Текст книги "Robert B. Parker's Lullaby"

Автор книги: Ace Atkins

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8

In the future, how about I handle the questioning,” I said.

“If I hadn’t come with you,” Mattie said, “Theresa wouldn’a said shit.”

“Do you have any idea what happens when I smile at women?”

Mattie didn’t answer.

“It comes with a permit,” I said. “I use it sparingly.”

“She needed a little kick in the ass,” Mattie said, reaching to turn up the heat as we drove. She sank down into the passenger seat, pink Sox cap low over her eyes. She tapped her black-nailed fingers against the window glass as she stared out at the road. The night had grown dark outside the car as we headed south back to the Mary Ellen McCormack.

“How about you just point me in the right direction,” I said. “And I do the legwork.”

“Nope.”

“Thanks for the help,” I said. “But I’m going to have to talk to some rough characters. People of low reputation.”

“Wow,” Mattie said. “I’m scared.”

“You hired me to do a job,” I said. “You need to respect the way I work.”

“You need me,” she said. “I know people.”

“I would have to play shamus and bodyguard,” I said. “I prefer one job at a time. And don’t fool yourself. I know a lot of crummy people, too.”

She didn’t say anything.

“You hungry?” I asked.

“Nope.”

“I’m hungry,” I said. “It’s late. I’ll start again Monday.”

“I got school Monday.”

“I don’t,” I said. “Being an adult has its privileges.”

We followed Old Colony, passing check-cashing businesses and liquor stores and secondhand car dealers. I turned onto Monsignor O’Callaghan Way and slowed by the front gate of the housing projects. The old brick buildings looked to be built from the same design as Depression-era hospitals and mental asylums. In the last decade or so, someone had added a few murals and a modern-looking sculpture. Neither did much to dress up the place.

I stopped the car and offered her my hand.

Mattie removed her ball cap and shook my hand. She tucked her reddish hair behind her ears and slipped the cap back on.

“I wasn’t tryin’ to screw with you,” she said.

“Never dream of it.”

“Theresa was just trying to give you the same bullshit she gave my ma.”

“Maybe she told me some things.”

“What things?”

“I got stuff to check out,” I said. “Leads to follow. Hoodlums to rough up.”

Mattie rubbed her cold nose and nodded. She reached for the door handle. “You call me tomorrow?”

I smiled. “You bet, kid.”

“Spenser?”

“Yep?”

“Please don’t call me ‘kid.’”

She pushed the door open and stepped onto the curb. I turned up the collar on my leather jacket and put my hands in front of the heating vent. I watched Mattie Sullivan open a spiked gate with a key and walk down a path lined with skinny leafless trees. A group of teenagers were lounging on a playground in their parkas and puffy coats. Five or six of them blocked Mattie’s path.

She busted through them like Gale Sayers, splitting the group in half, and kept walking with her head down and her hands in her pockets.

I smiled.

I cranked the engine and drove north on the expressway to the Back Bay, where the boutiques on Newbury Street were still full of shoppers and the dinner crowd was heading out for cocktails in their cashmere coats and hats. The trees of the Public Garden were still strung with white Christmas lights. Tonight was Susan’s night to volunteer at a women’s shelter in Charlestown, and she’d left me a message to expect a very important houseguest at my apartment.

I parked on Marlborough Street and headed up the steps to find Pearl the Wonder Dog waiting for me with a squeaky rubber chicken in her mouth.

I scratched behind her ears and gave her a cookie. Peanut butter and bacon sounded like a terrific combo to me.

“What’s for dinner?” I asked.

Pearl didn’t answer. She panted.

Seeing I was on my own, I opened the refrigerator. I pulled out a sweet potato, a yellow onion, and some andouille sausage we’d bought at Savenor’s in Beacon Hill. Since Susan wouldn’t be dining with me, I reached for a bottle of Tabasco.

“First things first,” I said to Pearl. She looked at me earnestly and tilted her head.

I went to the bar and poured myself a measure of scotch and then added a lot of ice and a lot of soda. I flicked on the stereo and sipped the drink while listening to a Tony Bennett LP, “I’m Always Chasing Rainbows.”

I placed the sweet potato in the oven and tried Vinnie Morris. He didn’t pick up.

I asked his voice mail about Red Cahill and a heavy named Moon. His voice mail did not respond.

