Silent Night: A Spenser Holiday Novel

by Robert B. Parker

  “This from a guy who drives a Jaguar,” I said. “I would think you’d appreciate a nice Rolls.”

  “Jag be subtle elegance, babe. Rolls just someone tryin’ too hard to impress people who don’t know better. That’s Christmas.”

  “Well, Ebenezer, you had better work on your holiday spirit, or Susan’s going to rescind her invitation to Christmas dinner.”

  Hawk stopped, lightly tapped the bag with his left hand, and looked at me.

  “Christmas dinner? At Susan’s?”

  I nodded. “We could call it a Kwanzaa dinner, if that would improve your mood.”

  Hawk ignored me. “Just the three of us?”

  “And Pearl,” I said.

  “How about Paul?”

  Paul Giacomin had spent several Christmases with Susan and me in the years since I had helped liberate him from his parents.

  “Susan called—Paul will be at his in-laws’ this Christmas. We may visit him in New York after the New Year.”

  “So just us? And Pearl?”

  I nodded. “Unless there’s someone special you’d like to invite.”

  “No one special at the moment.” Hawk grinned. “’Course, it ain’t Christmas yet.”

  “So can I let Susan know you’ll be cruising by in the Jag to join us?”

  “Tell Susan I’m looking forward to it.”

  “I can feel her blushing already,” I said.

  Hawk went back to pummeling the heavy bag.

  “Dinner better be at Susan’s house, though. Wouldn’t park my car in your neighborhood, even if it is just a Jag.”

  After we wound down, we walked to the South Street Diner at Kneeland Street. Hawk ordered a coffee with skim milk and two Equals. No donut. I ordered a coffee and two corn muffins. Between the first and second muffin, I told him about Slide. “He’s the most terrified kid trying not to show it I’ve ever seen.”

  “I knew a boy like that once,” Hawk said.

  “You.” I said it without thinking, knowing I was right.

  Hawk looked at me. To the world, Hawk appeared impassive and impenetrable. And mostly, he was. I had been around him long enough, though, that I could recognize subtle changes. Things most people didn’t see, or didn’t notice. But I knew Hawk—to the extent anyone could know him—better than most people did. And now it was Christmas, a time for revelations. Maybe Susan could explain it to me. Perhaps it was a vestige of our need to huddle by the cave fire together and tell stories, to ward off the darkness outside.

  Hawk stirred his coffee. I watched the people come and go by the cash register, bundled up against the eighteen-degree weather.

  “When I was about Slide’s age, I hit the streets. The winter was always the worst. I got money to eat any way I could.” Hawk looked at me. “Any way.”

  “This kid is scared. I don’t see you being scared.”

  Hawk took a sip of his coffee. He placed the cup back down on the saucer and leveled his gaze at me.

  “All kids scared one time or other. You on your own, you learn how to take care of yourself.”

  I nodded. “You survive long enough, you learn not to be afraid.”

  “Or you don’t survive, and it don’t matter.”

  Hawk drained the rest of his coffee, then counted out his tip.

  “You have help?”

  Hawk stood up and slid into his parka.

  “Lotta help, ’long the way,” he said. He paused. “One day I meet a cocktail waitress and she help me grow up real fast. I was sixteen and she was twenty.” He grinned. “Haven’t been scared since.”

  WHILE I WASN’T FEELING particularly holly jolly about Christmas, I was quite interested in Christmas dinner. Sometimes we went out, and sometimes we stayed home, where I cooked and Susan stayed out of the way. I had been pondering wild boar. While I toyed with the idea of hunting it myself, I opted for a more refined approach. I explored the exotic game at Savenor’s on Charles Street. Then I drove out to Newton to inspect the offerings at John Dewar. Just in case I encountered a wild boar on the way to the suburbs, I took my gun.

  Maybe turducken . . .

  WHEN I GOT BACK to my office, waiting outside the door was a smooth, strapping guy with a lot of dark curly hair and the open professional smile of a television star. He was wearing an ill-fitting blue blazer over a collarless black shirt and gray slacks. His clothes had the worn and rumpled look of a thrift store sale.

