Derrick Wright was the money man.
I found him off Newbury Street, working diligently while the nation celebrated its birthday. Being older than the nation, I had no issue with conducting my own business in Mr. Wright’s rather secluded office.
I didn’t mince words with Mr. Wright. Quite plainly, I informed him as to my purpose in the city – specifically, my reason for visiting him.
He was an interesting man, this Mr. Wright. Initially, he attempted to pull out a revolver and threaten me. I broke all the fingers on his right hand and for his effort. His next step was to offer to pay me for my troubles. This cost him the fingers on his left hand. Finally, he said he would be more than happy to inform me as to the next person I should speak with regarding the deaths of my friends.
He directed me to a small notebook he kept in his desk, and I confiscated it without looking at the information. It would either be correct, or it would not.
According to him, I should speak with Eugene Lacey, of Yonkers, New York. Then, believing he had satisfied his commitment to me, Mr. Wright bid me farewell, but I told him that we were not quite finished yet. I wanted to see what Boston harbor looked like from the roof of his fine establishment.
The man readily obliged.
He led the way up to the roof, and though it pained him greatly, he managed to open the doors for me. Once we were there, standing beneath a beautiful night sky, I threw him off the roof. He landed on his head and died far quicker than I would have liked.
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