I listened to Tony for a while, then put on a pot of stone-ground grits. I sliced the andouille and chopped the onion and cooked them both in some olive oil. I added a splash of Tabasco and some salt and a lot of black pepper. When the sweet potato was done, I peeled and chopped it and added it into the mix. I found some maple syrup from Vermont and drizzled some into the pan, along with a dash of brown sugar.

I lowered the heat and checked on the grits.

I set a single place at the table with good china and gave Pearl another cookie as I dolloped the andouille-and-sweet-potato mixture on top of the steaming grits.

Tony sang a sad song. But he sang it with hope.

I was halfway finished when the phone rang.

“Excuse me,” I said to Pearl. Pearl eyed the grits.

I picked up the phone.

“Do you go out looking for flaming piles of shit, or do people leave them at your door?”

“Hello, Vinnie.”

“Jesus.”

I reached over the table and finished the scotch.

“What you got?” I asked.

“Red Cahill and some guy named Moon. Right?”

“Red likes to be called Pepper,” I said. “Like red pepper. It’s cute, right?”

“There isn’t shit cute about Red Cahill,” Vinnie said. “Whatta you want with these animals?”

“Coming from you, that is high praise.”

“I ain’t the man I used to be.”

“Me and you both,” I said.

“Since Joe got old, the city is a little screwy,” Vinnie said.

“It was screwier with Joe Broz.”

“Maybe, but he consolidated.”

“Big word,” I said.

“I try,” Vinnie said.

“And now?”

“You read about that shooting in Dorchester last month?”

“Five men,” I said.

“Yep.”

“Town is changing again,” I said.

“Yep.”

“And hot Pepper has something to do with this?” I asked.

“Bingo.”

“He a shooter?”

“Maybe better than me,” Vinnie said.

“Nobody is better than you.”

“I’m just saying.”

“So who’s in charge?” I asked.

“You’re not gonna believe this.”

“I hate stories that start out that way,” I said. “Will this give me indigestion? Because I’ve got a top-notch meal waiting for me.”

“Gerry Broz is reclaiming his old man’s territory.”

“Red Cahill works for Gerry Broz?”

“And Gerry Broz is no friend to you,” Vinnie said.

“He may hold a grudge,” I said.

“He’s been wanting you dead for a couple decades.”

“I may have shot him.”

“There is that,” Vinnie said.

“Indeed,” I said.

9

Monday morning, I dressed in a pair of gray sweats and laced up my New Balance running shoes, taking along some street clothes in a gym bag. At eight a.m., I met Hawk at Henry Cimoli’s place on the waterfront. We waited until the yoga class had finished their meditation and deep breathing and then took over the back room. Hawk hung the speed bag, and I lifted the heavy bag, Hawk hooking the chains onto the swivel.

We turned on the lights.

“You ever think about takin’ up yoga?” Hawk asked. “Deep breathing, meditation. All that shit.”

“No,” I said. “You?”

“I am the model of inner peace.”

“Even when kicking the crap out of someone?”

Hawk grinned. “Especially then.”

The yoga teacher was young and slim, with long red hair wrapped into a bun. She shut off the meditation music and carried the CD player out with her. On her way out the door, she and Hawk exchanged smiles.

“Why didn’t she smile at me?” I asked.

“You an acquired taste,” Hawk said. “My sexual energy is recognizable and immediate.”

“Of course.”

“How many rounds?”

“Let’s hit six,” I said. “We take turns on the speed and heavy. Maybe some shadow work.”

“You still talkin’?” he asked.

I nodded, and we slid into the rhythm we’d developed over the years. I found the punching, footwork, and breathing to be a kind of music. Hawk’s hands worked on a speed bag like Gene Krupa on drums. My hands weren’t quite as fast, but my punches were solid. By the third round, I was sweating. Hawk glistened.

His bald black head shone. His biceps and forearms swelled from his T-shirt. But I did not hear a grunt. Hawk was effortless in both speed and violence.

We finished the workout with some bench presses and arm work. Hawk and I tossed around the medicine ball, quick passes back and forth. Some of the young ladies watched as we worked.

“Poetry in motion,” Hawk said.

“No,” I said. “I don’t think they’ve ever seen a medicine ball before.”

“Good thing Henry keeps one for us.”

“Nostalgia,” I said.

After a fat guy in swim trunks left us in the steam room, I told Hawk about Mattie Sullivan and Moon and Red “Pepper” Cahill. Gerry Broz, too.

