Текст книги "Silent Night"

Автор книги: Robert B. Parker

Соавторы: Helen Brann
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 9 страниц)

WE DIDN’T NEED AN EXCUSE, but Hawk and I had arranged to meet at Jake Wirth’s for a pre-Christmas lunch.

A waitress came by to take our orders. She was young and blond and wearing a green-and-white outfit that fell somewhere between a Hansel and Gretel costume and a cheerleader’s uniform. Her short skirt revealed long, tan legs of the type you seldom see in Boston in the winter, the kind that make you yearn for spring.

In keeping with the season, I ordered a Sam Adams Winter Lager and a Jake’s Burger with Russian dressing. Hawk ordered a Paulaner Hefeweizen and the Jaegerschnitzel.

Hawk shook his head. “Come to a place like this and order an American beer. Shame you aren’t more adventurous.”

“Just supporting local industry, and showing a little civic pride.” I hoisted my mug. “Sam Adams, Brewer and Patriot.”

Hawk snorted. “Stuff’s brewed in Ohio. You just afraid of ordering anything you can’t pronounce.”

“And while you’re showing off your command of German, I can order two of these before you can say ‘Hefeweizen.’”

A Muzak version of “Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer” infiltrated the din of lunchtime conversation. It was not a song that improved with repeated listening, though the Sam Adams helped.

Hawk looked up as his plate of veal was set in front of him. “Any progress finding out who’s trying to get rid of Jackie’s business?” He tucked his napkin into the open collar of his light green silk shirt.

My burger arrived, and I took a bite. “Jackie doesn’t know who’s behind it. He seems to think it may be the church looking to expand.”

“Don’t it seem odd to you that the church would be roughing up boys to scare this Alvarez into selling his property to them?”

“Forget about the punch line that’s buried in there somewhere,” I said. “You’re right. It’s more than odd. The church has plenty of money. And I doubt they’d need to resort to thuggery.”

“I asked around about Juan Alvarez, and most everybody say the same thing. He’s part of the Puerto Rican section of Lawrence that immigrated early part of last century. Some of them did well. Got an education. Became lawyers, bankers, and such. Some joined gangs and started a kind of Puerto Rican mafia. Juan chose the first path. He’s something of a mystery man. He left town; nobody seems to know where he went, but he came back rich. Now he’s Mr. Philanthropy in Boston. Very popular. Connected politically. Only one guy say something a little different,” Hawk said.

I waited while Hawk forked some spaetzle.

“He says that Alvarez’s been wanted by the Feds for years, but they can’t pin anything on him. Suspect he be head of one of the biggest drug cartels coming out of Mexico. He just slippery.”

Hawk’s attention returned to his plate.

“He wouldn’t be the first rich guy to use payoffs to politicians and contributions to charities to run circles around the Feds. They usually get caught on some trivial tax misdemeanor. Your guy a reliable source?” I said.

“No. Snitch done plenty of jail time. But no reason to lie to me, either. Gave him a fifty. Only ’cause it’s Christmas. Otherwise, it would have been twenty.”

“Good to hear you’ve embraced the holiday spirit,” I said. “But that doesn’t really explain how a poor kid from Lawrence rockets to wealth and prestige in Boston. He reinvents himself somehow, the old-fashioned American way, and we don’t know how. Or why anyone would want to wreck his younger brother’s enterprise, in this case Street Business, which seems to help young homeless boys get jobs and maybe even some self-respect. Besides getting the sense that this Juan Alvarez is a bit of a cipher, we don’t really know diddly-squat.”

“So where we start?”

“We?”

“Yeah,” Hawk said. “Fair to say I’m a little curious about this Street Business. If it’s legit, seem a shame for it to be shut down.”

“And if it’s not legit?”

“Like to shut it down personally,” Hawk said.

I signaled our waitress for the check. I wasn’t in a rush. But I wanted to admire her legs one more time before we left. It would be a long time until spring.

“Okay,” I said. “Perhaps it’s the moment for some quiet contemplation. Let’s go to church.”

THREE BLOCKS NORTH of the harbor stood St. Bartholomew the Apostle Catholic Church, known locally as St. Bart’s. We walked briskly from the car. The wind off the water was icy.

Outside St. Bart’s gray granite walls in the ugly small yard was a Christmas crèche depicting the birth of Christ, with Mary and Joseph and the three Wise Men in attendance. When we entered we could hear the sweet, high-pitched boys’ choir rehearsing Handel’s Messiah in the back of the church. A burly, youngish man in a black suit and Roman collar approached us. He smiled. “May I help you?”

