Robert B. Parker's Lullaby

by Ace Atkins

  The chrome .357 looked ridiculous in her hands. Almost like an oversized toy.

  Her arm was bleeding very badly. She’d been shot taking the gun away from him.

  “Would it matter if I said he wasn’t worth it?” I said.

  Nothing.

  “If you kill him, he’ll own you,” I said. “You’ll give his life meaning.”

  “He called her a whore.”

  “He’s dying, Mattie,” I said. “He’s been shot three times. Twice by me. Let him go.”

  “She was not a whore,” Mattie said. “She was not a whore.”

  Flynn choked out more blood. He turned his head to me, staring at me with those pale Irish eyes. I thought I detected something that looked like gratitude. His face had been washed of all color as his body fell into deep shock.

  She did not lower the very large gun. She thumbed back the hammer and pressed it to the back of his skull.

  “God I’m so sorry,” Mattie said. “I’m so goddamn sorry, Ma.”

  Flynn rolled over to his side, head thumping against a burnished rail. I knew he was either dead or damn near close to it. She dropped the gun. I smiled at her. But Mattie’s eyes rolled up into her head and she fell like a limp rag doll.

  I pocketed the gun and knelt down, scooping her up in my arms. I had to grit my teeth a fair amount while I walked toward the light. Transit cops scattered down around the edges of the train, coming for us. Guns out, talking on radios.

  Little white lights scattered off and on, feathers from her coat flitting in the cavernous draft.

  63

  Some months later, Boston thawed, and I found myself sitting with Mattie Sullivan right behind home plate at Fenway, as promised. I treated myself to a hot dog and a cold Budweiser. Salted peanuts waited on deck. Miracles never cease.

  “Sweet seats,” Mattie said. “Too bad the Sox are sucking this year.”

  “A true fan weathers every game.”

  “With all the money these guys make, I got a right to complain.”

  “Glad I don’t make much money.”

  “You did good,” Mattie said.

  “I bummed the tickets from a fancy law firm.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  I toasted her with the half beer that was left.

  It was May, and the ballpark was packed despite the gray skies and rain. Lots of people wore ponchos and held umbrellas. The rain fell in soft, gentle waves. What the Irish called a soft day.

  I wore my Boston Braves cap. Mattie wore an official fitted Sox cap I insisted on buying her at the team store. It wasn’t pink. She balanced the box score sheet on her knee.

  “You think you’d see some hustle,” Mattie said. “It looks like they got lead in their ass. And against the fucking Halos. Jesus.”

  “Sometimes a ball game can be enjoyed just for the rhythm of it all,” I said. I took a sip of my third beer. “You watch the little details, and it gives the same feeling as listening to good jazz.”

  “Whatever,” Mattie said.

  I ate my hot dog. I drank some beer. I opened the sack of peanuts. I wondered if that would be too gluttonous. Since I was on the mend, I figured I needed the nutrition.

  We watched Wakefield strike out two Angels.

  “How’s the shoulder?” Mattie asked.

  “Better,” I said. “I’m gonna try some heavy-bag work today with Hawk. Slow going.”

  Mattie’s arm was still in a sling. The doctors had inserted pins into the shattered bone, and it would take some time to heal. There had been a lot of ugly damage and two surgeries, but she kept the arm. Like me, she was on the mend.

  “Why don’t you come along,” I said. “I can teach you how to box.”

  She laughed and shook her head. Wake struck out the third batter. The crowd cheered. She penciled in the out.

  “I’m gonna take a bus out to Walpole and see Mickey.”

  “I’ll drive you,” I said. “I promise not to sing anything that’s not in the Great American Songbook.”

  “Rather go myself,” she said. “Besides, Mickey doesn’t care too much for you.”

  “I got him a sexy and tough attorney,” I said. “She got him a new trial based on DNA evidence and a witness I found.”

  “Mickey thinks it’s bullshit that he hasn’t been sprung,” Mattie said. She blew a large pink bubble. “Shit, they got Flynn’s DNA under my mom’s nails.”

