Family Honor

by Robert B. Parker

  “Not yet, want to go with me?”

  I looked at my watch. Ten-thirty. I had to be home by four, when Spike went to work.

  “Sure,” I said.

  We talked with Bucko Meehan at the far end of the counter in a Dunkin’ Donut shop across from Assembly Square in Somerville.

  “Boston cremes,” Bucko said. “The best.”

  I looked at the chocolate-covered things Bucko had in front of him and decided on a plain donut and a coffee. Brian just had coffee.

  “You’re missing out,” Bucko said.

  “I’m used to it,” Brian said. “Bucko Meehan, Sunny Randall.”

  “How ya doin’?” Bucko said.

  “Fine.”

  Bucko was a fat muscleman. Hard fat, my father used to call it. He was obviously strong, but his neck disappeared into several chins. He was wearing a Patriots jacket over a gray sweatshirt. The sweatshirt gapped at the waist and his belly spilled out through the gap. The donut shop was empty, except for us and a couple of people at the take-out counter. A middle-aged Hispanic woman was taking their order.

  “Whaddya need from me today, Brian?”

  “Couple guys that hang with you got in some trouble,” Brian said.

  “Who’s ‘at?”

  “Terry Nee and Mike Leary.”

  Bucko shrugged. The shrug didn’t say he knew them. It didn’t say he didn’t. People who’d spent a lifetime talking to cops learned, if they weren’t stupid, to find out what the cop knew before they admitted anything.

  “What kinda trouble,” he said.

  “Attempted murder.”

  “Don’t know nothing about it,” Bucko said.

  He broke one of his donuts in two. It had a creamy filling. He took a bite, and wiped his mouth with a napkin.

  “I thought Terry was part of your crew,” Brian said.

  “I got no crew.”

  “You know Terry?” I said.

  “See him around,” Bucko said.

  “How about Mike Leary?”

  “Don’t know him,” Bucko said.

  “Terry run with anybody but you?” Brian said.

  “Hell, Brian, I don’t know. Terry’s a good guy. He’s got a lot of friends.”

  “He tried to break into a home in Fort Point,” Brian said. “And the homeowner shot him.”

  “Terry?”

  “Un huh.”

  “He dead?”

  “Un huh.”

  “Terry’s a tough guy.”

  “Not anymore,” I said.

  “Who shot him?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Brian said.

  “Housebreak?”

  “He was there for a purpose,” I said. “If you didn’t send him there, maybe you can speculate who did.”

  “Speculate? Jesus Christ, Sunny, I’m too fucking stupid to fucking speculate. What’s the other guy say?”

  “Says you sent them,” Brian said.

  “That lying sack of shit,” Bucko said. “I don’t even know the guy I got nothing to do with anything in Fort Point, for crissake. I don’t get east of Lechmere Square.”

  “Maybe doing somebody a favor?” Brian said.

  “I don’t know a fucking thing about it, Brian. Swear on my mother. Terry’s over in Fort Point doing a B & E, I got nothing to do with it. I don’t care what lies some guy is telling you.”

  “Why would he lie?” I said.

  “He’s trying to deal,” Bucko said. “You know the fucking game, Sunny. He’ll say whatever you want to hear.”

  “And maybe he’ll say it in court about you, Bucko.”

  Bucko spread his arms palms up.

  “What can I tell you. I got nothing to do with whatever Terry and this other jamoke was doing.”

  Brian nodded.

  “How many times have you been up,” I said.

  Bucko held up two fingers.

  “Three would be a really unlucky number for you,” I said.

  Bucko shrugged and made his palms-up gesture again. Brian and I stood up. Brian gave Bucko his card.

  “You find out anything to help your case,” Brian said, “Give me a ringy dingy.”

  “Thank you for the coffee,” I said.

  When we were in Brian’s car again, I said, “Mike didn’t tell you Bucko sent him.”

  “I lied,” Brian said.

  “It’s a lie that might get Mike in trouble with Bucko,” I said.

  “What a shame,” Brian said. “You believe Bucko?”

  “He swore on his mother, didn’t he?”

  “Oh, yeah, I forgot.”

  He looked at his watch.

  “That donut was enough,” he said, “or can you eat some lunch?”

  “I could eat some lunch,” I said.

  “Good.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Spike was dressed for work when I got home. Millicent was on the couch in Spike’s living room watching a talk show on television. Rosie rushed out of the living room when I opened the front door and chased her tail for a time before I picked her up and we exchanged kisses.

  “I made her linguine with white clam sauce for lunch,” Spike said. “She hated it.”

  “She’s just not an educated eater,” I said. “What did she have instead.”

  “Crackers and peanut butter.”

  Spike’s disgust was palpable.

  “She’ll learn,” I said.

  Spike took the big Army .45 from his hip pocket and handed it to me, butt first.

  “Put that in my desk drawer,” he said.