“I’m a private investigator. My name is Spenser. And this is Hawk,” I said.

Hawk nodded at the priest.

“May we have five minutes of your time?” I said.

“Of course. I’m Father Ahearn. Please, follow me.” He led us to a small office off the sacristy, then waved his arm in the direction of two guest chairs before sitting down behind a weathered wood desk.

“We were wondering if you know anything about the house on Curtis Street owned by a man named Alvarez. It’s used for a place called Street Business.”

“I know the property,” Father Ahearn said, “but I can’t say I know much about Street Business.” He poured us each coffee from a carafe on a side table and passed around a plate of Christmas cookies. They looked homemade, stars and trees covered with red and green sprinkles. I took one of each.

“We understand that somebody out there would prefer that Street Business be gone,” I said.

Father Ahearn smiled slightly. “Well, I might fall into that category,” he said.

I nodded in what I hoped was an encouraging manner. Rule Number 17 of Effective Investigating: Keep them talking.

“I mean no disrespect to Street Business, and I mean them no harm, you understand. It’s just that we have been looking to expand our ministry, and are looking for space to build low-income housing and a new elementary school.”

“And Street Business stands in the way of your plans?”

Father Ahearn shook his head. “No, not exactly. We had looked into purchasing several of the houses on that block of Curtis Street, including the Street Business building. There aren’t many options for expansion in the neighborhood. That location would suit our purposes nicely, and the buildings are in such a dilapidated condition that we thought the owners might be interested in selling. They appear to be sparsely and infrequently occupied. And, frankly, given the condition of the houses, we thought they might be available at an attractive price. We started by trying to approach the owners directly without intermediaries, feeling that often this is the best way to get things done. Right away we realized it was going to be difficult to find out exactly who the real owners were.”

“And how did you proceed?” I said.

He sighed. “Alas, when we tracked down the various owners, none of them appeared interested in selling. The properties each have different owners, various realty trusts and so forth, but according to our lawyers they are all ultimately owned in one fashion or another by a single family, named Alvarez.” Father Ahearn stopped and sipped his coffee. Hawk sat straight and motionless in the chair beside me.

“So why not go straight to Alvarez?” I said.

The priest shrugged. “We’ve decided to look elsewhere. There are other locations in Boston that will be satisfactory for our needs, just not as convenient.”

“I appreciate your subtlety, Father, but I’m just not that smart. How come you backed off Alvarez?”

Father Ahearn chuckled and almost spilled his coffee. Hawk shifted slightly in his chair.

“You strike me as quite astute, Mr. Spenser. Of course, the first thing we did was to approach one of the members of the Alvarez family,” Father Ahearn said. “Juan Alvarez, the family patriarch, is a generous benefactor to the parish, and to the Archbishop’s Annual Appeal. We would never try to strong-arm him or his family. It would be ungracious, not to mention foolish. On the other hand, Mr. Alvarez was the obvious person for the church to approach, and we did. For whatever reason, he has no interest in selling any of his properties on Curtis Street. And for that reason alone, we had to look elsewhere.”

“Do you have any idea who might have a reason to try to force Street Business out of the neighborhood? Somebody who doesn’t care about the Annual Appeal?”

He shook his head. “No, I’m afraid I can’t help you. This can be a tough neighborhood, which is why we are trying to expand our ministry here, to bring peace and civility through our work. There is crime, and gang tensions flare up from time to time. But I have not heard of any threats or problems with Street Business specifically.”

Hawk and I stood up, and Father Ahearn walked us back through the church. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said as the boys’ voices filled the nave. He shook our hands at the door. “Thank you for stopping by.”

As we went down the long stone steps, Father Ahearn called out, “Merry Christmas!”

I returned the greeting. Hawk was silent.

We sat in my car and looked at the church.

“Do you believe him?” I asked Hawk.

“Been a long time since I believed anything from a priest,” said Hawk, “especially concerning young boys.”

“Not all priests, Hawk,” I said. “Not even most priests. Most are trying to do good things, in places just like this and worse.”

“Yeah,” he said. He fell silent and stared off into the middle distance.

“I believe him,” he said finally. “No reason for the church to be beatin’ up kids so they can build a school. One thing don’t make sense, though.”

“What’s that?”

“Why Alvarez want to hold on to houses that are run-down and uninhabited?”

“Maybe we should find out just how uninhabited those buildings really are. I hear looks can be deceiving.”

I DECIDED TO GO VISIT Street Business. It was in a big Victorian house on a quiet side street just beyond midtown Boston. The paint on the outside looked like a hippie’s dream: a faded mustard, with purple trim on the turrets and other extremities.

