Back Bay (60 page)

“Where did you get it?” asked Hannaford.

“You haven’t told me if you’re interested in my deal.”

“I need time to think about it.”

“You got no time. I want to know now.”

Hannaford’s voice faltered. “I believe that I am.”

Rule smiled. “You’re a smart boy, smart enough to know that what I’m gonna tell you now goes no further than this room. If it does, I’ll destroy the tea set, and then I’ll destroy you.” He picked up the teapot. It was so delicately balanced that he could hold it with one finger. “This is a fake.”

Hannaford was only mildly surprised. In an East Boston warehouse, with an unctuous arm-twister like Rule, he couldn’t expect anything else. But the forgery seemed flawless.

“The man who made this tea set is one of the finest silversmiths in Europe. Before he started, he spent months studying Revere’s work—his daybooks, his techniques, everything. He used the right alloys for eighteenth-century silver, and he even developed a process that uses chemicals, heat, and infrared light to apply a patina that seems like the real thing.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“When I go into partnership with a man, I want him to know everything. That way, if he slips up, he’s not ignorant, just stupid.
And you’re not stupid. Besides, the Pratts have been connected into this thing for two hundred years. I think it would be good if one of their own introduced it to the world.”

“I’m a distant cousin, and I don’t know what the Pratts have to do with this teapot.”

Rule looked at his watch. “I have to get home and get ready for a New Year’s drunk. I’ll tell you the Pratt story some other time. You have two days to think this over, Larry. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll know you’re not interested.” Rule offered his hand.

“Don’t you think this is rather dangerous business?”

“Not at all. The silversmith won’t talk because he’s an old friend. Two of his sons live in this country because of my influence. You won’t talk because you’re not stupid, like I say. Which leaves me. I can guarantee you I won’t talk. Other than that, it’s simply a business proposition, a long-term loan. You need money and reputation right now. I want a piece of Pratt Industries, and I’m willin’ to wait for it. That tea set cost me a hundred thousand bucks to copy. I’ll make twenty times that much when you inherit your stock. I could sell the tea set myself, but I’d rather use someone with family connections.” Rule stood. “You see, Larry, I’m going to strangle the Pratts with their own rope, and you’re the guy who’s pickin’ up the slack.”

Hannaford was stunned by this man, who seemed to know so much. “What happens if I refuse to turn over the stock when my father dies? You can’t go to the police and tell them I didn’t pay for your art forgery.”

“If you don’t give me the stock when your old man bites the bag, you’ll get a mouthful of it yourself. And if you don’t want to go along with me, you’ll be hearin’ real soon from the IRS.” Rule took Hannaford’s hand and shook it. “Happy New Year.”

Two days later, feeling something like Faust, Lawrence Hannaford agreed to Rule’s deal.

The unveiling of the Golden Eagle Tea Set was the art event of the season. Two hundred people—potential buyers, museum officials, members of the news media, and the usual glamorous hangers-on—jammed the Newbury Street gallery to gawk at one of the most important finds in American art history. Four armed guards
protected the Golden Eagle, which was displayed in the middle of the room on a pedestal covered in blue velvet. Four spots highlighted it. The rest of the room was soft lights, background music, the clinking of champagne glasses, and the conversation of people who mattered.

Lawrence Hannaford, coolly elegant in black tie, tuxedo, and studs, glided through the crowd, shaking hands, pecking cheeks, and accepting congratulations. He was enjoying his greatest moment. He tried not to think about the deal with William Rule or the story they had fabricated about an anonymous English owner, the murder of Sir Henry Carrol in 1875, and the original theft by the British Captain Prendergast.

In his office, telegrams of congratulations were piled high on his desk. He had left all but one of the messages out so that friends could read them. He had filed Katherine Carrington’s note immediately after reading it.

“Congratulations, Lawrence,” she wrote. “We in the Carrington wing of the family are very happy for you. I must tell you, however, that my knowledge of the tea set’s history does not coincide with the story you have given to the press. Admittedly, my information comes to me via family legend and fable, while yours is the result of several months of careful research. But I must say that I was surprised to learn that the tea set has been in England since 1814; the legend says that it sank into the Back Bay. But I’ll never rain on your parade, as the saying goes. I’m glad that the tea set has been found under any circumstances. The legends can once and for all be laid to rest.”

