Текст книги "Trouble in Paradise"

Автор книги: Robert B. Parker

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"I wanted to stop them, they'd stop," Jencks said.

Jesse nodded.

"Yeah, I can see that," Jesse said.

"I'm surprised you wanted to do it too. Go to jail for what? No money in it. Just a kid's asshole prank. I figured you for a little more serious tough guy than that."

"Showed them fairies something," Jencks said.

"What'd you show them, tough guy?"

"Showed 'em," Jencks said stubbornly.

Jesse laughed. His laugh was rich with contempt.

"Sure," Jesse said.

"One time, and one time only, you want to tell me what happened and walk, or you want to go to jail?"

"I ain't going to jail."

"Yeah, you are," Jesse said.

"And because you're so fucking stupid, you may be the only one." Jesse raised his voice.

"Suit?"

Simpson opened the door.

"Take him out," Jesse said.

"Turn him loose."

Jencks looked startled.

"Back way?" Simpson said.

"Yeah."

"Come on," Simpson said, and he led Jencks out of Jesse's office. In two minutes he was back.

"They see him go?" Jesse said.

"Yeah. I took him down past the cells," Simpson said, "with my arm around his shoulder. When I let him out the back door, I shook hands with him. They could see all that."

"Okay," Jesse said.

"Go get the younger one."

"Robbie."

"Yeah. Arrest him. Read him his rights. Cuff him in front."

Seated in the chair, his cuffed hands resting in his lap, Robbie was very pale and swallowed often. Jesse ignored him while he read some documents on his desk. He initialed one and picked up another, read it initialed it and put it in his out basket.

"I don't like these handcuffs," Robbie said.

"I don't care," Jesse said without looking up. He studied the next document for a moment, shook his head, and put it in another pile.

"Couldn't you please take them off?"

Jesse read for another moment, then, still holding the document, he looked up at Robbie.

"You think I'm your camp counselor or something?" Jesse said.

"We got you for a felony, kid. You're going to jail."

"I didn't do anything," Robbie said. His voice was clogged, and Jesse knew he'd cry in a little while.

"I don't like these handcuffs."

"First thing to know," Jesse said, "now that you are officially a tough guy, is that from now on nobody will give one small shit about what you like and don't like. You're not home with your momma. You're in the machine now, boy. You want me to get you a lawyer?"

Jesse went back to his paper work. Robbie stared at him, and when he spoke again his voice was shaking and his eyes were wet.

"But I didn't do anything," he said.

"Not how I hear it," Jesse said absently, scanning a missing persons flyer.

"Heard you did the spray painting. Heard you actually poured the gasoline and struck the match."

"No." Robbie's voice was shrill now.

"Snapper and Earl were only in the house in the first place because they were trying to get you out. They both tried to stop you, but they were too late."

Robbie was crying now. There was a tape recorder on Jesse's desk. Jesse punched the RECORD button.

"No," Robbie said, struggling to talk through the sobs.

"No. I wasn't even in the house. I was outside watching chickie for the cops."

"Oh? So who set the fire?"

"I don't know. I wasn't even in there. Earl had the gas can."

"You're trying to tell me that he was in there with Snapper?"

"Snapper told us he found an open window at the fag house and he'd been in there and tagged the walls in the living room," Robbie said. He was talking as fast as he could, at the same time struggling not to wail.

"Earl stole the gas from my dad, for the power mower, and him and Snapper told me to watch for the cops, and they went in the house."

"Through the window?"

"No, Snapper left the door unlocked."

"And you went in and torched the place," Jesse said gently.

"No," Robbie almost screamed.

"No, I didn't. Snapper and Earl torched it."

Jesse punched the STOP button on his tape recorder. Then he got up and went around the desk and took the cuffs off Robbie's wrists. He shoved a box of tissues to the edge of the desk where Robbie could reach it and went back and sat down. He raised his voice.

"Suitcase?"

The door opened. And Simpson appeared.

"Time to talk with Earl," Jesse said.

TWELVE.

Macklin was having lunch outside on the patio at Janos restaurant in Tucson with an Indian named Crow. The Indian's real name was Wilson Cromartie, but he liked to be called Crow. He was wearing a shortsleeved white shirt, pressed blue jeans, polished boots, and a silver concho belt.

