Robert B. Parker's Cheap Shot

by Ace Atkins

“Background?” Corsetti said. “Okay. Sure. Sure. Like I don’t read the freakin’ papers. Kinjo Heywood?”

  He spilled some mustard on his blue satin jacket.

  “I can replace that dud with something from Yawkey Way.”

  “I’d rather set fire to my nuts,” he said.

  “Dedication.”

  He dotted away the mustard. I demonstrated the proper way to eat a hot dog, ending up with only some loose onion on my sleeve. I pinged them away with a flick of my index finger.

  “Wasn’t my case,” Corsetti said. “But I did a few interviews for the lead. Not enough to go to the grand jury—.45 shell casings at the scene. We dusted the shit out of a Ford Escape with chrome rims that belonged to the deceased. No prints. No witnesses at the scene. Or at least no witnesses who would talk. No gun. Circumstantial with a capital C.”

  “What about the victim?” I said. “Antonio Lima?”

  “Young guy from some island somewhere.”

  “Cape Verde.”

  “If you say so,” he said. “I remember cars and faces.”

  “And Mr. Lima gets into it with Mr. Heywood at Chrome.”

  “Now, there’s a fucking place,” Corsetti said. “You been there yet?”

  “Next on my list.”

  “They got women in lingerie and angel wings who bring you cocktails.”

  I drank some Coke. I finished the dog. “Everyone who brings me a cocktail is an angel.”

  “I never talked to Kinjo Heywood,” he said. “I’ve seen him on TV and when they play the Jets. He’s the toughest linebacker since Dick Butkus or Ray Nitschke. I’ll get you his interview transcript if you really want it. But it’s probably a hundred pages of him lawyering up.”

  I nodded. “And the victim?”

  “Nice family, bad kid,” he said. “What can you say? Moved to the city from somewhere else. Mom’s an immigrant with two boys. Runs a little grocery. Can’t believe her son is a gangbanger, even though she’s bailed him out of trouble maybe fifteen times.”

  Corsetti’s collared shirt was wide open. Corsetti needed an open collar; his neck was bigger than his head.

  “So you have more suspects than Kinjo Heywood?”

  “We liked him for it,” he said. “An hour or two before the shooting, Heywood and Lima got in a scuffle in the men’s room. We had witnesses at one time, but then they flaked. Some bullshit over a broad.”

  “One of the lingerie angels?”

  “How’d you guess?”

  “How could he resist?” I said. “You have her interview and a transcript?”

  “Gee,” Corsetti said. “You think we should’ve talked to her? Yeah, sure. I’ll send it to you and let you know if there’s something worthwhile in there. I mean, that’s the least I can do for a long-suffering Sox fan.”

  “New Yorkers are never short on charisma.”

  We walked back toward the station. Corsetti continued to dab the stain on his jacket. We tried to walk side by side, but being big guys, we would have impeded the sidewalk traffic flow.

  “Can I ask you something?” Corsetti said.

  “Working out and taking supplements.”

  “What?”

  “You were going to ask how I stayed looking so young and fit.”

  “No,” he said. “The whore. What ever happened to the case with the whore that kept going missing?”

  “April Kyle.”

  “Yeah,” Corsetti said. “Kyle.”

  “Her story did not end well.”

  He studied my face as we walked. He nodded and didn’t ask again.

  15

  Antonio Lima’s mother ran a corner grocery in Yonkers specializing in African and Caribbean food. Besides the spices and rare produce, I could tell no difference in their toilet paper, aspirin, chewing gum, condoms, and coffee. I complimented the clerk on her plantains and star fruit. In turn, she told me Mrs. Lima lived in a walk-up directly above the store.

  Mrs. Lima was a stout, light-skinned black woman in a blue flowered housecoat and a scarlet head scarf. When I mentioned Antonio, she started to close the door. “Leave us alone.”

  “I’m not a reporter or a cop.”

  “What are you?”

  I had many answers but kept quiet and passed my card through the door. It was the one with my name, occupation, and the logo of Saint George and the Dragon.

  “What do you want?”

  “May I come in?” I said. “I promise not to take long. I need to speak to your son.”

  “What?”

  “Victor,” I said. “He may be able to help me.”

  She closed the door, but as I began to walk away, I heard the chain unlatch.

  She let me in and followed me into an open kitchen. Nearby, an older and more wrinkled version of Mrs. Lima sat in an easy chair, watching a newscast in Portuguese from Rio. She wore a similar yellow head scarf and glanced at me once and turned back to the television. The room’s walls were made of fading plaster hung with cheap frames of family, popes, and various saints. The sitting room had a view of downtown Yonkers and where the new minor-league baseball stadium was supposed to be built. Two bedrooms and an open kitchen connected. On a chopping board next to the stove a half-sliced onion and quartered lime waited.

  “Antonio?”

  “I’m very sorry,” I said.

  “He was a good boy.”

  I nodded, knowing all victims are good. Even if they had multiple priors of aggravated assault and burglary. A shrine had been set up on a small kitchen table, complete with prayer candles. I recognized the same school photo as the one that ran in the Times and Post.

