The House at Hull

by Karl Tutt

  Chapter 8

  It was early evening. The days were getting shorter and the sun was threatening an early abdication. It had clouded up some. The purple had merged with the orange glow. Maybe a little rain, later. Everyone was hoping. It had been a hot, humid, mostly still summer in Boston and the greenery was bowed in resignation, or maybe prayer, fervently waiting for some relief.

  Elesiha was out. One of her regulars had called and the expectant lady always paid cash. We could use it. Everyone and everything was moving way too slowly. I decided on a walk before pizza. Sometimes the rush of the tourists and the kids playing in the fountains frees up my mind. I ambled down towards Long Wharf. I thought about a Bloody Mary at Tia’s. They make a damned good one, rich and spicy. But the place was starting to fill up and I was really out of patience. I walked along the waterfront towards the Renaissance. Sure enough, the kids were bounding in and out of the exploding cascades. The laughter and sheer joy in a thing that some might see as mundane made me grin. I watched for a few minutes, then headed back to my basement. I did feel better, but I could sense the frustration building as I got closer to my own personal hideout. Still there was pizza.

  I had added a little asiago to the pie, then extra mozzarella, Italian seasoning, and a few pepperonis that were getting a bit rubbery. I preheated my oven. When the bell went off, I slid my delight into the steamy cavern and set the timer. It was DiGiorno, the extra-large. There was a feast to be had. I barely heard the rap on the door.

  I opened it wide and there was Lute Ferrara. I hadn’t seen him in years. We had grown up across the street in Roxbury, calling each other affectionate names like “dumb Polack”, “worthless Wop”, and occasionally fighting with the Irish Southies that didn’t like either one of us. My dad was a baker. Lute’s ran a joint in Little Italy, DOM’S RESTAURANT AND BAR just off the corner of Commercial and Hanover, maybe the place I developed my passion for pizza, but mostly a front. The old man was a bookie. Definitely connected with some characters with interesting nicknames like Slicer, Crush, and Shure-Shot. I used to see them disappear behind a dingy curtain at the back of the joint and come out after a few minutes when Lute and I were bussing tables for a dollar an hour.

  Lute and I played stickball together, bounced through the puddles when some smartass unlocked the fire hydrants, and generally did the things boys do. It was actually pretty damned swell. I graduated from high school and went off to Alfred, a small university in western New York, in the foothills of the Allegheny Mountains. Lute did small jobs for the Italians. A little B and E, ocassionally some pimping, drug stuff, and anything else that made him a dishonest buck. It was rumored that he had graduated into mob enforcement, or maybe I should just be polite and say intimidation. I hoped he hadn’t killed somebody, but it was anyone’s guess. He smiled and stepped in. I offered him a beer while the pizza baked. It was smelling mighty damned good.

  “No, tanks, Spook. I can’t stay long. I guess I oughta tell ya I’m here on business.”

  He didn’t sit down. “I want you to know this ain’t nothing personal. I mean us being friends as kids and all that shit.”

  “So what’s up, Lute?”

  He reached onto his pocket and I heard a distinctive click. It wasn’t new to me. Any kid raised on the streets of a major city had heard it a hundred times. The blade was long and shiny. The bone handle fit perfectly in his palm. The cold steel picked up the lamp light and reflected it on the ceiling. I gotta hand it to him. Lute looked scary, but also kind of like he was sorry it had to be this way. Still, his eyes were colorless and dead. I figured before too long, I would be, too.

  He shook his head one more time as if to say “no offense”, but it’s a hard message to convey when someone is trying to kill you. I got a sense that this might be my final stop. Or at least the last one before the morgue, a manila tag hanging from my big toe.

  He swung the blade in a tight arc before me. I backed off until I was stopped by the table. I tried to look terrified, but the old habits weren’t gone. I mouthed a silent thanks to the Marines. I planted my left foot behind me, turned my head in mock fear, and disguised a crouch. I thought about a little whimper, but that might be too much stagecraft. I wanted him to think I was going quick and quiet. He took a swipe at me, then lunged, planting on his right foot. I stepped into his thrust and grabbed his wrist with my right hand. I pulled him to me and spun him to his left. The blade caught the folds of my shirt, slicing at my belly. Then I stuffed my free arm underneath his right and caught him at the elbow. I locked my palm over my forearm. I bent his knife hand until I heard the elbow crack. The switchblade clattered to the floor. He curled up like a fetal child and moaned. I could feel my own warm blood oozing down into my pants.

