Текст книги "Robert B. Parker's Kickback"

28

Since he’d split with Gino Fish, Vinnie Morris had kept an office on the second floor of a bowling alley on the Concord Turnpike. When we walked in, a fat guy wearing a Hawaiian shirt and shiny shoes nodded us to an open staircase. I’d been there before. The alley hadn’t changed its décor since the Beatles appeared on Ed Sullivan. The upstairs promised an exciting lounge with nightly entertainment. Now it was a storage area filled floor-to-ceiling with boxes. I didn’t know what was inside the boxes, nor would I ask.

Vinnie waited for us at the landing.

He didn’t look pleased to see me. We’d had a falling-out the year before over a hidden interest in a casino slated for Revere. He nodded to me. I nodded back. Civil.

Vinnie looked good. He’d given up the baggy tracksuits for his preppy look of old. His salt-and-pepper hair had been expertly trimmed. He wore a three-piece gray suit and black tie that made him look more Beacon Hill than North End. A smile crept on his face as he tossed a half-dollar into the air and nodded.

“I thought George Raft was dead,” I said.

“Heard you were dead, too,” Vinnie said. “Some Puerto Rican gangbangers after you.”

“Cape Verdean,” I said.

“Whatever,” Vinnie said. “Hello, Hawk.”

“Vinnie.”

They shook hands. Vinnie didn’t offer to shake my hand. He turned his back and walked to an old-fashioned U-shaped bar. Stools had been put up upside down. The beer taps didn’t have handles. Neon signs for cheap beer flickered with delight.

“What time is the show?” I said.

“Up here?” Vinnie said.

“Yeah.”

“Nineteen sixty-five.”

“So noted.”

Vinnie reached up and pulled down three bar stools and righted them on the floor. The only light upstairs shone from the strategically placed neon beer signs. There was a painted mural on the far wall of a ball hitting a strike, pins flying in the air.

“I guess you ain’t here to talk about the old days.”

Hawk and I sat. Hawk on my right. Vinnie on my left.

“Arty Leblanc,” Hawk said.

“Oh, shit.”

“Is that a nickname or an alias?” I said.

“What the fuck are you guys doing with Arty Leblanc? He’s a freakin’ head case. Did you hear about the garden-hose thing?”

“His reputation has preceded him,” I said.

“Stuck it right up this guy’s keister and turned up the water pressure,” Vinnie said. “He’s nuts.”

“So he’s not your employee,” I said.

“Employee?” he said. “What kind of business am I running? The menswear department at Sears?”

“Not in that suit,” Hawk said.

“You like it?” Vinnie said, looking down at his sleeve, admiring the fabric.

Hawk shrugged. “Needs a better tie,” he said. “To make it pop.”

Vinnie walked behind the bar and uncorked a bottle of grappa.He pulled out three small glasses and lined them on top of the dusty bar.

“Feeling nostalgic?” I said.

Vinnie shrugged. “It’s a gesture,” he said. “Remember when that meant something?”

I nodded. Vinnie poured. He raised his glass. We did the same.

“Doesn’t mean we’re good,” Vinnie said, giving me the eye. “Unnerstand?”

“Arty,” I said. “Leblanc.”

Vinnie drank down the grappa. I sipped mine. It tasted like licorice-infused rocket fuel. I drank half and attempted to smile. Hawk downed the whole glass and set it down with a thud.

“He make a run at you?” Vinnie said.

“He made a request,” I said.

“Arty Leblanc doesn’t make no requests,” he said. “He insists.”

“I showed him and his two pals my .357 and insisted they leave.”

Vinnie nodded. The old lounge had a wide and sprawling dance floor made of parquet tiles. The tiles were old and scuffed and in need of a good waxing. I rested my elbows along the old bar. Someone had started a game downstairs. You could hear the roll of the ball and the explosion of pins. There was a nice rhythm to it all.

“You know the DeMarco family?” Vinnie said.

I nodded. Hawk did not respond. He stood completely still, relaxed, as he rolled the shot glass between the fingers of his right hand.

“They’re taking on new territory,” he said. “They’ve overrun Gino, squeezing out Fast Eddie Lee. They’re in tight with Providence.”

“The old gang is getting back together.”

“Everything was busted up before Joe Broz disappeared,” Vinnie said. “It’s not the same. But it’s a lot of the same people. Or their kids. You know.”

I nodded.

“You ever heard of a judge named Joe Scali?” I said.

Vinnie shook his head.

“Callahan?” I said.

Vinnie shook his head some more.

“Bobby Talos?” I said.