  “Your son’s driver’s license shows this address.”

  “Victor does not want to discuss his brother anymore,” she said. “Why do you want to know?”

  I could tell her that the man suspected in the murder of her son had hired me. Or I could tell her a blanched version of the truth.

  “I’m being paid to find out what happened.”

  The older woman turned to me and back to the television. I did not speak Portuguese, but there seemed to be a hell of a soccer match last night somewhere. She did not ask why or by whom, and I quickly moved on to the next question.

  “I have not spoken to Victor for many weeks,” she said. “He works for a moving company in the city. I don’t have his address.”

  “His phone number?”

  She looked away and shook her head.

  “Any friends or family who’d know? A girlfriend?”

  She shook her head some more.

  “Has he told you much about that night?”

  “He said that football player killed his brother,” she said. “He said they were fighting over a woman and that the man and Antonio were very drunk. He said Antonio left this nightclub and the man followed him and shot him in his car.”

  “What did the police tell you?”

  “The police said they had no proof,” she said. “But two men were fighting and an hour later one is dead? What do you think?”

  “I know your son did business with some dangerous people.”

  “Lies.”

  “I still would like to speak to Victor.”

  She settled into her seat and glanced at the unfinished meal in the kitchen. “He did not see it. He came after. He was with a woman, too. Women, all these women, have caused trouble for my boys for so long.”

  “Did you know the woman they fought over?”

  “No,” she said. “But I think she was Cape Verdean. Victor knows her. She is loose and without morals.”

  “I try my best to stay away from women like that,” I said. “Can you please help me? It’s very important I talk to him.”

  “Why? It will change nothing,” she said. “This man, the football player, is very rich and ver
y respected and probably paid the police.”

  “The police said there were no witnesses or evidence.”

  Mrs. Lima was silent. The newscast spoke of demonstrations in São Paulo. I stayed here any longer and I’d be fluent in Portuguese. The droning voice of newscasters was pretty much the same in any language and filled the silence.

  “If Victor calls, will you at least give him my number?” I said. “Let him decide.”

  “I must get back to preparing dinner.”

  “Did your son know this man before?” I said. “The man you believe shot him.”

  “No.”

  “Was anyone else with your son that night?” I said. “Other friends besides his brother?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know. I have prayed a very long time to help with my pain. This brings things back to me. Can we please stop this unless you come here with answers for us? What good will these questions do?”

  I took a long breath. I let it out. “There is a child that’s gone missing,” I said. “The police think the shooting of your son may be connected. The boy is only eight years old.”

  “Is it not enough to let the killer of my son go free?” she said. “And now you have come to my house with more lies? You insult my one son who lives. These are my boys. My children.”

  I nodded and stood. I smiled and left my card on the counter.

  The old woman watching television never looked up. Mrs. Lima went back to slicing onions.

  16

  I was sitting in a coffee shop on Washington Street that faced Chrome. I had packed little to go nightclubbing and had to settle for a black button-down shirt and Levi’s. I left the two top buttons undone. Perhaps I should have invested in tighter pants or a gold chain. Reviews I read stated I was not the desirable demographic for Chrome. They preferred young and hip as opposed to middle-aged and thuggish.

  But there was little else to do. Lundquist said no ransom demands had been sent or contact made. He said Cristal Heywood was a flake but didn’t appear to be involved. After my visit with Corsetti, I had spent most of my day running down addresses on Victor Lima. I came up with two associated persons. One led to an empty apartment in Queens. The second led to an angry ex-girlfriend in Brooklyn who had not seen Victor in two years, well before the shooting.

  As I pondered, a homeless guy wandered in and sat down directly across from me. He ordered a cup of hot water and began to unpack several pairs of old socks from a grocery bag. I hoped he didn’t need the socks to make tea.

  I returned to the transcripts I got from Corsetti, witnesses from that night, including the woman at the center of the scuffle. Lela Lopes. But even if she offered me photos, a video confession, and a smoking gun to prove Kinjo was involved, that did not mean the kidnapping was personal.

  I wasn’t even sure if Lopes still worked at Chrome. Or lived in New York. I could find nothing in a database I sometimes used.

  I turned to the muttering homeless man. “Do you know anything about Lela Lopes?”

  “Eat me.”

  “‘The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls.’”

  He scowled and sipped his hot water. I watched Chrome through the window. As soon as I had something, I would head back to Boston. This was something. It was all there was right now to help Akira. I could sit in the Heywood house in Chestnut Hill drinking coffee and looking earnest with the staties and offering reassurances to Nicole and Kinjo. Or I could keep moving. Keep moving usually worked for me.

  At nine, a very beautiful blonde in a tight black T-shirt opened up the front door to Chrome as honest-to-God velvet ropes were set along the sidewalks. I strolled across Washington to make a personal appearance.

  17

  Chrome was just as I had imagined. Low lighting, black velvet furniture, billowing white curtains, and lots of candles. The waitresses and bartenders were young and beautiful, while the music was pulsing and nauseating. I drank a cold Heineken at the circular bar until I could tune it out and asked the bartender if Lela Lopes still worked here.

  “Lela?” he said. “Are you serving her with papers or something?”