  “You shouldn’t oughta done that, Spook. They’ll get ya, and they won’t be quick and easy like I was gonna do. You’re a dead man.”

  “Sorry Lute, you should have turned this one down.”

  I grabbed an old towel and stuffed it in my shirt. I dialed 911, then hit the speed dial for Billy. The cops were there before the bell on the oven timer sounded. It looked like I’d pissed in my pants, but the stain was pure crimson. Billy got there just behind the uniforms. They’d already cuffed my old buddy. He writhed on the floor, tears flooding his eyes.

  “Lute,” Billy said cheerfully, “good to see you.”

  Then he kicked my childhood companion in the elbow. Lute howled, “They’ll get ya . . . ya bastard. They’ll get ya.”

  Billy said, “Worthless Wop,” under his breath and sat on the couch. The blues cuffed their whining prize and escorted him to the exit. I was glad to hear that door shut.

  “So,” Billy said, “how about a slice of pizza and a cold beer?”

  I checked my belly. The blood had already begun to clot. I went to the fridge, then retrieved a pie cutter from the drawer. I pulled my baby from the oven and cut us both a healthy portion of Italian comfort.

  Billy took a big slug of the Ice House and dove into the thick cheese. A pepperoni hung slightly over his lip as he spoke, slurring the words and smiling at the same time.

  “You’re getting mighty popular, Spook.”

  “Cut the Spook shit or no more pizza.”

  “Right, Elmo. So why you? I know you and Lute go way back. It must have been tough for him to accept this kind of duty.”

  “Well why let friendship get in the way of a good payoff? He said he was sorry . . . just ‘business’ was the way he put it.”

  “Well, business or no, you must be getting close to something. It’s gotta involve those greasy shits or the assassin’s name would have been Murphy. I don’t think our boy will roll. He knows if he does, he won’t make a week in jail, even though I’m sure he’ll make bail unless we can get the judge to revoke it. Not likely to happen. What else are you working on?”

  “Nothing. So I guess that narrows it down to my unfortunate relationship with the aficionados at Boston Homicide.”

  Billy didn’t appreciate my feeble stab at humor.

  “Duly noted, smartass. But you got something. You just don’t know what it is yet. Theories? Hunches? How about your lady with the healthy accoutrements? I know you. You got her working on something. What is it?”

  “I still have some questions, but I can’t shake the feeling that Todd’s okay. He can hardy talk about it without breaking up. He’s going to come into a ton of money. That, in itself, speaks to motive, but he was devoted to his family, adored the little sister. I just can’t make him as the killer, or someone who would hire a thug to do that kind of dirty work. He was too comfortable with things as they were. I do have Eleisha working on the fiancée. Shasta’s the only joker in the deck. So far, my beautiful hacker hasn’t been able to penetrate the firewalls that protect the Shipleys from our unwanted invasion of their privacy. Short of that, I’m sitting with my thumb up my ass.”

  “Your mother would be very disappointed at your choice of metaphors.”

  Billy too
k another slug of beer and pointed toward the stove. I took his plate and replaced the slice he’d just devoured. For good measure, I added another frosty beverage.

  “Okay,” he said, “my desk is piled with shit. The gangbangers have been quite energetic, and I got a few domestics that I gotta deal with quick. Granted, this one is high-profile, but we’re short-handed, as always, and I’m just one humble detective trying to protect and serve. If you get anything . . . and I mean anything, call me.”

  He stuffed the massive remnants of the pizza in his mouth and washed it down with two noisy gulps of beer. Then he dabbed daintily at his mouth with a paper towel and left.

  On the way out he said, “Get your belly stitched up. You’re making a damned mess. It almost ruined my appetite.”

  “Your heartfelt concern is a great comfort to me, asshole.”

  I nodded a final sarcastic thanks and went into the bathroom to see if I needed another towel.