Everything about Crow was angles and planes, as if he had been packed very tightly into himself. The muscles bulged against his taut skin like sharp corners.

The veins were prominent. He wasn't much bigger than Macklin, but everything about him spoke of force tightly compressed. They were drinking margaritas.

"And you want me to be the shooter?" Crow said.

"Not just a shooter," Macklin said.

"I need a force guy, somebody can do the job on the operation and keep discipline in the crew."

"You can't do that?"

"I can do that, but I gotta run the whole dance, you know? Besides I don't scare people like you do."

"That's 'cause you look like some guy graduated Cornell," Crow said.

His voice had traces of that indefinable Indian overtone, even though Macklin knew that Crow hadn't seen a rain dance in his entire life.

"And I sound like it, and that works pretty good for me. But I still need a force guy."

"And you come all the way to Tucson to hire me?" Crow said.

"To cut you in," Macklin said.

"I'm trying to cut you in on the score of a fucking lifetime and you're asking questions like I was trying to steal your land."

"White eyes speak with forked tongue," Crow said.

"Don't give me that Geronimo crap," Macklin said.

"It's me, Jimmy Macklin. You wouldn't know a tepee from a pee pee, for cris sake

Crow's expression didn't change.

"Tepee bigger," he said.

A waitress came and took their lunch order. There were small birds in some dry desert shrubbery around the patio. They made a lot of noise.

When the waitress left, Crow said, "Twenty percent."

"I got too many expenses, Crow. I gotta get an electronics guy, explosives guy, guy with a boat. I can't afford to give you twenty."

"How much you taking?"

"Half," Macklin said.

"My show."

"And I'm the number-two man?"

"Absolutely."

"Twenty," Crow said.

"That only leaves thirty percent for everybody else," Macklin said.

"I can't get quality guys divvying thirty."

"Lie to them," Crow said.

Macklin grinned.

"How you know I promise you twenty, I'm not lying to you?"

"You know better," Crow said.

Macklin cocked a forefinger at Crow and brought the thumb down.

"Twenty it is," Macklin said.

THIRTEEN.

Abby Taylor was in Jesse's office with other lawyer.

"I've been retained to represent Carleton Jencks," Abby said.

"This is Brendan Fogarty, who represents the Hopkins boys."

Abby had on a maroon suit with a short skirt and a short jacket with no lapels.

"You a criminal lawyer, Mr. Fogarty?"

Jesse said.

"I'm Charles Hopkins' personal attorney," Fogarty said.

"This is a criminal case," Jesse said.

"Well," Abby said, "that's what we wanted to talk about."

Abby would be wearing maroon lingerie. When he had been in a position to know such things, her undergarments had always been coordinated.

"Go ahead," Jesse said.

"These are kids," Abby said.

"They made a mistake, but they have a life ahead of them. To press charges will just make matters worse."

"You talk to Canton and Brown?" Jesse said.

"Yes. They came to me to ask if I could represent them in a civil suit, but I had already been retained by the Jencks family."

"They don't want to press charges?"

"The Jencks family and, as I believe Mr. Fogarty will confirm, the Hopkins family are prepared to make financial restitution."

"If charges are dropped?"

"That would be the idea," Fogarty said.

"And what about the kids?" Jesse said.

"They get a second chance."

"To burn somebody else's house down?"

"They're kids, Jesse."

"And they burned down a house because they don't like the sex lives of the people who live there. What if they don't like your sex life?"

Jesse thought that Abby blushed faintly, but maybe he was wrong.

"Wait a minute, Jesse," Fogarty said.

"You don't know me," Jesse said.

"Call me Chief Stone."

"Don't get hard-assed with me, chief," Fogarty said.

"You don't have a case will stand up in court. You didn't read them their Miranda rights."

"They were read their rights when they were arrested," Jesse said.

"They confessed."

"Under coercion. Questioned without an attorney. Thrown in a cell."

Peripherally, Jesse saw Abby shake her head at Fogarty.

"This is not a big building, Mr. Fogarty. I needed to talk to each of them alone. There was nowhere else to put them. Cell door wasn't even locked. I offered them an attorney at every juncture."

"Handcuffed?"

"Once charged," Jesse said.

"You led them to believe that Jencks had implicated them," Fogarty said.

"That I did," Jesse said.

"You pretended to let him go, in order to reinforce that belief."

"Yes, I did," Jesse said.

