Street Games 
J. W. Swain

J.W. Swain claims to be Boston’s original bad boy,
having roamed the mean streets for three decades.
These days, however, he has sought refuge on Cape Cod
where he thinks of ways to avoid any real work while
he scribbles short stories in addition to shamelessly
attempting to market two finished novels. To ensure
that he has total peace and quiet, he is protected by his
vicious attack dog, Sophie, a Mini-Schnauzer. Swain
may be contacted at gsbadboy@aol.com.
©Copyright 2001
J. W. Swain

“You be trippin’, Fallon.”
“Not what Lazy Lady says.” Luckily, I didn’t need a translator,
having mastered basic ebonics during my years on the job. “Lady
says you’re the one to ask about who hot-shotted Sweet Lily.”-
“Don’t be me. ‘Sides, why’s anyone wanna know ‘bout some no
‘count street ho?”
“Not for me to wonder, ‘Lil John. Just for me to find out. You
know how it works.”
“Know somethin’? I like you a whole lot better when you be
wearin’ blue, know what I’m sayin’?”
“Lotsa people feel that way…except the job. Funny thing, some
people thought I was a little heavy handed. A nice guy like me.”
“Say I do know a little something, whas inna fo ‘me? You know
‘Lil John’s gotta get him some.”
“How’s this? You tell me what I need to know and I let you walk
away from here with all those nice gold teeth still in your head.”
“Man, why you gotta do me like that? I always be straight wit’
you, now you gotta be actin’ all Wyatt Earp an’ shit. Brotha can’t get
no respect…”
I didn’t bother letting ‘Lil John get the rest of the sentence out. I
was on a tight time schedule and didn’t have time for the niceties.
I’m not sure what word was coming after ‘respect,’ but Lil John was
having a tough time squeezing it around the muzzle of the shortbarreled
.357 stuck in his mouth.
“Listen to me. I’m going to ask you one question, one time. If I
don’t like the answer, there’s going to be one more unsolved
homicide in old Beantown.” I pulled the hammer back on the pistol.
“Understand?” ‘Lil John nodded his head up and down vigorously.
“Good. Really easy. Sweet Lily. Who slid the hot load in her arm?”
“…’ake…’immy ‘e ‘ake.”
“What the fuck? Say that again, so I can understand it this time.” I
pulled the gun from his mouth, realizing that it made it kind of
difficult for him to speak.
“The Snake. Jimmy the mothafuckin’ Snake. Him an’ that other
crazy white boy he be hangin’ wit.”
“Bobby D?”
“Yea, that be him…Bobby fuckin’ D.”
“Thanks, ‘Lil John. See how easy that was.” I slid two new
Franklins into his shirt pocket. “I’m leaving, and I ain’t never been
here. Right?”
“This brotha don’t be seein’ no white boys, specially no big ass
Irish looking mothafucka ‘round the Berry…know what I’m sayin’?”
“That’s what I thought.” I turned and headed back toward my car,
wondering if it’d still be there. Even leaving a piece of shit like my
five-year-old beater in Roxbury was taking a chance. I rounded the
corner and saw it still sitting where I’d left it. Miracles never cease.
• • •
The Jack Daniel’s went down easy, warming me as it did. Now
that I had some names, I wondered what to do with them. Guess
I’d have to talk with my client. That meant a long drive in the
morning, out to Walpole where my client was currently residing in
deluxe accommodations provided by the Commonwealth of
Massachusetts.
• • •
The drive out 95 had been pleasant, mostly because I’d waited for
the rush hour traffic to clear out, and partly because it was an
uncommonly mild day in August. Sunny, with very little humidity.
That happens once a millennium in New England.
Before I knew it I was pulling into a parking space in the visitor’s
lot at MCI-Cedar Junction. Use to be the joint was know as MCIWalpole
until some locals got their knickers in a twist about the
property values going down by being associated with the state’s
maximum security prison. So, the pols had it re-named for a
forgotten village in town. Didn’t change the people inside. They
were still the worst of the worst. I was here to see one of them.
• • •
“Tell me something good. Man is down in a shithole like this, he 
needs to hear something good.”
“Got a name,” I replied, looking across the three feet of space
separating me and Ransom Williams. Well, three feet and some
security glass.
“Like?”
“Got two, actually. The Snake and Bobby D.”
