by Ace Atkins
“We can make life difficult for you,” Connor said.
I nodded. He had a point.
I turned my chair on the swivel and looked out across Berkeley. “There used to be a woman who worked in the office opposite mine. She’d dazzle me every day with her figure. In the spring and summer, I got almost no work done.”
“So?”
“So now the building is gone,” I said. “The new building kind of looks like the old one. But now I look across at a bald guy who cleans teeth.”
He shrugged and stood up. He self-consciously ran his tie between his fingers and buttoned up his coat. I noted the service revolver under his arm.
“Thanks for dropping by.”
“I got my eye on you.”
“Your attitude has been noted,” I said. “Someone once said that to Omar Sharif. I think it was Alec Guinness. Or was it Rod Steiger?”
Connor looked back from the door frame. “You can’t be a hot dog forever,” he said.
He left. He did not shut the door.
I drank some more coffee. I pulled out the phone book and went back to searching for Touchie Kiley. Sometimes being a hot dog took persistence.
23
I found Touchie Kiley parking cars outside the Four Seasons Hotel on Boylston Street. I made my introductions and waited twenty minutes before he took a break. I sat on a park bench outside the hotel, where I could look out on the frozen tundra of the Common. My peacoat was large and thick, and I’d planned ahead with double socks. I also wore a nice pair of cashmere-lined gloves Susan picked out for me at Neiman Marcus.
There were a lot of dogs in the Common today. My prediction called for a lot of yellow snow.
Touchie took a seat beside me. He was eating a hamburger from McDonald’s and absently reaching into a greasy sack for his fries. He was a good-looking twentysomething guy with dimples who wore too much grease in his hair. It may have been gel or mousse or some kind of styling product. I did not touch it. I took it to be grease.
“Julie’s kid really hire you?” he asked.
“She really did.”
“How old is she now?”
“Fourteen.”
“Wow. In a few years, Jules could’ve been like a grandmother or somethin’.”
“Fingers crossed.”
“Jules and I went to high school together before I dropped out,” Touchie said. “Her and me were in English together.”
“And learned much.”
I showed him the photograph of him with Julie Sullivan. He shook his head as he worked on a wad of hamburger. He nearly choked getting it down. He pointed to the photo and smiled, nodding a lot.
“She was a lot of fun,” he said. “Great tits. But she wasn’t my girlfriend or anything. More of just a fuck buddy.”
“How nice of her.”
He grinned and shrugged. “Fuck buddies are the best kind of buddies.”
“A friend in need,” I said.
He nodded with understanding. He ate some more fries. Touchie Kiley was probably coming up on thirty but was one of those guys who didn’t want to go much beyond nineteen. He would dress the part, wear his hair in a certain style, and keep playing young until it didn’t work anymore. Most guys like that never did know when they passed that point. Today he was dressed in the spiffy greens of a parking attendant. Tonight he’d be a rock star.
“Were you still buddies when she got killed?” I asked.
“I didn’t have shit to do with that, man.”
“Didn’t say you did,” I said. “Just trying to figure out who was in her circle. What her life was like. Find people who may know more about her death.”
“Mickey Green killed her.”
“Mickey Green was convicted of killing her,” I said. “Julie’s daughter thinks he’s innocent.”
“Mickey Green is a fuck-up piece of shit.”
“That may be the case,” I said. “But it doesn’t mean he killed her.”
Touchie Kiley finished off the burger, wadded up the wrapper, and sized up a trash can with gold trim. He took the shot. And missed. He walked over and placed the wrapper and the fries bag into the can. He sat back down. Conscientious.
“So,” I said, “besides Mickey Green, who else would’ve been in Julie’s company?”
“Shit, I don’t know.”
“Think, Touchie,” I said. “Try it. You’ll like it.”
“We just kind of hooked up sometimes.”
“As fuck buddies should.”
