Robert B. Parker's Lullaby

by Ace Atkins

  “I bet you lived like pigs,” she said. “A bunch of nasty guys.”

  “Just the opposite,” I said. “Maybe because we knew what people would expect.”

  “People expect us not to get by,” she said. “Social worker’s always on my grandma’s ass.”

  “But you find a way to get by,” I said.

  Mattie nodded.

  I checked the cupboards. Half a box of oatmeal. An empty box of Frosted Flakes. Stale saltine crackers and a can of chicken noodle soup.

  “Okay, you got me beat,” I said. “Suit up the twins. Time to stock the house.”

  34

  Hawk would have paid handsomely to see me push a wobbly cart down aisle six of Tedeschi’s with three small girls in tow. The cart was already packed, even with Mattie returning most of what the twins handed us. She kept several boxes of junk cereal and cookies and jugs of fruit juice and milk. She put back the packs of chewing gum, barrettes, and pink cupcakes.

  I wondered if I was the only shopper packing a .38. In Southie, I doubted it.

  I tried for fresh produce, but Mattie wanted cans. I reached for ground round. She looked at the price and reached for the chuck.

  “It’s on me,” I said.

  “We got an EBT card.”

  “No good,” I said.

  “We’re doing fine.”

  “If you buy smart, it will last,” I said. “Growing up, we didn’t have money, either. We bought quality stuff and used every ounce. There was a small grocery in Wyoming where we bought cuts of beef. Bacon and Borax.”

  “What’s Borax?”

  “Detergent with the power of a twenty-mule team,” I said. “We made it last.”

  “So do we.”

  “How about you let me buy some food without a cartoon on the label?”

  “We got meat and stuff.”

  “Breakfast?”

  “We don’t have time.”

  “You can make breakfast whenever you want,” I said. “I always make sure I keep a dozen eggs, some bacon, and a loaf of bread. You won’t go hungry if you got that.”

  “The girls like scrambled eggs.”

  “My scrambling skills are the stuff of legend,” I said. “All in the wrist.”

  One of the twins dropped a box of Pop-Tarts into the cart. The other dropped a pink-headed doll. Mattie didn’t see them. I winked at them both.

  “I don’t suppose the twins would care for eggs with cream and chives?”

  “Nope.”

  “Maybe just cheese?”

  “Sure.”

  “Havarti?” I asked.

  “Cheddar.”

  “Dark rye?”

  “Wonder Bread.”

  We compromised on a cheap loaf of whole-wheat, and I insisted on a couple pounds of sliced smoked turkey from the deli. I extolled the virtues of Havarti cheese with caraway seeds, halfway joking. And the need to have a jar of kalamata olives and feta.

  “What’s that?”

  “Aged goat cheese.”

  The twins said “Yuck” in unison.

  “Goes nice with some Syrian flatbread.”

  “You been hanging out in Cambridge too much.”

  We added in a box of laundry detergent, a pack of Ivory soap, four packs of luncheon meat, two thick slabs of hoop cheese, two loaves of wheat bread, apples and pears, some bananas, a tub of oatmeal, pasta, tomato sauce, dry beans, cans of green beans and peas, a bag of frozen chicken breasts, and a pound of coffee for Grandma.

  “She likes coffee,” one of the twins said.

  “I bet,” I said. “You think she’s home yet?”

  “Nope,” Mattie said.

  “You don’t rely on her,” I said, “do you?”

  Mattie snorted.

  “You rely on anyone?”

  Mattie slowed the cart and looked up at me with great thought. She nodded. “Yeah,” she said. “Myself.”

  “Me, too. But you won’t give yourself a break,” I said.

  “Give it a rest,” she said. “I enjoy stuff.”

  I smiled. “Sometimes having fun is pretty hard work.”

  “Where’d you learn that?”

  “The esteemed philosophers Calvin and Hobbes.”

  Mattie pushed the car into the checkout lane. I took out my wallet. Seeing the cash in my hand made her uncomfortable. She wasn’t in control. Being in control was total for her.