The note comforted Hannaford. Katherine was the only member of the family to mention anything about the Back Bay, and she seemed perfectly willing to forget about it. Hannaford did not know that there was a newspaperman in the crowded gallery that night who had no intentions of forgetting about the tea set.

Jack Ferguson was wearing a rumpled gray flannel suit and bow tie, and he looked conspicuously out of place among the tuxedos. He was elbowing his way toward a stocky figure who looked equally misplaced, despite his evening dress.

“I hear you’ve changed your name,” said Ferguson.

William Rule turned around. He didn’t recognize the white hair and the craggy face. He hadn’t seen Ferguson in twenty years. His expression darkened for a moment, then he smiled and shook Ferguson’s hand. “Jack. How are you?”

“Still kickin’.”

“What do you think of this big shindig?”

“I think someone’s takin’ it in the ass.”

Rule’s eyes shifted nervously from Ferguson to the people conversing around him. Ferguson’s voice hadn’t carried. Rule took Ferguson by the arm and led him to the side of the room. “Ease off, Jackie. You talk like that, you’ll spoil the kid’s big night.”

“It sounds to me like you’ve spoiled his life.”

Rule’s hand clamped around Ferguson’s forearm. His grip was still powerful. “I did him a favor.”

Ferguson glanced over at the tea set. “Where did it come from?”

“You mean you didn’t get the press release?” Rule was trying to be very smooth.

“Well, I’ve heard a rumor that isn’t in the press release. It says you’re the English mystery man.” Ferguson looked around at the well-dressed mob. “I think the common man should know about rumors like that.”

Rule smiled. He had hoped to keep his name out of it completely, but he knew Ferguson would try to implicate him. “Actually, Jack, I’m a middleman for Hannaford. One of my English contacts is the owner.”

“Bullshit.”

“The tea set came from England. Old Phil Cawley was spinnin’ yarns. You told me that yourself twenty years ago at a hockey game. The tea set never made it to Boston.”

Ferguson smiled like a man who knew the truth.

Rule believed that nothing made him nervous. He felt a trickle of sweat beginning just beneath his hairpiece. He told himself it was the heat in the gallery. A waiter came by carrying a tray of champagne glasses. Rule grabbed two and offered one to Ferguson.

“No thanks.”

“On the wagon, eh?”

“Not a drop for the last four years. And never another one, if I
can help it. Since the last time we talked about the tea set, back in fifty-two, I’ve been down for the eight count and bounced back more times than Marciano.” Ferguson’s voice was a sharp edge cutting through the years.

“C’mon, Jack. Bygones. Didn’t you ever get the letters I sent you?”

“I got them.”

In 1967, when Rule had first begun to think about the forgery, he had written Ferguson several notes, inviting him to lunch. Ferguson had never answered them.

“We all do things we’re sorry for, Jackie. When I was younger, I was filled with hate. I always figured people were out to screw me. That’s the way I grew up. I was always ready to strike first or take revenge if someone struck me. When you accused me of killin’ that Carrington kid, that really hurt, Jack. Deep in the pit of my stomach it hurt. I had to get back at you.”

Ferguson didn’t believe a word.

“I had a mean streak, but not any more. I’m a changed man since the last time I got married. She’s a knockout. Let me haul her over here.” Rule found Cindy and led her back to the side of the room.

Ferguson was gone.

“That son of a bitch,” said Rule.

“What’s wrong, honey?”

“Nothing we can’t take care of.”

Jack C. Ferguson’s article appeared in the next issue of
Hubcap
. “Look under a rock,” it concluded, “and you’ll find a Boston businessman named William Rule. He claims to be Hannaford’s middleman. I wonder…. He’s been obsessed by the tea-set legend since he first read about it as a boy. I’m willing to bet a little U.S. cash that this Golden Eagle Tea Set is a fake. I’d tell more, but without permission of a certain fine lady from a certain New England family, I’d be breaking an oath. So let’s let it lie. Just like Bill Rulick.”

Lawrence Hannaford was petrified. He denied Ferguson’s charges and offered the tea set to silver experts and Revere scholars for examination. He had no other choice. Rule told him he
had made the right decision, encouraged him to remain cool, and promised him that Jack Ferguson would cause no further problems.

A few night later, Rule visited Ferguson at his three-room apartment in South Boston. He brought Edward and a quart of Canadian whiskey with him. Edward waited in the hallway.