An older black man in a red-and-gold uniform and matching hat called out for Touchie and pointed to his watch. Touchie held up his hand, acknowledging he’d heard him. The man shook his head in annoyance and walked back to the valet stand. He opened the door for a silver-haired woman exiting a silver Lexus.
“There was this chick.”
“And what was this chick’s name?”
“Shit,” he said. “This was, like, four years ago.”
“It was four years ago.”
“And it’s hard to remember,” he said. “I was kind of fucked up myself.”
“But Julie had this friend.”
“Yeah, she went to Southie High, too. Shit, she was always with Julie. You didn’t see one without the other. Frick and fucking Frack.”
“Was she spotted in the company of a Thin Man?”
“I don’t know,” Touchie said. “I don’t remember him.”
“Never mind,” I said. “Would this girl’s name happen to be Theresa?”
“Yeah, Theresa Donovan,” he said. “She had great tits, too. I wonder if she’s still around? I bet we’re into the same shit, knowing the same people and all.”
“What are you into, Touchie?”
“Having a good time before my dick quits working.”
“A noble goal.”
“You got a wife?”
“Sort of,” I said.
“What’s that mean?”
“It means I’ve got total commitment but don’t need a piece of paper to make it so.”
“You been married?”
“Nope.”
“Then what makes you different than me?” he said. “If you get the milk for free, then why buy the cow?”
“‘Soul and body have no bounds,’” I said. “‘To lovers as they lie upon.’”
“What is that, Bon Jovi?”
“Auden.”
“Some old-school shit.”
“Yep.”
Touchie took out a pocket comb and slicked back his dark hair. Damn if it wasn’t old-fashioned grease. I wondered if he carried a switchblade, too. He stood and shook my hand.
“Anything else you recall?” I asked. You always ended the interview like that. One more question, ma’am. Over the years, I’d perfected it.
“You didn’t ask me about the old guy.”
“And I say, ‘What old guy?’”
“Older ’an you,” Touchie said. “I seen him with Julie a lot before Mickey killed her. I figured you’d be all over that.”
“Name?”
“Don’t know,” Touchie said. “He was somebody. You know, like a guy who thought he was top dog or used to be one. I was in the pub and kind of trashed when I met him.”
“I’m sensing a pattern.”
“One night, I go up to Jules and say, ‘How’s the kids, how’s your ma, how you doin’ in the McCormack?’ and all that shit. I guess we was talking a little too close, and this old guy comes up and nearly takes my fucking head off. Just for talking to her.”
“What’d he say?”
“Didn’t say nothin’,” Touchie said. “He just reached over, grabbed my hand, and pulled my arm off Jules. He had a grip like a gorilla. Strong as an ape. A big crazy mick. A couple old guys pulled him away and tried to calm him down ’cause he’d just gotten out of the joint.”
“What’d you do?”
“Not shit,” he said. “Guy was nuts. Old men get a piece of young tail and they lose their mind. Fuckin’ nuts. People were grabbing
me and telling me to get lost, that he’d kill me or something. A lot of drunk shit. Pub stuff. Me? I like to joke around. Have a drink. Have a smoke. Have fun.”
“People tell me you’re a riot,” I said.
“What can I say? It’s a gift.”
Touchie smiled. He was very pleased with himself.
“You know anyone who’d recognize the old guy?”
“Nah,” he said. “Like I said, my memory ain’t so good. I mean, the big guy coulda been you.”
“Wasn’t me.”
“Shit, I don’t know,” he said. “He was a big old tough guy.”
“You remember any detail about him?”
“He was a mean bastard.”
“Would it help if I brought some photos?”
He shook his head. “I was pretty trashed.”
I nodded. I made a mental note. I would ask around.
“Jules was a sweet girl.” He looked out into the Common and smiled, thinking some sweet and faraway thought. Wind kicked up flecks of snow and scattered bits along twisting paths. The smile was frozen on his face. “Real sweet. She was a mess, but she sure loved her kids.”
