Текст книги "Robert B. Parker's Cheap Shot"

Автор книги: Ace Atkins

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33

Kinjo called four hours later and asked me if I’d meet him at Foxboro.

When he’d called, I’d been working out with Hawk. Hawk decided to come along, too. If Kinjo did fire me, Hawk said he’d comfort me in my time of need.

We met Kinjo at a restaurant up the steps from the stadium in Patriot Place, since I knew Jeff Barnes would be less than ecstatic to see me so close to Gillette. Kinjo sat in a back booth at a big sports bar, drinking ice water and checking his phone. Hawk also drank some water with lemon. I had a draft beer.

“Y’all can’t stop,” Kinjo said.

I nodded.

“Barnes got onto me last night,” he said. “He sat down with me, Ray, and Mr. Rosen, and said that it was in the best interest of Akira and the organization if you were fired. He said the state police were backing off, too, and this was going to be a federal case. But shit, man. I haven’t seen one FBI agent yet.”

“I have,” I said. “I may have to fumigate my office.”

“Just ’cause the Feds are on it doesn’t mean I want y’all to back off,” he said. “Wasn’t your fault that those shitbirds were trying to con me. What if they’d been real and they’d taken the money and then tried to kill Akira? Y’all found out who they were, where they lived, and took care of business. That’s what I want. I don’t need more talk. I need people to be at the ready when the word comes down.”

“Still nothing?”

Kinjo looked down at the phone in his hand. His knuckles had been bloodied in practice. “I look at this screen nearly every second since he’s been gone. I’ll pay them. I’ll do whatever it takes. Why won’t they try me? Why won’t they reach out?”

I shook my head.

“I give you my word that I’ll tell you everything,” Kinjo said. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Not telling you about paying off those people in New York was a mistake. That won’t happen. I don’t give a damn what you think about me. You can think I’m a son of a bitch as long as you trust me.”

Hawk drank some ice water. He wiped away the table’s condensation with a cocktail napkin, not saying a word since we sat down. There were ten customers in the bar that probably could hold six hundred. The staff was young and female and attractive. The bartender was dressed as a referee, complete with whistle around her neck.

“How did you and Cristal meet?” I said.

“Oh, shit,” Kinjo said. “Nicole got you onto this?”

“Nope,” I said. “But in the absence of anything else, it can’t hurt. How did you two meet?”

“How else? At a bar.”

“What bar,” I said. “When.”

“Bar here in Boston,” he said. “Two years ago. Place called Camelot.”

Hawk looked up. “Gentlemen’s establishment.”

“Yeah,” Kinjo said. “Strip club.”

“And she was a, uh, dancer?” I said.

“Shit, no,” Kinjo said. “I don’t date strippers. She was a waitress. Said she liked to watch me play and had been a fan going back to when she was a kid. She even knew who Andre Tippett was. He was my hero when I was a kid. I wanted to be just like him.”

I drank some beer. There were at least twenty televisions on the bar, turned to various iterations of ESPN and the local news. “Speaking of the old days, did you ever meet a guy named Kevin Murphy?” I said.

“Her ex?”

I nodded. I had made this connection before working out.

“I knew who he was,” Kinjo said. “Yeah. Came up to her apartment one time when I was there. He never did that shit again.”

“Did you know what he did?”

“He was a stupid punk,” Kinjo said.

“He was busted in December for using underage girls in dirty movies,” I said. “Arrested several times with drugs, intent to sell. Guy like that has to be connected.”

“So Cristal made some mistakes,” Kinjo said. “She’s got no reason to mess with my family. She loves Akira. And he loves her. Hell, during the season she with him more than me.”

“It would’ve been nice to know the connection,” I said. “Maybe Murphy saw an opportunity?”

“State police never asked me about him.”

“Some of the state police are not as dogged as me.”

The waitress reappeared and asked if we wanted anything to eat. Hawk said he wanted a grilled chicken salad, dressing on the side. I was good with the beer. If I were to eat, I’d decided on the burger. Never order a salad at a bar.

“I don’t know,” Kinjo said.

“It’s worth checking out,” I said.

