The Thaumaturge of Providence

By Richard Laliberte

Working-class Providence, Rhode Island, is poised on the eve of a new political millennium. Of the city's fifteen districts, ward eleven is the most impoverished and racially diverse. As the year 2000 looms, local politics are complicated by: a secret society of heroin dealers, a Dominican Republic-based doomsday cult, an Ivy League journalism student, and a taxicab driver. City Council candidate Hector Lucian is predicted to win by a landslide, but will his past and possible nefarious connections ultimately destroy him and his neighborhood? Cab driver Leonardo Santoro becomes his sole confidant, while Brown University student, Eli Silverman, pieces together the mysterious candidate's murky background.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fleur de Lis Press
• Release date: Dec 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662934476

Book preview

PROLOGUE

"Escuchalo," she muttered dreamily from the backseat of the moving taxicab. La ciudad respira.

Listen, the city breathes. They were assaulted by a cacophony of sounds from just beyond the rolled up windows. Car alarms wailed, a toddler shrieked, a couple argued; and the background soundtrack to it all, blaring bachata or merengue from passing cars and open windows. They were cruising through the heart of Providence’s South Side. Gate-shuttered pawn shops and festively-lit liquor stores littered every intersection. Bodegas, barbershops and auto mechanics all plied their respective trades as closing time approached and evening turned to night.

Leo stole a glance at her in the rearview mirror. She spewed gibberish through half-closed eyelids, her head propped up by the rear passenger side window. The occasional streetlight flashed harsh fluorescence across her soft features, otherwise it was dark in the cab’s interior, and frigid. She insisted on him blasting the AC with the windows up. A Miles Davis tune intruded softly from the all-night jazz station that Leo fancied. Her name was Wendy and Leo found her to be beautiful, in the way ancient Greek statues depicted women. She’d been a regular fare for three months, as long as he’d been driving a cab; and in Leo’s world, a familiar face was always preferable to a stranger flagging him down at two a.m. He appreciated his regulars, and they appreciated him for his prompt responses and overall polite stoicism.

She was a self-admitted escort, nursing an increasingly swelling appetite for heroin since escaping an abusive relationship months before. Leo became her go-to for rides to and from prearranged dates to motels, hotels and apartments across the city. She liked Leo because he was never fresh or inappropriate. He never pried and simply knew how to listen. How come you never tried to fuck me, Leo, she slurred flirtatiously. Am I not good enough for you?

I guess I am just a workaholic.

You’re cute. What are you, Italian?

Full-blooded.

I can always tell. My father was Italian. He was an asshole, though. My mother was Puerto Rican. She was a saint. Are you an asshole, Leo?

I am no saint, but would hate to think I am an asshole.

You’re no asshole, Leo. You’re a gem. You must have girls lined up waiting for a date.

You’d be surprised. I think we’re here. He slowed to a stop. Are you sure this is the address?

She was unresponsive at this point. It was a boarded-up pizza joint that clearly hadn’t served a slice in ages. Wendy, he called out gently. We’re here.

She stirred awake, somewhat. Are we here?

I think so. This is the address you gave me. This looks kind of sketchy, though.

Don’t worry, babe. It’s an old pizza place right?

Yeah.

Good. This is no date, honey. There is this new dope floating around that’s supposed to be…next level. I heard these guys are the only ones who got it. Just pull up around back and beep the horn.

Are you sure? Is this even safe for you?

No worries, babe. Right here, by the dumpsters.

I can wait for you, he offered. She’d become something of a little sister in his eyes over the months. The harsh realities of addiction and street life had not yet erased her simple elegance, or put a crack in her porcelain facade; he saw in her a tireless persistence towards positivity, despite her total surrender to an illicit substance.

Stay by the pager, she assured. I’ll call you within an hour or two. If this shit is as good as they say, maybe five or six. You’re on all night, right?