“Talk fast, Rule. I’m busy.”

Rule looked around the apartment. It was small and dingy. Ferguson’s typewriter was on the kitchen table, a pile of papers beside it. The dwelling of a man who’d spent most of his life struggling, alone.

Rule offered Ferguson the bottle. “Let’s have a drink.”

“Say your piece and get out. I don’t want to drink with you.”

“That’s unfriendly, Jack. I’m here for a peace conference. Show a little class.” He handed Ferguson the bottle. He hadn’t stopped smiling since he had walked through the door. “Pour a couple over ice and hear me out.”

Ferguson put the bottle on the coffee table and went into the kitchen. He came back with a glass and a tray of ice cubes and put them beside the bottle. “Pour your own.”

“Good old Alcoholics Anonymous. Even if you haven’t touched it for four years, a single shot can touch you off.”

Ferguson nodded. “They’re right. I’ve learned that lesson the hard way too many times.”

Rule opened the bottle and poured three fingers. He washed the liquor around on the sides of the glass to release the sweet aroma, then he held it out to Ferguson. “They say a drunk can be on the straight and narrow for twenty-five years and still crave a drink every day of his life.”

Ferguson stepped back. He didn’t need temptation. “I’ll give you ten seconds to take that booze and get out of here.”

Rule flung the whiskey in Ferguson’s face and followed it with a left that clipped Ferguson on the chin and sent him toppling over the coffee table. Rule was fifty years old, but he lifted weights and worked on the light bag every day. Ferguson tried to roll to his feet. Rule kicked him viciously in the ribs and called for Edward.

Ferguson was dazed. He felt something trickling into his mouth. He tasted blood and the old familiar tingle of Canadian Club. He licked his lips and spat. Then Edward’s knee smashed into his face.

When he regained his senses, his arms were pinned behind him and Rule was pouring whiskey into his mouth. Ferguson turned his head away. Edward snapped it back.

“Taste good, Jackie?” asked Rule.

Ferguson was weak and confused. He swallowed, and the whiskey burned all the way to his stomach. He wanted more, but he heard himself telling Rule to get out and take his booze with him.

Rule held the bottle in front of Ferguson’s face. It was half empty. “There’s no use fightin’ it, Jackie. It’s in you, and you’ll need a lot more to put out the fire.”

Rule clinked the glass against the mouth of the bottle. The air pocket popped as the whiskey pumped out. Rule brought the glass to Ferguson’s lips. Ferguson turned his head. The glass followed him. Ferguson turned in the other direction, but he couldn’t escape the glass. Like a drowning man giving in to the last wave, he drank. He was dead drunk a half hour later.

“Stay with him all night,” said Rule to Edward. “See that he keeps drinking. When he wakes up in the morning, give him a drink right away. I’ll send someone to help you.” He took twelve dollars from his pocket and dropped it on Ferguson. “Just enough for two jugs. That’ll hook him good.”

Rule was right. There was nothing worse than an alcoholic on a tear after four years sober. Ferguson got drunk. Drunkenness became dejection, then self-pity. He lost his job and continued to drink over a quart a day. For a while, Rule kept him supplied. When he was certain Ferguson was hooked, Rule stopped sending whiskey. Ferguson drank up his small savings and continued to slide. He had no wife or family to help him. His few friends tried to straighten him out, but the addiction was too strong.

In one of his few lucid moments, he recalled a visit from two people who had said that they worked for the Museum of Fine Arts. He couldn’t remember what he told them, but they only stayed a few minutes and left looking disappointed. He realized that he had lost his chance to tell the story to the right people. The
thought drove him deeper into his pit. His friends deserted him and Jack Ferguson disappeared into the bowels of Skid Row.

On a cold February morning over a year later, he decided to stop drinking. He had been sharing a jug of sauterne with another wino in the cellar of an abandoned South End building. It was snowing outside, and they huddled in the corner for warmth. After finishing the bottle, they had fallen asleep. When Ferguson awoke the next morning, his toes were numb and his fingers like icicles. He gave his drinking partner a shove, and the man fell over, frozen into the position in which he’d passed out. Ferguson saw the blue face and knew the bum was dead. He dragged himself to his feet and staggered to the warmth of the Salvation Army Neighborhood Center on Columbus Avenue.