Robert B. Parker's Lullaby

by Ace Atkins

  “Nope.”

  “I fished a lot as a kid,” I said. “Lots of good places to fish in Wyoming.”

  “Don’t really care to fish,” Hawk said.

  I nodded.

  “Prefer to hunt.”

  I nodded.

  Up the long steps, the statue of William Prescott brandished his sword. Hawk caught me staring. “Don’t shoot till you see the whites.”

  “I think you have that a bit mixed up,” I said.

  “Do I?” Hawk asked.

  He kept the shotgun on a modified rig under his black leather trench coat. He wore the .44 Magnum on his belt. The leather coat covered both very nicely.

  I wore my peacoat and Red Sox knitted cap. I had on a well-worn pair of Red Wing boots with steel toes in case the fight got down and dirty. I did not expect the transition to go smoothly. I fingered the S&W .40-caliber in my right pocket.

  “Always been guys like Connor.”

  I nodded.

  “Don’t make it right.”

  “Nope,” I said.

  “You hear him call me a spook?”

  “I did.”

  “Who uses the word ‘spook’ anymore?”

  “Anachronisms.”

  “And assholes.”

  “Connor exemplifies both.”

  My cell phone rang. I took the call. Hawk watched everything without showing a thing on his face.

  “We got a visitor,” Belson said. “But it ain’t Connor. It’s fucking Gerry Broz.”

  “Crapola.”

  “He’s in the lobby with Theresa,” Belson said. “Lots of people. We saw him make a call.”

  At the base of the steps up to the monument, a black Ford SUV pulled to the curb. Jack Flynn stepped out from the passenger side. He looked up at us through the falling snow and climbed the steps. His big face was ruddy and wind-chapped under a thick mop of curly hair.

  “Boom,” Hawk said, eyeing him.

  The SUV took off. I walked down a couple steps and met Flynn halfway.

  “Excuse me if we don’t shake hands,” I said.

  “Once we know we’re not being followed, you can have the kid.”

  “Gee,” I said. “Such a swell guy.”

  Jack Flynn studied me without emotion. There were crow’s-feet around his pale green eyes, which appraised us quickly, in a way that reminded me of a wild dog. His camel-hair coat fluttered around him while snow caught in his hair and translucent eyelashes. He’d been around a long time, longer than me. He had a lot of confidence.

  “Don’t make this hard.”

  “You made the play.”

  You could smell him. Jack Flynn smelled of sweat and testosterone and a dash of Aqua Velva.

  “I don’t kill kids,” Flynn said.

  “Got to draw the line somewhere.”

  Flynn smiled at me. He buttoned his coat up to his neck. He placed both hands in his pockets. We all had our hands in our pockets. I stole a glance at Hawk. Hawk’s eyes were almost sleepy.

  “The girl knows I killed her mother,” Flynn said.

  I nodded.

  “Couldn’t be helped,” Flynn said. “She was a stupid gash.”

  I watched his face. I didn’t see much.

  “Doesn’t mean jack shit without a witness,” Flynn said.

  “Nice to have a buddy like Tom Connor.”

  “I’ve known him since he was a kid at Old Colony,” Flynn said. “Don’t take offense at this stuff. Take the girl, tell her to shut the fuck up, and we’re good.”

  Flynn pulled off a leather glove and offered his hand.

  I looked at his hand. I looked to Hawk.

  “You want to tell me what makes you two shitbirds any better than me?”

  “How much time you got?” Hawk asked.

  Flynn laughed.

  “You want to count bodies with me, Hawk?”

  Hawk just stared at Jack Flynn with his sleepy eyes.

  “How about you, Spenser?” Flynn said. “How many have you killed?”

  Flynn’s cell rang, and he took it. He placed it back into his pocket and nodded. Snow continued to fall. His feet crunched on the steps as he shifted his weight.

  “Okay,” he said. “That was Gerry. He’s got Theresa Donovan with him.”

  “I thought it was going to be Connor.”

  “You think a federal agent is going to put himself in the middle of this shit pile?” Flynn asked. “Only thugs like us get down and dirty. Guys like Connor watch from the grandstands.”