Vinnie didn’t shake his head this time. He reached for the bottle, poured out a little more grappa. God help him. He sipped it slowly. The ball rolled again downstairs. More pins were knocked down and scattered.

“He on the same team?” I said.

“Don’t know,” Vinnie said. “Depends on the money. I’ve done business with him before. Mainly just to make sure things run smooth.”

“No union issues.”

Vinnie sipped some of the grappa. His eyes were hooded and withdrawn. Hawk picked up the bottle and examined the label.

“Nice to know if the DeMarcos are in with Bobby Talos,” I said.

“I bet.”

“It would help me,” I said.

Vinnie shrugged again.

“I’d consider it a favor,” I said.

Vinnie didn’t speak. He examined the color of the grappa refracting in the neon light. It looked to be the most interesting liquid on the planet.

Hawk stared at Vinnie. And Vinnie looked to Hawk and then back to me. He shook his head with disappointment.

“Goddamn, Vinnie,” Hawk said. “History is a bitch.”

Vinnie put down the glass. He righted his tie. He looked to both of us and shook his head some more. “For crissake,” he said. “I’d really like it if you didn’t get me killed.”

29

Two days later, Iris Milford showed up at my office. She looked bright and pretty, holding a smile that hid some terrific secret.

“You look like a woman who knows things.”

“You have no idea.”

“Perhaps some things you’d like to share?”

“Just the secrets of the world, baby.”

“In that case, take a seat.”

I’d just returned from a lunchtime workout at the Harbor Health Club. I was properly tired, four miles on the treadmill at a nice clip and a few rounds on the heavy bag and shadowboxing. The knee was coming along. My right punch was like the kick of a frisky mule.

“You’re not too busy?” she said.

“Gisele is stopping by later for fashion tips,” I said. “Later, I plan to rearrange the bullets in my gun.”

“Thought it best to drive to the city,” she said. “Of course, I look for any excuse to leave Blackburn.”

“Have they put up the wanted posters yet?”

“Of you?”

“Yeah.”

“Just a few,” she said. “You look better in person.”

“Hard to capture the nose,” I said, touching the flattened end.

“Looks like too many people captured that nose.”

I winked at her and pulled a clients’ chair from the wall. She sat and I returned to my desk. After the time off, my legs felt like Jell-O.

“I had to write about your arrest,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“You had to do your job.”

“I quoted several people who called the claims outrageous,” she said. “You have a lot of friends in high places. A lot of cops. Even more called after the arrest.”

“You don’t know where you truly stand until you’re accused of propositioning a teenybopper.”

“They’ve gone way too far.”

“I think that started a while back.”

“How’s the boy?” she said. “Dillon?”

“Still on Fortune Island,” I said. “It’s out of Scali’s hands now. He’ll be free in a few days.”

“How about the girl, Beth Golnick?”

“I tried to call her, but her cell number is no good. Wasn’t too keen at stopping by her house unannounced.”

“You do know her mother works in the courthouse?”

“Nope.”

“Probate,” she said. “Along with the bogus drug arrest to scare her, they probably scared her mom to get to her. Ain’t easy being a single woman in Blackburn. Jobs are hard to find. Lots of connected families and friends.”

I nodded. “Did you at least use a good photo of me?”

She tossed down a small scanned mug shot. It wasn’t pretty. “Figure you might want to hold on to this,” she said. “You know. One day we’ll all laugh.”

“Tell me when that day comes.”

Iris shook her head. She crossed her legs, a stylish boot swinging back and forth. She wore a white cashmere sweater under a high-necked black coat. Bracelet-sized gold hoops dangled in her ears. She peered around my office, checking out my place of work with a reporter’s eye. Her eyes lingered on framed pictures on the wall.

“Vermeer,” she said. “Always wanted to go to Amsterdam.”

“It’s nice,” I said. “But a friend bought them at an exhibit at the Fine Arts Museum.”

“One day.”

“When the kids are grown?”

“Shit,” she said. “I got grown kids and grandbabies. And I got a sorry-ass pension and a sadder retirement.”

“At least you love your work.”

“Some days,” she said. “When you make things right.”

“Doesn’t last long,” I said.

“Never does,” she said. “Only live for the moment. Order is an illusion.”

“Who said that?”

“Probably some dead white man.”

I smiled at her. She smiled back. Our first meeting at the university seemed eons ago. “Would you like some coffee?”

She shook her head and reached into a large black leather purse for a reporter’s notebook. She took her time flipping to the right page before glancing up at me. “You mentioned the judges were living beyond their means?”

“Yep.”