  He smiled. “My name’s Jackie. I was wondering if I could talk with you.”

  “Come in,” I said, and unlocked the door.

  I motioned him into the office. He stood next to one of the guest chairs until I had made my way around the desk. I sat. He sat. I tented my hands, rested my chin on my fingertips, and waited. The room grew quiet enough for me to hear the traffic noise from the street below. The steam radiator hissed.

  “First thing,” Jackie said finally. “My name is Joachim Lorenzo Alvarez.”

  “You obviously know mine.”

  “I do,” Jackie said.

  “So you know my name and what I do,” I said.

  “And you only know my name?” Jackie said.

  “Exactly,” I said.

  “How much has Slide told you?”

  “Not much.”

  “I run an organization called Street Business,” Jackie said. “I give kids a place to live. I get jobs for them.”

  I waited.

  “Street Business gives a home and work and structure to kids who need them,” Jackie said. “We provide an opportunity for runaways, those abandoned by their families or who are alone because of circumstances over which they have no control.”

  “Excuse me, Jackie,” I said. “But you sound like you’re reading from a brochure. You help kids. I get that. Where do you find the kids you help?”

  Jackie seemed to relax a bit. He took a deep breath and gave a slight wave of his left hand. “Mostly, the kids find me. Word-of-mouth referrals. One kid tells another, that kind of thing. Sometimes they just turn up on my doorstep, who knows from where? Especially when it’s cold out.” He smiled at me. “My brother Juan has a large estate in Weston, and he sometimes sends me the children of the Mexican immigrants who work for him. They need to earn pocket money and learn English. Others are referred to me by those who are aware of my services. Kids just out of juvenile detention. Nowhere to go. That sort of thing. Their parents have kicked them out.”

  “Are you licensed?’

  He looked down at his hands. “No,” he said. “Not at this time.”

  I leaned back in my chair and contemplated what I was hearing. An unlicensed home for wayward kids. I considered the types of work a place like that would have kids do, and didn’t like any of them. And how would he avoid getting caught by the cops, running an unlicensed business? Probably not a client I’d be highlighting on my website. If I had a website.

  “Where does your financing come from?” I said.

  “We’ll take any help we can get. I take a percentage of what the kids make to help run the place, but it isn’t enough by a long shot. My older brother Juan is our main support.”

  “Your brother has that kind of money?”

  Jackie flashed a brief smile. “Please don’t let my stylish clothing fool you, Mr. Spenser. I am not a wealthy man, but my brother is. He is a successful businessman with many interests.”

  “He’s in Boston?”

  Jackie brightened. “Yes. His office is here in town, in the Financial District.”

  “And why do you and your brother do this?”

  “I started Street Business to help others avoid the mistakes I have made. My family came over from Puerto Rico and settled in Lawrence, where there’s a big immigrant community. Our mother still lives there. I am not proud of this, but I fell in with gangs early. Juan never did. He left Lawrence
as soon as he graduated from high school, traveled to Mexico and South America, came back a businessman. He is generous with his wealth, in the community and with his family. He got me out of the gang life and gave me a job. And when I told him I wanted to start Street Business, he bought me the house we use and gave me enough funds to get started.”

  “And when you run low, he helps you out?” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “And what do you do about the law? Does your brother help you out with the being-unlicensed part, too?”

  “Yes,” Jackie said. “Juan has many friends in high places.”

  “What kinds of jobs do the kids do?” I said.

  “A couple of Juan’s guys live with us, and they help find them jobs. Bike messengers. Some are busboys. They can do the kinds of things in restaurants that aren’t unionized. In the summer they mow lawns, do yard work, that kind of thing. You’d be surprised. We have some good mechanics and apprentice carpenters. People don’t ask too many questions, if a sixteen-year-old kid is a good worker.”

  “And some are messengers, like Slide,” I said.

  Jackie gave a little laugh that sounded like a hiccup.

  “Yes, like Slide. When I can keep him from running back to Carmen.”