I gave him a card. And twenty bucks. “Ask around about the old guy,” I said.
Touchie Kiley thanked me before running off to park a Cadillac. He waved in the shiny new car as it passed me on the half-circle drive. He looked very at home behind the wheel.
24
Peter Contini, attorney at law, kept an office on Washington Street, not far from Kneeland. I once had an office in the same neighborhood, when it was known as the Combat Zone. I still recalled the Teddy Bare Lounge, the Two O’clock Club, and the Naked I with great fondness. The Naked I had a terrific sign with a neon eye flashing over a woman’s crotch. There were dancers like Princess Cheyenne and Fanne Foxe, the Argentine Firecracker. Dozens and dozens of peep shows and burlesque clubs and dirty movie houses.
But then came redevelopment and home video. Men could watch naked women on their computers. No need for a raincoat and sunglasses. Now most of the old Combat Zone was filled with electronics stores and Vietnamese restaurants.
There was a cold rain that afternoon, and I had my collar turned up on my coat. The rain slickened the neon streets, signs shining in Asian symbols and letters.
My Sox hat was soaked by the time I knocked on Contini’s office door.
When he opened it, I could tell he was slightly drunk.
“I’d like to talk to you about Mickey Green,” I said brightly.
Contini looked at me like I was the Ghost of Christmas Past. I smiled reassuringly at him. He did not smile back. He just walked back into his small office, which was cluttered in papers and thick bound files.
He sat at his desk and took a sip from a coffee mug. Contini was a small, skeletal man with very white, very bad skin. His suit had probably been purchased at a warehouse sale. And even ten years ago it must’ve been just as ugly.
He face was pockmarked. He was in need of a shave.
“How’s the coffee?” I asked.
“I don’t drink coffee,” Contini said.
I smiled.
“Mickey Green?” he said. “Sorry. I think he fired me. Someone else is doing his appeals.”
“Can’t imagine why,” I said. “Top legal beagle like you.”
“Hey, what the hell?”
“Do you have a chair?”
Contini pointed one out under an avalanche of documents and bills. I moved the pile to the floor, careful not to dismantle his ornate filing system.
“Do I know you?” he asked.
I gave my name and profession.
He wrote it out on a pad.
“With an S,” I said. “Like the English poet.”
Contini scratched out what he’d written. He nodded as if he were a great fan of Elizabethan poetry.
“Mickey Green told me you were a lousy lawyer.”
“Mickey Green’s family still owes me money.”
“He said you missed several hearings.”
“I don’t recall that.”
“He said you failed to consult forensic experts.”
“Hiring your own experts costs money.”
“And that you never presented a single alibi witness.”
“Because he didn’t have any.”
“Tiffany Royce,” I said. I crossed my legs. My jacket was flecked with rain.
“Who’s that?”
“Alibi witness,” I said. “Manicurist. Woman Mickey slept with at her house that night. Very nice body. Butterfly tattoo on her lower back.”
“Mickey lied to me so many times I didn’t know what was what.”
“Did you know Julie Sullivan had a boyfriend at the time of her murder?”
Contini’s left eye twitched. How I’d love to take his money at poker. I leaned into the chair, placing my elbows across my knees.
“She was also seen in the company of a pair of Southie shitbags hours before the killing.”
“Says who?” Contini asked. The legal mind was awake. Ready to fence.
“Julie Sullivan’s daughter,” I said. “She hired me to find out who killed her mother.”
“You work for a kid?” Contini asked. “Jesus Christ.”
He placed a pair of big unpolished black shoes on his windowsill. He laughed. “What’s she pay you in? Girl Scout cookies?”
“Nope,” I said. “Chocolate-glazed.”
“You ever worked a criminal investigation before?”
“One or two.”
“You’re welcome to look at his file,” he said. “See if you can make chickenshit into chicken salad.”
“People do say I am a wonderful cook.”