  “Connor doesn’t know what team he’s on.”

  Flynn watched me. He nodded. “You know,” Flynn said, “don’t be so sure.”

  I looked to Hawk. Hawk stared at Jack Flynn. I was getting the impression he didn’t care much for him.

  “Where’s Mattie?” I asked.

  “Safe.”

  “That wasn’t the deal.”

  “She’s close.”

  “Then let’s see her.”

  “You want her, you meet me at the Sully Square Station in thirty minutes,” Flynn said. “No cops. No Hawk. You go to the inbound ramp. Mattie will be on the train. You get on. I get off. But if something goes wrong between now and then with the Donovan girl, all bets are off.”

  “I’m starting to feel like Will Kane,” I said.

  Flynn didn’t hear me. He’d already started back down the steps and to the street. The black SUV pulled up, and Jack Flynn crawled inside. The SUV drove off. A dark green BMW followed a few beats later.

  “Don’t like it,” Hawk said.

  “How do you think I feel?”

  “You think Quirk and Boston PD have Gerry?”

  “Yep.”

  “You think Flynn will find out in the next thirty minutes?”

  “We’ll know soon enough.”

  “Even if he don’t, you know Flynn ain’t gonna play fair.”

  “I do.”

  “And if I go down into the T station with you, they’ll spot me.”

  “You are a big personality.”

  “That leaves you up shit creek.”

  “Not my favorite creek.”

  “Now, ain’t this more fun than fishin’?”

  61

  Sullivan Station was a glorious monument to the Boston transit authority, a slapped-together heap of concrete, wires, and steel below Interstate 93. The T ran aboveground on the north side of the river, and I stood on the inbound platform, waiting for the next train. Snow fell heavier now, and there was talk of canceled flights tomorrow at Logan. There was a lot of wind. I thought about getting a shot of whiskey to warm me. Sully Station wasn’t South Station. No bars or boutique cafés.

  More snow fell. I waited. Nearly nine o’clock now.

  Somewhere in the busted-up concrete-and-steel overpass pilings and general urban mayhem, Hawk was out there. We’d improvised a plan, which was often the way we worked, and now we waited. Hawk had a rifle aimed on that platform. Hawk was watching. I could feel his presence, and that gave me comfort.

  Forty minutes had passed since Bunker Hill. The T had come and gone countless times. I kept a good ten feet between me and the train.

  At forty-five minutes, another T rambled in from Wellington Station. In the third car, I spotted Mattie. She wore the same blue puffy coat and school uniform as she had the day before.

  Two men were with her.

  They were Flynn’s boys. A Hispanic male and a scruffy old man.

  Mattie’s eyes were very big when the doors opened with a hiss. The Hispanic man ushered me forward with a rapid hand motion. I walked slowly. I looked in each direction. I studied the other T cars. I peered up to the thick concrete stairwells.

  With my hand on the .40-caliber, I stepped inside.

  I winked at Mattie.

  “Here you go, fuckface,” the old man said.

  “You kiss your mother with that mouth?” I asked.

  “Fuck you,” the old man said. His teeth were very crooked, his breath an epidemic.

  “Wow,�
� I said. “I guess lackeys don’t get the dental plan.”

  The Hispanic man tried to glower at me. I winked at him. The glower turned to confusion.

  He and the scruffy old man stepped off the train. The train doors closed.

  The men remained on the platform as we headed back to the city.

  The T bustled and jumped along the track, light flickering past us. A chain-link fence topped with concertina wire separated the tracks. Security lamps spotted portions of a far concrete wall lettered with crude but clever graffiti.

  “You okay?” I asked, gripping the overhead rail.

  “Sure.”

  “They hurt you?”

  “Nah,” Mattie said, still sitting very still, her fists clenched on her lap. “Couple of dickless retards.”

  “You give them too much credit,” I said. “You see Jack Flynn?”

  She nodded. I watched the train car as we talked. An old woman in a mustard yellow coat read the Globe. A couple of black teens took turns rapping freestyle. A gray-headed vagrant took swigs from a bottle.

  We slowed as we reached Community College Station.