  “Who is Carmen?” I said.

  “She’s Juan’s girlfriend. She lives on his estate out in Weston. Slide turned up out there a week or so ago. Carmen told me he looked like he had been hitchhiking for a while. His last ride must have dumped him off on the Weston highway. I guess he could see my brother’s big red barn from the road and decided to sleep there, where he could stay warm. She found him in the morning up in the hayloft. After a few days, Carmen sent him to me to see if he could be useful running errands. But he’s so attached to her, he keeps hopping a bus or hitchhiking back to Weston.”

  “Maybe he just prefers fresh air over Times Square,” I said, “like on Green Acres.”

  “What?” Jackie frowned.

  “Nothing. So what problem do you have that you need me for?”

  Jackie leaned forward and his voice dropped. “The property that Juan gave me? Where we both live and work? People are trying to make us get out.”

  “By means that require me, not a lawyer?” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “And no cops?”

  “That is correct,” Jackie said.

  “Because you aren’t legal?”

  “Yes,” Jackie said. “We are not strictly legal. We are, as you noted, unlicensed. Some of the kids are underage and don’t have any working papers. And some, as I mentioned, are illegal immigrants from Mexico.”

  “Who’s trying to drive you out?”

  “I’m not sure. It could be a street gang. Or the church. There is a local parish that is looking for property so they can expand. They want to build low-income housing and a school. Juan owns some other houses in the block where he puts his employees. At one time, the church wanted to buy us all out, but we wouldn’t sell. Whoever it is, they take the kids’ money and sometimes rough them up. A couple of the boys have been hurt, and plenty of them are frightened.”

  “If your brother Juan is so rich, why can’t he find out who’s trying to get rid of you and then do something about it?” I said.

  “Juan supports us financially, but he keeps his distance from Street Business. It could have a negative impact on his business and social interests in Boston.”

  “And what exactly are Juan’s business interests?” I said.

  Jackie smiled at me as though I should know. “My brother has a very successful import/export business with offices all over the world. Alvarez Worldwide Limited. Since I am not a businessman, I do not pretend to understand all the ins and outs of what he does, but I do know he is very rich and powerful. Most of his business is between Mexico and the States, and he travels a great deal between the two.”

  “And what do you want me to do for you?”

  “Find out who’s trying to get rid of us and make them stop.”

  I nodded.

  “Are you thinking about paying me?” I said.

  “We will pay you what we can.”

  “Were you thinking about when?” I said.

  “We will pay you when we can,” he said.

  “Gee,” I said, “do you have the same deal with the electric company?”

  Jackie straightened in his chair and looked at me evenly.

  “Mr. Spenser, it is not easy for me to ask for help. I am trying to do good in the community. I am being opposed by unknown forces that I cannot myself combat. I am told you are good at this. I am not. I tell you I will pay you what I can when I can. I am a man of my word, but that is the best I can offer. Will you help us, please?”

  I leaned back in my chair and thought about my other cases. That didn’t take long. I had no other cases. Crime in Boston had apparently taken an early holiday. Then I thought about the earnest man sitting in front of me, pleading for my help. I thought about Slide, a frightened kid trying desperately not to show fear. And I tried to imagine Hawk when he was Slide’s age, living on the streets and learning to survive.

  “Yes,” I said. “I will help you.”

  After Jackie had gone, I phoned Hawk. I asked him to look into the background of Juan Alvarez and find out everything he could. I told him that I had agreed to help his younger brother, Jackie. I filled in the details and hoped for more to come.

  WE DIDN’T NEED AN EXCUSE, but Hawk and I had arranged to meet at Jake Wirth’s for a pre-Christmas lunch.

  A waitress came by to take our orders. She was young and blond and wearing a green-and-white outfit that fell somewhere between a Hansel and Gretel costume and a cheerleader’s uniform. Her short skirt revealed long, tan legs of the type you seldom see in Boston in the winter, the kind that make you yearn for spring.