Sure. Just page me. He gave the horn two short, sharp presses. A metal-reinforced rear door to the pizza place creaked open.

* * *

Leo drove Thursdays through Sundays, six p.m. to six a.m., and for those half day blocks of time, Rhode Island’s capital city belonged to him, it seemed. He expertly navigated the maze-like metropolis of his hometown with almost flippant familiarity, the goal being always to earn as much money as possible in as safe a manner as possible.

Driving was supposed to have been a temporary gig, something between jobs, but the hand-to-mouth nature of an all cash existence was luring Leo into a sense of complacency, and he had no intention of seeking work elsewhere. On a busy twelve-hour shift, he could take home two to three hundred dollars; this was after gas expenses and giving Sunshine Cab Company, the firm he leased the car from, their percentage. Beyond the tax free income, he also found a simple beauty in driving. He loved playing the role of nomad, voyeur or therapist; whatever the job called for.

After Wendy, his next fare was a well-dressed, middle-aged couple, a flag-down scoop up from the front of the extravagant Biltmore Hotel downtown. They held hands, whispered covert communications and giggled like newlyweds in the backseat the entire time, ignoring Leo entirely. That was an eight dollar job to a nice Italian restaurant on Federal Hill. Leaving there, the two-way radio bolted to the center console crackled to life and dispatched him to the Hartford Park Housing Projects on the city’s west end. There, he picked up an exhausted looking mother dragging along a toddler and an oversized sack of laundry. From her apartment building to the laundromat only came to four dollars. She gave him a five and he helped her lug the laundry in.

By that time, the night crowd had emerged and it was a steady four hours of zig-zagging to and from the bars and clubs that dotted all four corners of the city. The faces came from all walks of life, all socioeconomic classes, all races and ages. They came in pairs, some small groups, but mostly alone. Some engaged Leo in polite small talk, while others argued and revealed private details as if he wasn’t even there. It was the sights, smells and sounds of raw humanity, up close and just inches behind him with no partition to shield him from what was sometimes lighthearted, and other times tragic.

By three in the morning, the jubilation of a night out for many had deteriorated into exhaustion or intoxication. In some cases it was the promise of a new sexual conquest, or at least some drunken, sweaty groping. Leo watched it all like a movie playing unedited and live, directly behind him. Always, by four in the morning, the night would come to a sudden standstill, predictably, but still as abrupt and harsh as always. By five, some of his regulars would begin the slow march to day jobs, and for others, the march home from graveyard shifts.

That witching hour from four to five, however, belonged to Leo alone more often than not. He would usually idle by the ocean, at India Point Park on the city’s swanky east side, and touch up his handwritten log of fares, otherwise known as the trip sheet. The sky was always a haunted shade of dark blue at that time, neither moon nor sun dominated, but played equally on the horizon.

* * *

At six a.m., the night drivers would gather at the central dispatch office to cash out and hand their vehicles over to the day crew. It was a chance to socialize, trade stories and crack jokes, while crunching the numbers on trip sheets and calculating what percentage the company was owed from the dirty wad of bills they’d been handling over the past twelve hours. Leo was on his way to this contemporary campfire of modern-day nomads when his pager chimed its familiar wail. He didn’t immediately recognize the seven digits splashed across in l.e.d. lights, but his regulars would page him from random numbers often. He had time for one more run; if he was late, the day guy would just have to wait. He fished a quarter from the loose change in his cup holder and sought out a payphone.

A gas station was right nearby. The sun was just rising, casting an inviting glow on what would be a crisp, clear autumn day. Leo slipped the coin into the slot and dialed. A gruff, male voice answered on the first ring, go ahead.

I just got a page?

Who is this?

Leo, driver for Sunshine.

Are you the one who brought that girl by the pizza spot last night?

Wendy?

Sure, I guess.

I am.

She’s ready to be picked up and told me to call you. Come by the same door around back. Without waiting for an answer, he hung up abruptly.