  The two black teens got off. A slouchy kid in a Levi’s jacket with a sherpa collar got on, a backpack slung over a shoulder. He was listening to an iPod and wore an inward smile, enjoying the music.

  The vagrant continued to take a swig from the bottle. I almost asked him for a nip.

  Doors closed and we moved underground, under the frozen river, whirring and jerking. We rambled through darkness and strobes of white light. I sat down beside Mattie and put my arm around her. She smiled, exhausted. Her body relaxed against me, and tears flowed silently down her face. I don’t think she knew she was crying. I decided not to tell her.

  “What did Flynn say to you?” I asked.

  “Nothin’.”

  “You say anything to him?”

  “Plenty.”

  “Feel good?” I asked.

  Mattie smiled. “You bet.”

  “Theresa Donovan will testify against Flynn,” I said.

  “We’ll see,” she said. “I don’t believe she’d say shit if her mouth was full of it.”

  We soon came out from under the river and into the North Station. We’d head on to South Station. Hawk would meet us at the platform in case anyone followed.

  The slouchy kid got off. The old woman got off.

  The vagrant left, and sadly took his bottle with him. Two men in their twenties wearing skully caps and thick, dark coats got on board. My hand dropped from Mattie and felt for the S&W as they turned. Both sat at the rear of the train, not once looking at us. The effort of not looking gained my attention.

  “Where we headed?” Mattie said.

  “A safe place until Flynn’s picked up.”

  One of the skully boys caught my eye. He had a stylized beard cut to make it appear he was too cool to shave.

  I nodded. He looked away.

  “You won’t find him,” she said. “He’ll walk. Even if he makes it to court, he’ll walk. No one gives a shit about my mom.”

  “That’s not true anymore.”

  I watched the boys. They rested their elbows on their knees and studied the ground between their feet like a couple ballplayers at the ready.

  Mattie shook her head as the T rambled on. My heart kept a steady beat. I could almost hear Tex Ritter singing as we approached Haymarket Station.

  “They said they’d hurt my sisters,” she said. “They said they got policemen on the pad.”

  The skully-cap boys stood. One absently felt inside his heavy coat.

  “We’ll take care of it,” I said, my eyes staying with them.

  “You and Hawk?”

  “And some good policemen I know.”

  The brakes on the T screeched, and we slowed on the tracks. A dozen or so people waited on the platform. Haymarket Station was dingy and also well graffitied. Small billboards whizzed by for spring water, furniture showrooms, mortgage companies, and shopping malls. The light came in strobes, white and artificial.

  The two boys walked toward us. Their full attention was on us. The boy with the stylish beard nodded at me. I wondered how long it took to be artfully scruffy. The other was not so artful, sporting a ragged goatee.

  The one with the goatee opened his coat slightly. He displayed his gun.

  “Yikes.” I grabbed Mattie’s arm and said, “Here we go.”

  62

  Mattie stepped with me, weaving through the crowd. People hustled past, brushing us, bumping into one another. I scanned faces, movements. The two boys remained on the train as the doors hissed closed.

  I spotted the exit stairs as we crossed the platform. The T rumbled off to the south with great noise and light, picking up speed into the tunnel and darkness. I watched every corner and both stairwells.

  It didn’t take long before Jack Flynn and two gunmen in black leather jackets walked out from behind a pair of concrete pillars. They pointed their guns at us.

  In the spirit of the moment, I pointed the Smith & Wesson at them.

  “Broz got picked up,” Flynn said. “You fucked me.”

  “Would it help if I promised to call later?”

  “Leave the girl, smart-ass,” Flynn said. “She’s nothin’ but a piece of trash like her ma. Don’t get stupid and dead.”

  “Go ahead and try,” I said. “But shut your mouth.”

  “I heard your mother pulled a train every Saint Pat’s Day, Flynn,” Mattie said. “Guessin’ your father was multiple choice.”

  Flynn smiled.

  “She writes her own material,” I said. “Trying to show me up.”

  There were maybe ten people on the platform, more coming and going up the exit stairs. I pushed Mattie behind me. She kept lurching forward. I pushed her back several more times.

  “Your mother was a whore,” Flynn said. “She ran her mouth just like you.”