There was a patch of lawn covered with dirty snow. The steps up to the front door, also painted purple, were icy.

There was no bell. I had called Jackie that morning, and when I knocked he was at the door in seconds. “Hello, Spenser,” he welcomed me, flashing his disconcerting teeth. “Come in, come in.”

We entered a room where his thick hair gleamed in the ergonomic lighting. There were big overstuffed sofas and chairs scattered around a fifty-inch flat-screen television, and bookshelves filled with books along the walls. Boys’ stuff was strewn around, jackets and a basketball, a PlayStation console and a batch of game cartridges. A baseball bat and a catcher’s mitt. A couple of boys got to their feet. Well trained.

“Bobby and Sam, this is Mr. Spenser.” The boys stuck out their hands, and we shook. Jackie said, “Boys, why don’t you see about making yourselves some lunch.”

Bobby and Sam went off. “The rest of them are working,” Jackie said.

“How many live here?” I said.

“We’ve housed as many as twenty, but right now we have twelve. That includes a couple of Juan’s guys, who help out. You know, they round up jobs, make sure the kids keep the place tidy.” He took me into a small room where a man was working at a laptop. “Just talking about you,” Jackie said. “Spenser, this is Pablo.”

The man stood up. He was squat, with hair dyed the color of dark blue ink, wearing what looked like pale blue silk pajamas.

“Hello, Pablo,” I said.

“Hi there.” He gave me a smile that showed a lot of gold. “Jackie, I gotta talk to Juan. These books are a mess. You got to try to keep better records, kid.”

“Can we do it later?” Jackie said. “I’m showing Spenser around right now.”

Pablo sat back down and looked at what I recognized was a QuickBooks program.

Jackie led me through the house. There was one big central space upstairs with several beds set up dormitory-style and six other bedrooms, along with three decent-looking bathrooms. Downstairs was a kitchen, where some men were cooking tortillas. The air was rich with their smell.

Another room held a small gym with a couple of stationary bikes, an ancient treadmill, and a couple of punching bags.

“These get much use?” I motioned to the bags.

“Some,” Jackie said. “I’ve been trying to get some guys around here to volunteer time to give the boys some pointers on boxing and wrestling, that sort of thing,” Jackie said.

“For sport, or protection?”

“Both,” Jackie said. “Some of the boys need to toughen up a bit. Others need their aggression channeled into something with rules and finesse.”

“Ever hear of Harbor Health Club, Henry Cimoli’s place? Henry’s a friend. He can probably get you some equipment, if that would help. Headgear, gloves, mitts, mouth guards, that kind of thing.”

“That would be terrific, Spenser.” Jackie looked sincere and enthusiastic, but it was hard for me to tell. He had an open, boyish face, which gave away little. “I’m guessing you did some boxing. You any good?”

“Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee,” I said. “Of course, the broken nose might tell you otherwise.”

Jackie grinned. “I wasn’t going to mention that.” He made a halfhearted jab at a speed bag. “Any chance I could convince you to come by sometime and show the boys how it’s done?”

“They probably already know how to get their noses broken,” I said. If I was to find out who was trying to close down Jackie’s business and why, spending some time on the premises might be a smart idea. And I liked Jackie’s spirit. Upbeat. Relentlessly so. “But I’d be happy to teach them how not to.”

“That would be great!” Jackie said.

We walked back into the front hall. The worn wooden floorboards creaked beneath our feet.

“No girls here?” I said.

“No,” said Jackie. “We’re trying to instill structure and discipline here. Boys reach a certain age, being around girls too much is counterproductive to the goal.”

“Boys need to learn how to act around girls sometime.”

“First things first, Spenser,” Jackie said. “A young man must learn to respect himself before he can learn to respect others.” His voice was solemn. I couldn’t tell if he was parroting a self-help book or recounting a painful experience.

He walked me to the door. A scruffy, heavy-set guy dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt stood just inside the open door, inhaling a cigarette. About thirty pounds of unnecessary stomach spilled over the jeans.

“This is Joe,” Jackie said. He sounded and looked as happy to see Joe as I did to hear “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.”

“Joe,” I said.

Joe didn’t speak. He exhaled enough smoke to double the carbon footprint of metropolitan Boston. Then he flicked his cigarette out the front door. It bounced off the steps and fell into the snow.

“You know I don’t allow smoking in this house,” Jackie said.

“Bite me,” Joe said. Wow, class act. The kind of guy you want around impressionable young boys.