"He walked out the back door and Sat in the patrol car for an hour with Anthony De Angelo

"There is a conscious pattern of deception and coercion of three minors," Fogarty said.

"You better deal."

Abby shook her head again more vigorously. She knew that Fogarty's tactics wouldn't work with Jesse.

"I think your case may be shaky, Jesse," Abby said.

"But that's not really the point. The point is do you want to put these kids and their families through this? The parents make restitution. The two gay gentlemen rebuild the house. Life goes on."

"And the 'two gay gentlemen'? How do they feel?"

"They got their house rebuilt," Fogarty said.

"People ought to be able to fuck who they want to," Jesse said.

"Without getting their house burned down."

Abby knew Jesse was stubborn. But she had rarely seen him mad too.

"And you're going to fix that by running three kids and their families through the criminal courts?"

"I'm going to run them through the courts," Jesse said.

"To prove?" Abby said.

"That the kids can't mistreat whoever they want and have their parents buy them out of it."

The two lawyers were quiet. Abby knew it was a lost cause. Fogarty tried again.

"You won't get the DA into court with this," Fogarty said.

Jesse didn't reply.

"You'll look like a fool," Fogarty said.

"You don't have a case."

"No disrespect, counselor," Jesse said.

"But I guess I'm not willing to take your word on that."

FOURTEEN.

There was a large photograph of Ozzie Smith on the wall in Jesse's living room where you could see it while sitting at the kitchen counter. Jesse looked at the photo as he poured soda over the ice in a tall glass of scotch. He took a drink. If you didn't drink, Jesse thought, you'd never get it. You'd never know the way it felt.

Casual drinkers, people who drank to be sociable, who would just as soon have a 7 UP if it weren't so unsophisticated, they couldn't understand the fuss about the first drink. Jesse had always thought that the first couple of drinks were like life itself. Pleasing, smooth, bubbly, and harsh. For people who didn't like the taste, Jesse had unaffected scorn. The greatest pleasure came long before you got drunk. After the first one, with the certainty of more, there was gratitude for the life you led.

After a couple of drinks, the magic went away, and pretty soon it was just addiction.

"Got to work on that addiction," Jesse said to Ozzie Smith.

Ozzie was in midair, parallel to the ground, his glove outstretched. As far as Jesse knew, Ozzie Smith had no addictions. Best shortstop that ever lived, Jesse said to himself. He knew it was too large a claim. He knew that Ozzie Smith was only the best shortstop he'd ever seen. He couldn't speak of Marty Marion or Pee Wee Reese, or for that matter, Honus Wagner. He drank some more scotch. They better than Ozzie, they were very goddamned good.

He was pretty certain that none of the others did a back flip.

"Wizard of Oz," Jesse said out loud.

If he hadn't gotten hurt, he'd have made the show. He knew that somatically. He had always known he was a big-league shortstop. If he hadn't gotten hurt, he'd be just finishing up a career.

Maybe moved to third in the last couple of years. Hit.275-.280 lifetime. Ten, twelve home runs. Less average maybe than Ozzie Smith, but a little more power. Good numbers for a guy with his glove. Guy who could throw a seed from the hole. His glass was empty. He went to the refrigerator, got more ice, and mixed himself another. He drank. Yes. Still there.

He'd made the show, he wouldn't be bullying teenagers for a living.

"A conscious pattern of deception and coercion." Fogarty had that right. May not stand up in court. Depends on which judge they drew. Might not get to court. Depended on which prosecutor they drew. He wondered who Jenn might be sleeping with. Experience would suggest the station manager. On the other hand, she said she'd changed. She said Dr. St. Claire had helped her be different than she was. Hard to love somebody sleeping with somebody else. Could be done though. He could do it. Hell, he was good at it.

"Nice to be good at something, Oz."

Hadn't worked with Abby either. She wasn't tough enough, but at least she'd been faithful. Jenn was tough enough. One out of two ain't bad. When he was nineteen, playing in Colorado, he'd been able to do a back flip, like Ozzie Smith, when he ran out to short at the start of a game. He made himself another drink and took a pull.

It wasn't there any more, but he took it back to the counter with him anyway. The truth of it was of course that he hadn't loved Abby. He'd liked her, and he'd tried to love her because he wanted to move on from Jenn. But he couldn't. That was a grim thought, wasn't it? That he couldn't move on from Jenn? Jesus Christ! He'd better be able to. Or, maybe he wouldn't have to. Or, maybe he was drunk.

