She nodded hello to a man and his little girl standing outside the Armenian Library and Museum. Down the tiny side street near the CVS was the Iranian restaurant where she’d had lunch a few times by herself; she liked the rice sprinkled with fleshy pomegranate, the ice cream flavored with cardamom and rose water, and had pla

Outside the bank, she sat on the bench near a Japanese maple and smoked three cigarettes in succession, waiting for the line to thin. Up the street near the CVS, a police car circled the square slowly.

PART II. SKELETONS IN THE CLOSET

FEMME SOLE

BY DANA CAMERON

North End

A moment of your time, A

A

In fact, with anxious glances, the crowd melted back in retreat from around her. No one wanted to be between Seaver and whatever he was after.

Cowards, she thought. But her own mouth was dry as he approached.

She turned, swallowed, met his eyes, then lowered hers, hoping it looked like modesty or respect and not revulsion. His face was weathered and, in places, blurred with scars, marks of fights from which he’d walked away the wi

He didn’t touch her, but she flinched when he gestured to a quiet space behind the stalls. It was blustery autumn, salt air and a hint of snow to come, but a sour milk smell nearly gagged her. Dried leaves skittered over discarded rotten vegetables, or was it that even the boldest rats fled when Seaver approached?

“How are you, Mr. Seaver?” she asked. She tried to imagine that she was safely behind her bar. She felt she could manage anything with the bar between her and the rest of the world.

“Fair enough. Yourself?”

“Fine.” She wished he’d get on with it. “Thanks.” His excessive ma

When he didn’t speak, A

He waited, searched her face, then looked down. “What very pretty shoes.”

“Thank you. They’re from Turner’s.” She shifted uncomfortably. She didn’t believe he was interested in her shoes, but neither did she imagine he was trying to spare her feelings by not staring at the bruises that ran up the side of her head. These were almost hidden with an artfully draped shawl, but her lip was still visibly puffy. It was too easy to trace the line from that to the black and blue marks. One mark led to the next like a constellation.

One thing always led to another.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Seaver?” she said at last. Not knowing was too much.

“I may be in a way to do something for you.”

A

“Nothing like that,” he said, showing that rank of teeth. “It’s your husband.”

“What about him?” Gambling debts, whores, petty theft? Another harebrained investment gone west? Her mind raced over the many ways Thomas could have offended Mr. Seaver.

“I saw him at Clark ’s law office this morning. I had business with Clark…on behalf of my employer…”

A

“…and your husband was still talking to Clark.”

“Yes?” A

“He was asking how he could sell your establishment.”

“He can’t. It’s mine,” she said before thinking.

Seaver showed no surprise at her vehemence. “Much as I thought, and exactly what Clark told him. Apparently, Hook Miller wants the place.”

“So he said last night. I thanked him, but I’m not selling. He was more than understanding.”

Seaver tilted his head. “Because he thinks the way to acquire your tavern is through your husband.”

The words went through A

“If I sell it, how will we live? The man’s an idiot.” She was shocked to realize that she’d actually said this, that she was having a conversation, this conversation, with Seaver.

“Perhaps Thomas thinks he can weasel a big enough price from Miller.”

“The place is mine. No one can take it, not even my husband. My father said so. He showed me the papers.” Feme sole merchant were what the lawyers called her, with their fancy Latin. The documents allowed her to conduct business almost as if she was a man. At first, it was only with her father’s consent, but as she prospered-and he sickened-it was accepted that she was responsible, allowed to trade on her own. Very nearly independent, almost as good as a man, in the year of Our Lord 1745. And, though she could never say so aloud, better than most.

“I think Clark will be bound by the document,” Seaver said. “At least until someone more persuasive than Thomas comes along.”

The list of people more persuasive and smarter than her husband was lengthy.

“It’s only a piece of paper.” Seaver shrugged. “A fragile thing.”

A

A

He shrugged. “I like to drink at your place.”

She almost believed him. “And?”

She knew what was coming, was nearly willing to pay the price that Seaver would ask. Whatever would save her property and livelihood, the modicum of security and independence she’d struggled to achieve. What were her alternatives? Sew until she was blind, or follow behind some rich bitch and carry her purse, run her errands? Turn a sailor’s whore?