“So I took that as a clue,” she said. “I checked out the property records of how much they paid for their homes.”

“So did I,” I said.

“Nice digs,” she said. “Almost a mil for Scali. Two-point-five mil for Callahan.”

I leaned back into my chair and set my feet onto the edge of the desk. The features section for the Globe lay spread out where I’d left it. Arlo & Janis. “Perhaps they have family money?”

“Maybe,” Iris said. “Each house in the name of their wives.”

“Maybe it’s a statement.”

“Or maybe they’re hiding something,” she said. “So I checked into both of them. Victoria Scali and Barbara Callahan own a travel agency in the city. With another office in Tampa.”

“Okay,” I said. “So the wives are more successful than the men.”

“Do you want me to explain my second husband?”

“Do I want you to?”

“Nope,” she said. “Last I heard, the son of a bitch was living in Costa Rica.”

“Maybe the women are a tax dodge?”

“The business is small,” she said. “But they keep an office in a high-rise off Atlantic.”

She read off the address and the name of the business. Being a trained detective, I wrote both down. “Okay,” I said.

“I guess it doesn’t mean much.”

“Or maybe it means everything,” I said.

“How do we know?”

“I’ll work some investigatory magic,” I said, feigning my Liberace movements on the keyboard. Or more likely Dave McKenna.

“And if that doesn’t work?”

I nodded. “Keep pushing till I piss someone off.”

“You’re coming back to Blackburn,” she said. “Aren’t you?”

“Wild horses couldn’t deter me.”

“It ain’t the wild horses I’m worried about,” she said. “It’s the Blackburn PD and Scali’s goons.”

“If something happens to me, do you promise to write a glowing obit?”

“If only the paper had the space.”

Are you okay?” Dillon said.

“I’m fine,” the boy said.

“You don’t look fine,” Dillon said. “And you were talking to yourself when you were asleep.”

“I’m cold is all,” he said. “I just can’t quit shaking.”

The boy lay curled under the single sheet, teeth chattering. Dillon had come down from the top bunk and pulled up a chair. He’d remembered seeing Dillon after he went to the infirmary and walked back to the pod. No one spoke to him but Dillon. He heard some of them whispering about what had happened to Tony Ponessa. A lot of them talking revenge.

“You whipped that guy’s butt,” Dillon said.

“He started it,” the boy said.

“And you finished it, too,” Dillon said. “Nobody thought that was going to happen.”

The boy felt his teeth chattering as he curled tighter into a ball. Dillon disappeared onto the top bunk and brought down a blanket and a pillow. The boy hadn’t earned either yet.

“Take it.”

“I’m okay.”

“I don’t need it,” Dillon said. “I’m not the one sick.”

“I’m not sick.”

“Is that what they told you?” Dillon said. They were the only two in the bunk room, all the other boys down on the first floor of the open pod watching TV. He could hear the tinny sounds of the television and the murmur of kids talking. “They’re bullshit.”

“I’m okay.”

“That son of a bitch made you swim out in the harbor, for fuck’s sake,” Dillon said. “What did you think was going to happen? Your damn skin had turned blue when they finally pulled you out. You nearly choked out on that cold water.”

“Yeah?” the boy said, laughing. “But I got the stick.” The laugh turned into a cough.

Dillon stood and reached out, feeling the boy’s head. When the boy looked up at Dillon’s face he wasn’t pleased with what he saw. Dillon was now yelling for the guards, telling them they needed to get in here, now.

“What are you doing?” he said. “Jesus, you’re going to get me killed.”

“They don’t want to treat you because they’d have to admit what they’ve done. Guard!”

“I’m okay,” the boy said, shaking.

“Get the fuck in here,” Dillon said, yelling. “Guard!”

“I’m fine,” the boy said, wrapping himself in the warm blanket as tight as he could. If only he could get warm.

30

I met Jake Cotner the next afternoon inside the Blackburn cotton mill museum. I paid my six-buck admission and walked inside the weave room, the old looms shaking, long ropy belts turning spindles hung from the ceiling. I couldn’t tell if they were actually making stretches of fabric or if the mechanizations were for show. Either way, the machines made a lot of noise and radiated an impressive pulse of energy. The mill room stretched out as far and wide as a gridiron. A couple of old-timers in overalls roamed the floors, checking the belts and century-old machines. I looked for Lyddie, but it must’ve been her day off.

Cotner wore the same letterman’s jacket as before with his jeans and work boots. The jeans had been cuffed a couple inches. I didn’t know kids did that anymore, but the look suited him, as did the buzz cut. He was standing at the protective rail, watching the machines hammering in the big open space. I walked up next to him. In all the noise, I’d surprised him, and he flinched a bit when I touched his back.

