Prelude
A Capo
Smecker and Bloom
Undisclosed Location: Somewhere in Argentina
"Sometimes, Eunice, you are a certified genius!" A veiled jibe wrapped inside praise: that was how Smecker always treated her. Once upon a time, he would dangle just barely enough information for her to suss out the truth, but now, things were different. She'd served him faithfully, and well. Spending the rest of her life in exile with him seemed a small price to pay, to serve the Greater Good. They were supposed to be the boys' guardian angels on high, taking care of the problems they had no knowledge of before it affected their ability to follow their Higher Calling.
Smecker was animated in the wake of her latest suggestion. Pacing around the table with his hands going this way and that as he began to put together the hows and whys. Suddenly, he stopped, across the table from her, silhouetted by the pretty red terracotta rooftops of Argentina. "Why has it taken us this long to figure this out? Why?!"
She flinched when he raised his voice, avoiding eye contact for a few moments. He was still her mentor, her teacher, and she would always feel humbled in his presence.
"Maybe," she breathed in her drawling, Southern accent. "We subconsciously wanted Romeo to be completely recovered and able to survive the escape attempt."
"But it's not an escape attempt. It's an assassination!" Smecker was grinning, ear to ear, his wide mouth pulled into an expression that Bloom would call 'diabolical glee.' "We know they are all being held in separate wings, no contact, so what we're going to need is some organized movements."
"What about the Irish mob remnants? Most of them are in Hoag."
"They've been protecting the boys, why wou—" Smecker stopped, staring at Bloom across the table. She didn't think his grin could possibly grow, but there it was, getting wider, his eyes brightening. "A coup. Casualties of a gang war. I like what you're thinking, Eunice. Make it happen. Quick. Hurry. We have no time to lose!"
Bloom couldn't help but smile as she was waved off and dismissed by the man who'd taught her everything she'd ever known. She still adored him, as a child would look up to a big brother, and she had done much to gain his confidence and trust. But in the same way that a big brother always bosses around his little sister, Bloom would always be gopher. Not that she minded. She turned from the dining room, the place in the small compound that they'd lovingly nicknamed the War Room, and headed for the veranda.
Her heels clicked softly on the stone terrace. She'd traded in the severe FBI-spare skirts and jackets for the more flouncy, beautiful tourist-wear of the Argentinian coast. The sundress she wore was spattered with deep greens and tiny red flowers, both of which served to make her fair appearance stand out even more among the tanned natives. They were on halllowed ground, taking refuge in the living quarters that would normally be reserved for the Bishop of the area. They were under protection of the Roman Catholic Church, an entity, Bloom had learned through the past two years, that was extremely influential, extremely involved, but seriously lacking in ingenuity. That's where the boys came in. Where her, and Smecker's jobs were so important. She'd never before felt she were shepherding a flock, but here she was, shepherding a flock of three, those infamous Saints of South Boston.
She found the satellite phone sitting in its charger in the room Paul had claimed. Lifting it from its cradle, she traced the lines of the phone while reflecting on what she was about to do. This phone call would hold the lives of three men in the balance. Unbidden, the silly angular grin of David Greenly popped into her head, and she felt her chest tighten. The goofy, gangly detective had asked her out for drinks on more than one occasion. Her biggest regret, still, lingered around not accepting that offer. She turned the phone over in her hands a few times, before rapidly punching the numbers for the South Boston Police Precinct.
It took her a few minutes to get connected with her detective of choice, posing as a journalist seeking an interview. But when he finally picked up:
"This is Detective Dolly."
She sighed with tangible relief, feeling tension drain from her before she realized how nervous she was. Two years since the debacle and he still worked in the same station, the same beat. She couldn't help but thank God for small miracles.
"No. No names, Detective. No names, just action."
Sacramental wine chilled in a small bucket at the end of the table. Smecker sat quietly while the strains of Vivaldi's Four Seasons filled the small but opulent home. Eunice paced the length of their quaint War Room, heels clicking in time with the music. They had promised, and had yet to come back with word that all had gone well. The curtains fluttered with the ocean breeze. Argentina was in the depths of summer, the sun high and warm in the sky. But when Eunice closed her eyes, she could still picture the cold New England landscape. It was winter there: unforgiving snow blanketing the city. Mother Nature at her most indifferent, her coldest.
In the center of the table, like a klaxon going off amid the sweet beauty of the Summertime movement, the satellite phone began to ring. Smecker pointed at it, eyes widening as he turned toward Bloom. She crossed to the table in two confident strides, poking her finger at the screen in her impatience. When the call finally connected, far-away and tinny, Dolly's Boston-accented voice crackled through the connection, sounding as exhausted and as drawn as Eunice herself felt.
"Safe in Southie."
Those were the only words spoken before the connection severed, but Bloom gave a little whoop of triumph, and hopped in the air in joy. Smecker calmed her with his large hands on her shoulders, bringing her back to earth. Even though his eyes were twinkling with the joy of knowing the boys were safe, his face was unsmiling. He smoothed Eunice's hair away from her face, watching her calm herself down.
"This is only the beginning." He whispered softly. "Things will get much harder before they get better. Are you certain that they are safe staying in Boston?"
Eunice nodded slowly. "Between the Monsignor and the Irish-American community there, they should enjoy a period of anonymity while they get back on their feet."
"I do hope you're right. We can only help them so far."