A Drink Before the War
DENNIS LEHANE
A DRINK BEFORE THE WAR
Copyright © 1994 by Dennis Lehane
Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work should be mailed to the following address: Permissions Department, Harcourt, Inc., 6277 Sea Harbor Drive, Orlando, Florida 32887-6777.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lehane, Dennis. A drink before the war/Dennis Lehane. p. cm. ISBN 0-15-100093-x ISBN 0-15-602902-2 (pbk.) LTitle. PS3562.E426D75 1994 8i3’.54 dc20 94-12274
This novel is dedicated to my parents,
Michael and Ann Lehane,
and to Lawrence Corcoran, S.J.
Acknowledgments
During the writing of this novel, the following people provided advice, criticism, encouragement, and enthusiasm for which I’ll always be more grateful than they could possibly know:
John Dempsey, Mal Ellenburg, Ruth Greenstein, Tupi Konstan, Gerard Lehane, Chris Mullen, Courtnay Pelech, Ann Riley, Ann Rittenberg, Claire Wachtel, and Sterling Watson.
Author’s Note
Most of the action in the novel takes place in Boston, but certain liberties have been taken in portraying the city itself and its institutions. This is wholly intentional. The world presented here is a fictitious one, as are its characters and events. Any resemblance to actual incidents, or to actual persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
MY EARLIEST MEMORIES INVOLVE FIRE.
I watched Watts, Detroit, and Atlanta burn on the evening news, I saw oceans of mangroves and palm fronds smolder in napalm as Cronkite spoke of unilateral disarmament and a war that had lost its reason.
My father, a fireman, often woke me at night so I could watch the latest news footage of fires he’d fought. I could smell the smoke and soot on him, the clogging odors of gasoline and grease, and they were pleasant smells to me as I sat on his lap in the old armchair. He’d point himself out as he ran past the camera, a hazy shadow backlit by raging reds and shimmering yellows.
As I grew, so did the fires, it seemed, until recently L.A. burned, and the child in me wondered what would happen to the fallout, if the ashes and smoke would drift northeast, settle here in Boston, contaminate the air.
Last summer, it seemed to. Hate came in a maelstrom, and we called it several things racism, pedophilia, justice, righteousness but all those words were just ribbons and wrapping paper on a soiled gift that no one wanted to open.
People died last summer. Most of them innocent. Some more guilty than others.
And people killed last summer. None of them innocent. I know. I was one of them. I stared down the slim barrel of a gun, looked into eyes rabid with fear and hatred, and saw my reflection. Pulled the trigger to make it go away.
I heard the echoes of my gunshots, smelled the cordite, and in the smoke, I still saw my reflection and knew I always would.
ONE
The bar at the Ritz-Carlton looks out on the Public Garden and requires a tie. I’ve looked out on the Public Garden from other vantage points before, without a tie, and never felt at a loss, but maybe the Ritz knows something I don’t.