Murder in the Charlestown Bricks: A Dermot Sparhawk Crime Novel

by Tom MacDonald

  “You showed big stones, hanging in ’til the last card.”

  “It wasn’t big stones, it was pure luck. I had three aces, hoping for a full house. I figured Wade had a full house, kings up. I never figured him for four kings.”

  “To be honest, I thought he had you beat.”

  “I’d never let a bozo like Wade Ralston beat me.” Skeeter wailed again. “I can’t lose, Gage! I’m unbeatable, undefeated! I’m the Rocky Marciano of poker.”

  They parked at the motel close to the room and guardedly got out of the car. Gage held the satchel against his chest, looking left and right as he walked along. “I’m worried, Skeeter. There must be a half million bucks in the bag, probably more.”

  “That’s chump change, Gage. By the time I finish kickin’ ass in Vegas, we’re gonna be millionaires, the both of us.”

  “We’re going to Vegas?”

  “You bet we are, but first it’s Route 66,” Skeeter said. “Next it’s New Mexico, the land of enchantment. We’ll start off in Albuquerque, the Duke City. They call it Duke City in honor of the Duke of Albuquerque, back there in Spain. He must’ve discovered it or something.”

  “Albuquerque has a hot-air balloon festival,” Gage said. “People come from all over the world to go to it.”

  “We’ll go up in a balloon when we get there. Hell, we’ll buy a goddamn balloon. After Duke City, it’s the Continental Divide, and after that it’s Arizona.” Skeeter unlocked the motel door. “Get the bag inside.”

  They had no sooner closed the door when they heard a knock. Gage locked the satchel in the room safe and said to Skeeter, “Don’t answer it.”

  “Let me check it out.” Skeeter peeked out the window. “It’s Miss Jeffers.” He opened the door. “Miss Jeffers? What are you doing here?”

  “Visiting the winner.” She dominated the room simply by stepping into it. “I was hoping you’d be alone.”

  Both Miss Jeffers and Skeeter looked at Gage, who took the hint.

  “I’ll catch you later,” Gage said. “See you in the morning.”

  Miss Jeffers stepped forward, bumping Skeeter with her mammoth breasts. “You showed moxie tonight, Skeeter. I like a man with moxie.”

  “Moxie?” he said.

  “You had three aces showing and Wade raised you,” Miss Jeffers said. “That meant he could beat your aces, and you never blinked.”

  “That’s true, I never blinked.”

  “You licked him but good.”

  Miss Jeffers unbuttoned her shirt and tossed it in the air. It parachuted to the floor. She unsnapped her bra and thrust her chest.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, there is a God in Heaven,” Skeeter said.

  Skeeter’s face beamed red, then darkened to crimson, then blackened to purple. He clutched his chest with his hands and collapsed on the bed.

  “Nitro!” he gasped, pointing to the vial. “My heart —”

  Miss Jeffers uncapped the vial and called 911.

  31

  I pulled into a service station and parked at the gas pumps. They had mechanical dials to measure the gallons and sale price. A man wearing tattered coveralls with a Texaco logo came out of the shack, wiping his hands on a rag. I told him to fill ’er up. But unlike the era when Route 66 opened, the dollars spun like a slot machine, while the gallons rotated like a rusty cog. I bought Coke and a Milky Way from the vending machines and waited.

  A big man wearing a black leather vest, accompanied by a teenage girl who was staring at the ground, approached me, intruding on my space. He brusquely introduced himself as Maish. I nodded, trying to ignore him, but he wouldn’t have it.

  “Ain’t you got a name,” Maish demanded. “Are you too good for us?”

  “My name is Dermot.”

  “That’s a funny name,” Maish said. “Well, Dermot, meet El Knucklehead. I’m talking ’bout the bike, not the gal. It’s a 1936 Harley, nicknamed El Knucklehead. You thought I was calling the little lady El Knucklehead, didn’t you?”

  “You’d have said La Knucklehead if you were talking about her.”

  “La Knucklehead?” Maish frowned. “Are you some kind’a smart guy?”

  “Not really.” I walked away from him, but I didn’t get far.