* * *

In the daylight, what was once Papito Pizzeria certainly looked alot less menacing, but no less deserted. Windows were boarded up, the sign was faded, and iron grates blocked the entrance. That reinforced rear door from the night before was already inching open as Leo pulled up between the dumpster and the squat, single-story structure; they must have been watching for his arrival. A lanky and lean Latino man emerged; Leo guessed he was late twenties. He wore baggy cargo pants and a plain black hoodie with Timberland boots.

You’re here for the bitch, right? It wasn’t the same voice from the phone; this one had a thick Dominican accent.

Wendy, Leo corrected. Where is she?

She’s out cold. Come in and help me get her ass out. Here. He pressed a wrinkled-up hundred dollar bill into Leo’s hesitant palm. Just get her out of here. You know where she lives?

Sure.

Don’t let anything happen to her.

Leo’s instincts screamed at him not to enter the pizza shop, but he wasn’t going to leave there without Wendy.

The inside of Papito’s was just as macabre and derelict as the exterior. The only source of soft light was bits of sun slicing through cracks in the plywood that covered the windows. A pervasive stench of body odor, marijuana smoke and burning incense lay dormant but silently dominating the atmosphere. The skeleton of a once bustling business was still present. There were still dining tables, chairs and counter tops, though all were filthy, chipping and vandalized. There was even the original pizza oven, intact though out of commission for ages. Graffiti was scattered across all the walls and the floors were sticky.

Leo was led through a dirty kitchen where a handful of other addicts sat and lay in varying states of euphoria. Syringes, baggies and spoons were spread out everywhere like decor. He was brought to a separate area that had clearly been an employee break room at some point. Wendy was draped across a stained sofa, sleeping peacefully it seemed. The handbag strapped across her chest and tiny black skirt he’d last seen her in seemed intact and undisturbed. She was spread like a crucified Christ, bruise-covered arms and soft brown thighs displayed for all to see.

Is she okay, Leo ventured. Does she need to go to a hospital?

She’ll be fine, bro. Just get her the fuck out of here.

Leo lifted her into his arms; she moaned softly and dug into his embrace like a nursing infant. He walked swiftly back, the way they’d had come, with his host following closely behind.

She said you were good people, the drug dealer said, hurriedly now, no longer nonchalant. She said you could be trusted. You know how to keep a secret; an all around solid driver. She said she wouldn’t leave unless it was you who came to get her.

That’s nice. Take the latches off of that door please and pop open the back door of my cab for me.

I could really use somebody like you.

How’s that?

I need a driver, bro. Plain and simple; all you have to do is zip me around town, a couple of hours every night that you’re on and you’ll make five times what you make now, I promise you.

Leo lowered Wendy softly across his backseat. He hoisted her skirt down to cover as much as possible and brushed the jet-black, corkscrew curls of hair away from the sides of her face. And all I have to do is drive?

That’s it. Just drive…and keep secrets, the way you do for her.

I don’t want drug deals being done in my cab.

No way, bro. That’s my word. It’s bad for business. I am no street dealer. The cab is perfect because it’s invisible. I want to keep it that way. I bet cops never fucking bother you. All I need is transport for pickups and dropoffs.

Leo was back behind the wheel and preparing to pull out. You have my number. Page me like all my regulars do.

The dealer snatched something quickly from the cab’s sun visor; it was Leo’s cardboard photo placard declaring him authorized to operate a taxi within the state of Rhode Island. Leonardo Santoro, nice to meet you. My name is Caesar and paging you ain’t going to work for me. Be here at eight tonight. His tone went suddenly sinister with a hint of menace beneath it. And this is so you don’t forget. He pocketed the hack license and retreated back into his fortress of filth.