William’s brown face took on an even darker hue. He had to
struggle to spit out his next question: “Know why?”
“Didn’t get that far yet. Kinda thought I’d see where you wanna
go with this.”
“Wanna go as far as I can…catch my meaning?”
“That’s not my thing. You know that.”
“No, man, I didn’t mean you. Got me some boys who do that for
me.”
“So, you need me for what?”
“Find out who gave them the green light.”
“How?”
“Your problem. Seems to me you’re pretty good at that shit.”
“Then?”
“My boys’ll clean it all up from there.”
“Your boys can’t find out for you”
“Yah, right. What kind of brothas can be going around asking
about two white boys?”
“Yah, what am I thinking? Tell you what. I’ll give it a shot. Tell me
something though.”
“Yeah?”
“How come you’re so interested in some street whore. Seems a
little out of your league.”
“My sister.”
“Huh?”
“I said, she was my mothafuckin’ sister.”
“That’s a reason,” I said, standing up.
Williams stood as well, looked at me through the security glass,
turned and walked away. My guess was we were all through
talking.
• • •
I’d worn off quite a bit of shoe leather trying to get a line on The
Snake. It’s not like people in Jimmy’s line of work keep regular
hours, or even regular places. Plus, tracking him down wasn’t going
to be as easy as it would be with John Q. Citizen. I had to be
careful who I asked, and how I asked. Otherwise the tom-toms
would be beating all over town, and I’d never find them…or, worse
yet, they’d find me, and that wouldn’t be a good thing.
• • •
The third Guinness was going down real smooth when Benny
Antunes slid onto the stool next to me. “Heard you’re looking to
find Snake and Bobby.”
“And…”
“Might be able to help.”
“Knowing you, Benny, it’s got a price tag…this help.”
“Five yards is good, I figure.”
I don’t believe in haggling if I’m sure the skinny is the real deal.
It would be. Benny was a professional snitch. “Yah, that’s good.”
“They’ll be at Bobby D’s place tonight, right around ten. They got
some business to do.”
“Got an address?”
“Building C, apartment six, in the D street projects.”
I slipped five hundreds into Benny’s hand out of view beneath
the bar. He got up and walked away as I drained my Guinness, left
some money for my tab and walked out into the night.
Though I had my information, it was not what I wanted to hear.
Going into Southie after these guys was bad enough, but trying to
take them in the D street projects was like trying to take Saddam in
Baghdad. You shouldn’t try to take a snake, so to speak, in his den.
• • •
“Boston Gas,” I said for the third time.
“Boston Gas?” replied a voice from the apartment.
“Yah…gotta get in to check for a leak.”
“We didn’t report no fuckin’ leak.”
“Hey, man, all I know is we got a call from this building about
leaking gas. We gotta check all the apartments. You wanna get
blown up, suit yourself.” I started to make like I was walking away.
I heard the door open a crack behind me. I turned around and saw
a pair of eyes checking me out. Trust me, uniforms aren’t all that
hard to find, and there’s something about them that makes people
trust you, even distrustful people. The door opened wider.
The man in the doorway wasn’t large, maybe five foot six, and
probably tipped the scales at 150. Jimmy The Snake. Wouldn’t have
mattered if he’d been 350, because by the time he recognized me,
I’d already pushed him back into the apartment and slammed the
door shut with my foot. I gave what I could see of the apartment a
quick visual sweep. No one.
“Bobby D. Where’s Bobby D?” I hissed into The Snake’s ear.
“Batroom…he’s usin’ the batroom.”
“He is, the only piece he better be holding when he comes out is
the one god gave him. Now, let me see what you’re carrying.” I ran 
my free hand around his waist, then down both legs. “What’s this
for?” I asked, holding up the ice pick I’d removed from an ankle
sheath. Snake didn’t answer.
“Yo, Jimmy, what time we gotta be at the thing?” Bobby D was
still zipping his fly as he walked into the living room, freezing in
mid-zip when he saw me pointing the piece at him while I held The
Snake on the floor with a firm right foot.
“C’mon in, Bobby. Me, you and The Snake need to have a little
chat.”
“Fuck you, Fallon. You ain’t on the job no more. I don’t gotta do
nothin’.”