  “Are you ready for the meal of your life?”

  “I can cook,” Mattie said.

  “No,” I said. “You’ll cook food. There’s a difference.”

  “I appreciate this, but it’s not going to change anything.”

  “What am I trying to change?”

  “Me,” she said. “You want me to act like someone I’m not. You want me to cry it out and let you be the grown-up. You want me to wear a dress and say my prayers and say everything is all right. But it doesn’t happen that way. Not now.”

  The twins had their small hands clutched on the grocery cart. Their eyes had grown very big.

  “I don’t want to change you,” I said. “I like you as you. But I do want to help.”

  Mattie clenched her jaw. But soon it worked free, and she said, quite unexpectedly, “Okay.”

  35

  I didn’t get back to my apartment until late. I had stayed parked along a side street with a good view of the Sullivans’ apartment for several hours after the dishes were put away. When Grandma stumbled home from the pub at eleven-thirty and the last light clicked out, I headed back to Marlborough Street. I decided to cancel my order for a WORLD’S BEST GRANDMA coffee mug.

  I took off my leather rig and placed it on my kitchen counter. I uncorked some bourbon and doused a healthy splash over ice. I thought about adding a bit of water. Real aficionados called it “opening up the whiskey.” It seemed like a waste to me.

  I stood at the counter while I drank. I checked messages.

  I added some more bourbon to the ice. Marlborough Street was a still life in hushed snow and ice. The piked fence at the Public Garden stood defiant. The soft yellow glow of the streetlamps burned smooth and pleasant.

  In my wallet, I found Epstein’s card. A long time ago, he’d handwritten his personal cell phone under the FBI insignia. I knew it was late, but I called anyway. He picked up on the third ring.

  “What?” Epstein asked. “You want me to talk dirty to you?”

  “Is the bingo game over already?”

  “If it wasn’t for bingo and a trip to the deli, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.”

  “If only there was crime in Miami.”

  “If only,” he said.

  “Still at the office?”

  “I’ve taken a cot by my desk.”

  “Got a problem.”

  Epstein laughed. I heard the squeak of a desk chair as he settled in to hear the problem. “Name it.”

  “Tom Connor.”

  Epstein didn’t say anything. I heard him let out a long, uneasy breath.

  “He accused me this morning of being a mule for a Puerto Rican drug-smuggling ring.”

  Epstein laughed. He laughed so hard he nearly choked.

  “I’m honored to have brightened your day.”

  “How in the hell did that happen?”

  “Connor says they found two pounds of heroin in my car.”

  “And you don’t usually keep two pounds of heroin in your car?”

  “I keep it under my bed, like normal people.”

  Epstein laughed some more. “Have you been fucking with him?”

  “He stopped by my office yesterday to tell me to back off an operation in Southie.”

  “Mmm.”

  “You sound like you agree?” I asked.

  “I don’t agree, but it sounds like Connor,” Epstein said. “He was in the Boston field office a long time before I got there. Passed over many a moon for promotion. He’s the kind of agent who uses the policy memos for coasters.”

  “Or perhaps toilet paper.”
<
br />   “You want me to call the new SAC?” Epstein asked. “I can help you through the complaint process.”

  “Maybe later,” I said. “Right now, I just want to pick your brain. I haven’t seen a Fed this crazed since J. Edgar bought his first training bra.”

  “So tell me about what you’re up to in Southie.”

  “Apparently there’s a new crew working near the Old Colony projects run by Gerry Broz.”

  “The kid.”

  “The kid,” I said.

  “Oy vey.”

  “Just when I try to lift you from certain stereotypes, you throw me a fastball right down the center.”

  “You know the old man Broz used to be only a few notches below Bin Laden on our most-wanted list.”

  “And now he’s jumped a slot,” I said. “What an accomplishment.”

  “Connor has been gunning for Joe Broz for decades,” Epstein said. “He’s obsessed. Nuts over it. He once had to meet with the Bureau shrink because it was interfering with other assignments.”

  “I don’t like Joe Broz, either,” I said. “But I never lost much sleep over him.”

