by Karl Tutt
Chapter 9
Eleisha got home and freaked.
“You didn’t even have the good sense to go to the hospital? You may have lost more blood than you think. Suppose you have an infection? Did you have to use the towels with the monograms? What are you thinking, Mo?”
“Hey, that’s why they sell hydrogen peroxide and band aids at Walgreens. The damned thing has clotted. I ate all my pizza . . . at least what was left after Billy scrounged his portion. I drank a couple of glasses of red, and I’m good to go.”
“Okay, Captain America. Have it your way . . . “
She grabbed a mineral water and down disgustedly at the kitchen table.
“So how did the reading go?” I asked.
“Very nicely. Ms. Locksley came through with tea and crumpets and three crisp hundred dollar bills to fend off our landlord. And guess what else I got?”
“An autograph from Donald Trump?”
She scowled, opened her mouth wide, and pretended to stick a finger down her throat.
“Let’s try again . . . info . . . on the Shipleys. The firewalls began to disintegrate after the right combination of deft stabs at the keys. I’m still stymied by the encryptions, but I have enough to make your bloodshot eyes sparkle.”
“Dazzle me, O Mistress of the Dark.”
“Hey, that was Elvira. Anyway, we’ll get to the mistress part later,” she said slyly, “but I hope your body is in as good a shape as you claim, Sir Lancelot. For now, back to the Shipleys. Fine Foods is not so fine at the moment. A combination of the recession and the public’s passion for organic has put a serious dent in sales. They’ve actually lost money in seven of the last eight quarters. They’re sixty days behind on the twelve grand payments on the home in Cohasset. Their three million dollar brownstone here in Boston is near foreclosure. Lease payments on all three cars are in arrears and they can’t stop spending. The market sure hasn’t helped. To put it simply, everything is going to shit. You’d never know it by the photos in the society page. He, the aging, but still handsome, king of commerce and she, the lovely doyenne, suitably adorned in thousands of bucks of fashion and jewelry. Shasta is definitely her mother’s daughter, the same long blond hair. I’ll bet mom has spent a tidy sum with the plastic surgeon. Hell, except for a few years, they could be twin sisters.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, wow, indeed . . . Oh, and there’s one small detail I neglected to mention. The old man’s a gambler. Craps, five card stud, blackjack, roulette . . . you name it. I can’t verify this, but rumor has it that he’s inclined to fly to Vegas or Monte Carlo and leave without fifty to a hundred grand that he had when he arrived. His wife goes with him, dripping in diamonds and designer gowns, and pours money into the slots like water out of a boot. Dom Perignon, Cristal . . . no Gallo or Mondavi for these folks. Expensive habits, especially under the circumstances.”
“How about horses?”
“I was getting to that, O Prescient One. They also have a permanent box at Churchill Downs. Never miss the Derby, and are frequent visitors to Pimlico and Belmont Park, not to mention Saratoga.”
“Bingo,” I said, “the casinos, the horses, the bookies. Chances are the old man owed someone some money. So who was it, and if he was behind, how much? That might be the connection.”
“And what connection is that?”
“Shasta is engaged to the young lord of the manor. The family conveniently goes to their last rewards. The heartbroken son inherits. They marry, and she, or someone else, uses the loot to bail out her mom and dad. Then everyone lives happily after.”
“My God, that’s cold . . . even for a Spook.”
“It is, but it makes sense. Lute is hired for his dubious talents. He was always a good knife man, but maybe he’s added .22’s to his repertoire. Who took them out to the island? Who knows? But the logic is there, the motive . . . the trip out to that barren rock creates the opportunity. So a delivery boy leaves the bodies in a godforsaken place where no one is likely to look.”
“Okay smart guy, call Billy.”
I did. He listened, didn’t interrupt. For a moment I thought the phone had gone dead.
“Okay, most interesting, but not a shred of evidence. I need more than hearsay and a flood of maybes. None of Eleisha’s hacker shit is admissible in court. No judge will touch it. I was right about Lute. His lips are sealed like he’s been chugging Crazy Glue. We still got him caged, but I’m betting he’ll be out by noon tomorrow.”
“Billy, I need to talk to him before you cut him loose and he disappears to some nice little harbor town in South America. And it needs to be alone.”
“You gotta be kidding me. The sonovabitch tried to kill you. What are you gonna do, ask him out for a beer?”
“It was only business. He said so. You can make it happen. He owes me. Let me try.”
“Okay, Sherlock. Choose your own poison.”
I was down at the lockup by four. We sat across a metal table from each other. He looked a little sheepish.
“I don’t know why you’re here, Spook. You wired? They got the room bugged? My lawyer said ‘don’t do it’, but I guess I’m getting sentimental in my old age. I remember the time that bastard Liam and his Southie boys jumped me. They might have killed me if you hadn’t busted in. If memory serves me, we put a couple of them in the hospital. Served ‘em right. I don’t forget.”
“And you were going to knife me, Lute. Should I forget that?”
“I told you I was sorry, but I got a reputation to maintain. What was I gonna do?”
“Okay, the hell with it? It’s over. Just you and me now, Lute. No wires or any other shit. The Bridgetons are dead. Mom, dad, and a fourteen year old girl. I need some answers. For old times’ sake, I thought you might give them to me.”
“I didn’t do the Bridgetons. I may be a low-life, but I ain’t doing no fourteen year old girl, less she got it coming to her. Besides, I don’t like guns. You know that. Still, I know who does. I ain’t naming no names, but the old man owed certain people a lot of money. I guess some of those investments didn’t exactly pay like he promised. Word on the street was 500 K. You know how it works, Spook. You don’t pay, they may decide to . . . how you say . . . make an example. Makes the suckers a little more timely coming up with the vig.”
“So who put you on me?”
“I told you I ain’t naming no names, but she was a knockout. I’ll be outta here before you can make coffee in the morning. I told you too much already. Consider it a favor. Dumb of me to forget how good you was. I shudda kept my feet planted, but I’m glad you’re still quick and still tough. It’s good. I figure you’ll need it.”
He pointed to the navy blue sling that held his arm.
“At least I’m getting some dynamite painkillers.”
He grinned with a hint of serpentine delight.
“Eh . . . so my rep suffers a little. If I’d done it, I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night . . . you an old bud and all that shit.”
“That’s very comforting,” I said and pushed away from the table.
Lute was right. He was out the next morning and it wasn’t until that night that they found his body in the harbor. He had two thousand bucks stuffed in his shoe. I have to admit it. I felt kind of bad . . .maybe even somewhat responsible, but it didn’t last long. Maybe it was like my ol’ buddy said . . . all just business. God, I hoped not. Still, there was one phrase from our conversation that stuck in my mind, “She was a knockout.”
So was Shasta.