“Just where’d you shoot him?” he asked.

“Right in the Public Garden.”

Hawk grinned and shook his head.

“Leg,” I said.

“You saved the motherfucker’s life,” Hawk said. “Joe Broz knew that.”

“Joe thought I’d have to kill him,” I said. “But he wanted Gerry to try for me anyway. Thought it would make him a man.”

“That’s love,” Hawk said.

I nodded and wiped my face with a towel, leaving it over my eyes and settling back into the cedarwood bench.

“Feds been lookin’ for Joe Broz’s ass for ten years,” Hawk said. “I see him on America’s Most Wanted.”

“I think he’s dead.”

“Men like Joe Broz don’t die, man,” Hawk said. “He down in Florida givin’ it to some old widow.”

“You know Gerry was back into the rackets?”

“Figure he be back,” Hawk said. “He don’t possess many skills.”

“He ain’t Joe Broz.”

“No,” Hawk said. “He ain’t.”

“Vinnie says Gerry was behind that shooting in Dorchester.”

“You goin’ straight ahead at this?” Hawk said. “If so, a brother might need to consult his schedule.”

I took the towel from my face and wiped my eyes. “Not yet,” I said. “I want to poke around it. See what jumps out.”

“You gonna use your red-skinned protégé?”

“Z’s in Montana,” I said. “Business with his family.”

“So you gonna screw around and then call me when your ass in a sling?”

“Exactly.”

“Be good to talk to this guy, Mickey Green,” Hawk said. “See what he know.”

“Thought had crossed my mind.”

“Maybe he was neck-deep in this shit, too.”

“Probably.”

“Where she live in Southie?”

I told him.

“Never been real fond of black folk there.”

“You know it’s not the same,” I said. “It’s black and white and Asian. Gay and straight. Yuppies moving into condos on the harbor.”

“Still a tough place to grow up.”

“You think Mickey Green will agree to see me?”

“What else he got to do at Cedar Junction,” Hawk said, “besides play with himself?”

“I still want to call it Walpole.”

“Don’t have the same ring,” Hawk said. “Walpole sounds tough. Cedar Junction sound like a peckerwood jamboree.”

After the workout, I showered and shaved and dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. I slipped my running shoes back on and clipped my .38 Chief’s Special onto the rear of my belt. I slid into my leather jacket with the zip-in liner and reached for my Boston Braves cap.

I felt calm. My breathing had slowed. My heart beat at an easy rhythm, and my head was clear. I now needed only coffee and some corn muffins to fuel my day.

When I returned to my car, I found the little red light blinking on my cell phone, so I called my voice mail. Spenser, master of technology.

“I need to see you,” Mattie Sullivan said. “Don’t freak out or nothin’, but they won’t let me leave the counselor’s office. I told them I’m fine, but a couple douchebags tried to run me over this morning. I ripped my pants. No big deal, but thought you should know.”

I circled back to Southie.

10

Mattie told the school counselor I was her uncle, and the counselor bought it. I’d like to think it was the wisdom in my eyes or the deep calm resonance of my voice. Or maybe the counselor just thought Mattie could use a day off. She’d shown up for science class in torn khakis, her knees and elbows skinned and bloody.

We found a Dunkin’ Donuts on Perkins Square where Broadway and Dorchester Street converge. We sat at a stand-up bar overlooking Broadway, watching people line up at the check-cashing business. Next door was a hardware store, and across the street was a pizzeria called McGoo’s in the bottom of a three-decker. There was also a bank, a barbershop, and a Goodwill in the little shopping district. The skies hinted at a cold rain.

I chose two corn muffins and a black coffee. Mattie chose a grape-jelly-filled. The folly of youth.

“Did you see these guys?” I asked.

“Sort of.”

“Was it Pepper and Moon?”

“Nope,” she said.

“How do you know?”

“Do I look stupid?”

“What’d they look like?”

“The guy driving was older,” she said. “Gray hair and kinda scruffy. Other guy I couldn’t see so well. He mighta been black. Or maybe Mexican or somethin’.”

“How do you know they were trying to hurt you?”

“I figured that out about the time the car’s grille nipped at my ass.”

“Excellent point,” I said. “Then what?”

“What do you think?” Mattie asked. “I jumped into a fucking ditch.”

“What kind of car was it?”

“I don’t know. Car was blue or silver.”

“You see the license plate?”

“As I was jumping into the ditch?”