  “Connor is the kind of guy who wants to be like that old sheriff in Gunsmoke. You know, what’s-his-name.”

  “Matt Dillon.”

  “Right, Matt Dillon,” Epstein said. “Jesus, he must have something solid to try and jam you up. Five-to-one, this is all about him finding Joe Broz.”

  “I always figured Joe Broz for Miami,” I said.

  “Maybe,” Epstein said. “Or South America or Europe or fucking China. We’ve been looking for the bastard for ten years.”

  “Sorry if I get the feeling that Connor is dirty.”

  “He may be an asshole, but he’s a good agent,” Epstein said. “If I thought different, I would have shit-canned his ass when I was SAC.”

  “You coming back?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” Epstein said. “I really miss the fucking sludge. Every time I see a girl in a bikini Rollerblade by my window.”

  “But don’t you miss me?”

  “I miss season tickets to Fenway.”

  “You never asked me to join you.”

  “Conflict of interest.”

  “What conflict?”

  “You being a Puerto Rican gangster and all,” he said. “I’ll make some calls.”

  “Not necessary,” I said. “I can handle it.”

  “I’ll make some calls.”

  Epstein hung up.

  I picked up my bourbon and sat in the darkness on my sofa. On the mantel, I had placed a half-finished block of cherry wood. I had started carving it years ago and had left it whittled down to the form of an unknown animal. I figured I was going to find the first Pearl the Wonder Dog in that hunk of wood. Or maybe it would be a horse. Or a lobster. I didn’t know, and so I’d left the block of wood on my mantel for years. Lots of dust had gathered.

  My apartment was very quiet without Pearl or Susan. You could hear a car coming down Marlborough from a long way off. I walked to my window and looked down on the street. I saw no assassins.

  I thought about Mattie and Julie Sullivan. Joe Broz and Gerry. Jumpin’ Jack Flynn.

  I walked back to the mantel and found the block of wood and my carving knife. I pulled up a chair to the dull streetlamp glow that bled off Marlborough Street. I dug into the old wood, just chipping away a little nick at a time.

  36

  Neat, clean-shaven, and fresh as a daisy, I dropped Mattie at school and bought a tall coffee and a sack of corn muffins at a Dunkin’ Donuts. I felt vaguely domestic as I hopped the expressway south. I soon turned south on Interstate 95 toward Providence and took the exit to Walpole and the prison.

  Walpole had a nice little brick downtown. The rep probably played hell with the folks from the chamber of commerce.

  There was a sign for a seasonal farmers’ market, a quilting club, and a handful of fine-looking restaurants, including one called the Raven’s Nest. A sandwich board outside boasted a daily special of fish-and-chips with a side of Guinness. I made a mental note for lunch and downed the last of my coffee.

  At Cedar Junction, I parked and went through the prison mechanizations I knew so well. My permit was shown, gun was taken, and I was ushered back to the visitors’ room to wait for Mickey Green.

  I wondered if Mickey would note that I had shaved and brushed my teeth. Probably not. The Plexiglas between us was very thick.

  After a few minutes, a heavyset female guard walked Mickey into his slot.

  He picked up the phone.

  I picked up my phone.

  I smiled.

  Mickey did not smile back.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  “Where the fuck is Mattie?”

  “And to think I shaved so carefully.”

  “I ain’t meeting without Mattie.”

  “It’s Friday,” I said. “Mattie is in school.”

  “Come back tomorrow,” he said. Mickey started to stand.

  “Sit down.” My voice didn’t sound friendly.

  “What?”

  “That kid thinks you got a raw deal and that you’re a good guy,” I said. “Go against your instincts and be smart.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means I have some questions, Mickey,” I said. “I’ve been slugged and threatened and arrested all over Southie on account of you. I’m pretty sure you’re sharing just a sliver of what you know with me.”

  “If I knew who killed Julie, you think I wouldn’a said something?”

  “You’re holding out.”

  Mickey blew out his breath. I was glad there was Plexiglas. He did not look neat, clean, and shaven. He looked like he’d brushed his teeth with a toilet scrubber.