  I nodded. “The wheels of justice turn slowly.”

  “It’s a bunch of crap,” she said. “What if Theresa bolts again?”

  “I’ll track her down.”

  “What if someone finds her first?”

  “Flynn is quite dead.”

  “Ain’t that a shame.” She chewed her gum. She studied the box score.

  “You worry about it?”

  “Not shooting the bastard myself?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sometimes,” she said. “I guess sometimes I wish I’d had the stuff.”

  “You got the stuff,” I said. “You made a choice that he wasn’t worth it. Think on that.”

  “Figured that’s why you wanted me to go shoppin’ with Susan,” Mattie said. “You wanted her to talk to me about my feelings and shit.”

  “Talking about feelings and shit can often be therapeutic.”

  “I don’t go for frilly dresses and tea,” Mattie said. “Not with Mickey still screwed. There’s still a lot to do.”

  “Mickey will get out,” I said. “But it takes time.”

  “And that crooked Fed?” she asked.

  I watched Pedroia loosen up on deck. I felt my face burn. “He’s under investigation,” I said. “I have a friend who’s got him in his sights. He believes me. But he’s the only Fed who believes me.”

  “So this douchebag skates.”

  “As does Gerry Broz.” I sipped the beer. “In my line of work, douchebags often skate.”

  The rain came down a little harder.

  “Bullshit,” Mattie said, again. “Just bullshit.”

  “’Tis.”

  Ellsbury struck out. Pedroia sauntered up to the plate. He studied the big Green Monster in left field. I just hoped he connected.

  I contemplated another beer. The rain started to fall harder, and the ground crew stood at the ready near the tarp. Pedroia stepped back from the plate and watched the umpire. The game continued.

  On the second pitch, Pedroia nicked a line drive past third, making it to first. Adrian Gonzalez was up. Mattie leaned forward. We both liked Gonzalez, curious about what he’d do for us this season. The rain came in a steady, solid patter.

  The first pitch was wide. The second a strike. But Gonzalez hammered the next one far into left field. Pedroia made it to third and rounded toward home. Gonzalez rounded second but doubled back, as did Pedroia.

  The bottom fell out of the sky.

  The umpire held up his hand. The crews hustled out with the tarp.

  Mattie and I ran for cover. Inside Fenway, the ballpark smelled of musty old wood, hot dogs, and stale beer. Heaven.

  We walked to the gate and waited for the rain to stop.

  “Thanks for all you’ve done,” she said. “We’ll get square on those donuts.”

  “Six cinnamon, six chocolate frosted.”

  “And a tall coffee. I know. I know.”

  “Cream. Two sugars.”

  “Quit bustin’ my ass. Okay?”

  I bought her an umbrella. We walked to my car, and I drove her back to the Mary Ellen McCormack. We sat for a while, waiting for the rain to let up.

  “How was that?”

  “Nice,” Mattie said. “Thanks.”

  “You do much thinking?”

  “I watched the game.”

  “And now?”

  “I’ll see Mickey.”

  “But maybe you give yourself another break soon.”

  “Like a vacation.”

  “Yep,” I said. “You keep giving yourself breaks, and the time between them will grow sh
orter. You get into a new normal. Not the same, but not bad, either.”

  “Guess it’s nice knockin’ boots with a shrink.”

  “It is.”

  “You need breaks sometime, too?”

  I nodded.

  “Is that how you deal with all the bastards?”

  “No harm in being good to yourself,” I said. “I know what it’s like to show everyone you’re tough. It’s a form of self-protection. Keeps people from messing with you.”

  “Is that you or Susan talking?”

  “A little of both.”

  Mattie reached for the door handle.

  “I’m always here,” I said. “We can always mooch off the firm. Long season this year.”

  “Maybe the Sox can right things,” she said.

  “They got time.”

  I watched her walk away, a lot older and a lot younger than fourteen. I started the car and headed toward the waterfront, knowing lasting change takes time.

