by Ace Atkins
“Quirk always served me coffee before bringing bad news.”
“We’ve spoken to the DA,” Farrell said. “We don’t have to hold you, in light of the Carluccis’ record.”
“Okay,” I said. “So it’s you that knows these guys.”
“Yeah,” Belson said. “I’ve known these shitbirds since they were stealing ATMs out of bars in the South End. They used to run with this half-Irish, half-Cuban fuckup. Named Carlos or Carlito. Shit, I don’t remember. But their pal ended up in a little alley off Tremont. They wedged his body in a one-foot space and covered him up with garbage bags.”
“You make the case?”
Belson shook his head.
“Frank, you’re leaving out the best part,” Farrell said. He rubbed the wide place under his nose as if he still had the mustache. “You want to tell him, or do I?”
“No, wait,” I said. “I love the suspense.”
Belson stood up and stretched his legs. He felt for his shirt pocket and pulled out a wet cigar that looked like he’d extracted it from a cat box. He stuck the limp, brown mass in the side of his mouth. “You just aced Gino Fish’s nephew.”
“You’re gonna need some help,” Farrell said.
“I have someone.”
“Hawk?”
“My protégé.”
“Where’s Hawk?” Belson said. The cigar vice locked in his jaw.
“Miami.”
“You sure you want to bet your life on that Indian kid?” Belson said.
I didn’t answer. Z was not Hawk.
“Call him,” Farrell said. “Because I’ll lock you up myself if you try and leave here by yourself. Christ, it’s three a.m.”
“Where’s Jemma?”
“Next room,” Belson said.
“She’s coming with me.”
“Of course, why not make the target even bigger,” Belson said. He walked to the door. “Terrific. For someone who quotes poetry and shit all the time, I wonder about your common fucking sense.”
“You’re not alone.”
Belson made a sound that was somewhere between a grunt and indigestion. He shook his head and left the room, not bothering to close the door. His steps were soft and silent on the industrial carpet. Farrell turned back to me. “You doing okay?”
I shrugged.
“Was it bad?”
“I don’t ever like this part,” I said.
“On the bright side, you did not let them shoot you.”
“There is that.”
“It always makes me feel rotten, too,” Farrell said. “You realize, it’s okay for a man to feel that way.”
“Thanks, Lee,” I said. “And now I promise not to tell Susan about your outfit.”
42
“YOU WANT ME to come inside with you?” Z said.
I shook my head. I stood with him outside the steps to my apartment. A soft, warm wind shot down Marlborough Street. There was crime scene tape on the edge of the street. The super had replaced the broken glass on the door with plywood. It was still very dark. I had left Jemma upstairs with Pearl.
“I can sit on your place till morning.”
“Not necessary.”
“People will come for you,” Z said.
“Not until I get the talk,” I said. “I’ll wait to hear from Vinnie. He’ll set up a meet with Gino. Gino would want a polite sit-down first.”
“Before he kills you?”
“Being a good bad guy comes with a lot of etiquette.”
“On the rez, someone has problems, they just shoot you.”
“Simpler,” I said. “But less elegant.”
“I’m staying anyway,” Z said. Without another word, he walked toward his car and closed the door. Marlborough contained many dark pockets and long shadows out from the iron streetlamps. I went upstairs and found Jemma cross-legged on the floor. She was rubbing Pearl’s belly. Pearl didn’t seem to notice my entrance. Her tongue lolled from her mouth and her eyes had rolled up in her head.
“I’ll make up the bed with fresh sheets.”
“I can sleep out here,” she said. “On the couch.”
“Against the rules.”
“Whose rules?”
“My own.”
“I see,” she said. She stood and walked toward the kitchen. “May I have a drink first?”
I displayed the contents of my modest bar. I offered her an assortment of beer and a half-bottle of Riesling I had kept for Susan. She joined me in some Blanton’s, served neat. I drank half and started work on the sheets in the bedroom. I changed out the pillowcases and turned off the overhead light. An old brass lamp on an end table created a nice homey glow.
I looked out the window. Z’s Mustang was still parked on the street.
“There are plenty of towels and soap in the bathroom,” I said.
“I would very much like to shower,” she said. She helped herself to another bourbon. I continued to stand while she sat perched on a bar stool.