“You’d better leave, Joe. I don’t want you around the kids. You’re nothing but trouble,” Jackie said.

“I ain’t your trouble,” Joe said. “I’m the one protecting you and your little kindergarten here. Might be better for you to thank me once in a while, instead of riding my ass.” He slouched off and out the door.

Jackie sighed as he watched Joe shamble down the stairs and fish a package of cigarettes out of his pants pocket.

“Sorry, Spenser,” Jackie said. “He’s one of Juan’s men. He sent him over here to protect us. Sometimes I wonder if he’s worse than no one at all.” He gave a short shake of his head, as if to erase Joe from his memory. Then he brightened. “Thanks for coming over to see the place,” he said. “Any progress yet on finding out who wants us gone?”

“Too soon to have much,” I said. “But I’ll let you know when I do.”

“Thanks, Spenser,” he said. “I need to make Street Business work. I don’t want to let the kids down. I don’t want . . .” His voice trailed off.

I gave him a wave and negotiated down the icy steps to my car. When I looked back, Jackie was bending over the side of the steps, fishing Joe’s cigarette butt out of a snowbank.

ONCE IN A GREAT WHILE, Susan asked me to escort her to one of her charity events. The most important one of the year was to take place ten days before Christmas and would be held at the Taj. The cause was Meals with Heart, which provided free food to those in Boston who had fallen through other social-program nets.

We were on our way to the Taj on the appointed night.

“You look stunning,” she said.

I was wearing a navy blue cashmere blazer she had given to me, made probably by hand by cloistered nuns on a remote Scottish isle. She had chosen a navy-and-red striped silk necktie, which I was told was Hermès but to my eye could have been Syms. A crisp white shirt, the neck a bit too snug for my liking, and dark gray slacks completed my ensemble. As a form of silent protest, I wore black loafers polished to a high gloss with no socks. Still, I felt like I was going off to dancing school. Susan was resplendent in a crimson satin gown that showed off her perfect skin. As she would be giving a speech at the dinner, she had sought the services of a professional makeup artist, though I thought it was gilding the lily. She sparkled.

“Brad and Angelina,” I said.

“Too many kids.”

“You’ve got a point.” We made our way to the elevator.

Though all eyes would be on her, I knew Susan liked having me there. Knowing it was only for her was all that made it worthwhile.

We came into the huge ballroom hung with Christmas decorations, where we got the sticky labels with our names on them to put on and therefore ruin our outfits, and place cards with our table number. Ours was predictably table one, right up front by the dance floor. The Beantown Swing Orchestra was performing Glenn Miller’s “Moonlight Serenade” as we found our seats.

“I detect a bar at the back of the room,” I said. “Can I get you something?”

“God, no,” Susan said. “Not until I’m done with my speech. I wouldn’t want to embarrass myself.” As self-possessed as she was in virtually all other situations, Susan was invariably nervous before giving speeches, and unfailingly flawless in her delivery.

“That would be an impossibility,” I said. “But I need a strong beverage to steel myself for this crowd.” I headed off toward the bar.

When I returned with my martini, others had joined our table. They stood, and we introduced ourselves. Everyone’s names matched their name tags. A tall, tanned Hispanic man in black tie bowed formally and said, “My name is Juan Alvarez. I’m happy to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Spenser.”

Susan put out her hand. “Dr. Susan Silverman. Nice to meet you, too.”

“Spenser,” I said. Direct.

“This is my friend Carmen,” Alvarez said.

A tall, slender young woman with movie-star good looks smiled and shook Susan’s hand, then mine. She wore a tight-fitting blue silk jacket, black slacks, and turquoise drop earrings. Her eyes were the color of lapis lazuli. Her handshake told me she was stronger than she looked.

“Of course, Dr. Silverman,” Alvarez said. “My apologies. You are the force behind this whole endeavor. Congratulations on your fine work. We on the board are very proud of your achievements.”

“Thank you, Mr. Alvarez,” Susan said.

“Please—Juan,” Alvarez said.

“Susan,” Susan said with a radiant smile.

I took a long swallow of my drink and eyed Carmen over the rim of my glass. She looked back at me and smiled. She had very white teeth, full lips, and a tan in December.

A large middle-aged woman in a flowing floral gown approached the microphone and gave an elaborate throat-slashing signal to the band. Apparently, the program would precede dinner, which had both advantages and disadvantages. In my vast experience accompanying Susan to charity events, I learned that pre-dinner programs tended to be shorter, and permitted a quick departure once the table was cleared. On the other hand, listening to speeches on an empty stomach made me want to chew on the tablecloth, which Susan frowned upon. I settled in and covertly eyed the bread basket.