* * *

Wendy’s place was a shabby third-floor walk-up in a nondescript triple decker in the city’s west end. It was more of an attic than an apartment. Of all the times he’d picked her up and dropped her off there, he’d never actually been inside. He let himself in with keys he’d found in her purse. Though cramped and plain, she kept it neat and minimalistic. A mutation of her different perfume brands, body sprays and lotions formed a pungent melody in the stuffy living room area. He avoided the rear bedroom and instead set her down on a futon sofa in front of a television set.

I knew you’d take care of me, she said weakly as he covered her in a comforter. You’re a gem, Leo.

Are you going to be okay, Wendy?

I am fucked up, Leo, but this isn’t my first rodeo. Page you later tonight?

Sure, Wendy. Get some rest.

Thank you, Leo. Maybe in another life, another time, you and me… she trailed off with and slept.

Back outside, Leo rushed into his cab and sped off; it was almost seven, and the day driver was going to be livid.

PART I:

Providence, Rhode Island: October, 1998

CHAPTER 1

The onslaught of autumn had officially obliterated the green from the trees of Providence’s east side. The narrow streets of College Hill were now vibrant blazes of orange and yellow. Piles of fiery leaves gathered like drying corpses at every historic intersection, while wild wind whipped others wistfully across the uneven pavement. A descending sun in an otherwise clear sky slowly disappeared behind the dominating downtown skyline, bathing the world in even more warm orange, it seemed.

The posh east side, while mostly residential, also played host to Ivy League Brown University. Intertwined among the pristinely preserved homes and classic but sublime architecture, a sprawling campus of equally historic buildings spread out in an ever-expanding web. Periodic property purchases spread the school’s influence, but upset many of the residents. This uneasy coexistence had defined the east side since Brown’s inception.

Along the base of College Hill, Benefit Street is where Providence, as a developed city anyway, was born. The Historic Mile it’s called, and it runs from the waterfront of the Fox Point neighborhood to the beginning of North Main Street. It’s a mile of quaint homes that date back hundreds of years, a mile where the city’s first non-indegenous whites chose to build their early settlement with markets and merchants running along the parallel South Main Street. This was much to the chagrin of the Native Americans who already populated the area. Still, anything that defined the capital city in modern times, or was reflected in history books, started on Benefit Street.

Eli Silverman was a half-hour late for his coffee date with Letecia at a quiet bistro tucked away on a nondescript corner along the Historic Mile. It was still early autumn in New England and warm; the metal chairs and tables outside of the cafe were crowded with chattering college students, not only from Brown but from the neighboring campus of the Rhode Island School of Design. Eli spotted Letecia’s trademark headful of frizzy brown curls from fifty yards away. She was used to him being late; she had brought an issue of the Economist, and was thumbing through it as he approached. In typical Letecia fashion, she had saved him a seat at the small, round table, claiming it with her backpack.

I am so sorry, he said, moving her bag and sitting. That fucking field hockey game ran into overtime.

I got you a hot chocolate, she said, putting down the magazine. How you keep up the pace you do without coffee is beyond me. When are you going to join the rest of us in the cult of caffeine?

I am a Jew, ‘Tish. We are jittery people by nature. You don’t want to see me after one of those tall-ass lattes you drink.

"Maybe you’d be on time to places then. Did you see Professor Bertram’s face when you walked in late again today?" Letecia did her short, high-pitched giggle that Eli had come to admire.

He grinned and avoided her eyes, as he always did when they shared a laugh because he could always feel his naturally pale face flush red whenever she directed any of her femininity toward him. They were both sophomores, arriving at Brown as freshman a year and a half before via very different avenues. They had met on the very first day of classes; in the evening there had been a mixer for incoming freshmen. She liked his awkward but quick wit; he liked her bubbly approachability, and they had been friends since.

The sexual tension, though present from the start, was subdued. It seemed as if each went out of their way to avoid lingering looks and flirty remarks. They were the stereotypical Ivy Leaguers in that regard: too focused on their studies to be distracted by fleeting romances. They would hang out in a group, among other mutual friends mostly, but would meet at least a few times a week alone to study or eat together.