I got an extra pillow and an old quilt from my linen closet. I could hear the shower running as I turned on the television to see if the shooting made the replay of the late news. It was not easy sharing the couch with Pearl. She liked to stretch out. But her soft breathing and groans made me tired. The adrenaline finally began leaving my system. I turned off the television and then the light.
I heard the shower stop.
My eyes were closed, ears still ringing from gunshots, when she padded into the room. Being vigilant, I opened my eyes. She was in the kitchen, wrapped in only a navy blue towel as she poured out more bourbon. Her body was as taut and impressive as Z and I had surmised. Her wet hair had been combed straight down her back. She took a sip of booze, eyes closed and throat working. She noted my staring and inched toward me. She looked younger without the makeup. The soft, natural droop of her breasts was noticeable as she clutched her towel with one hand, the bourbon in the other.
“Spenser.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t have to sleep on the couch.”
“Thank you,” I said. “But Pearl might get lonely.”
“We can both sleep in the bed,” she said. She sat on my coffee table. “There is no harm in that. I promise not to bother you.”
“You might give in to my raw Irish magnetism,” I said. “Plus, I snore.”
She drank some more and wiped her mouth. She smelled of Susan’s good soap and shampoo. The little light in the room came from a crack by the bedroom door. Pearl turned and huffed in her sleep. Jemma was doing a very poor job holding on to the towel. Her chest and shoulders were very freckled. Her legs were muscular and smooth.
“I can’t stand to think of a man your size sleeping out here.”
“I’ve slept in worse.”
She was quiet for a while. A few cars passed out on Marlborough. I heard a siren from far away and the laughter of people walking under my window. She touched my hand.
“I can’t stop thinking about tonight,” she said. “The way the man looked, bleeding out on the street.”
“Have another,” I said. “And you’ll stop thinking about everything.”
“I’m quite scared.”
I opened my eyes. “You could tell me what happened to Rick,” I said. “What don’t I know?”
She took a breath. Waited a beat. “It’s quite complicated.”
“I think I can handle it.”
She put down her glass and dropped her forehead into her right hand for support. Her towel dropped even more. I began to try to recall the roster of the ’69 Red Sox.
She reached out and squeezed my fingers.
“Rick double-crossed some very important people.”
“Okay.”
“He let me run so much, but then would keep me in the dark about so much else.”
I waited. I did not want to blurt out “Who’s getting the slush fund?” if she was about to point to the maid or Colonel Mustard in the kitchen.
“He had made friends at the State House,” she said. She stood up and padded back to the kitchen. She poured out more bourbon. After I scraped her off the floor in the morning, I would have to restock.
“This person, whoever it was, is how we got the gaming initiative passed,” she said. “And they were to work out details with the local Mob.”
“For a tribute?”
“More like a percentage.”
“Who would know the name of the politician?”
“Rick.”
I placed both hands behind my head. I looked up at the ceiling in contemplation. Jemma walked back and sat down. As she moved, one of her breasts was exposed. I do not think she noticed, or perhaps she did not care.
“What about personal papers, computer files, messages? What does Rachel know?”
She kept shaking her head. “Something of that importance was known only to Rick,” she said. She steadied her drinking elbow on her knee and took a sip. “Please come to bed.”
“Alas, my heart belongs to another.”
“I don’t want your heart.” Her accent had slipped a bit.
Carlton Fisk, Carl Yastrzemski, Sparky Lyle.
“You think he was killed because of this politician?” I said.
“Good God,” she said. “Can we discuss this later?”
I sat up from the couch and placed my bare feet on the floor. I massaged my temples. Pearl did not stir.
“Have you ever heard him say the name Gino Fish?”
“No,” she said. “I would definitely remember that name.”
“Can you help me find the politician?”
She shrugged. She looked at me for a long moment and smiled. Then she tucked her wet hair behind her ears and stood. She looked down at me with a sneer just in time to trip over a footstool. She thudded in a heap, naked and sprawled on an antique rag rug. I did my best covering her in the damp towel and dropped her in my bedroom. I turned off the table light and walked back to the couch.
Tony Conigliaro, Rico Petrocelli, Reggie Smith.