  “Why would I be serving her with papers?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “You just look like that’s what you do.”

  The bartender was in his early twenties, with muscular arms and hair spiked up high. He looked as if he’d just touched a live wire.

  “I actually am a special envoy to the Cape Verdean tourist council,” I said. “She’s been selected to be our newest spokesmodel.”

  “No shit,” he said. “That’s fucking awesome.”

  “Somehow I knew you’d be impressed,” I said. “Is she here?”

  “She quit in the spring,” he said.

  “You know someone who keeps in touch?”

  “Maybe.” He stood there and grinned.

  “You mind asking?”

  I left a fifty-dollar bill languishing on the wet bar. I recalled when a five-spot would’ve sufficed.

  Spiky disappeared in the billowing white curtains and I continued to sip the beer. I was one of four people inside the bar, which was the size of a Super Target. Three women in short skirts and high heels sat in a velvety grouping, checking their phones. I thought perhaps they were texting about me and offered a smile. They looked back at their screens.

  The dance music continued to pump into the empty club. The curtains kept billowing. The candles properly lit shadows. This looked to be the place if you happened to be an NFL rookie with a black American Express card. The drink menu showed cocktails starting at twenty bucks.

  “Hellboy knows her,” he said. “He’ll be right up. You want another drink?”

  “Hellboy?” I shook my head and paid with the fifty. I left him ten bucks. I better stay sober for Hellboy.

  After a few minutes, a giant appeared from the curtain. He had a bald head and a goatee. I made sure he didn’t have but a single eye in the middle of his head. He was dressed as a bouncer, with black pants, black shoes, and a black T-shirt with the word SECURITY across the front.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  “You must be Hellboy.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Working hypothesis.”

  “Huh?”

  “An educated guess.”

  “You want to be smart here or out in the street?”

  I stood up. I smiled. “Either way,” I said. “But I’m really just looking for Lela Lopes.”

  He stared me up and down, realizing I was not Mister Rogers and too much trouble to start the night. I smiled to reassure him.

  “Depends on who you are.”

  “I’m a private cop from Boston looking into the shooting from two years ago.”

  “Fuck that,” he said, putting up his hand as if about to turn away.

  “Only have a few questions for her.”

  “Sounds like a pain in the ass,” he said. “The guys who own this place, JoJo and Hani, are a class act. They put all their money into this place and now it’s about to tank.”

  The three women who had been surreptitiously eyeing me filed out the front door. Hellboy sighed at the spiky-haired bartender. In defeat, Spiky leaned against the far wall of the bar and poured himself a shot of tequila.

  “At first, everyone wanted to see this place,” he said. “When we opened, you would have had to give me a blowjob to get in the front door.”

  “Glad business has cooled a bit.”

  “Yeah, right,” he said. “Now we have to hand out flyers in Times Square to all the loser tourists and businessmen wanting to get laid. We got maybe two, three months, tops. JoJo and Hani will take a bath. Hani is thinking about opening up a strip club in Boca, anyway. That’s where he’s from.”

  “Lela,” I said. “Sure would like to speak to her.”


  “I get fired if I talk about that shooting,” he said. “People don’t even call this place Chrome anymore. You know what they call it?”

  “Tarnished?”

  “Freakin’ Kiss Kiss Bang Bang,” he said. He made a firing motion with his hand. “You know?”

  “Sure,” I said. “But Lela doesn’t work here anymore, and so she can’t get in trouble. I give you a card and a twenty and all you can do is pass it along.”

  “I don’t know.”

  One of the waitresses wheeled out a small fan to get the large white curtains to billow more noticeably. The music switched from up-tempo and annoying to pulsing and gut-wrenching. Somewhere above, a bubble machine began to rain on us. I wondered what Lennie Seltzer would think of a bubble machine at the Tennessee Tavern.

  “Spenser, huh?” Hellboy said, studying the card in his stubby, muscular fingers. “Sure. Okay. Whatever. I just don’t want you messin’ with Lela. She’s been through enough shit.”

  I handed him a twenty. I smiled, patted his arm, and thanked him. As an afterthought, as we walked to the door, I said, “Did you break up that fight?”

  He nodded. I had noted a bouncer in the report, but he was listed under a real name I could not immediately recall.

  “Was it bad?”

  He scratched the top of his freshly shaven throat and tilted his head. “Here’s the thing,” he said. “All the papers made that guy Kinjo into some kind of nutjob like he was kicking apart that guy’s ass. But that’s not what happened.”

  “What did?”

  “A bullshit shoving match,” he said. “Nobody even spilled a drop.”

  “Nothing to kill over.”

  “Just people drunk and stupid.”

  “You see a lot of that.”

  Hellboy nodded, looking a bit like Rex Ingram, and reached for the door.

  “Open sesame?” I said.

  “I get that shit a lot,” Hellboy said, grinning. “Okay. Okay. I’ll shoot Lela a message.”

  18

  At ten after ten, I received a text from a 917 area code. Someone wanted to meet me at a place called Red Planet in Times Square. I texted back that that sounded dandy and slipped into my jacket and took a cab from the hotel.