I bent down and fired a bullet into the back of The Snake’s right
knee. I ignored The Snake’s screaming and trained the gun back on
Dumbrowski. “I’m thinking that’s not the answer I was looking for.
Go sit in that chair,” I said, pointing to the easy chair next to the
sofa. Dumbrowski walked over and sat in the chair, his eyes locked
with mine the whole way. I grabbed The Snake by his belt, lifted
and carried him over to the sofa where I dropped him. He was still
moaning, and losing quite a bit of blood.
“Who paid you two geniuses to hot shot Sweet Lily?”
“We didn’t fuckin’ hot shot nobody,” Dumbrowski said.
“You a slow learner?” I lowered my pistol and blew away half of
Dumbrowski’s left kneecap. He screamed, and tried to staunch the
blood pumping out from between the fingers cupping his knee.
“Fuckin’ crazy…cops’ll be here…”
“Oh yah, like gunshots in the D street projects is gonna bring
some heat. I don’t think so. Tell you what. I got four rounds left in
this bad boy. I’m sure I can take out two more kneecaps and be
gone in…what, three minutes. And, if I don’t get the answer I’m
looking for you can guess where the other two rounds are gonna
end up.”
“Danny Bray.”
I looked at Dumbrowski, not believing what I’d heard. “Come
again.”
“Danny Bray. Gave us two large. Jeezus, Fallon, this hurts. Call a
fuckin’ ambulance.”
“In a minute. You telling me that Bray paid you two grand to pop
some whore? Why?”
“The fuck should I know,” Dumbrowski said. “We just do ‘em, we
don’t ask why.”
“Guess I gotta talk to the next level up then, huh?” I started
backing myself out of the room.
“Hey, what about us. We’re bleeding to death here.”
“Yah, well, life’s tough all over,” I said, as I closed the door to the
apartment.
• • •
I thought about Bray giving the nod to having Sweet Lily
whacked. Just my luck. Like the Music Man said, ‘we got big trouble
right here in River City.’ Danny Bray had taken himself from being a
two-bit neighborhood gadfly right up to presidency of the Boston
City Council, largely on the shoulders of the bussing issues during
the late 70’s. I needed time to think about this one. One slip and I’d
end up in a body bag. Bray had many contacts, and not all of them
were politicians.
I thought about it all the way back to my place, and continued
thinking about it as I hit the sack wondering where I’d go with all
of it. Only the rapping in my head made me stop dreaming about it.
The rapping that turned out to be someone at the door. I pushed
myself out of the rack, walked to the door and looked through the
peephole. I didn’t like what I saw.
“You letting us in or what, Fallon?”
I opened the door and said, “Mi casa es su casa.”
“Always the smartass, huh Teddy? One of many reasons you’re
not still on the job.”
“Whatever, Iverson. What do you two want?”
“Where were you last night?”
“When?”
“All night.”
“That’s a long time.”
“Humor us.”
“Had a few brewskies at McCloud’s, then came home and sacked
out.”
“Anyone else see this,” asked the second dick, Ralph Toomey.
“No, Toomey, no one else was here. What’s this all about?”
“Where’s your piece?”
“Why?”
“Just let us see the fuckin’ piece.”
I walked over to my dresser, took a Glock from the top of it and
handed it to Iverson. He looked at it, then back at me. “This is your
piece?”
“Yah.”
“Don’t got another one?” asked Toomey.
“Nah, one’s good for me,” I said, thanking whatever gods there
were that I’d left the magnum in my car. “Mind telling me why you
need to know?”
“Sure. Someone whacked Jimmy The Snake and Bobby D last
night, but not before they did a little surgery to their kneecaps.”
“A nine?”
“Nah, but a large bore on the knees, and a coupla .22’s to the
head for finishers.” 
“It’s got what to do with me?”
“Little birdie gave us a squeal. Said Teddy Fallon’d be a good bet
‘cause he was out looking for Snake and Bobby.”
“Bird got a name?”
“You know better than that, Fallon. Tell you what. Me and
Toomey’re gonna take this piece downtown, just in case. Meantime,
you need to go outta town, you check first.”
“Telling me I’m on the list?”
“Yah, for now you’re on the list.”
“Fuck you.”
“Sure, same to you,” said Iverson as he took Toomey in tow and
exited the apartment.
Great, now I was on a short list of suspects in a double homicide.