The large woman was wrapping it up. “And so I introduce our patron saint and great friend, Dr. Susan Silverman.”

I had missed the preamble because I had been trying to catch the eye of a waiter for a refill of my drink. With success.

Susan made her usual brief and intelligent speech, which was met with thunderous applause, due to both its brevity and its excellence. Then the auction began. A portly, ruddy-faced man in black tie and tails took the stage and launched into the familiar rapid cadence of a professional auctioneer. His associates prowled among the tables, eagerly pointing out frantic bidders in case the auctioneer somehow missed the manic waving of bidding paddles. The crowd, fueled by alcohol, a competitive nature, and a compassionate spirit, shed its reserve and became boisterous. There were books autographed by local authors, Celtics tickets, and Cape Cod resort vacations, each lot more enticing than the last, all sold at prices far above any reasonable measure of value. Finally, the auctioneer announced the last lot, the most prized item of the evening.

“And now we are excited to present one of the greatest tennis players in the world, winner of the U.S. Open, two-time winner at Wimbledon, winner of the Australian Open, French Open, and too many other Grand Slam events to name. In short, a supreme athlete. Come on up here, Carmen, to announce the fabulous prize that awaits our top bidder!”

Our tablemate rose and went up to the stage. Now I remembered her. I was not a tennis fan, but I had caught one or two of her matches while surfing for Red Sox games in the past. She had disappeared from the tennis world a few years ago.

Next to the auctioneer, Carmen stood tall, her lean body in perfect proportion. Her voice was strong and low and resonant.

“I have two front-row box seats to next year’s U.S. Open, including meals at a variety of four-star New York City restaurants, plus entertainment, travel, and lodging.” She waved the tickets in the air, and the professional auctioneer started the bidding. Again, the crowd exploded. The bidding continued for several minutes, until only two competitors remained. They were both trim, well-dressed captains of industry, sitting at adjacent tables. Neither of them appeared accustomed to losing. They traded bids with authority, slowing the pace by raising the stakes in ever-smaller increments. They were cheered on by the admiring crowd and by what appeared to be matching trophy wives. Finally, the combatant at the table nearest us signaled surrender, and when further cajoling by the auctioneer failed to elicit another bid, the gavel went down. The winner paid $100,000 for the week and the thrill of victory. I wondered if he’d be as excited about the price of victory tomorrow morning.

Dinner was served with efficiency as soon as the auction ended. Our dinner companions were surprisingly pleasant and engaging. No one pontificated about politics. No one prattled on about their jewelry or wine collection. Everyone liked the Red Sox’s chances come spring.

The event began to wind down after coffee. “I just have to thank a few people,” Susan said, touching my hand, before walking off into the crowd. I was alone at the table with Juan Alvarez. Carmen was standing by the podium, surrounded by admirers.

“I’ve met your brother Jackie,” I said.

Alvarez smiled. “Really? Dear Joachim, the youngest of my siblings. How do you know him, if I may ask?”

“He came to me for help. He’s under the impression someone is trying to drive him and his organization out of their home. I understand you own property on the same block.”

Alvarez apparently found something interesting in the centerpiece and shifted his gaze in that direction. “I do own quite a lot of real estate in Boston.” He smiled. “Isn’t Carmen something?”

“Yes. She still play?”

“Not professionally. She had to retire. Bad knees, you know. It happens to . . .” He stopped as Carmen approached and sat down.

“You did very well,” he said to her.

“Thank you, Juan. It’s a good cause. Dr. Silverman does good work.”

“That she does.” I smiled dashingly. Something about her reminded me of Ava Gardner.

“Have you two met before?” Alvarez said. His smile belied the vague accusatory undercurrent in his tone.

“Never,” I said.

“We Puerto Ricans say that we met in another life,” she said. “But Juan, I met you in this life and that is all you need to know.” She leaned over and kissed him on his cheek.

She looked up at me. I was standing, ready to go. “Good to meet you, Spenser.”

“Yes, Spenser, I hope you and Susan will come out to see us at the farm in Weston. I’ll arrange it,” Alvarez said, and stood up to shake my hand. He had a thin scar that ran from his left eye to his mouth. I hadn’t noticed it before. His eyes were round and very dark, and despite his incessant smile, I saw an expression of what I imagined a hawk would look like at the instant it swooped down on the rabbit in the meadow.

“That would be delightful,” I said, and saw Susan coming across the room to save me.