Текст книги "Robert B. Parker's Lullaby"

Автор книги: Ace Atkins

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

39

A light was visible at the sill of my apartment door. I thought it was perhaps karma. Someone was creeping me while I was creeping Theresa Donovan.

I pulled the .38 from under my leather jacket and lightly felt the knob.

The door was unlocked. I heard shuffling inside. It sounded as if someone was going through my papers and drawers. I wondered if they’d find my autograph of Hank Aaron tucked inside Zane Grey’s Code of the West. Or my sexy pictures of Lotte Lenya.

I opened the door fast, gun in hand.

Pearl tilted her head. She’d been drinking from a bowl of water and slobber dripped from her jowls.

I put away the gun and closed the door behind me.

Susan had made a fire and sat on the couch, drinking a glass of wine and reading a Charles Portis novel. She looked up from the book for a moment to smile at me. She took another sip and dog-eared the page.

“I might have shot Pearl.”

“Pearl was unarmed,” Susan said.

Pearl trotted up and offered her head for me to pat. I patted her head.

“Been here long?”

“Oh, since five,” she said. “Last appointment canceled. He’s the commitment-phobe.”

I nodded.

“I brought takeout from Chez Henri.”

“Cuban sandwich?”

“Also got you that selection of cheeses you like. That thingy with the fruit and toasted nuts.”

I opened the refrigerator and found a bottle of Amstel. I pulled out the containers from Chez Henri. I placed the Cuban sandwich in my toaster oven and set it to warm. I cracked open the beer and picked at the fruit and cheese.

“I ever tell you that you are a saint?” I asked.

“Not as often as you should,” she said. “I hoped you’d come home tonight.”

“You could have called.”

“I knew you’d be home when you were ready.”

“Like a stray cat.”

“Exactly.”

Susan stood and finished her wine. She was wearing an old gray Boston College sweatshirt given to me by the football weight coach, and not much else.

“I like your style,” I said.

“This old thing?” Susan asked. She opened the refrigerator and poured herself more wine. Chateau Ste. Michelle Riesling. “Why, I only wear it when I don’t care how I look.”

I studied her butt as she bent over to replace the wine in the low section of the fridge. I smiled. I sipped some more beer.

“I spent the night looking into a young woman’s windows and checking out her drawers.”

“Creepy.”

“A chest of drawers.”

“Oh.”

Susan sipped her wine. I found a cookie for Pearl in the cookie jar. Pearl nearly took my fingers off chomping it down.

I hung up my leather jacket on a rack by the front door. I unclipped the holster from my belt and put away the gun.

“Wyatt Earp,” she said.

“You ever get used to what I do?”

“Nope,” Susan said.

“Does it excite you?”

“Not really.”

“You eat?”

“I had the paella. Would you rather have had the paella?”

“No,” I said. I removed the Cuban sandwich from the toaster oven. The cheese was again the proper gooeyness. The slow-roasted pork inside the pressed bread was very good. Citrusy.

“How’s Mattie?”

“As she’d say, she’s ‘royally pissed.’”

“What did you do?”

“I did not take her for another field trip to Cedar Junction state prison.”

“To see the man who may have killed her mother.”

“We’re beyond that,” I said. “She actually likes the goober.”

I ate more of the sandwich, properly chased with the Amstel.

“She would,” Susan said. “She’ll see paternal traits in him no matter how horrid he seems to you.”

“Come again?”

“His conviction feels like an injustice to her. She’s built him up in her head—with a little prompting from him—as the only man who cared about her mother. She could identify with his plight, and in turn as a father.”

“I would hope she’d pick a better role model.”

“She may be pissed at you because you’re challenging that,” she said. “You are probably very different from Mickey Green.”

“God, I hope so.”

“Does he stand a chance?”

“I got Rita to take his case.”

“That’s a hell of a favor for someone you don’t like,” Susan said.

I shrugged. I ate more of the sandwich. I found another bottle of Amstel.

“The kid’s damn sure Green didn’t do it,” I said. “Cops never asked her what she saw that night.”

“At this point, are we sure he’s innocent?”

I sighed. “Not really. He knows more than he’s telling. And he’s definitely no heroic father figure. Mattie deserves a lot more than Mickey Green.”