  I took the gun and Spike went out the front door and closed it behind him. I put the gun away and went into the living room. On television two fat women wearing a lot of makeup were screaming at each other. Between them sat a skinny guy with a sparse beard and long hair. He looked pleased. I shut it off.

  “I was listening,” Millicent said.

  “What are they fighting about,” I said.

  “He’s married to one of them and cheating on her with the other one.”

  “He got two women to sleep with him?” I said.

  “I guess so.”

  “You should never sleep with someone who can’t grow a beard,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  “Just sort of an anti-PC joke,” I said.

  “What’s PC?”

  “Politically correct,” I said.

  “What’s that mean?”

  I sat down and looked at her. Rosie jumped up and squeezed in beside me on the chair.

  “I guess you could say it’s a set of humorless rules about speech and behavior articulated publicly and privately meaningless.”

  “Sure,” Millicent said. “You ever have sex with somebody that had a bad beard?”

  I laughed.

  “Not that I can recall.”

  “You have sex a lot?” Millicent said.

  She was looking blankly at the inanimate television screen.

  “Define ‘a lot,’” I said.

  “You know, do you screw a lot of guys?”

  “If I like a man I am happy to sleep with him,” I said. “But I don’t meet that many men that I like.”

  “You have to like them?”

  “Yep.”

  “Why have sex at all?”

  I thought about that for a minute. It wasn’t a question anyone had asked me in a while.

  “Well, it feels nice,” I said.

  Millicent wrinkled her nose.

  “And it is a kind of intimacy that is otherwise not possible.”

  “I never liked it,” Millicent said.

  “Well, the stuff when you were hooking doesn’t c
ount.”

  “Why not?”

  “I assume there were no emotions involved. Nobody liked anybody. Just fucking. Just a commercial transaction. How about before that?”

  “Couple of times with kids at school.”

  “Any special kid?”

  “No, once with Chuck Sanders and Tommy Lee, and once with a guy named Roy.”

  “Chuck and Tommy at the same time?”

  “Yeah, first one, then the other, in Tommy’s car.”

  “Did you like them both?”

  She shrugged.

  “How about Roy, did you like him?”

  “He was nice. Tommy and Chuck kind of hurt. Roy didn’t so much.”

  “I think you need to suspend judgment on sex,” I said. “Your experience is with fucking, not with love-making.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “It’s the difference between pleasure and pain,” I said.

  Millicent shrugged again. We were quiet. Rosie had rolled over on her back so I could rub her stomach.

  “What do you like to do besides watch television?” I said.

  “Nothing.”

  I could have given that answer for her.

  “What do you think you know the most about?”

  “I know a lot about getting by on the street,” she said.

  “Yes,” I said. “You do. Anything else?”

  She thought about it, but not for long. When she had stopped thinking, she shrugged.

  “Street-smart is good,” I said. “I find use for it myself. But if there were more than being street-smart, life would be more fun.”

  “Fun?”

  “Yes. A foreign concept, I know. But one of the things that it is good to do in life is have fun.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like being with people you love.”

  “Oh sure, like you?”

  “I’m not,” I said. “But I don’t doubt its charm. It’s also fun to love a dog, and look at art, and listen to music, and follow baseball, and go to the movies, and eat well, and read some books, and work out . . . stuff like that.”

  “That doesn’t sound like fun to me.”

  “What’s fun to you?” I said.

  Millicent didn’t say anything.

  “You like Rosie?” I said.

  “She’s okay.”

  “God, don’t let her hear you say that she’s okay,” I said. “She thinks she’s the queen of cute.”

  Millicent smiled slightly. I was on a hot streak. We sat some more. The blank gray screen of Spike’s television sat silently before us. Waiting.

  “Let’s make supper together,” I said.

  “I don’t know how,” Millicent said.

  “Me either,” I said. “We can get through it together.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Julie and I were having tea at a little place called LouLou’s in Harvard Square near where Julie had her office.

  “How awful for that girl,” Julie said. “Can’t you just turn it over to the police?”

  “I’m working with a police detective on the men who came to my place. Brian says he can leave Millicent out of it for now. But I haven’t told him about Millicent’s mother.”

  Outside of LouLou’s the pedestrians and motorists were having their ongoing stare down where Brattle Street wound down from the Square.

  “Because?” Julie said.

  “Because I have to know more about what’s going on, before I put her in the position of testifying against her own mother.”

  “Brian’s the police detective?”

  “Un huh.”

  “Brian?”

  “Yes.”

  “He cute?” Julie said.

  “Quite.”

  “And?”

  “And we had lunch the other day and I enjoyed it,” I said.

  “And?”

  “And we’ll see.”

  “Can Richie help you with this?” Julie said.

  “With Brian?”

  “No, not with Brian. Can he help you find out who sent those men to your loft.”

  “I’m already asking him to baby-sit,” I said. “Divorce means going it on your own, I think.”

  “Being a professional means using the resources you have,” Julie said.

  “And Richie’s a resource?”

