“But not anymore?”

“That’d be hard. Butch passed on five or six years ago. Cancer of the tongue. It wasn’t pretty.”

“Any others? More recently?”

“Not any Muranos or Sturdivants that I can think of. Most of the stuff people used to deal in – your card games, your numbers, your horse betting, your whores – a lot of that’s gone now. The Indians in Connecticut have ahold of the casinos. Hey, who says the white people won the war? The fucking Indians, they don’t go to jail, plus they make out like bandits. You got your drugs, of course, but the blacks and the Mexicans control it all, basically. No Irish need apply. There’s still lots of sports betting here in town, and it’s still a nice, clean white people’s way of doing business. It’s seldom anybody gets hurt – not your blacks with their Uzis and their pit bulls chewing people’s throats off. It’s just roughing somebody up once in a while who bets and loses and neglects to meet their obligations. I’ve seen that happen.”

I didn’t ask O’Toole if he had seen that happen firsthand. I said, “What about Sturdivant’s brother, Michael? He told a man who had him removed from a movie theater one time that the guy had better back off or he might get his leg broken.”

O’Toole thought about this. “I’ve wondered about Michael.”

“Wondered what?”

“People know him in Providence.”

“Which means what?”

“Hey, you know Rhode Island.”

“I guess you don’t mean that in colonial times Rhode Island was a haven of religious tolerance.”

“Nah, the mayor’s in a federal prison. You don’t get that in most places.”

“Buddy Cianci. What was it? Rigged contracts? Kickbacks?”

“Yeah, nickel and dime stuff for a fucking mayor. What a putz.”

“And Michael Sturdivant has friends of a certain kind in Providence?”

“I heard that. But what do I know?”

“Does Michael come to Pittsfield often?”

“I see him once in a while,” O’Toole said and signalled the bartender for another Bud and another Sam Adams. “At mass at Mount Carmel with Anne Marie. He’s a good son; you gotta give the guy credit. Unlike Jim. That fucker gave all his dough to the ballet and shit like that, and you seldom saw him in church. And he just lived down in Sheffield, unlike Providence two or three hours away.”

“Michael must be in Pittsfield for the funeral. It’s on Monday.”

“Yeah, I saw him at mass yesterday. He was here earlier in the week too. I saw him over at Ern’s Lounge on Fenn Street.”

“Earlier in the week? Before Wednesday?”

“Monday, Tuesday. Dunno.”

“Did you speak to him?”

“I said hi. What was I gonna say?”

“Who was Michael with when you saw him?”

“Anne Marie in church, and Rose, his sister. And in Ern’s some guy, Cheap, from Schenectady.”

“A man named Cheap?”

“They call him Cheap.”

“What do you know about Cheap?”

“Nothin’. He’s cheap, I guess.”

“Maybe it’s that he does bird imitations.”

“Nah. He’s too heavyset.”

“What’s Cheap’s last name?”

“I think it’s Maloney. Like baloney, but not.”

“What does Cheap do?”

“Dipped if I know. He’s just this guy you see once in a while.”

“Who is Rose married to? Jim’s sister.”

“Some guy in Worcester, but they’re divorced. She’s a bitch, Mitzi says.”

“Mitzi’s your wife?”

“And the mother of my children.”

“How many have you got, Tom?”

“Heather and Shaun. Shaun was a son of a bitch coming out, so Mitzi got her tubes tied. Father Ryan gave her some shit, and I had to talk to him, priest or no priest.”

“Do Michael and Rose have children?”

“Maybe, but not around Pittsfield. They’d be in Providence and Worcester.”

I said, “Except for Anne Marie, none of the Sturdivants stayed in Pittsfield. Why do you think that is?”

O’Toole shifted on his barstool, which creaked. “Lack of job opportunity. When power transformer went, Pittsfield went with it. We gotta get the GE back, is what this town’s gotta do. But the mayor, those pricks. They don’t do diddley. They’re all in it for themselves.”

“What do you do for a living, Tom?”

Now he chuckled. “I’m retired. What do you do, Don?”

“I’m a private investigator.”

“Oh yeah. You said. Like Kojak.”

“I think Kojak was a police detective, wasn’t he? I’ve never been a cop.”

“Keep it up,” O’Toole said and raised his glass. “I have a niece who’s on the police. She’s a disgrace to the family. She’s a dyke too. I don’t know which is worse.”

“Pittsfield sounds like a rough town to grow up gay in,” I said.

“Gotta take pride in somethin’, my friend.”

From the car, I phoned a cop friend in Albany who had family and other connections in Schenectady. I asked him for information about a man known as Cheap Maloney, like baloney but not. He said he’d check. Then I tried Johnny Montarsi again, and this time he answered.

“I’m Don Strachey, a private investigator working on the Jim Sturdivant murder. Thorne Cornwallis said you might be willing to talk to me and give me some background information.”

“What kind of information? I’m busy.”

“Was Sturdivant involved in any kind of loan-sharking or other possibly illegal activities?”

“I wouldn’t know. Thorny thinks I’d know about that, he’s full of it.”

“He didn’t say that. He just thought you might have picked something up.”

“Nah. I can’t help. Anything else? I’m on my way somewhere.” I said, “Do you know Michael Sturdivant, Jim’s brother?”

“Why? No.”

“What about a guy named Cheap Maloney from

Schenectady who comes to Pittsfield?” Now I could hear Montarsi’s breathing, even over our cell phones. He said, “Tell me your name again?”

“Don Strachey.”

“Where do you work out of, Don? Springfield?”

“Albany.”

“Uh huh. Hey, I wish I could help you out. Tell Thorny I wracked my brain. But this one I know nothing about. Honestly. Are you here in Pittsfield, Don?”

“Right now I am. I’m staying at a motel in Great Barrington, the Boxwood Inn. Maybe we could get together.”

“Nuh uh, I’m tied up. Good luck with that Sturdivant thing.”

“Thanks. Have a nice day, Johnny.”

“You too, Don Strachey.”

I picked Timmy up, and on the way back to Great Barrington I told him, “I want you to take a separate room at the motel. Somebody might be coming after me there.”

“Coming after you? What’s that supposed to mean?”

I explained that Johnny Montarsi, one of the well-informed local goons Thorne Cornwallis had referred me to, seemed to know who Michael Sturdivant and a dubious character from Schenectady named Cheap Maloney were, and Montarsi seemed inordinately interested in where I was staying and the fact that I was somehow connecting these two men to the Sturdivant killing.

“Jeez, Don!”

“And the thing is, this might be my most direct route to these two bozos. That is, baiting them.”

“Baiting them to do what?”

“To show up. So I can talk to them. It’s Cheap Maloney who’ll have some insights to offer, I’m willing to bet.”

“What if Cheap’s most insightful expression comes by way of a lead pipe?”

“I can still handle situations like that. Are you suggesting that I’m over the hill, Timothy?”

“You? Oh, honey, never. Just because the AARP has your mailing address doesn’t mean the Cosa Nostra does.”

“This is not Cosa Nostra, not that big, I don’t think. But I do believe Jim Sturdivant was involved in something that made some branch of organized crime want him eliminated.

The hot-tub loans? No, I don’t think it’s connected to that. That was just some weird perversion Sturdivant enjoyed. Getting off by humiliating gay men because he was so ashamed of being gay himself. This is something else he did that got him killed, and there’s circumstantial evidence that his brother, Michael – who may have mob connections in both Providence and Schenectady – is somehow involved.”