He rummaged around in his office for several minutes. A bottle of Scope sat on a tall file cabinet. He had framed a print of the Paul Revere statue behind his desk. “One if by land, and two if by sea.” A framed diploma from Suffolk Law School had yellowed and bubbled behind the glass.
I sat in the chair and studied the rain slanting along Washington Street. I missed the hookers and pimps. At least they were honest.
He handed me the file.
“Can I ask you a question?”
He nodded.
“What do you keep in that cup?”
“Fighting Cock whiskey and Sprite.”
“Good God.”
He shrugged.
I stood. “I’ll have copies made.”
“Keep it,” Contini said, before taking a swig of hooch. “I flushed the toilet on that turd a long time ago.”
“Well, you did everything humanly possible.”
“Let me give you some free advice, Spenser,” Contini said. I figured we were old buddies now, as he rubbed the shadow on his jaw. “You know, since you’re such a nice guy.”
“Ah, shucks.”
“You’re wasting your fucking time.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“But you think he’s innocent.”
“I think Julie Sullivan’s daughter has a lot questions,” I said. “I think Mickey Green never got a fair shot.”
“What would you think of me if I said not everyone deserves one?” Contini asked.
“Not very much.”
25
I had skipped lunch. Sensing this might be a sign of the Apocalypse, I invited Mattie to an early dinner in Cambridge. Susan joined us.
We ate at a little place on the square called Flat Patties. The shoestring fries were excellent. The burgers were indeed flat. Sadly, though, they did not serve beer.
“You can’t have beer with every meal,” Susan said.
“But with a burger and fries?” I said. “There should be a law.”
Outside the plate-glass window, a group of students gathered on Brattle Street. They were protesting something in carefully chosen ragged-looking clothes and bright ski hats. I chose not to listen. It was hard to imagine an oppressed Harvard student.
Mattie watched the students chant and began to furtively wrap the une
aten burger in some wax paper.
“Not good?” Susan asked.
“I’m not hungry,” Mattie said. “I’ll bring it home for my sisters.”
“Go ahead and eat,” I said. “We’ll get a couple burgers to go.”
Mattie looked to Susan. Susan nodded. Mattie shrugged. Her reddish hair had been braided and looped through the back of her cap.
“So you have twin sisters?” Susan asked.
Mattie nodded and took a bite.
“What are their names?”
Mattie told her. Susan picked at her salad.
“And you live with your grandmother?”
Mattie took a larger bite. She nodded with her mouth full. I felt Susan’s hand on my knee. I took this as a sign to keep my mouth shut. I promptly filled it with more burger and a couple of fries. The burger was top shelf. The BBQ Blue. Blue cheese, barbecue sauce, and bacon. It was easy to keep my mouth at work.
Susan had ordered an Asian salad with scallions, toasted almonds, and noodles.
“So what do you do for fun?” Susan asked.
“I don’t know. Watch TV and stuff.”
“I mean, if you could do anything for a day, what would you do?”
“Who has a day like that?”
“What if you could take a little vacation from life?”
“But I can’t.”
“If you could,” Susan said. She said it sweetly, smiling as she nibbled on a Chinese noodle. Just a couple ladies shooting the breeze. Susan had a wonderful ability to coax in the gentle pauses. But Mattie was one very tough nut.
“The weather sucks,” Mattie said. “You can’t do crap outside. If you do go outside, people screw with you. I guess go see a movie.”
“Is that fun?”
“I guess.”
“What did you used to do for fun?” Susan asked.
“When I was a kid?”
“Yes,” Susan said. “Back when you were the same age as your sisters?”
“I don’t remember,” Mattie said. “What did you do?”
Susan took a sip of tea and smiled. I continued to eat. Susan’s hand had yet to leave my knee. It was not at all unpleasant.
“I liked to play dress-up,” Susan said. “I liked old dresses. I had dolls. I know it’s not original, but I loved dolls when I was six.”