Kinjo nodded. I finished the beer. A couple in matching Pats sweatshirts walked in the front door and made their way to the bar. The man and the bartender chatted like old friends, the bartender leaning across and nodding over to our table. The man and the woman stared openmouthed at Kinjo.

“People are always talking about me,” Kinjo said.

“Who?”

“Sportswriters and shit,” he said. “There’s this one dude with a blog who called me heartless because I’ve gone back to practice. How’s this any of his fucking business? How can he understand?”

“Can’t,” Hawk said. “Same way he can’t understand what it’s like to play.”

“Other people saying the same thing,” Kinjo said. “Those guys Paulie and the Gooch? They were on me last night about going back and practicing. Front office let it be known I’ll play this Sunday. What else can I do? I don’t have nothing else. I got to believe he’s going to be all right. I got to have a place to put all that anger. Hitting brings me level. I got to be level.”

Hawk nodded.

I asked for a second beer. Second beers keep me level.

“My mind goes places,” Kinjo said. “My heart feels torn to shreds. He’s everything. I don’t care who you hurt. I don’t care what Cristal thinks. You think maybe her ex got something going, check him out. But y’all don’t leave. This morning, Detective Lundquist and his people started to pack up their show. They been living with me and then I walk in and get breakfast and they’re closing up their computers and shit. Say they still working leads but they aren’t in control. Feds taking over. I don’t know these people. Or trust them.”

“Maybe for good reason,” I said.

Kinjo lifted his eyebrows, not considering I’d think he was right.

“Their special agent in charge and I have a history.”

“Does that bother you?”

“Nope.”

Kinjo shook his head. He stared straight ahead and then wiped his wet eyes. He pounded the table with his fist so hard, Hawk’s ice water spilled across the table. Hawk stood before the water dripped into his lap. The waitress came over and quickly cleared the table. My beer was unharmed.

“Be cool,” Hawk said.

Kinjo nodded.

“Do what you need to do to keep your mind right,” Hawk said. “We’ll find your boy.”

“How?”

“We always do.”

I shrugged and nodded. “I’m with him.”

“Even on nothing?” Kinjo said.

“Yep.”

“As long as it takes?” Kinjo said.

Hawk and I nodded.

“You know what y’all are?” Kinjo said, staring at Hawk. “You’re Ronin. You, him, and that big Indian guy. Don’t answer to nobody. Am I right? You understand what I’m saying?”

“I left my sword at the office.”

“I’m serious.” Kinjo’s gaze did not waver. “Y’all are samurai with no master, doing what’s got to be done. Roaming the earth, taking care of business without any rules.”

“Mostly greater Boston,” I said. “And I have rules.”

The waitress brought Hawk fresh water. He took a sip, ice rattling, and set the glass back on the table. Hawk stared at Kinjo a long while and tilted his head to the side. “He do. But I write my own.”

34

How do you manage to so artfully piss off those you work with?” Susan said.

“Gumption,” I said. “Determination.”

We were in bed, wrapped up in the sheets, listening to a cold rain tap against my apartment window. Pearl had given up scratching at the door and returned to her place on my new leather couch. We had already had supper; four mini-apple pies baked in the oven.

“From what you’ve told me about Connor, he is an absolute shit heel,” Susan said.

“True.”

“And dirty.”

“True.”

“But you don’t think his dirtiness will interfere with the investigation?”

“I think his low IQ and lack of talent will interfere.”

“So you and Hawk remain.”

“And Z,” I said. “Don’t forget Z.”

“The Three Caballeros.”

“Which one am I?”

“Why, the fucking duck, of course.”

Susan propped herself up on one elbow, and was bathed in a slice of light from outside Marlborough Street. The air smelled of baking apples and cinnamon.

“Kinjo feels a lot of guilt for returning to practice,” I said.

“If it works for him, it works.”

“Sure.”

“But you find it odd.”

“I don’t find it odd, but apparently he’s taking the heat from the piranhas who now pass as so-called sports journalists.”

“You’re not suspecting him?” she said. “For acting indifferent?”

“No,” I said. “Not at all. He’s broken up very badly. He’s as eaten up and sick with worry as is possible in a man. He walked away from us before the drop yesterday and vomited in the bathroom.”