Susan nodded. I stood there and drank and ate. I studied her long, shapely legs and was quiet for a moment.

“Oh, God,” Susan said. “You don’t have plans to take her in? The way you did with Paul?”

“Nope.”

“Or mentor her.”

“Mattie doesn’t need anyone to teach her how to fight,” I said. “She could bring Mike Tyson to tears.”

“Or be self-sufficient.”

“Nope.”

“Is that frustrating?”

“That she’s so damn self-sufficient?”

“That you can’t teach her anything the way you taught Paul how to dress and how to act and how to be a man? Or what you did for Z.”

“Perhaps,” I said. “She can’t see anything beyond freeing Mickey Green and nailing her mom’s killers.”

“You may not be able to make it all better,” she said.

“The thought had crossed my mind.”

“You understand, her unhappiness is a form of self-flagellation,” she said. “That doesn’t just go away.”

“I figured that,” I said. “I told her I’d take her to a ball game this spring. Hard to flagellate at Fenway. You’d get arrested.”

“Momentary happiness, enjoyment of life, may be the only thing you can teach her.”

“Tall order, but I’m trying.”

“Who better?” Susan said. “You choose to work in an ugly, violent world yet find enjoyment.”

“Sometimes I whistle while I beat people up.”

“Even if you free Mickey Green and put those men in jail, Mattie will continue to beat herself up.”

I nodded.

“It could help initially,” she said. “But she’ll need some help. And a lot of time.”

I nodded again.

“You ready for that?” Susan asked.

“A work in progress?”

“Yes.”

“She’s worth it.”

“Why?”

“I respect her sense of justice.”

“And you will teach her how to live until she finds it.”

I nodded.

Both of us found a place on my couch to watch the fire. Pearl ambled into the room and jumped between us.

“She missed you,” Susan said.

“She tell you that?”

“Doesn’t she talk to you?”

“Depends on how much I drink.”

“I suppose you’re going to keep at this all weekend?” Susan asked. She tucked her bare feet up under her.

“Yep.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Start from the beginning,” I said. “Follow Red and Moon.”

“Can you take Hawk with you?”

“If Hawk is available.”

“Hawk will make time,” she said. “As always.”

I nodded.

“You made time for him when he was shot.”

I nodded.

“Take Hawk.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

My old sweatshirt rode up above Susan’s taut waist and very tasteful panties.

“I like those panties,” I said.

“I don’t think they’d fit you.”

“Lace isn’t my thing.”

“What is your thing?”

“Extra-large boxers with red hearts.”

“Sexy.”

“In some cultures.”

“So I’ve waited around for you long enough,” Susan said. She sipped at her wine. “Disrobe.”

“Twist my arm.”

40

Susan and I breakfasted at the Paramount in Beacon Hill. I had hash and eggs and black coffee. She had an egg-white omelet with fruit on the side. The pain in my ass was gone. I had a spring in my step as we followed the Public Garden back to my apartment. Susan and Pearl headed to Cambridge. I went back to work.

I parked, bought another cup of coffee across Boylston, and opened up my office.

A stack of mail had spilled through the slot and onto the floor. I threw away all but a rent notice and a card from Paris. Paul was touring with his dance troupe. He wrote me in French. Paul was very aware I did not speak French.

He was a grown man now, and a successful human. But when he’d been Mattie’s age, he had no one. His existence centered on soap operas and game shows. I’d taken him up to Maine to work on a cabin. I taught him to lift weights, box, and drink beer. I was afraid if I taught Mattie how to box, I would unleash a loaded weapon on Gavin Middle School. I wondered if trying to think of an equivalent plan for a girl was sexist. Probably. And Mattie was not the typical girl. In the movies, teen girls solved all their problems through a makeover. I could only do what Mattie had asked of me. I could offer shrinkage from Susan, but she would probably wholeheartedly decline. What I wanted more than anything was to return some sense of childhood to her. Finding her mom’s killer was the first step. A makeover was lower on the list.

I sat at my desk and used my computer to check the weather and play Ella singing “Angel Eyes.” I called my answering service. And then I called Hawk.