He looked up at the picture of Ozzie Smith, frozen in midair.

"It's a long season, Oz," Jesse said out loud.

He drank most of the rest of his glass.

"And it's not like football," he said.

He emptied his glass and stood and made a fresh drink and brought it to the counter. He drank some and made a gesture with his glass toward the picture.

"We play this game every day," he said and heard himself slush the Sin "this."

FIFTEEN.

Macklin was eating fried chicken and mashed potatoes with a cracker named JD Harter at the Horse Radish Grill on Powers Ferry Road in the Buckhead section of Atlanta.

"How big is big money?" JD said.

He was small and slim with thick black hair worn long enough to cover his ears and slicked straight back. He had a pointed nose and wore rose-tinted black-rimmed glasses. He was dressed in a powder blue jogging suit with dark maroon trim and a satin finish. On his feet were woven leather loafers and no socks.

"Everybody gets at least a million," Macklin said, JD raised his eyebrows.

"Large," he said.

"How much you get?"

"More than anybody else," Macklin said.

"Figures," JD said.

"How much more?"

"Long as you get yours, what do you care?" Macklin said.

JD shrugged.

"I expect to get fucked," he said.

"Just like to know how bad."

Macklin grinned.

"Chicken's great, isn't it?" JD said. He was drinking Coca-Cola with his bourbon.

"It is," Macklin said.

"What happens if I sign up, and after it's over I don't get no million?" JD said.

"What kinda recourse I got?"

"You can try to kill me," Macklin said.

JD was silent for a moment. During the silence he drank more bourbon and chased it with more Coke. Then he said, "That'd be recourse, all right."

"You in?" Macklin said.

"Exactly what kinda electrical work you need done?" JD said.

"Alarms, phones, time locks, power lines, can't say for sure yet, partly because I need you to tell me."

JD nodded.

"Who else you got?"

"Faye's with me."

"I'll be damned," JD said.

"And Crow," Macklin said.

"The Indian?"

"Yes."

"Well, by God, you are serious, ain't you."

"Nothing but the best," Macklin said.

"Why I'm down here talking to you."

"Shiit," JD said.

"You going to toss anything but the bank?"

"Toss everything out there," Macklin said.

"Bank, yacht club, health club, restaurant, real estate office, every house."

"For cris sake we going to move out there for the winter?"

"We'll make ourselves some time," Macklin said.

"I guess," JD said.

"So, you in?"

"I got any time to think about it?"

"No."

"I get to know where this island is?"

"Not until you need to."

"I need to now," JD said.

Macklin grinned at him again.

"I said it wrong, I meant not until I think you need to."

"You never going to get in trouble by blabbing, are you?" JD said.

"Probably not," Macklin said.

"Got to decide tonight, don't I?" JD said.

"You're not in by the time I leave the restaurant," Macklin said, "I cross you off and go see the next guy."

"I the first wire guy you asked?"

"Yes."

"Who's next?"

Macklin shook his head. JD took a drink of Wild Turkey and held it in his mouth for a time before he swallowed. He chased it with Coca-Cola.

"What's your problem, JD?" Macklin said.

"I'm giving you a shot at easy street the rest of your life. What's holding you up?"

The waitress came and cleared the table and gave them dessert menus. JD scanned his.

"Peach pie," he said.

"That's for me."

Macklin glanced at his menu and put it down and, with his elbows on the table, rested his chin on his folded hands. He let his gaze rest on JD. And he waited.

"You want the peach pie?" JD said.

"It's great here."

"Sure," Macklin said.

The waitress took their dessert order and went away.

"We're leveling with each other here. Right, Jimmy?"

Macklin said, "Sure."

"I mean no disrespect here, but you've always cut things very sharp, you know?"

"Sharp?" Macklin said.

"I mean nobody ever quite knows what you're thinking, and you never quite say, and nothing's ever quite the way it looks like it is when you start."

"Faye knows what I'm thinking," Macklin said.

"Well that's nice, Jimmy. I'm glad she does. I really am. But nobody else does."

"You don't trust me," Macklin said.

"Well, not to put too fine a point on it, Jimmy, but, no. I don't."