“But you’re asking if it’s healthy?” Susan said. “Or therapeutic?”

I nodded. My eyes lingered on Susan’s chest. She smiled and settled onto her back, pillow under her head, her body half covered, and stared at the ceiling.

“Doesn’t it help you to work out, pound out frustrations on a heavy bag, whatever it takes for a release?”

“And other things.”

“But violent exercise, too.”

“Even playing in a game this Sunday?”

“If it works for him,” Susan said. “Screw the bloggers and nuts on the radios.”

“That’s the same advice I gave him,” I said. “Should I charge him an extra hundred bucks?”

“I charge one-fifty.”

I resettled against the pillow, reached over to the nightstand, grabbed my watch, and checked how long the pies had been in the oven. We had another five minutes. I turned my head to her. Her curly head lay on her pillow. We stared at each other, smiling.

“Did Nicole tell you anything specifically about why she disliked Cristal?” I said.

“She said she’s a terrible parent.”

“In what way?”

“Absent,” Susan said. “She said that Akira runs wild at their house while Cristal has cocktails with friends or watches television or posts pithy comments about Kinjo on her Twitter feed.”

“Kinjo said Nicole is jealous.”

“I’m sure she is,” Susan said. “But which woman would you trust?”

“But why might she want Akira out of the picture?” I said. “What’s in it for her?”

Susan blinked. Her large brown eyes turned slightly upward in thought. “There are bad stepparents,” she said. “And then there are bad stepparents.”

“If the child is dead,” I said. The words so horrible they seemed to resonate long after I said them in the silent room.

“Is that what you’re now thinking?”

“Five days without contact,” I said. “Doesn’t look good.”

“And you suspect Cristal?”

“She is, as the cops like to say these days, a person of interest,” I said. “Before she met Kinjo, she bedded down with a known pornographer and drug dealer in Dorchester.”

“Women do like bad boys.”

“Is that me?”

“Except for baking,” Susan said, lifting herself out of the bed and striding across my bedroom, completely naked, to my closet. “Baking puts you into a category unto your own.”

“‘She walks in beauty, like the night,’” I said.

Much to my disappointment, she fitted herself into an old navy terry-cloth robe. “Does Lord Byron stock ice cream?” she said.

“I made that, too.”

“Of course you did.”

35

My mental Rolodex of thugs had ebbed and flowed over my years of business. The old Italian and Irish crews I’d known seemed to have mostly disappeared or gone to that big house in the sky. Over the last decade, there seemed to be a lot of ethnic crime around Boston: Ukrainians and Albanians, Chinese, and lots of Vietnamese. Fast Eddie Lee had a stronger and stronger grip on the city. Gino Fish still did a nice bit of business about town, as Tony Marcus kept his eyes on much of the working ladies. I had removed Joe Broz from my Rolodex after his recent demise and had added his son’s name in light pencil.

Gerry Broz had owned a pretty posh sports bar in Southie. Sports bars being a cultural obsession in Boston almost like the coffeehouses of Vienna. But Gerry’s bar, Playmates, had gone into bankruptcy, and he’d decided to start a tropical-fish distributorship in Coolidge Corner, down the street from the old movie house.

It was still raining that morning as Z and I walked into the large brick warehouse.

Gerry looked up from vacuuming out a fish tank as large as my apartment.

He was wearing a custom T-shirt reading Broz Tropical Equipment and Supplies, old khaki pants, and knee-high rubber boots. His mouth hung open when he recognized me.

“Fuck me,” he said. “Out. Get out.”

“Gerry Broz, wow,” I said. “You work here?”

Broz put down the vacuum and turned off the pump. He wiped his wet hands on his khakis and stared at us.

“I’m in the market for two clown fish and some information on dirty deeds in Dorchester,” I said.

“Good luck with that,” Broz said. “I’m out of the life.”

“Sure you are,” Z said.

“Who the fuck are you?” Gerry said. “Do I fucking know you, kid?”

“Sorry, Gerry,” I said. “Gerry, this is Zebulon Sixkill. My associate. He’s named after Zebulon Pike. Of Pike’s Peak fame.”