Somehow, this wasn’t seeming like the cake assignment I’d thought
it would be. Time to visit Councilor Bray.
• • •
“The Councilor will see you now,” said a twenty-something
blonde who probably wasn’t there because she was a Mensa
candidate.
“Thanks,” I said and walked past her into Bray’s office in City
Hall. Bray was seated behind a cherry wood desk large enough to
fill half the space. He hadn’t changed much over the years. Same
pockmarks, same swept back hairdo, same cocky arrogance that
oozed from every pore. He motioned to a chair in front of the desk.
I sat in it.
“So, what can I do for you officer…oh, that’s right, you’re not a
police officer any more. It’s what…a private detective now?”
“Yah, private investigations is what I do.”
“So, don’t keep me in suspense. What’s on your mind?”
“Well, Councilor, seems that, somehow, one street whore and two
of your former constituents are dead.”
“Again, what’s that got to do with me?”
“I think you’re behind it.”
Bray snorted. “Way I hear it, Fallon, you’re the one the boys
downtown want to talk to about those two poor unfortunates that
were murdered two nights ago. As far as some whore being
killed…well, that’s the way it goes. Me, I’m a respected member of
the city council…”
“How respected are you going to be when the pictures of you
with Sweet Lily get sent to the papers?” I said, interrupting him.
Bray’s face changed color. “There’s no fucking pictures. You’re
bluffing.”
“Try me.”
“Let’s say, just for sake of argument, that there were some 
pictures. What would it cost to get them to disappear?”
“Twenty.”
“Grand?”
“Very good, Councilor. You are quite the astute politician after
all.”
Bray turned, gazed out the window at the view of Boston Harbor,
turned back to me and said, “All right. You be Il Pannino in the
Marketplace tomorrow night at eight with the pictures, and
negatives. We’ll do it then.”
“Okay,” I said. “Mind telling me why.”
“Why what?”
“Forget about those two lamebrains you hired to do the job. Why
whack some small time street whore?”
“More pictures.”
“Huh?”
“She had pictures and said she’d send ‘em to The Globe unless I
gave her fifty g’s.”
“So, why didn’t you give it?”
“Fuckin’ nigger…you gonna trust a fuckin’ nigger? No way. I
mean, she was lucky I was letting her suck my dick. Those people
don’t know the meaning of the word honor. I had a friend of a
friend get Snake and Bobby on the ticket. Figured that was easier.
I’m not going to have to worry about you, am I?”
“Nope. Give me my twenty and I’m gone.”
“What’re you gonna do about the cops liking you for murdering
Snake and Bobby?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nah, you’re gonna take care of that for me.”
“Me? How?”
“You’re the politician. You figure it out.” I got up out of the chair,
walked to the door, turned and said, “Tomorrow night, eight at Il
Pannino.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Me too.” I closed the door and wondered why he had never
asked where I’d gotten pictures from. Good thing. I didn’t have any.
• • •
I read the story again. It was front page, and probably would be
for the rest of the week, or at least until something else juicy came
along. The headlines screamed in forty eight point type: Council
President Slain In Robbery Attempt.
Seems Daniel Bray, President of the Boston City Council, was
accosted by unknown assailants while on his way to a dinner date
in the Faneuil Hall Marketplace. He’d been shot several times in the 
head, and his wallet had been taken. There were no suspects,
although the police were witholding no resources in their efforts to
locate the perpetrators.
I put the paper down, picked up the glass of Jack and took a
good pull. Things were back to normal. Well, almost. The fellas in
Major Crimes were still not quite convinced that yours truly wasn’t
the one who sent The Snake and Bobby D to the promised land,
but that would blow over. It always did.
I tipped the glass back again and let another swig of Mr. Daniel’s
ambrosia slide down my throat. I’m always amazed at how
otherwise smart people can be goaded into doing stupid things. I’d
played the tape I held in my right hand at least four times tonight,
hearing Bray’s voice as clearly as I had when I’d taped him in his
office. I’d given a copy to Ransom Williams’ lawyer to play for him
at the state pen. The results were predictable.
End game is I get to stay out of the can for The Snake and Bobby
D thing. Ransom sent me the green he owes me for digging all this
shit up, and who knows what happened to the twenty k Bray was
carrying. Might not be real tidy, but it works for me.