  “Hey, boy,” Maish barked. “I asked you a fuckin’ question. Are you a smart guy?”

  He stood in front of me, blocking my way. His beefy arms and shoulders were tattooed with blue ink. I pointed at a bare patch on his left forearm and said, “You missed a spot.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Did the tattoo artist run out of ink? He missed a spot on your arm.”

  The teenage girl snickered. Maish regrouped. “I’m getting tired of your lip, sonny boy, real tired of it.”

  “Maish, smarten up. Be a good ole boy and leave me alone.”

  “What if I ain’t in the mood to be a good ole boy?” He puffed his chest with air. “What if I’m in the mood to rumble?”

  “Get away from me, moron.”

  “I ain’t movin’.” Maish stepped closer. “I ain’t movin’ an inch. What the fuck are you gonna do about it?”

  “Do I have to spell it out for you?” I stared at him until he blinked, and I said, “I’ll shove El Knucklehead so far up your fat ass the spokes’ll be sticking out of your teeth.”

  Maish grumbled but didn’t act. Most bullies don’t. I paid the gas attendant and got into the car, but before I got the door closed, the young girl ran up to me. “Please take me with you. Maish makes me do things. The men pay him.”

  “Get in,” I said.

  “Maish will follow us.”

  “No he won’t.”

  I got out of the car, my arms shaking with adrenaline, and walked up to Maish. He was sitting on El Knucklehead, revving the throttle and staring through mirror sunglasses. I turned the key and shut off the engine.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” he growled.

  “Don’t follow us.”

  “I’ll go anywhere I want, asshole. This is America.”

  “I’ll tell the police you’re pimping out a minor.”

  “The cops don’t scare me. Half of them get their rocks off with her.” He started the engine again. “I’ll be right behind you, and when I get an opening, I’m gonna snatch her up.”

  “No you won’t.”

  I shoved Maish hard. He toppled off the motorcycle and rolled to his feet with surprising agility, flashing a hunting knife. The mirror sunglasses shielded his eyes, making it difficult to read his next move, so I made a move instead. I grabbed a squeegee from a water bucket and threw it at his head. Maish turtled, giving me a chance. I sprinted to the car, threw it in gear, and drove at him. He dove out of the way, landing on the ground. I cut the wheel and spun around, spewing sand and gravel into the air. Maish hid behind the gas pumps.

  I veered toward El Knucklehead and ran over it. Its motor went from idling to coughing to silent. I put it in reverse and crunched it again. Maish screamed threats and obscenities from the pumps. I shifted into drive for one more pass, bouncing over El Knucklehead lengthwise. When I finished the flattening, it looked like a chrome pretzel. I pulled onto the highway and watched Maish in the rearview mirror, jumping up and down like Yosemite Sam.

  “Maish finally got what he deserved,” the girl said and started to cry.

  ‘“You’re safe now.” I flew down the open road, putting as much distance between Maish and us as possible, with the tailpipe occasionally grazing the highway. I’d be paying for damages when I turned it in. “Where to?” I asked.

  “Amarillo, any bus station.”

  When we got to a bus station, I gave her three hundred dollars and wished her good luck.

  32

  I got a room in a stucco motel and watched the sun fizzle to a flat orange ball on the horizon. Just above t
he dying sun a vague outline of the moon appeared, nothing more than a milky silhouette, and it began to take shape and rise. I rested on the bed and closed my eyes, and the tension of the clash with Maish frittered away. Soon I became drowsy, and soon I fell asleep.

  Kenny Bowen’s phone call awoke me in the morning. I said hello as I blinked open my eyes, barely awake.

  “I have something from Amarillo,” Kenny said. “I think it’s something you can use. An ambulance rushed Gruskowski to the hospital on Tuesday morning. He thought he was having a heart attack, but it turned out to be false alarm. They let him out yesterday.”

  “Skeeter is in Amarillo?”

  “He was as of yesterday,” Kenny said. “I don’t know if he’s still there.”

  “I’m in Amarillo. I slept here last night.”

  “You’re closing in on him.” Kenny paused. “Did you buy a gun?”