Hawk said to give him fifteen minutes.

“I got to say goodbye to the lady.”

“The woman with the silk sheets?”

“Don’t know what kinda sheets this one got,” Hawk said. “Didn’t make it to the bed.”

I sipped some more coffee and looked down at the building across Berkeley. The lights were off in the insurance offices. It seemed I was the only one who enjoyed working Saturdays. At street level, Shreve, Crump & Low enjoyed a brisk business. They sold fancy jewelry, and for a long while had a display for something they called The Gurgling Cod. It was a fancy pitcher shaped like a fish. New England chic.

I was halfway done with the coffee when I heard Hawk’s heavy footsteps. You always know when it is Hawk walking. He walks with authority.

“For your troubles, I’ll buy you a gurgling cod.”

“What the fuck’s that?” Hawk asked.

I told him.

“White people got more money than sense,” Hawk said.

“No arguments here.”

“What’s for breakfast?” Hawk asked.

“I ate with Susan.”

“Didn’t bring me nothin’?”

“I didn’t know you’d be available.”

“Am I not a faithful sidekick?”

“I consider myself a first among equals.”

“No shit,” Hawk said, pondering the statement. “I just consider myself first.”

“They got scones across the street.”

“I don’t want no doorstop,” Hawk said. “I said breakfast.”

Hawk was wearing a brown suede sport coat and a black silk shirt opened wide at the neck. His jeans were properly faded and frayed in the current style, and his cowboy boots were made from ostrich hides.

He caught me staring at his boots.

“What’d an ostrich ever do to you?” I asked.

“Bird died with pride knowin’ it be on my feet.”

I grabbed my peacoat, and the .357 out of my desk drawer.

“Double gunnin’?” Hawk asked.

“Always be prepared,” I said brightly.

“Boy Scouts?”

“Genghis Khan,” I said.

I locked the door behind us. We walked side by side down the flight of steps in a pattern and rhythm we’d developed running Harvard Stadium.

“You did notice the suits parked by the Arlington Street Church?” Hawk asked.

“I didn’t walk that way,” I said. “I walked from my place. I had a spring in my step.”

“Well, Easter Bunny,” Hawk said, “since people are looking to do you in, you might want to be more vigilant.”

“Why be vigilant when I have you?”

“’Cause if you ain’t, you be dead.”

I stopped at the landing outside my office building. “You do have a point.”

“Where to?” Hawk asked.

“Did the car have a federal plate?” I asked.

“Yes, suh.”

“A little joyride around town,” I said. “After we lose them, I figured we might want to see what Moon and Red are up to.”

“Not Gerry and ole Jumpin’ Jack?”

“Nope,” I said. “Foot soldiers do the work. They’ll trip up while Broz and Flynn pick their teeth and count their money.”

“And my breakfast?”

“You work up an appetite?”

“You bet,” Hawk said. He grinned very wide.

“Lunch at Legal?” I asked.

Hawk nodded.

I pulled out into traffic. Two lights down Boylston, I made the Feds’ car behind me. I kept my eyes on the rearview mirror.

“On a full stomach, we ditch these turkeys.”

I nodded and headed downtown.

41

We played cat and mouse with the Feds for a while. We ate oysters and drank draft Sam Adams at Legal Sea Foods by the Custom House Tower. Afterward, we indeed ditched the Feds in the South End and looped up to Fenway just to make sure. We drove around for a long while until we headed into Southie and Gerry Broz’s sports bar.

On the way, I told him about Theresa Donovan.

“She dead,” Hawk said.

“You don’t know that.”

“Woman don’t show up for work, leave a plate of food half eaten, and clothes half packed,” Hawk said. “Don’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to figure that shit out. Larry Holmes coulda figured that shit out.”

“The Easton Assassin,” I said.

“Only man to defend the belt more was Joe Louis.”

“Doesn’t mean he’d make a good detective,” I said.

Hawk agreed.

We parked in another alley with a good view of Playmates and the wrecking ball facing the Old Colony Housing Projects. A chain-link fence surrounded the property. The day was cold and colorless, the trees bare and stark against gray skies.

“They supposed to tear down all this shit last year,” Hawk said.