“Jesus Christ,” he said.

“Nope,” I said. “Just Spenser.”

“Mr. Spenser.”

“Just Spenser.”

“Can we make this fast,” he said. “I can’t get in any trouble. I didn’t mind meeting with you the other day, but now, you know, with all that crap with Beth. You know. Well, I just don’t want to get arrested or something.”

“Have you spoken to Beth?” I said.

He shook his head.

“Cops talk to you?”

He shook his head.

One of the old guys was on a ladder, threading the belt back through a spindle. He looked like he’d done this maybe a thousand times before and could rework the loom in his sleep. He had on thick glasses and a red bandana tied around his neck. He used the bandana to wipe the back of his neck like prospectors in old Westerns.

“How about Ryan?” I said. “Did he find her?”

“Yeah,” he said. “He said Beth was leaving town. Her mom made her. She has family down in Plymouth. I think she’s going to switch schools and everything. What the hell happened?”

“What do you think?”

“I think the cops made a deal with Beth to make her drug charges go away.”

I nodded. The old man stepped off the ladder and flipped a switch, and the weaver started working again. At closer inspection, I could see that the loom was real, actually fashioning a broad piece of white cloth. Outside the towering industrial windows were three other identical brick mills. The whole town of Blackburn was built on the idea of industry, nestled by the river, with man-made canals dug throughout the town, intersecting and powering the mill. I took off my hat and dried off the melted snow.

“You’re a smart kid,” I said.

“Doesn’t get me much at my job.”

“You could go back to school.”

“When?” he said. “My old man kicked me out.”

“There are ways.”

“I’m nineteen years old,” he said. “I got six thousand dollars of credit card debt and I’m a month late on my rent for me and my girlfriend. I ain’t going back to school.”

“When I dropped out of college, I joined the Army.”

“My dad would love it if I joined the Army,” he said. “But I don’t really like people shooting at me.”

“That is a downside,” I said.

“Did you like the Army?”

“Not really,” I said. “But some of it I enjoyed very much.”

“You think the cops are going to arrest me?” he said. “They came after Beth and then you.”

“You think she told them about you and Ryan?”

“That’s why Ryan wanted to talk to her,” he said. “He was worried about the same thing. But she swore to God she didn’t say anything about her introducing us to you. As far as they know, she just talked about problems with some kid named Yates.”

“Dillon Yates.”

“That’s him,” he said. “You know him?”

“He’s the reason I’m here,” I said. “Scali sentenced him like he sentenced you and Ryan. And it looks like a whole lot of other kids in Blackburn.”

“He’s a total dick.”

“That’s a given,” I said. “But he’s become a wealthy one at that.”

We walked down the empty row blocked off with rails to a hallway and then turned up a flight of steps. You had to go up the steps to get off the floor and then through the museum to get out of the building. I was pretty sure you had to exit out of the gift shop after being dazzled with the romance of the Industrial Revolution. I wondered if they had a pinup calendar of the mill girls of the 1890s.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Beth shouldn’t have done that.”

“I don’t think she had a choice.”

“Sure she did.”

“She’s seventeen,” I said. “And adults were pulling her in to say that either she tells the story they want her to tell or else she’s going to prison.”

“I hate this place,” he said. “It’s become the crappiest city in the state.”

“I think it was destined to be that way.”

“Yeah?”

We stood alone in the middle of wide displays of black-and-white photos of workers standing by their looms. Women who’d come from Canada to work night and day in the mills, eat at the mills, live at the mills. “Probably always been pretty crappy,” I said.

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I kind of figure this stuff out as I go along.”

“What if they put you in prison?”

I laughed. “That won’t happen.”

“How do you know?” he said. “They can do whatever they like. You go against them and you’ll end up in Walpole. My uncle is in Walpole now. But he should be. He killed a guy.”

I shook my head. “But I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You think that freakin’ matters?”

“Scali and Callahan and these cops pick on kids because they can’t fight back,” I said. “They target kids from families without money. Or families who don’t even speak English. They’re cowards. Besides, unlike most kids, I have a very good attorney.”

Jake nodded. We walked through the historical displays or fabric, wooden spindles, and mannequins wearing very uncomfortable-looking uniforms of old. A light sleet tapped on the floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside, Hawk was waiting for me in a nice warm car he stole for the day.

“Jeez,” he said. “For your sake, I hope your attorney is tough.”

“The judges better start wearing cups under their robes,” I said. “She knows right where to hit them.”