  “Not yet,” I said.

  “I have more,” Kenny said. “A woman named Ellie May Jeffers accompanied Skeeter to the hospital. Jeffers is known to be involved in high-stakes poker games. She’s a card dealer.”

  “Skeeter was probably playing poker when he had his scare.”

  “Probably at the hotel the ambulance went to,” Kenny said. “I have Ellie May Jeffers’s address. I think you should talk to her.”

  I went to Ellie May Jeffers’s home on Hickory Street, a gray ranch house with white trim, all freshly painted. The lawn was lush and the shrubbery was landscaped. A flagstone path led from the sidewalk to the front steps. High-stakes poker must pay well in Texas. I rang the bell and waited, listening to the ticking of a sprinkler and staring at the rainbow in its spray. The inside door opened — the screen door remained shut — and standing in front of me was a blonde block of womanhood.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “Are you Ellie May Jeffers?”

  “Who’s asking?”

  “My name is Dermot Sparhawk,” I said. “You helped a friend of mine, and I wanted to say thank you.”

  “What friend?”

  “Skeeter Gruskowski, you went to the emergency room with him.”

  “Who are you?” She stepped back. “Are you with the police?”

  “I’m not with the police. I’d like to ask you a few questions about Skeeter.”

  “Your accent, you’re from Boston.”

  She pegged me, not that I cared.

  “I know about the poker game, and I know you were the dealer,” I said. “I’m not looking for any trouble. I just want some information.”

  “What information?”

  “Did something happen at the game that rattled Skeeter, a fight or an argument, maybe a misunderstanding? Why did he think he was having a heart attack?”

  “Nothing bad happened. As matter of fact Skeeter cleaned up, and that’s all I’m saying about the matter.”

  “How did the other players react to an outsider cleaning up?” I asked. “Were they angry? Is that what shook him?”

  “I already told you, that’s all I’m going to say about it. Skeeter won big, and Skeeter is doing fine. The hospital released him.”

  “Did he say where he was going next?”

  She said no and closed the door. At least she didn’t slam it. I stood for a moment and listened to ticks of the sprinkler and followed the flagstone path back to my car.

  I called Buck Louis, and he answered the phone, saying Louis and Sparhawk Law Offices. I liked the way it sounded.

  “Anything new on the Diaz case?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” Buck said. “The police are convinced that Diaz’s accomplice killed Gertrude Murray.”

  “And the accomplice is still missing.”

  “I told the DA’s office about Juan Rico, but I don’t know if they issued an arrest warrant. And even if we get Rico to testify, his credibility is as bad as Diaz’s.”

  “Who would believe that two junkies broke into an old lady’s apartment to rob her, only to find her dead? We have to find Skeeter Gruskowski and bring him in.”

  “Are you catching up to him?”

  “I’m closing the gap.”

  “Oh, before I hang up. Call Harraseeket Kid. He wants to tell you something.”

  33

  White stars burst like Klieg lights across the black New Mexico sky, and a full moon painted a silver line on the tops of the Sandia Mountains. Instead of car horns and hostility, there was quiet and calm. The contrast to Boston struck me, and I wondered why I was so drawn to the city. I called Harraseeket Kid, my trusty Micmac cousin, and his enthusiasm exploded over the phone.

  “Wait ’til you hear this,” he said. “The DEA busted Ester’s boyfriend and his gang. He is going away for a long time. Ester said she can finally get on with her life.”

  “That’s good news,” I said. “Thanks for standing guard over her, Kid.”

  “No sweat. That Hotel Abruzzi is all right. Those gunners from Revere are all right, too. And so is your friend, Al. Hold on, Dermot, Ester wants to talk to you.” Kid put Ester on the line, and she said, “Thank you, Dermot. Thank you very much.”

  Why was she thanking me? I never told her about my talk with Kenny Bowen regarding the DEA. “I didn’t do much,” I said.

  “Sure you did. You set me up with Al at Hotel Abruzzi. I felt safe there.”

  “Al can have that effect.”

  “Anyway, thanks,” she said.

  “My pleasure.” I sensed there was more. “Was there something else?”