  In keeping with the season, I ordered a Sam Adams Winter Lager and a Jake’s Burger with Russian dressing. Hawk ordered a Paulaner Hefeweizen and the Jaegerschnitzel.

  Hawk shook his head. “Come to a place like this and order an American beer. Shame you aren’t more adventurous.”

  “Just supporting local industry, and showing a little civic pride.” I hoisted my mug. “Sam Adams, Brewer and Patriot.”

  Hawk snorted. “Stuff’s brewed in Ohio. You just afraid of ordering anything you can’t pronounce.”

  “And while you’re showing off your command of German, I can order two of these before you can say ‘Hefeweizen.’”

  A Muzak version of “Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer” infiltrated the din of lunchtime conversation. It was not a song that improved with repeated listening, though the Sam Adams helped.

  Hawk looked up as his plate of veal was set in front of him. “Any progress finding out who’s trying to get rid of Jackie’s business?” He tucked his napkin into the open collar of his light green silk shirt.

  My burger arrived, and I took a bite. “Jackie doesn’t know who’s behind it. He seems to think it may be the church looking to expand.”

  “Don’t it seem odd to you that the church would be roughing up boys to scare this Alvarez into selling his property to them?”

  “Forget about the punch line that’s buried in there somewhere,” I said. “You’re right. It’s more than odd. The church has plenty of money. And I doubt they’d need to resort to thuggery.”

  “I asked around about Juan Alvarez, and most everybody say the same thing. He’s part of the Puerto Rican section of Lawrence that immigrated early part of last century. Some of them did well. Got an education. Became lawyers, bankers, and such. Some joined gangs and started a kind of Puerto Rican mafia. Juan chose the first path. He’s something of a mystery man. He left town; nobody seems to know where he went, but he came back rich. Now he’s Mr. Philanthropy in Boston. Very popular. Connected politically. Only one guy say something a little differe
nt,” Hawk said.

  I waited while Hawk forked some spaetzle.

  “He says that Alvarez’s been wanted by the Feds for years, but they can’t pin anything on him. Suspect he be head of one of the biggest drug cartels coming out of Mexico. He just slippery.”

  Hawk’s attention returned to his plate.

  “He wouldn’t be the first rich guy to use payoffs to politicians and contributions to charities to run circles around the Feds. They usually get caught on some trivial tax misdemeanor. Your guy a reliable source?” I said.

  “No. Snitch done plenty of jail time. But no reason to lie to me, either. Gave him a fifty. Only ’cause it’s Christmas. Otherwise, it would have been twenty.”

  “Good to hear you’ve embraced the holiday spirit,” I said. “But that doesn’t really explain how a poor kid from Lawrence rockets to wealth and prestige in Boston. He reinvents himself somehow, the old-fashioned American way, and we don’t know how. Or why anyone would want to wreck his younger brother’s enterprise, in this case Street Business, which seems to help young homeless boys get jobs and maybe even some self-respect. Besides getting the sense that this Juan Alvarez is a bit of a cipher, we don’t really know diddly-squat.”

  “So where we start?”

  “We?”

  “Yeah,” Hawk said. “Fair to say I’m a little curious about this Street Business. If it’s legit, seem a shame for it to be shut down.”

  “And if it’s not legit?”

  “Like to shut it down personally,” Hawk said.

  I signaled our waitress for the check. I wasn’t in a rush. But I wanted to admire her legs one more time before we left. It would be a long time until spring.

  “Okay,” I said. “Perhaps it’s the moment for some quiet contemplation. Let’s go to church.”

  THREE BLOCKS NORTH of the harbor stood St. Bartholomew the Apostle Catholic Church, known locally as St. Bart’s. We walked briskly from the car. The wind off the water was icy.

  Outside St. Bart’s gray granite walls in the ugly small yard was a Christmas crèche depicting the birth of Christ, with Mary and Joseph and the three Wise Men in attendance. When we entered we could hear the sweet, high-pitched boys’ choir rehearsing Handel’s Messiah in the back of the church. A burly, youngish man in a black suit and Roman collar approached us. He smiled. “May I help you?”