Swan Dive

different guy, but he was too short to be Marsh in disguise. Aside from that diversion, Saturday night made Friday look like New Year’s Eve.

I had Sunday lunch with Hanna and Vickie, Rocky mauling a catnipped cloth mouse in the corner of the kitchen. By then, I was fairly sure that Marsh had decided to take the hint I’d dropped at his house, and I left Peabody around 2:00 p.m.
    Driving into Boston , I circled my block a few times to be sure old Roy hadn’t decided to shift his aim to me. I parked behind my building and trudged up the stairs. I tried Nancy ’s number first, but apparently she wasn’t back from New York yet. I reached Murphy’s home, his wife calling to him to leave the grill alone for a while and come talk to me.
    ”Cuddy?”
    ”Hi, Lieutenant.”
    ”We got company for barbecue, so I don’t have too much time.”
    ”Shoot.”
    ”Your boy Marsh, Roy M., stirred some interest.”
    ”How so?”
    ”Seems my friend in Narcotics has some photos of Marsh in the company of one J. J. Braxley.”
    ”This Braxley a cocaine dealer?”
    ”Call him a distributor.”
    ”Big-time?”
    ”Dawk—that’s my narcotics man, Ned Dawkins— he didn’t seem to think so. Braxley’s a Crucian.”
    ”As in Saint Croix ?”
    ”Right. Come up from the island in the early seventies, set up shop. Not oversmart, but enough careful and enough lucky to stay out of the big shit so far. Probably deals with a white dude like your Marsh just to spread the snow line a little farther north without a whole lot of risk.”
    ”Thanks, Lieutenant.”
    ”Cuddy, you remember what I said to you. And don’t you be messing with Braxley, either. Old J.J. like to use the muscle, and his hired help’d scare the Fridge off the football field.”
    ”Good to know.”
    ”I got a round of drinks to make here. Anything else?”
    ”Yeah. I’ve got to requalify at the range tomorrow. Can you put in a good word for me?”
    I think he was laughing as he hung up.
    The couch felt so good I figured I’d doze off for a while. I woke up at 9:15 p.m., hungry but still blurry after my two nights sitting upright. I heated some canned chili and put half of a frozen French baguette on top of the pot lid to defrost. I washed things down with a couple of Killian’s Irish Red ales, tried Nancy again without success, and went to sleep in a real bed for a change.

    * * *

    To get to the Boston Police Revolver Range , you drive south on the Expressway to Neponset Circle , then over the bridge to Quincy Shore Drive . At a traffic light, you turn onto East Squantum Street , bearing left all the way and enjoying an unusual aspect of Dorchester Bay and the city behind it. You feel as though you’re driving on a deserted causeway, winding toward some abandoned lighthouse. Then, just after several large water locks, you see the range compound, technically on a harbor chunk called Moon Island . I parked next to the one-story bungalow with the police department’s blue-on-white sign.
    Inside, the range officer took my name and told me to have a seat. He was about fifty-five, with curly gray hair and a soft-spoken manner. Handing me a duplicate of the instruction sheet you get at the licensing unit back at headquarters, he suggested I review it while he got some ammunition.
    In Massachusetts , the right to carry a concealed firearm is governed by the police of the municipality in which you reside. You have to have reasonable grounds for needing a permit, and Boston ’s live-fire test involves shooting thirty rounds at various distances. All in the bull’s eye would be a perfect 300. To pass, you need 210 points, a 70 percent score. Basically, that means hitting a roughly chest-size target with most of your thirty bullets. The problem is, if you shoot less than 210, you have to wait six months before you can try again.
    The officer came back to me with an old tomato can in his hand. He took me out through a rear door, passing under the large-print sign that spelled out Boston Police Rule 303 (”The Use of Deadly Force is Permitted:...”). We walked toward the numbered asphalt firing stations at the close edge of the range. No one else was in sight. The blue target holders were posted about twenty-five yards away against a high reddish brown barrier and an even higher earth berm behind it.
    The officer placed the can on the ground and unholstered his revolver. After checking to be sure the cylinder was empty, he stuck his fingers into and through