"Well, JD," Macklin said, his chin still resting on his folded hands, "that's your problem."

"I know. I know you don't care. Man, it's part of what worries me. You don't care about nothing."

JD paused thinking about what he'd said.

"Except Faye," JD said.

Macklin waited. The waitress brought the dessert. When she left, JD stared at the pie for a moment and then sat back in his chair.

"Here's how it looks to me, Jimmy. I get into this with you, and I might get rich or I might get fucked. I don't get into this with you, I won't get rich, and, being as how I'm a crook, I may get fucked anyway."

Macklin waited. JD ate a forkful of pie.

"So I'm in," JD said.

"Good. How's the pie?"

"Excellent," JD said.

SIXTEEN.

Jesse leaned on one elbow against the end of the bar at the yacht club and looked out over the water at the tip of Stiles Island. He had a scotch and soda in his hand. Around him the princes of Paradise danced with their princesses at the annual Race Regatta Cotillion to a band playing music from the Meyer Davis songbook. Jesse hated these events, and he hated them particularly when he had to go alone. It would go easier with a few drinks. But he couldn't let himself have a few drinks, and he hated fighting it off. But he was the chief of police, and he knew it would help him in his work to be part of the social fabric of the town.

So he was there.

Morris Comden, the chairman of the board of selectmen, stopped at the bar to pick up a vodka and tonic and chat with Jesse.

"Always a nice party, isn't it, Jess?"

Comden was a short, square man with a strong chin and deepset eyes. Jesse had never heard him say an intelligent word.

"Sure is, Morris."

Jesse hated being called Jess.

"Look at those ladies in their party dresses," Comden said.

"I

was a single man like yourself, Jess, I'd be sashaying a few of them around the floor, lemme tell ya."

"You and Mrs. Comden cut a pretty mean sashay," Jesse said.

Mrs. Comden was a thin-lipped woman, taller than her husband, who wore no makeup. There was always about her a look of perpetual outrage. The Comdens dancing was in fact, Jesse thought, a mean sight.

"What happened between you and that little lawyer lady?"

Comden said. He sipped his vodka and tonic as he spoke.

"Abby? Wasn't in the cards, I guess," Jesse said.

Jesse turned his tall glass in his hands slowly. The longer he took between sips, the longer it would last. Comden had no such inhibition, and he gulped some more of his drink. If Morris was quick, Jesse thought, he could get it in and get another before he went back to his table. Jesse smiled to himself. Takes one to know one.

"Heard your ex-wife came east to be on the television," Comden said.

"She's doing weather," Jesse said, "on Channel Three."

"You ever see her?"

"Some."

They were quiet for a moment. Comden drank most of the rest of his drink in short quick swallows. Jesse knew that Comden wanted to ask if Jesse were sleeping with Jenn,but he couldn't think how to ask.

"Well," Comden said, "that must be odd, seeing her again after you been divorced and all, and you having another girlfriend. She been, ah, seeing anybody?"

"It's kind of odd," Jesse said.

Comden's eyes shifted, looking for the bartender. When he caught his eye he gestured for a refill.

"Yeah, I'll bet it's odd," Comden said.

The bartender set a fresh vodka and tonic up on the bar, and Comden grabbed it as if it were about to flop into the water.

"Odd," Jesse said.

"Damned odd."

Jesse nodded.

"Well, can't leave my bride alone too long," Comden said.

"Good seeing you, Jess."

"Nice talking with you, Morry."

He knew Comden preferred to be called Morris. It was late summer, and the sun was still above the horizon. Its reflection made a long shimmer straight across the dark water of the harbor.

In another half hour it would be gone, and the blue evening would begin to thicken. Jesse took a small sip of scotch. When he got home, if he felt like it, he could have a couple of real ones before he went to bed. A tall, good-looking woman with a nice tan came to the bar and ordered an Absolut martini up with extra olives. Jesse smiled at her. She looked maybe five years older than he was, with platinum blond hair and a lot of makeup very well applied. She wasn't wearing a wedding ring.

"Isn't this awful," the woman said.

"That martini will probably help," Jesse said.

"If I could have enough of them."

"And you can't?"

She smiled and shook her head.

"I'm here because it's sort of good for business to be seen here," she said.

"Neither one of us can get drunk in public."

"You know my business?"

"Sure. You're the chief of police."

"And you?" Jesse said.