Letecia was a proud product of Providence, born and raised in the city, rare for a Brown student. The typical Ivy Leaguer is from a very affluent family and from out of state, if not from another country. Letecia was the antithesis of that. She lived with her parents, a ten minute drive from the campus, in the impoverished neighborhood of South Providence. Her parents were naturalized citizens, originally from the Dominican Republic. Throughout the eighties and nineties, the south side of Providence had slowly become a largely Dominican-American enclave. Her parents were industrious and hardworking; both had very limited English and labored together in the same factory for the entire thirty years they had lived in the states. She worked a foot-press machine; he drove a forklift.

Letecia was bright and driven. She breezed through the severely lacking Providence public school system, acing every advanced course along the way. Four impressive years in Classical High School, the city’s public option for gifted students, solidified a full scholarship for Letecia to the school of her choice. Brown was an easy decision and even the entrance exam was no match for the ambitious Latina. She was a double major, Business Financing and Political Science, and fancied herself in the future as an entrepreneur. For her parents, a completely free Ivy League education for their little girl could not have made them more proud, as the children of rural farmers themselves.

Eli arrived at Brown by a more traditional route. He was born in a wealthy suburb in upstate New York. His father was an oral hygienist, and his mother, a homemaker. He was an only child, grew up being doted on, and was also a gifted student. He was shy and introverted, but excelled at anything academic. His parents wanted him to be a doctor but he chose journalism as a concentration instead, or Media and Culture, as the Ivy League referred to it. As long as you go to Brown, was what they insisted, then study what you want; but you’ll never make any money writing! School choice was less important to Eli than to Leticia; it was just an excuse to leave his sheltered existence and overbearing parents.

He lived in a cramped dorm room in the basement of a squat, red-brick building near the campus’ Main Green. Alongside the standard fifty-thousand dollar tuition, his father sprang for the solo unit for Eli, knowing that his son would despise sharing a living space with a stranger. Eli liked Brown overall and was learning that he enjoyed Providence, as a city, even more. A major reason for that was Leticia. She’d taken the time to show him the hidden gems of a demure little city, that knew it would never be as relevant as Boston or New York, and didn’t try to be. Many who attended Brown rarely traveled beyond the east side. Because of Letecia, he had learned to use the RIPTA public buses to confidently navigate every corner of the city. He’d eaten at Dominican cafeterias across the south side, and she’d even dragged him to a few nightclubs that lined the main urban thoroughfare of Broad Street. Through that, she was slowly introducing him to the not-so-subtle sensuality of merengue and bachata dancing.

We should go out tonight, she suggested flirtatiously, as if reading his thoughts.

I can’t do a club, ‘Tish. We have classes tomorrow.

Not a club, you dork. It’s a fucking Tuesday.

He gulped hot chocolate. Then where?

It’s a fundraiser for Hector Lucian.

Who?

Another local Latino looking to crack into city politics.

What’s he running for?

City Council, ward eleven. That’s my neighborhood. She declared it with pride.

You’re the Poli-Sci major. What do you think of him?

He seems to be honest, which is rare in Rhode Island politics. The people in my neighborhood love him. They say he has a real chance. Shit, some are saying he can be the first Dominican mayor after a term or two as councilman. My father got free tickets at work and he doesn’t like those kinds of events. Her eyes rested on his longer than he was comfortable with. "I figured maybe we could go?"

It sounds great, he said, fumbling for words. Thank you for the invite. Do I need a tie?

Business casual. Meet me at the Thayer Street tunnel bus stop for six.

Yes, ma’am, he replied with an exaggerated salute.

She watched him drink and smiled that big, warm smile that made others flinch at how genuine it was. "I read your piece in the Daily Herald on the epic lacrosse victory the Bears scored last week."

He chuckled. It was one of my more…sublime pieces.