“Wouldn’t matter,” I said. “Probably stolen. What did they do after they passed?”

“They braked real hard and doubled back,” she said. “Ditch was outside a construction site on Dorchester, and I ran like hell through it. I cut over to G Street through some people’s backyards, and that’s how come I tore my pants.”

“And still made school on time.”

“Yep.”

“That’s dedication,” I said.

We sat quietly for a while. A homeless man in an Army jacket wandered in and shelled out dimes and pennies for an old-fashioned and two donut holes. Several city buses passed the big plate-glass window, spewing black smoke and churning slush. The teenage girl at the counter looked bored until a couple teen boys walked up to the counter.

“How’s Grandma?”

“She didn’t come home last night.”

“That okay with you?” I asked.

“Sometimes it’s better when she’s gone.”

“You got other family?”

“Sure.”

“Anyone who can help?”

“Help with what?”

“You and your sisters.”

“I don’t need any help.”

“You raising them?”

“I don’t raise them,” Mattie said. “I look out for them.”

“What’s the difference?”

“I’m their big sister,” she said. “It’s what you do. I don’t really have a lot of time to think about it. You just do it.”

I watched her finish the donut. I sipped some more coffee. One of the boys at the counter was trying to make time with the girl selling donuts. He said he’d love to have her number in his cell. She turned him down flat.

Mattie was listening and grinned a bit. She was a very good listener, aware of everything around her.

“How do you guys make do?” I asked.

“We get a government check,” Mattie said. “Grandma cleans houses and offices some.”

“Has she always been a drunk?”

“Not like now,” Mattie said. “She didn’t drink so much after my mom died. We had social workers dropping in and stuff. People from church bringing food and whatever. She can dry out if she wants.”

“What happened to them?”

Mattie shrugged. We watched more cars pass by the window and the homeless guy artfully begging for more change. The kid at the counter would not give the donut girl a rest. She finally gave up her number. Persistence.

“What do you do for fun?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You like sports or going to Mass? You belong to any clubs? Do you have a boyfriend?”

She made a snort that could almost have been a laugh. I smiled at her.

“No boyfriend?”

Her pudgy face colored a bit as she readjusted her elbows on the counter. She reached up to chew a black nail.

“But you do like the Sox?”

“Sure.”

“What do you think about Adrian Gonzalez?”

“For a hundred and fifty mil, he better pull his weight.”

“You ever been to Fenway?”

“Oh, yeah,” she said. “With all my extra money. I got season tickets.”

“You know you’ve got to quit asking around about these guys without me,” I said. “That’s not a good idea right now. Not very safe.”

She shrugged.

“I’ll drive you to and from school,” I said. “Something happens at home, you call me and then you call nine-one-one. I’m going to try and work out something with a patrol officer I know.”

She nodded. “Okay.”

“How are you feeling right now?”

“Fine.”

“You think we could stop by the local station house and look at some photos?” I asked. “Have you file a report?”

She nodded.

“After that, let’s do something about those clothes. I can run you back to your apartment to change.”

“Where we headed?”

“Field trip,” I said.

11

I had made many visits to Walpole and its lovely state prison. It had opened sometime back in the fifties and had that classic prison feel. Big concrete walls, concertina wire, heavy iron doors with brass handles. The entire place stank of funk and sweat. The Boston Strangler had once called it home. They still made license plates.

Mattie had been there, too. She knew the drill.

I’d arranged for us to meet with Mickey Green during visiting hours. I’d called while waiting outside Mattie’s apartment for her to change. We walked through metal detectors and a hand search. I checked my .38 at the door.

Mattie was impressed. The guard was not, and he asked for my permit.

“You carry that gun all the time?” she asked.

“I have a slight inferiority complex.”

A guard motioned for us to enter through another door into a long room lined with Plexiglas windows and telephone handsets. A thick-barred window had been opened a crack on the visitors’ side to let in fresh cold air.

I let Mattie take the seat. I stood behind her.

Mickey Green wasn’t much to look at. Average height and skinny, he wore some sparse blond hair on his face that some might describe as a beard. He eyed me with hooded, hawkish eyes and then sat in front of Mattie. He picked up the phone gingerly, as if it could be bugged.

He figured me for the fuzz.

I thought that word had gone out of fashion a long time ago. Mattie told him that I wasn’t. She explained the situation. Green began to relax, eyes flicking up to my face and nodding. Mattie asked him if he needed anything and if he was taking care of himself. Green smiled at Mattie. She smiled back. He looked up again at me and nodded his approval.