“Takes a long time to break it down,” I said. “Built with quality.”

“Lot a bad shit happened in those walls.”

I nodded.

“‘Go, nigger, go,’” Hawk said. “I can still hear them shouts.”

“That was not good for Boston.”

“No,” Hawk said. “Irish got some hard heads. Must be all the potatoes you eat.”

“Or the beer we drink.”

Hawk grinned.

“You think Broz did the shooting in Dorchester?” I asked.

“Yep,” Hawk said. “Course, he didn’t pull the trigger. You think Gerry knows one end of the gun from the other?”

“Probably not.”

“Leaves us with Red and Moon.”

“Bad guys,” I said.

“We been up against much badder,” Hawk said. “Those boys still minor-league.”

“And Jack Flynn?”

“Jack Flynn is on the thug all-star team.”

Hawk reclined in the passenger seat. His eyes were half closed. He’d always been able to calm himself. I’d known him since we were seventeen and remembered how he’d nearly fall asleep before he’d step into the ring. He could come alive with violence as fast as he could nap. He was on shut-down mode now, waiting for Red or Moon. Or both.

“Heard Red was a good fighter,” Hawk said. “Trained down at McDonough’s.”

“Not much future for old fighters.”

“Man makes his way with his fists got few options.”

“You ever think about selling insurance?” I asked.

“I am the reason for insurance, babe.”

At five, I cranked the car engine. Hawk lifted up the passenger seat.

We watched as Red Cahill and Moon Murphy piled into a green Range Rover and made a series of turns before cutting onto Broadway. Hawk and I did not speak as we drove.

I watched my tail in the rearview. No suits.

Red stopped off at a dry cleaner. We had to park too far away to see what was going on inside. We didn’t want Moon to spot us.

Red climbed back in the Range Rover and headed west. We passed over D Street and a Catholic Charities Labor Center. Red circled into a Burger King parking lot. A black Chevy Blazer pulled alongside, headed the opposite way.

Something passed between the cars.

“Pay that piper,” Hawk said.

I nodded. Red wheeled back onto Broadway and stopped in at a liquor store and a gas station. He cut up Dorchester Avenue at the T station.

“Since when they got a goddamn yoga studio in Southie?”

“World’s going to hell,” I said.

We followed Red north toward downtown on Dorchester Avenue, passing the old Gillette plant. We crossed over the channel bridge and passed the post office distribution site. We turned north on Summer Street, near the bridge, and made our way up the waterfront.

Red turned into the Boston Harbor Hotel. He and Moon both got out.

He tossed the keys to the valet.

“Red gone upscale,” Hawk said. “Shall I?”

“Please do.”

Hawk got out and walked inside the Boston Harbor Hotel. I stayed on the street for about twenty minutes.

I watched the valet stand until Red and Moon reappeared. Hawk opened the passenger door and got back inside.

“Taking a piece of the book from the bartender?”

“Passing some drugs off to some preppie kids,” he said. “Drugs ain’t got no social class.”

I nodded.

“Vinnie know about all this?” Hawk asked. “Gettin’ close to Gino’s turf.”

I nodded, careful to keep about four cars back. Red and Moon turned into the city.

For the next two hours, Hawk and I counted twelve more shakedowns. Mostly bookies. They also visited two strip clubs just off the Common. Hawk volunteered twice for surveillance inside the clubs.

My stomach told me dinnertime approached as Red dipped south again and headed back over the Summer Street Bridge and to the three-decker off G Street.

They parked and went inside.

“You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?”

“On my last stakeout, I enjoyed a sub sandwich downed with a pot of motor oil.”

“We can do better,” Hawk said.

“One would hope.”

“How long we wait?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Kind of hoped something would come to me.”

“How’s that workin’?”

“Give it time. Give it time.”

A sedan headed toward us on G Street. I slowed to a stop nearly nose to nose. The headlights clicked to bright, blinding us.

Hawk was out of the car. I was out of the car.

I had my .357, and Hawk had a Mossberg pump.

Two figures crawled out. The two young agents who arrested me two days ago.

They put their hands up. But they did not smile as they did it.

Hawk dropped the shotgun to his side. I lowered the .357.