  At Harbor Health Club, I changed into shorts and running shoes. I pulled on a navy sweatshirt cut off at the elbows and met Hawk in the boxing room, where he had started without me. He’d already worked himself into a shimmering sweat with a leather jump rope.

  Hawk could jump rope the way Fred Astaire could dance. He crossed and switched feet as delicately and quickly as he had when he was a teenager.

  Hawk hung up the rope. I wrapped my hands and fitted on a pair of sixteen-ounce gloves.

  He hung the heavy bag on loose chains. Hawk told me to take it slow.

  “Promised Susan,” he said.

  “She call you?”

  “Five times.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “Means take it easy,” he said. “Until that shoulder heals.”

  “And you?”

  “I heal by magic.”

  “Must be nice,” I said.

  “I often marvel at myself,” Hawk said, getting a good grip of the heavy bag. I started with some short jabs with my left and then worked in a few light crosses with the right. The bullet had torn through muscle and cartilage, and the best I could get was a solid tap. I tapped a few crosses and jabbed hard again with the left.

  “Hmm,” Hawk said.

  “It will come.”

  Hawk nodded.

  I did some speed-bag work. The work from the right was pathetic at best.

  Hawk thought it was funny.

  The rain was gone, and the sun had started to set with all that bold color that comes after a long rain. The gym was filled with a brilliant gold light coming through the window and reflecting across the mirrors. I turned away from it and faced the waterfront. Sailboats zipped through the Atlantic. Tourist boats crisscrossed their wakes.

  “You don’t deserve it,” Hawk said. “But after you done, I’ll buy you a drink.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Might be good to keep you around,” Hawk said. “That right hook good enough to knock some old lady flat.”

  “I greatly appreciate your support.”

  Henry Cimoli stepped out of his office in a red satin sweatsuit. Gray-haired, skinny, and five-five on his tiptoes, Henry had a distinct banty rooster quality. He held out a cordless phone in his hand and called to me.

  “Who is it?” I asked.

  “How the hell should I know?” Henry asked. “That right is pathetic, by the way.”

  “I heard.”

  “Whatta I tell ’im?”

  “Ask who it is.”

  Henry asked. He put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Some lawyer,” Henry said. “Wants to hire you. You gonna take it or what?”

  NOVELS BY ROBERT B. PARKER

  THE SPENSER NOVELS

  Sixkill

  Painted Ladies

  The Professional

  Rough Weather

  Now & Then

  Hundred-Dollar Baby

  School Days

  Cold Service

  Bad Business

  Back Story

  Widow’s Walk

  Potshot

  Hugger Mugger

  Hush Money

  Sudden Mischief

  Small Vices

  Chance

  Thin Air

  Walking Shadow

  Paper Doll

  Double Deuce

  Pastime

  Stardust

  Playmates

  Crimson Joy

  Pale Kings and Princes

  Taming a Sea-Horse

  A Catskill Eagle

  Valediction

  The Widening Gyre

  Ceremony

  A Savage Place

  Early Autumn

  Looking for Rachel Wallace

  The Judas Goat

  Promised Land

  Mortal Stakes

  God Save the Child

  The Godwulf Manuscript

  THE JESSE STONE NOVELS

  Robert B. Parker’s Killing the Blues (by Michael Brandman)

  Split Image

  Night and Day

  Stranger in Paradise

  High Profile

  Sea Change

  Stone Cold

  Death in Paradise

  Trouble in Paradise

  Night Passage

  THE SUNNY RANDALL NOVELS

  Spare Change

  Blue Screen

  Melancholy Baby

  Shrink Rap

  Perish Twice

  Family Honor

  ALSO BY ROBERT B. PARKER

  Blue-Eyed Devil

  Brimstone

  Resolution

  Appaloosa

  Double Play

  Gunman’s Rhapsody

  All Our Yesterdays

  A Year at the Races (with Joan H. Parker)

  Perchance to Dream

  Poodle Springs (with Raymond Chandler)

  Love and Glory

  Wilderness

  Three Weeks in Spring (with Joan H. Parker)

  Training with Weights (with John R. Marsh)