  “A good one. You know that.”

  “Yes. I do know that.”

  We were sharing a pot of Japanese sour cherry-flavored green tea. I poured some through the strainer for Julie and some for me.

  “Is the girl a basket case?” Julie said.

  “She doesn’t have enough affect to be a basket case.”

  “She’s withdrawn?”

  “I don’t know the therapy term for it. She doesn’t know anything. No one seems to have taken any time to tell her anything. She has no interests. Love, sex, affection puzzle her. She doesn’t like dogs.”

  “You can forgive her that?” Julie said.

  “The dogs?” I said. “I’m trying to get past that.”

  “What does she do all day?”

  “Watch television.”

  “Anything that’s on?” Julie said.

  “Anything.”

  “She’s shut down,” Julie said. “She can’t handle the world she faces, so she effectively withdraws from it. Does she do drugs?”

  “She had some pot with her when I grabbed her,” I said. “But she smoked that. Since she’s been with me she hasn’t bought any.”

  “If she was using heavier stuff there’d be signs that she missed it,” Julie said.

  “That would be my guess, too.”

  My tea was gone.

  “I’ll have to get going soon,” I said. “Spike’s got to go to work.”

  Julie nodded.

  “I wish I could help, but—” She shrugged. “I can’t have her with me. The kids, Michael? You know what Michael’s like. He doesn’t like anybody but me.”

  “I know. I wouldn’t ask you.”

  “I guess I’m lucky he likes me so much,” Julie said. “But it’s not the easiest thing in the world to be someone’s entire social life.”

  “I know.”

  “Sometimes we’re having dinner, out, you know, nice place, and he’s looking at me and I know he’s wanting me to say something like Scarlett O’Hara or somebody. Something outrageously romantic.”

  “And you can’t.”

  “And I can’t,” Julie said. “And I want to smack him for wanting me to.”

  “I know,” I said. “Julie, I have to go. I’ve got to get back so Spike can leave.”

  “Like having a kid,” Julie said.

  “Without the pleasures of conception,” I said.

  “Or the pains of delivery,” Julie said.

  “On the other hand, you didn’t have to shoot anybody,” I said.

  “Look at us arguing who’s worse off,” Julie said. “I’ll admit I wouldn’t trade places with you.”

  “Wait’ll my sex life picks up,” I said.

  “Then I’ll be jealous,” Julie said.

  We stood. I left some money on the table and we went out onto Brattle Street.

  “Sunny,” Julie said, as we walked up toward the T station in the square, “this is too hard to be proud about. Call Richie. See if he can help. You owe it to Millicent. You owe it to yourself. You owe it to Rosie.”

  “Rosie,” I said.

  Julie nodded.

  “I hadn’t thought about Rosie.”

  Julie nodded some more.

  “I guess I’ll have to call.”

  “Yes,” Julie said, “you will.”

 
CHAPTER 29

  I was sitting with Bucko Meehan again, but this time Richie was with me. We were in a place off Rutherford Avenue which claimed that its steak tips were world-famous. Bucko was eating some. Richie and I were having coffee.

  “Are they really world-famous?” I said.

  Bucko drank some beer.

  “They’re great,” he said. “You oughta try some.”

  “Not today.”

  “How’s the family?” Bucko said to Richie.

  “Fine,” Richie said.

  “Your father?”

  Richie nodded.

  “Your uncle?”

  “Actually I got, as you know, five uncles,” Richie said. “All of them are fine.”

  “Good,” Bucko said, “good to hear that.”

  “My uncle Ernie was asking about you the other day,” Richie said.

  “He was? What?”

  “Asking what I thought of you.”

  “Why’s he want to know?”

  Richie shrugged.

  “You know Ernie,” Richie said. “Doesn’t talk a lot about things. Just asked my opinion of you.”

  “What’d you say?”

  “Said I didn’t have much opinion. Mostly just heard that you had talked to Sunny and hadn’t been helpful.”

  “Sunny? Her?” Bucko nodded at me.

  “Yeah.”

  “I didn’t know she was a friend of yours, Richie.”

  “Now you do,” Richie said.

  I never knew how Richie got so much menace into things he said. He was very still, as he nearly always was. His voice was quiet. His face was calm.

  “She was with a cop, Rich.”

  “Un huh.”

  “I was willing to help,” Bucko said. “I just didn’t have any answers.”

  “Un huh.”

  Bucko looked at me. I smiled adorably. Like Meg Ryan.

  “I was wondering if you had any idea how Terry Nee ended up at my door with a gun?” I said.

  “Like I told you . . .”

  “Bucko,” Richie said.

  “Honest to God, Richie, I don’t have a fucking clue.”

  “Bucko,” Richie said.

  “I don’t.”

  “Think of it as me asking you, Buck.”

  “I unnerstan’ that, Richie, but I don’t.”

  “Think of what I’m going to have to tell my Uncle Ernie when he asks about you.”