“Nice night,” one of the men said. I believe it was Tweedledee. In the dark, it was hard to tell. “You looking for something?” said Tweedledum. His breath was a cloud.

“Looking for a couple pencil-dick motherfuckers,” Hawk said.

“Oh, look,” I said. “We’re in luck.”

“Get lost,” Tweedledee said.

“Public street,” I said. “Or do you want to arrest me again?”

One agent looked to the other. They got back into the car. They dimmed their lights. They just sat there for a while.

“You still call it a Mexican standoff if we in Southie?” Hawk asked.

“If Red and Moon come out, we’re blown,” I said. “They know it. Doesn’t do us any good. They probably know the Feds, but they don’t know my car.”

Hawk tilted his head from side to side. His neck popped.

“You want to start fresh tomorrow?” he asked. “Woman with the sheets just shot me a text message.”

“Two-timer,” I said.

“Who say they just two?”

“Hawk, you give us all hope,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. “I sure as hell do.”

42

Sunday morning started off the same. I had spent the night with Susan in Cambridge and again had a fine spring in my step. I hit the stairs to my office with a bounce and a smile. Hawk arrived a short time later. He brought donuts and two large coffees.

He did not say a word. He opened the box and sat in my client chair. He sipped and grinned.

“You burn a hole in those sheets yet?” I asked.

“At the height of passion, Teddy Pendergrass on the stereo, she gone and tell me she love me.”

“Hazard of the job.”

“Can you believe that shit?”

“And Hawk loves no one.”

“I love myself,” he said.

“How could you not?” I said. “And you loved Cecile.”

Hawk did not speak. He sipped some coffee. He leaned my client’s chair back on two legs and crossed his boots onto my desk.

Then he said, “You gonna eat or go all Dr. Phil this morning?”

I shrugged before choosing a cinnamon. I thought it a bold yet solid decision.

“We gonna drive around again today?” Hawk asked. “Follow Red and Fat Boy to hell and back?”

“You have a better idea?”

“I do.”

“And?”

“You wanna find out what’s what,” Hawk said. “We go see Tony. Tony will know.”

I nodded.

“Does Tony work Sundays?” I asked.

“After church,” Hawk said. “Somebody got to run the whores.”

“I like a man with priorities.”

We both polished off three more donuts and walked down the steps to Berkeley with the rest of our coffee. We agreed to take my rental again.

“You think a black man in a Jag is conspicuous?”

“Only in Southie,” I said. “South End is another story.”

We drove to the bottom of the South End to Tony’s bar. The parking lot across the street was empty, as were many of the storefronts that lined it.

A few years ago Tony had a marketing consultant rename the bar Ebony and Ivory. Hawk and I had a lot of fun with the name. Not a lot of ivory drank at Tony’s bar. But since I’d last seen him, he’d gone back to the original name, Buddy’s Fox.

A new neon sign spelled it out in neat cursive letters. We crossed the street and found the front door open.

Junior and Ty-Bop, Tony’s muscle, looked up from a game of pool in the barren bar.

Ty-Bop nodded to us. Junior ignored us. Ty-Bop hammered off a shot that sounded like bones cracking.

Red vinyl booths lined each side of the room, with a bar at the far end. A door beside the bar led to Tony’s back office. The bar had not changed in decades. In a strange way, I liked that.

Had we not been so well respected by Tony, Ty-Bop and Junior might have stalled us. But they kept playing. We kept walking.

The door to Tony’s office was open. He sat behind his desk.

Tony was dressed in an immaculate gray pin-striped suit with a purple tie. Boston’s most successful pimp looked just like an aging CEO, down to the soft neck and graying temples. His mustache was neatly trimmed.

“Look what the motherfuckin’ cat dragged in.”

“Tony,” I said.

“Spenser,” he said. “Hawk, my man.”

Hawk nodded at Tony. Tony grinned and rubbed his chin. He smiled, taking us both in like we were auditioning for a comedy act. I was not sure if I was Martin or Lewis.

“What y’all want?”

“Information,” Hawk said.

“I should start chargin’ for that shit,” Tony said. “Do I look like goddamn four-one-one?”

“You owe me,” I said.

