A Trouble of Fools Read Online Free PDF Page B

on the beat-up Chevys and rusty Fords in the Rebellion’s pocket-sized parking lot. Two G&W cabs were
    tucked into the lot as well, which would have given Gloria apoplexy. She wants those cabs on the road every second.
    I pulled around the corner and ditched my Toyota in a loading zone, locking it carefully. The thing I miss most about being a Boston cop is that little sticker you put on your windshield that keeps you from getting a parking ticket every hour on the hour. It also has a sobering effect on potential car thieves, if they can read.
    It was close to midnight. I was glad it was Wednesday, because Wednesday is not pick-up-a-date-at-a-bar-and-take her-home-for-the-night night.
    I can pass for Irish. I’ve got that kind of coloring, red hair, green eyes. I am part Irish, for the record. Also part Scots, and half Russian Jew. Somewhere back in the misty past, I am reputed to have had a great-grandma, on my mother’s side, who stood well over six feet, accounting for my otherwise surprising height. My parents were both shorties, Mom a passionate union organizer, Dad a Scots-Irish Catholic cop, at war with himself when he wasn’t doing battle with Mom.
    It not being Saint Patrick’s Day, I didn’t wear green. I aimed for working-class chic: skinny black jeans and a blue and black lumberjack plaid shirt, belted. Shoes tell all; if I’d worn four-inch black spikes with that outfit, not that I own any four-inch black spikes, I’d have looked like a working girl. In sneakers, I was okay—as okay as any woman gets who walks into a bar solo.
    Someday unescorted women will walk into bars without getting the glad eyeball from every guy who can still lift his face from his beer. But that great day has not yet arrived. Oh, I’m not making a fuss—I’m not bitter, don’t get me wrong. I just hate feeling like I’ve got a price tag hung on my ass.
    There’s no way to stop it. No way to win or get even. Once I spent an entire summer wolf-whistling at construction workers, reaching new heights of hollow achievement when I made some poor jerk blush.
    The Rebellion’s management eased my entrance by choosing a dim orangey light that made me suspect they didn’t want to draw attention to their food. Baseball, the Red Sox vs. the Orioles, lit up a big TV screen over a scratched dark wood bar. Smoke laced the air, and the place smelled like they emptied the ashtrays every Easter, need it or not.
    A wood partition shielded half a dozen tables from the bar. Most were square, and big enough to accommodate a four-person card game. A platform at the back of the room had space for a microphone and a folding chair. “Entertainment Weekends,” a hand-lettered sign promised. “Authentic Irish music.” In a rear corner, two tables had been shoved together, making a decent-sized table for eight. The table for eight had twelve chairs squeezed around it.
    My three cabbies were making themselves at home at the big table, joining friends, judging from the handshakes and smiles all around. Their table was the farthest from the bar, wouldn’t you know it, tucked in the corner near the restrooms.
     
    My threesome sat together, an oddly matched trio. Sean Boyle first caught my eye, the Old Geezer I’d followed home Monday night. He had a shock of white hair and a round flabby face. Red veins stood out in his doughy nose, making him look like a cross between Santa Claus and a wino.
    If I’d hailed his cab I would have demanded to smell his breath before climbing aboard. Then again, I’m not sure I’d have wanted to get that close.
    To Boyle’s right sat a man who still had muscle instead of fat. Maybe fifty, I guessed, his hair flecked gray, he looked like a former Hell’s Angel, but maybe that was just the black leather jacket. He had a thin, sharp nose and a thin-lipped mouth. Mean-looking eyes. I thought he might be Costello, a guy who’d worked the day shift while I was at G&W. I didn’t think he’d remember me.
    Third was