  Mattie made a deep sound as if all the air had rushed from inside her. She lunged for Flynn. I grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back. She fought me.

  Flynn had pointed his gun at her and thumbed back the hammer. His gun was a chrome .357 Magnum with a six-inch barrel. His two boys aimed their weapons at me. I didn’t bother to study their makes and models.

  “Bad move, Jack,” I said. “It’s been a pleasure.”

  “You’re fuckin’ nuts,” Flynn said. “You believe this guy? Shoot the prick.”

  I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. I knew he was there by his posture and walk. I wrapped my arm around Mattie and pulled her down to the concrete platform.

  Three very precise, muffled shots thudded. All of Vinnie Morris’s work was neat.

  The two gunmen hit the ground, red flowers blooming at their temples. Flynn’s side opened up in a red sash as he leapt behind a column and fired his .357 wildly in our general direction.

  Footsteps and confusion. Men and women dove to the T platform or ran for the exits. I heard more screams and scattering footsteps. Shooting in a public place inspires a great deal of pandemonium.

  I looked up from where I’d covered Mattie. Vinnie Morris wore a Pats jacket, sunglasses, and a dark ball cap pulled down far over his eyes. I did not see a gun. If Flynn had not fired, most people in the station would not have known anything had happened at all. Vinnie was deadly silent. Within seconds, he headed back up the stairs just as an alarm sounded.

  Vinnie had tailed Flynn from Bunker Hill as promised and promptly disappeared.

  I helped Mattie to her feet. Her face was the color of parch-

  ment.

  “You’ve been shot,” she said.

  I felt my shoulder. “So I have.” I yanked her behind a thick tile column with my good arm, peering around it.

  A dozen bystanders remained on the ground, hands on heads or curled into fetal positions. A young woman lay next to her spilled purse. She was crying, reaching for her wallet and keys, closing her eyes very tight. Another young man in a rumpled navy overcoat was trying to
text-message with one hand.

  People stirred from where they lay. The young woman gathered her purse, leaving what had spilled, and ran for the exit. Her footsteps echoed up the stairs. Most people chose to stay where they were.

  The gunmen lay in a heap on the ground. Jack Flynn stayed hidden behind another column.

  “Ready to renegotiate?” I asked.

  Gun drawn, Flynn jumped down onto the second set of tracks and jackrabbited for the gaping mouth of the inbound line.

  I walked out from the column and shouted for him to stop. Clever.

  He turned and again fired wildly.

  I squeezed the trigger on my .40-caliber just as he turned to run and caught Flynn in the back. The old thug stumbled and fell forward like a quarterback from a classic NFL film. A second shot got him in the leg.

  He wavered, but then he was gone.

  The station was quiet, all the violence and cracking energy flushed out by a sudden cold rush of air. I pulled out my cell phone and called 911. The bystanders started to get to their feet and do the same. An alarm sounded from the toll booth. I turned to grab Mattie and offer her some reassurance that Flynn would be found. But she’d disappeared.

  I spotted the last bit of her darting down the T tracks after Jack Flynn. She didn’t give me much of a choice.

  I followed her down onto the sunken tracks. My shoulder hurt a great deal. I passed the DANGER signs, trying my best not to be electrocuted, running between the tracks. Inside the subway, the walls were concrete and tile, and covered in black graffiti and defaced billboards. The tracks ducked into a gentle curve.

  I yelled for Mattie.

  A single gunshot rang out in the tunnel. It was very loud and harsh and electric. I yelled for her.

  My gun stretched out in my left hand. I was breathing very hard. My right arm hung at my side.

  The long row of white lights shuddered off and on.

  I turned the corner and spotted Flynn. He’d fallen to his hands and knees in the center of the track. Mattie had Flynn’s gun pointed down at his head.

  I walked even more slowly. I called to her.

  She didn’t hear me. She was back to being ten, watching a couple hoods tossing her mom into the back of an old Pontiac.

  Flynn was spitting up blood. His coat was filthy. Blood and dirt covered him. He wavered on all fours in the flickering light. Mattie circled him and kicked at him with her little sneaker.