“How long till that tab run out?”

“Long time,” Hawk said.

Tony nodded. He knew Hawk was correct.

Tony lit a fat dark cigar and leaned into the padded leather desk chair. His lighter was bright gold. He smoked the cigar in an expert fashion as he snapped the lighter shut.

“Y’all want a drink?”

“I don’t drink on Sunday,” I said.

“Now, I know that’s some bullshit.”

Tony pressed a button on his desk and told Junior to bring in three glasses of Crown Royal. In a few moments, Junior lumbered in with three glasses of whiskey rattling on a tray. He left the whiskeys on Tony’s desk without a word.

Hawk and I drank. Tony left his on his desk while he smoked.

“Y’all want to sit?”

Both of us shook our heads.

“Okay,” Tony said. “Tell me what you want to know.”

“What’s Gerry Broz doing with Jumpin’ Jack Flynn?” I asked.

“Oh, shit.”

“‘Oh, shit’?” I asked.

Tony smoothed down his neatly trimmed mustache. “Seems like me and you have a similar pain in the ass.”

“They cutting in on your turf?” I asked.

“Just starting,” Tony said. “Joe’s kid got some kind of ambition.”

“You know Gerry’s in his forties,” I said. “Why’s everyone call him a kid?”

“That motherfucker got back into it last year,” Tony said. “I thought it was a joke. Don’t think it’s a joke no more. Especially now he thrown in with Flynn.”

“Dorchester.”

“Five people dead.”

“What was it over?” I asked.

“What the hell you think?” Tony asked. “Drugs.”

I nodded and Hawk nodded. He removed his sunglasses.

“What’s Flynn’s deal in this?” Hawk asked.

“You know Jack Flynn?” Tony asked.

I nodded.

“He been out of the joint a few years,” Tony said. “Figure he out of the life till I heard about him openin’ that bar in Southie with Broz’s kid. One got more money than sense. Other bring a lifetime of respect and fear.”

“Partners?”

“You got to ask them that,” Tony said. “Didn’t study their got-damn business plan. And I don’t give a shit. I just know I can’t have any of you Irish motherfuckers thinkin’ you gonna run some skin, too. You see?”

“Jack Flynn is not my people,” I said.

Tony leaned in. He threw back his whiskey. “How long I been in the life?”

“Long time,” Hawk said.

“Yep,” Tony said. “And I’ll say this. Jumpin’ Jack Flynn is the craziest, most fucked-up son of a bitch I ever known. That a thing, ain’t it?”

Hawk nodded.

“Your problems may be over soon,” I said. “The Feds are all over Broz and Flynn.”

“They been all over me for years. Doesn’t change shit. Whores need to be run. I know how to do the runnin’.”

“They want to shut down Broz,” I said. “And close the case on the old man.”

“That what you heard?” Tony asked. His mouth pursed into a tight smile.

I nodded.

“Well, you wrong,” Tony said. “They ain’t after Broz. They after the Italians and Gino Fish.”

I looked to Hawk. Hawk looked back to me. He lifted his eyebrows.

“Jack Flynn did five years for one murder,” Tony said. “I know for a fact that sociopath killed at least fifty. I ain’t shittin’ you, man.”

“You think he cut a deal?” I asked.

“What’s it look like to you, Irish?”

“You got proof?”

“Man, I just counting my money and taking it day by day,” Tony said. “God willing.”

I nodded.

“What if they come for you next, Tony?” Hawk asked.

“Reason I got Ty-Bop and Junior,” Tony said. “Nobody likes no gang war. But they happen from time to time. I got other people, too. I hold my fucking ground.”

“Gino know about this?” I asked.

“Since that shooting, the territory’s been up for grabs,” Tony said. “You better believe ole Gino is holding on to his nuts. Or having someone hold them for him.”

I nodded. Hawk looked to me. He put his sunglasses back on.

“I’m glad you got back the bar’s original name,” I said. “It’s what kids today call retro.”

“Glad you like it, man,” Tony said. “Ain’t nothin’ like the real thing.”

Tony did not stand. He did not shake hands with us. He just kept that look of humor on his face as we exited from the darkness of Buddy’s Fox.