  “I heard something that might help your investigation,” she said. “Victor has a new girlfriend. Her name is Bianca Sanchez.”

  “Bianca Sanchez.” The name sounded familiar. “Does she live in Charlestown?”

  “She lives in Roslindale, but she works in Charlestown.”

  “Where?”

  “At Avakian’s Market.”

  “Avakian’s?” My mind raced in reverse. “Bianca, the cashier, I remember her. I talked to her about Gertrude Murray. She never mentioned Victor.”

  “Maybe she was protecting him,” Ester said. “Is this good news for Victor?”

  “I don’t know yet.” I thought about it. “Do me a favor, Ester. Don’t tell anyone about Bianca until I get back.”

  “It’s between us,” she said. “Kid wants to tell you something else.”

  “Put him on.”

  “Dermot,” he said with a gasp. “I hope this is okay, what I’m about to tell you. It has to do with Ester. We’re kind of hitting it off. I know you told me to keep an eye on her, which I’m doing, but things started happening. I didn’t plan on it.”

  “Ester is wonderful,” I said. “You couldn’t do better, and neither could she. Good luck with it, Kid.”

  “Thanks, Dermot.”

  In Albuquerque I went into a café on Lomas Boulevard. A shiny oak bar went the length of the wall, and behind the bar there were shelves of booze. My eyes went to the tequila bottles, every brand you could imagine. They were beautiful bottles with beautiful labels and beautiful worms pickled on the bottom, the lucky bastards.

  After a burger and a Coke, I drove to Old Town Albuquerque, which was a tribute to the Old West. Block after block of adobe buildings surrounded Old Town Plaza. A sombrero band played Mexican music in a gazebo, while shoppers and tourists crowded into the marketplace, fighting for shade under trees and verandas. I did some shopping myself, buying Western duds for Cheyenne, including Caiman turquoise inlay cowboy boots and a Stetson 100x El Presidente Silverbelly cowboy hat. The shop shipped them to Boston free of charge. That’s what happens when you spend seventeen hundred bucks in cash. I continued to wander around the plaza, taking in the sights, and I got a call from Kenny Bowen.

  “How’s it going?” he asked.

  “I’m in Old Town Albuquerque, sweating my balls off.”

  “Good, then you
won’t mind sweating in a gym.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “I’m talking about our next lead,” he said. “Go to Bass’s Olympiad Gym on San Filipe Street. It’s a two-minute walk from where you’re standing. Ask for Clancy. He’s the owner of the gym. Clancy might be able to help you.”

  “How do you know it’s only a two-minute walk?”

  “Because you’re on the corner of Romero and Charlevoix,” Kenny said. “I updated my phone. It automatically tracks the location of the person I call.”

  “So much for privacy,” I said.

  I went to the Bass’s Olympiad Gym on San Filipe, and a female bodybuilder at the front desk greeted me. If I had her arms, I’d be breaking heads in the NFL. I asked for Clancy. She pointed to the free weights and said, “Clancy is over there. He’s expecting you.”

  “I’m curious. How did you know it was me he was expecting?”

  “You’re accent.”

  “Is it that bad?”

  “Yup, it’s that bad.”

  I walked to the free weights and introduced myself to Clancy, who looked to be about sixty years old, and he was buffed to the bone. His head was balding but his hair was dark on the sides. Sinewy tendons striated his neck, thighs, and calves. Each time he moved, another muscle flexed through his skin. I never saw such vascularity. You could practically see the blood flowing through his garden-hose veins.

  “My name is Dermot Sparhawk,” I said. “I’m friends with Kenny Bowen.”

  “You’re the moose from Boston,” he said. “Kenny told me you’d be coming. Let’s push some steel while we talk.”

  Clancy watched me on the bench press, making sure I didn’t crush my windpipe. I spotted him on the squat rack, though he needed no help. We talked as we trained — intelligent talk, not jock talk — it reminded me of lifting with Kenny Bowen under Harvard Stadium. I learned that Clancy was actually eighty, which I couldn’t believe. He eventually asked me what I needed, but only after I proved myself on the chinning bar.