I am sorry, it’s just that you’re so much better than that, Eli. I get you wanting to write for the school paper, but why settle for the sports desk?

What? I don’t strike you as competent in athleticism?

She raised two suspicious eyebrows. "Do you even know the rules to these sports you cover?"

He leaned in and feigned a whisper. "I don’t know shit about field hockey, or volleyball, or gymnastics, but I fake it pretty good, don’t I?"

"That you do, Mr. Silverman. Look, I know hardly anybody reads the Brown Daily Herald, but it is exposure for your writing. You should be angling for better stories. You’ve been covering bullshit for them long enough. It’s not like they pay you."

And what do you suggest I write about, then?

Look around you, Eli. You’ve always had good intuition.

It was his turn to make her blush. Hence the company I keep.

* * *

Thayer Street was the main commercial hub of the city’s east side, around which the Brown campus sprawled out in every direction. Unlike the rest of campus, it was widely traversed, by foot and car, by the general public from every corner of the city, and even the state, who would go to eat and shop. At night, it became a sea of neon lights advertising every form of guilty culinary pleasure. Less than a mile long total, and with six blocks of a commercial district, Thayer was a sharp divide where everyday citizenry of the city collided with the elusive Ivy Leaguers who rarely left campus.

It was exactly six when Eli arrived at the entrance to the tunnel on Thayer, which is literally what it was, a long cement-enclosed straight shot up or down College Hill, starting from the epicenter of downtown. It was meant to be used by public buses only, though skateboarders and drunk students sometimes defied. Eli waited by the RIPTA stop wearing khakis, a white polo and a navy blue blazer to combat the chill in the air.

Ten minutes and one missed bus later, he heard her voice breathlessly behind him, "now it’s my turn to be late. I am sorry, but I am not used to putting on pantyhose. Getting ready took longer than I planned for."

She wore a black and white, polka-dot, A-line dress that hugged her waist but then flared out at her ample hips and cut off at the ankles sharply. Simple black flats gave her a timeless look. Stark red lipstick and her unruly brown curls, heat-treated into straightened, added a vintage, pinup-girl appeal.

He tried to avoid the obvious statement about how pretty she looked; she had to know, right? There’s another bus coming in a few minutes. It’s okay if we’re late, right?

Nobody’s going to miss us. She stiffened the collar around his blazer. You clean up real nice, Silverman.

You look great, ‘Tish, he mumbled with a dismissive smile.

The sun was setting by the time the large blue and white RIPTA bus carried them downhill through the tunnel. It was the height of downtown’s Renaissance era, proclaimed as such by Mayor Vincent Buddy Cianci himself. The man was the stuff of Providence lore. It was a month before elections and he was set to run unopposed for a historic sixth term as the city’s longest serving mayor. He was first elected in ‘74 and served until ‘84, when a violent assault against his then-estranged wife’s lover earned him a five year suspended sentence and the title of convicted felon, forcing him to step down. He disappeared from the spotlight and reappeared in 1990 to run a miraculous campaign that secured him term number four.

A pudgy Italian in a bad toupee, he oozed charisma. He could be a kindly court jester, or a Machiavelian puppet-master. He could be an expert salesman, boasting the city’s successes, or a vindictive manipulator. He knew what roles to play when and switched masks fluidly. Regardless of his flaws, in a city that loved a good "rough-around-the-edges’’ underdog story, he was mostly adored by the general populace.

Much of that had to do with the undeniable physical change that downtown had undergone throughout the nineties. Prior, downtown was a virtual ghost town and after the corporate crowd went home for the day, the blocks were populated by the homeless and roaming derelicts. Buddy Cianci changed all of that with his prolific vision of a rebirth and downtown was given a much-needed facelift. Construction projects sprang up by the dozens, abandoned buildings were repurposed, and a nightlife was born. Quality restaurants, live theater and immaculate hotels gave a sickly city a breath of life. Only very recent rumblings