Tears of the Furies (A Novel of the Menagerie) Read Online Free Page B

was Squire’s ringtone.
    He reached into another pocket in his coat — it had
more pockets than was possible — and answered. "Squire."
    He listened to the voice on the other end, cursing a couple
of times. "Yeah. Yeah, of course. No, that can’t be good. You just sit
tight there, spanky. Someone’ll be in touch."
     
     
    Mr. Doyle strode along Hanover Street in Boston’s North End,
enjoying the warm summer day. Once upon a time the neighborhood had been
subject to a constant drone of noise from the elevated interstate that ran
through Boston’s heart. But the city had done something extraordinary, burying
the highway underground. It was quiet, now, in the North End. Or as quiet as
the neighborhood would ever be.
    The North End was a warren of curving streets, lined with
churches, apartments, bakeries, and restaurants. Early in Boston’s history it
had become the haven of the city’s Italian immigrants, and it still reflected
the best of that cultural influx. The spring and summer seemed a parade of
festivals honoring the Italians’ favorite saints, carnivals of food and music. This
was a corner of the city — of the nation — that still enjoyed
simple pleasures.
    The summer breeze swept off the ocean and blew through the
narrow streets, picking up the wonderful aromas from the markets and the pastry
shops. Mr. Doyle could not help himself, and he paused to peruse the small
menus posted in front of several restaurants as he made his way along the
street. Frank Sinatra’s voice whispered through one propped-open door, Andrea
Bocelli through another.
    The sidewalks were busy with people out strolling, deciding
on lunch, or making their way to the Old North Church to appreciate the history
of the place. Like so many of Boston’s treasures, the church was tucked away
far from anything else, beyond even the limits of the touristy areas of the
North End. Parts of that neighborhood did not share the appeal of its main
streets. Beyond Prince and Hanover, there were other smaller, narrower roads
where there were no expensive signs, no festival banners, no outdoor music. The
shops on those backstreets catered only to local people. The faces of the
buildings were in desperate need of sandblasting and refurbishing, and the
windows were often cluttered with handmade signs.
    Mr. Doyle left the brighter, more colorful heart of the
North End and slipped into a gray side street with the sureness of one who had
walked this way many times. He passed a shoe repair shop, a small butcher’s, a
used appliance store, and an antiquarian bookstore that looked tiny from a peek
through the front window, but was unimaginably enormous within. Impossibly
large, some might have said.
    Ah, well. People had so little imagination. And other than
the locals — who had a strong enough sense of community never to remark
on anything odd — the only people who went into the bookstore knew what
they were looking for, and that only a special kind of shop would be able to
acquire it for them.
    He inhaled deeply. The salt of the ocean was strong on the
breeze. It had been a beautiful walk down here from Beacon Hill. It was June,
the solstice imminent. The days were long, and the air shimmered with the heat
of the sun. During the workweek there were mostly professionals about, but this
was Saturday, and so he had passed many women in pretty summer dresses. It was
the sort of day that inspired that kind of thing. On his walk back, he thought he
might stop and buy a lemonade from one of the street vendors in front of the
aquarium.
    Mr. Doyle waved to a Sicilian grandmother pushing her
daughter’s child in an old-fashioned carriage. She nodded gravely in return. A
silver Lexus prowled along the curving street. Someone looking for parking had
lost their way. There were things he simply knew, things he intuited from the
moment. It was a gift.
    He twitched, pain lancing into his head from his empty eye
socket. The patch that covered it was not a problem,