I switched places with her, and she moved to stand behind my right shoulder.

“Mattie says you got a raw deal,” I said.

“She knows I got fucked,” Green said, scratching his neck. “You gonna get me out of this shithole or what?”

“But Walpole is so beautiful this time of year.”

“Change seats with me.”

I shrugged. His eyes met mine, and he nodded back. “Okay,” he said. “What do you want from me?”

“If you lie to me or lead me in the wrong direction, you’re only screwing yourself.”

Mickey Green nodded again. He looked earnest in his bright orange jumpsuit. It was tough to look earnest in orange.

“Were you with Julie Sullivan the night she died?”

“I’ve been through this.”

“Not with me. Were you with her?”

“Nope,” Mickey said. He leaned toward the glass as if it would amplify his voice. “I did not kill her. I loved Jules.”

“That’s why you helped out the family sometimes?”

“I did what I could, you know,” he said. “I’m good with my hands.”

There was a solid offering of a joke, especially sitting in prison, but I refrained. I only nodded and asked, “You sell her drugs?”

“No.”

“But you lived with two known drug dealers?”

He nodded.

“And you’ve told Mattie that those two men killed Julie?”

“Yes.”

“Moon and Red Cahill.”

He nodded again. “It’s complicated, man.”

“My mind is nimble,” I said. “Try me.”

“Huh?”

“How am I to believe you were not connected in their business endeavors?”

“I’m a fucking mechanic,” he said. “Red is my cousin. We split the rent.”

“But that’s where Julie got her drugs.”

“Well, sure.”

“And you didn’t stop that?”

“How was I gonna stop her when I couldn’t stop myself? I ain’t her fucking priest.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “The Suffolk County DA had a tight case on you.”

“Bullshit.”

“You were washing blood and hair off the car used to run her down.”

I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned back to Mattie. I wish she’d stayed in the car. But Mickey obviously trusted her, and I didn’t know if he’d see me without her. She nodded to him. He stared at her, smirked, and shook his head.

“They listen on these things,” he said. “And I don’t like talking with my pants down.”

“Can you at least explain the car?”

“Red borrowed it that night.”

“And the next day, you just decided to give it a wash?”

“Red asked me to check the belts and get it cleaned,” he said. “I was sleeping one off, and he comes in and pitches me the keys and tells me to take care of the car.”

“Nice.”

“And he paid me fifty bucks.”

“You tell the cops this?”

Mickey Green rubbed his insignificant beard and blew out his breath. “No.”

“Because he’s your cousin?”

“Because he would’ve killed me.”

“That would be a deterrent,” I said. “And now?”

“Now I don’t give a shit,” he said. “I can’t do life in here.”

“I need names,” I said. “I need to know people who would’ve seen Julie that night.”

He nodded, meeting my eyes.

“If you want to protect Red,” I said, “that’s fine. But do you think he’d do the same for you? Has he ever come to visit?”

Mickey shook his head. “Only people come to visit are my sister and Mattie.”

“I think you need to start looking out for yourself,” I said.

Mickey looked as if he’d just tasted something sour, but the sourness passed, and something brightened his face that seemed like a decision. “You got a pen?” Mickey asked.

“Always prepared, that’s my motto.” I reached into my jacket.

“You better watch your fucking back,” Mickey said.

“Hold on, let me write that down.”

Mickey smirked. He leaned forward and lifted his eyes up to the glass.

“You ever hear Red mention the name Gerry Broz?” I asked.

“Broz, as in Joe Broz?” Mickey said.

“Yep.”

“Is he Broz’s son or somethin’?”

“Or somethin’.”

“Never mentioned him.”

“So Red and Moon worked alone back then?”

“Yep.”

“What’s Moon’s real name?” I asked.

“Leslie Murphy.”

“Not a very tough name.”

“You seen him?”

“Haven’t had the pleasure.”

“Looks like a rhinoceros on steroids,” Mickey said. “He once sexually assaulted a guy who played for the Pats with a pool cue.”

“Ouch.”

“Fuckin’ A,” Mickey said. “I heard that guy didn’t shit straight for a month.”

“Names?” I asked. “People who knew Julie then, and people who saw you that night.”

“Like an alibi?”

“Yeah, Mickey,” I said. “Just like that.”