“I don’t give two shits,” Gerry said. “I’m out of the life. You come around and harass me and talk about dirty shit and I’ll call the cops. I pay fucking taxes.”

“Fish,” I said. “Really?”

“I always been into fish, Spenser,” he said.

I tilted my head. He had me there.

“All I need is some direction,” I said. “You know a guy named Kevin Murphy?”

Gerry roamed his hand over his pudgy face. “Sure,” he said. “I’ll get right on it. Weren’t you the same guy who wanted to turn over my dad on his deathbed? Yeah, I’d love to help you.”

“Did I?”

“But you would have,” he said. “You forced me getting into a lot of shit that wasn’t my fucking business.”

Z wandered off along a row of fish tanks stacked five high. The warehouse was dim, but the aquariums were brightly lit with all manner of colorful fish. I couldn’t name any of them if a marine biologist put a gun to my head.

“What if I said I’ll owe you one?”

Broz dumped the vacuum and the hose in a stainless-steel work sink. He rinsed out the sludge and looked to be thinking. Of course, it was very hard to tell if Gerry Broz was thinking, as he did it so infrequently.

Z walked up the metal framework that balanced all the aquariums. He pushed at it lightly, as if testing its strength. Pushing with his arms and shoulders, leaning into it and stretching out his back. The metal and glass made the slightest cracking sounds.

“Hey,” Gerry said. “Hey.”

“A favor?” I said.

Z let go. He smiled and placed his hands back into his leather jacket.

“A favor,” I said. “Anytime. Within reason.”

Gerry shot an unpleasant look at Z. Z grinned back at him.

“Murphy,” I said. “Kevin.”

“Yeah, I know him,” Gerry said. “What do you want to know?”

“He used to be the main squeeze of a woman who is now married to my client,” I said. “I want to know if he’d be the kind of guy who might expand from making dirty pictures.”

“Into what?”

“Kidnapping,” I said. “Maybe murder. All kinds of good stuff.”

“Murphy is a fucking punk,” Gerry said. He scratched his neck and patted his pockets for a cigarette. He fished one out and lit it. “Man, I don’t know. He’s got a pretty decent deal going on, thinks he’s the Bob Guccione of the Internet. These young guys kill me with their macho bullshit.”

“Where?” I said.

“Why don’t you ask your cop pals?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“Couldn’t help.”

“Me, either,” he said. “Don’t know.”

“But can you find out?”

“That’s it?” he said.

“That’s it.”

“A favor?”

“To be named later,” I said.

Gerry squinted at us as he smoked. He stared hard at Z, to whom he had taken an instant dislike, and let out a long stream of smoke. “What are you? You sure ain’t from around here.”

“Cree Indian from Montana,” Z said.

“He’s running with you and Hawk?”

I nodded. There was a lot of noise from the pumps in the large, enclosed space. Gerry nodded and took another drag. “You putting together one of those Village People tribute bands? You guys would be great.”

“Keep thinking, Gerry,” I said. “That’s what you’re good at.”

“Okay,” he said. “Where can I get you?”

I told him my number. Twice.

36

Kevin Murphy made art above a corner store just south of Adams and just north of an elevated train trestle in Fields Corner. The convenience store windows were covered in posters for Keno and Mega Millions tickets, while the neighboring storefronts were covered over in plywood. Z and I sat across the street eating Chinese takeout from what may have been the very best Chinese restaurant in all of Dorchester.

There wasn’t much to do. Or see. In the last hour, we watched one guy, who was not Murphy, walk upstairs and turn on the lights above the store. I ate chicken fried rice direct from the carton. Elegant. After we finished, Z took the trash, tossed it into a barrel down the way, and wandered back to the car with his hands in his pockets.

“Fine meal,” I said.

“Maybe we should’ve eaten the carton?”

“Probably,” I said.

“More nutrition,” he said.

“Hot sauce,” I said. “Hot sauce makes everything palatable.”

I leaned back into the seat of the Explorer and stretched out my legs. Z remained silent. He was nearly as chatty as Hawk.

I turned on the radio and found Paulie & the Gooch. The guys were engaged in a heated debate about Kinjo Heywood. And if the call was real, which we have no reason to believe he is, should in fact Kinjo play in tomorrow’s game? Next caller.