  I reached into my leather jacket for a folded piece of yellow legal paper. I held it against the glass. Mickey turned his head to read it.

  “What?”

  “Say the names.”

  “Theresa Donovan, Tiffany Royce, Touchie Kiley,” he said. “Moon and Red. Yeah, so what?”

  “Who am I missing?”

  “Missing from what?”

  “Who goes into that list?”

  “I dunno.”

  “Gerry Broz?”

  “Who’s that?”

  He kept the same dumb expression. An expression he must have mastered long ago.

  “Jack Flynn?”

  “Nope.”

  His eyes flicked away from mine and then scattered back. “What?”

  “Everybody in Southie knows Jack Flynn,” I said.

  “I mean, I know who he is, but I don’t know why you were asking.”

  “No,” I said. “You said you didn’t recognize the name.”

  He shrugged and slunked back into his hard plastic seat. He just looked at me, phone against his ear, and then studied his dirty fingernails.

  “I don’t like you, Mickey,” I said.

  “So.”

  “I think Mattie Sullivan can do a hell of a lot better than wasting her time in your company,” I said. “But like it or not, you’re wrapped up in this. To find out who killed her mother, I might just have to get you freed. So if you have just a sliver of sense in your thick head, listen up and give me the truth.”

  “I never met Jack Flynn.”

  “What’s he have to do with Julie’s murder?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know shit about that.”

  I studied his face as he tried to look tough. His cheeks had grown red. He narrowed his eyes and clenched his fists.

  “Okay,” I said. “From the top. Did you see Julie that night?”

  “I said I ran into her at the pub,” he said. “So fucking what?”

  “At any time did you touch her?’

  “Fuck, no.”

  “Did she have any reason to scratch you?”

  “Scratch me?” Mickey laughed. He leaned into the glass and said a firm “No.”

  “I fired your lawyer for you,” I said.

  “He
was a turd.”

  “Yep,” I said.

  “Didn’t do jack crap.”

  “I got you a new lawyer,” I said. “Better than you deserve. You’ll have to sign some paperwork, but she will make sure some DNA evidence is processed.”

  “What evidence?”

  I explained it. I had to go very slow to make sure he understood. I thought about explaining that DNA was a kind of science. Or maybe I should’ve just told him it was magic. He might’ve gotten the magic part easier.

  “I’m gonna ask you one more time about Jack Flynn.”

  “Jack Flynn wouldn’t know me,” he said. “I wasn’t nobody.”

  I nodded. “What about Red?”

  “I don’t know,” Mickey said, scratching his paltry beard. “Ask him.”

  I nodded.

  “I can’t find anyone who will talk about that night.”

  “You see Theresa Donovan?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Works at a convenience store near Columbus Park.”

  “I told Mattie that Red didn’t do it,” he said. “That’s her own crazy idea. What did Theresa tell you?”

  “She said she believed the police got the right man.”

  “She fucking said that?”

  I leaned back into my seat. I rolled my shoulder and took a breath. Talking to Mickey Green was not a pleasant experience. I kept the phone to my ear against my better judgment.

  “I can’t believe that,” Mickey said, shaking his head to himself. “She fucking said I did it, and here I was trying to be a good guy and not pull her into this shit.”

  I leaned forward. “Pull her into what?”

  Mickey kept shaking his head with great disappointment. “Jesus Christ. Jesus. That bitch.”

  “Pull her into what, Mickey?”

  “Theresa left Four Green Fields that night with Julie,” he said. “She was fucking with her that night. What in the hell did she say?”

  “Not much,” I said. “She said she stopped hanging out with Julie since she got hooked.”

  “That bitch.”

  “You already said that.”

  “Well, I’ll say it fifty more times, shit.” Mickey shook his head. For good measure, he shook it some more. “Shit. Shit. Shit. Fuck.”

  At least he was trying to switch it up.

  I raised my eyebrows at him. He shook his head. Mickey slammed the receiver down on the counter twice before him and called for the guard.