Rahars, and then

December 19, 1979

A classy bar right off Copley Plaza in Back Bay Boston, its dark intimacy and smoky haze obscured the high mannered face of Bostonian elite. Men let their guards down to get there for St Paddy’s Day – Irish, Jew or other. Egalitarian and tolerant of lies and exaggeration, a lot of successful days were celebrated by some, but most were oiling up to go home. Maybe it was the dream home a politician could announce his election under family portraits dating back centuries. Certainly there would be remembrances of Ivy League days. A photo of the Harvard Crew standing proudly with oars straight up on the Thames. A knockoff of Andy Warhol’s tiger – bright orange contrasting with black stripes nobody could miss. It was leaping out of the wall to eat you. Grandpa – had to be someplace – in the burnished photo the Yale Glee Club. Maybe even a shaving cup for Williams. It was a watering hole to wind down to realities of domestic life. The MTA to the suburbs. It may have been an ordinary day – boring as usual for the insurance executives, the numbing for a trader going home to explain to his wife the wipe-out of her inheritance. Then there were victories – a trophy from a squash tournament, making senior partner in Lacey, McGuire and Crow. For one man it must have been a terrible day. Hunched over the bar, his elbows split, and his chin hit the bar. The bartender rushed to him with a rag to stop the bleeding from his nose. Things were under control and the patron was not apparently a regular. So, this was a slight diversion, until two cops showed up – not a good sign for Copley Plaza Bar.

They were short and stocky with protuberant abdomens neither seemed to hide above his gun belt. It was a beat for senior officers, so both had silver sideburns under their officious hats. They pushed their way to the bar to get a better look at the unconscious man draped over the bar; one on each side to control matters. The man suddenly came to. It didn’t take them long to find out this man was not going to move and was passed out – or maybe worse.

“You from here?”

The bartender gave them time to get an answer and answered, “He’s not a regular. I’ve never seen him before and nobody in here seems to know him.”

“He’s breathen pretty good. Spit out a tooth.”

“Officer. Guys pass out here, but this guy’s really out.”

“Was he drunk when he came in?”

“Officer, I’m not going to serve a drunken man. He drank two beers. Pretty fast, for sure.”

“Get his wallet. We need to know who this guy is.”

The partner lifted the man’s coat and dug into his back pocket. Pulling the man’s wallet out, he opened it. No surprise. Everything neat with charge cards orderly and driver’s license clean and visible. “Martin Littlefield, Miami, Florida. Got to be up here for business or family matter. I heard it’s 85 in Miami.”

“Mr. Littlefield. You hear me?” The lead guy – must have been Sergeant – “What brings you to Boston from Miami middle of winter? You got family here?” There was no answer.

“I’ll wake him up.” The partner put a small rag under the man’s nose. His whole body jerked from the pungent smell.

“Good stuff, officer. I could use that here. What is it?”

“Oh it’s my own concoction. Never killed anyone, and most drunks wake up fast.”

“He’s waking up. Pretty big man.” The other officer chimed in.

“We got him bartender. He’s not going anywhere. Probably jail. Littlefield. Can you stand up?”

“Where’s this Bellows Falls?” He spit out some blood, and another tooth bounced on the bar.

“Bellows Falls? Long ways from here. What you going there for? All they make up there are jock straps and heroin. You in the business?”

“Business?” The word was more than a southern drawl. Drunk as a skunk.

The officers lightened up. “Yes, Mr. Littlefield, you going to Bellows Falls on business, then you’re dealing drugs or buying jock straps. They still weave some up there.”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean Littlefield? You don’t know. You come from Miami to Bellows Falls, you’re either in the underwear industry or narcotics – I mean hard stuff. Like Heroin. You a dealer, Littlefield or buying jock straps?”

“Not buying anything.”

“You’re an attorney in Florida. You got family here or business. One or utha.”

“I don’t know. Just have to get there. How do I get there?”

“You’re not going there. You’re going to jail. Disorderly Conduct.”

“Disorderly conduct. What I do?”

“Slobbering drunk. This is a fine hotel. You a guest here?”

“He does have a room number.”

“OK, we’ll come back and search that. Lock it up. Nobody in or out.”

“Yes sir. Anything else I can do for you guys?”

“Not today, but we’ll be back.”

“Any time, guys.”

“Now, we’ll hold you up. Baby steps counselor. Or we’ll call for an ambulance.”

“I’ll walk.”

“Better for you. Ambulance comes, and you might be spending your winter here in Boston instead of Miami.”

“I can walk.”

“You alcoholic or got medical problems?”

Littlefield was standing with both officers lifting him. “Take a picture of the blood on the bar and get some names of witnesses. We might want to know more about this guy.”

“Yes, sir. And come back anytime.”

The sergeant was used to this. It’s Boston. Cops are treated well in Boston. “Sure we’ll be back. Maybe a crime scene. Depends on how much cooperation we get from Mr. Littlefield.” Everyone was staring at the trio now. Not a common distraction at Copley Plaza Bar.

Littlefield was a good sized man and in shape. The officers were anxious to get him in the car and cuffed in case he went off. This is the type of guy, from experience, who gets out of control real fast and they need to shoot him. Boston police did what they had to do, but they were planted here a long time ago and have deep roots like the ageless trees in the plaza across the street. Littlefield was in the car; so, they wiped the blood off of his face. Bringing a guy like this into the ER and first thing these Harvard doctors are thinking is, “Police Brutality”. Strange bedfellows. These Harvard docs and Boston cops. They did not socialize, but they worked well together. It’s Boston. They’re all Bostonians. But Mr. Littlefield was a total stranger. Who was he, and what was he doing here at Christmas time? Both officers were thinking the same and interested in finding out. Not your ordinary drunk.

They drove into the Emergency Room entrance space and an orderly literally ran for the police car. It was cold. He wasn’t expecting a two hundred pound drunk. “Hey, is this going to work, or we need stretcher and crew?”

“This’ll work, as long as his arse fits in that wheelchair. He’s not going to walk anymore. At least not with us.”

“What happened?” The orderly asked, puffing fog like cigar smoke. It was 20 degrees.

“He’s drunk and fell off a bar stool.” The orderly was offended at first. He didn’t like Boston cops but respected them.

“Ok, ok. And then?”

“That’s it, doc. I’m no doctor, but in my opinion he’s just drunk as a skunk.”

“Why not take him to detox. Why here?”

“Something strange about this guy. He’s from Miami. Trying to get to Bellows Falls.”

“Where’s that?”

“Way west on the river. An old mill town.”

“That is strange. We’ll get psych on the case. You want to question him too?”

“As a matter of fact, Doc. We do. Something doesn’t add up with this guy. Littlefield’s his name. Martin Littlefield. An attorney from Miami.”

“What’s he doing here? Family here?”

“That’s what we want to know. And, here, Doc. His front teeth.” Sergeant Murray handed a ball of tissue paper to the orderly. “Here’s his front teeth, and we did not knock ’em out. So let’s not get command into this. Call the bartender at Copley Plaza.”

“I wasn’t even thinking that.”

“Good. Let’s find out who this guy