I turned up the volume. Z turned away from the window and listened.

Hey, it’s Bobby from Dedham. You don’t think that guy’s real. Holy crap. That sounded like business to me. If I were Kinjo, I wouldn’t do crap until my kid was safe. But you know, I’m not Kinjo. He loves his teammates and the Pats and is doing the best he can. I think he’ll play his heart out every moment until his kid is safe. Like he said, he’s sick with worry and it helps. I think he’s a freakin’ hero.

Paulie and the Gooch chewed on that for a bit and then teased the listeners by replaying the call-in from earlier. A muted voice announced he, or she, was the real kidnapper of the Heywood kid and they’d be announcing demands during Sunday’s game. The veteran broadcasters did not discuss. They instead ran a commercial for penis-enlargement pills being shilled by the former head coach of the Cowboys.

I turned down the volume.

“During the game?” Z said.

“Probably doesn’t want Kinjo at the drop.”

“If there is a drop,” Z said. “Could be electronic.”

“Could be,” I said. “Real money makes it easier on us.”

Z nodded. “How long you want to stick with this Murphy guy?”

“Long as it takes to see his routine,” I said.

“And to annoy the shit out of him.”

“Yes,” I said. “That is my most successful tactic.”

A Hispanic man walked past us, carrying a grocery bag in one arm and a small boy in the other. He didn’t even glance at us as he balanced the load in his arm. He wore blue coveralls covered in dirt, the legs too long and frayed at the bottom. The ragged material dragged the ground over his work boots. I turned up the radio again.

I think Heywood is a liability to the Pats. I think he needs to quit being selfish and sit out until this thing with his kid is over. It’s a distraction for everyone in the organization. He’s a great player and I feel sorry about his kid. But are you telling me this don’t have something to do with his off-field stuff? You know? You wait and see, this whole mess has something to do with the way the man lives his life.

“Wisdom of the masses,” I said.

“Fickle,” Z said. “College alumni are worse. Pro teams have fans. Alumni who give money think they own you.”

“And know more about the sport than you,” I said.

Z craned his neck and stared up at the lights burning over the corner store. “Probably same in the porn business,” Z said. “Murphy makes the movies and sometimes stars in them, too.”

“Performance pressure,” I said.

“His whole business is online. You get a membership to watch girls get interviewed by Murphy and then do the deed.”

“So the casting couch is his show?”

“Murphy goes by the name Mr. X. He never shows his face but is very proud of his equipment,” Z said. “It all takes place on his couch. Sometimes on his desk.”

“Few sets.”

“Most of the girls don’t look eighteen,” Z said. “Reminded me of when I was in L.A. Girls looked stoned. Need the money for food.”

“Hmm,” I said.

“He likes to make the girls hurt,” Z said. “He likes to demean them.”

The mindless chatter of Paulie & the Gooch filled the car. Wind blew grit and loose flyers across the road. Rain tapped absently on the windshield.

“If I see him, perhaps he should hurt, too.”

“So many shitbags,” I said. “So little time.”

Z nodded.

“You see any girls who might have been Cristal?” I said.

“No,” he said. “But he had maybe four hundred, five hundred films.”

Our prayers are with the entire Heywood family and with the brave men and women of law enforcement looking for Akira. The Gooch and I both have spent a lot of time with the Heywood family, including Akira, and I promise our listeners that there is no more devoted father than Kinjo Heywood. If anyone out there knows anything about these kidnappers or where they might have this child, you can call a special hotline we’ve set up through the Sports Monstah network.

“No prayers for us?” Z said.

I shook my head.

“Damn.”

The lights continued to burn on the second floor above the corner store. A half-hour later, Hawk called. We spoke all of ten seconds and then I hung up.

“I’m needed,” I said.

“Trouble?”

“Nicole is trying to force Cristal to talk,” I said. “I’ll drop you at your car.”

“And I’ll circle back here.”

“Murphy may not even be up there,” I said. “May be a waste of time.”

“It’s such a lovely night in Dorchester,” Z said. “I’ll wait and see.”