43
BRIGHT AND EARLY the next morning, Vinnie Morris walked into my office and took a seat in my client chair. Z was on the couch, with Pearl’s head resting in his lap. We were drinking coffee and discussing the night’s events. Although Vinnie had not called, the visit was not unexpected.
“Nice to see you,” I said.
“Congrats. You’re number one on Gino’s shit list.”
“With or without a bullet?”
“That’s up to you,” Vinnie said. “Reason I’m here.”
Vinnie was dressed, as was most often the case, like Ralph Lauren’s oft-neglected Italian cousin. He wore a trim-fitting blue blazer over a crisp yellow dress shirt and pink tie, with lightweight charcoal pants and buffed wingtips. His hair had been recently barbered and swept back with a light sheen. His nails were manicured. The pink tie was knotted with a single Windsor at his throat.
“I’m sorry about Gino’s nephew.”
“We’ll get to that in a second,” Vinnie said. “How the fuck did you get involved in this casino crap?”
“Would you believe sheer luck?”
Vinnie rubbed an invisible dirt spot off his wingtips. Z and I both wore sweaty workout clothes. I hadn’t been able to sleep, and I had run steps at Harvard Stadium while Z had walked the track. My thighs felt like Jell-O, but my breathing was calm. Relaxed. I folded my arms across my chest and leaned back in my chair. “Some sluggers were trying to push Henry Cimoli around.”
“That didn’t have shit to do with Gino.”
“Says who?”
“Says me,” Vinnie said.
I looked over Vinnie’s shoulder. Z lay back relaxed on the couch. He took a sip of coffee, listening but silent. Sunlight slanted across my wooden floor and over half of Vinnie’s face.
“Jimmy and Tommy were just trying to scare the broad,” Vinnie said. “Not kill her.”
“Attempted kidnapping.”
Vinnie shrugged.
“Why?” I said.
Vinnie kind of laughed, mainly just blew some air out of his nose. He sat erect in my client chair and leaned back to stare at the ceiling. I again glanced over at Z. Z patted Pearl’s head with one hand; the other hand put down the coffee and disappeared at his side. Z did not know Vinnie Morris.
“Gino wanted me to tell you to back off,” Vinnie said. “I told him that was a waste of breath. But he wanted to say it anyway. So there you go. I fucking said it.”
“What’s Gino say about Rick Weinberg being smoked?”
“The headless horseman?”
I nodded.
“Not our business,” Vinnie said. “Gino said you’d ask. And I said I’d tell you we were not involved.”
“You saying that or Gino?”
“Me.”
Vinnie widened his eyes. He shuffled in my client chair. He scratched his cheek.
“I’m sort of working for Rick Weinberg’s widow,” I said.
“What the fuck does ‘sort of’ mean?”
“I was asked to help, but now she’s being evasive.”
“Lot of that going around,” Vinnie said. “Big money makes people cautious.”
“Where has Gino put his money?”
Vinnie shrugged and yanked his head back. “That the big fucking Indian I keep hearing about?”
I nodded.
“A real-life fucking Indian,” Vinnie said.
“Say hello, Z.”
Z said: “How.”
“Fucking funny,” Vinnie said. “Is being a smartass part of the training?”
“Just a fortunate side effect,” I said.
“Are we clear now?”
“What about Gino’s nephew?” I said.
Vinnie stood and straightened the sleeves on his blazer. He found a bit of fuzz on his lapel and flicked it away with his finger. “He’s not taking this thing personally,” he said. “Between us, he never liked the numbnuts anyway. But on the business end, he says it was an unfortunate misunderstanding.”
“Why did Gino want Jemma Fraser?”
Vinnie shrugged. “Who shot first?” he said. “Just curious.”
“Not my gun,” I said.
Vinnie nodded.
“You know I won’t back off.”
“No fucking kidding,” Vinnie said.
“I need to see Gino.”
“Like I said, he doesn’t blame you for what happened, but he doesn’t want to talk to you, either. How the fuck would that look?”
“I am interested in why someone wanted to clip me.”
“He didn’t know you were involved.”
“Now he does,” I said. “Police think he may have aced Weinberg as a message.”
“You really think that’s his style?”
“To be honest, I’ve never really thought Gino had much of a style.”
Vinnie walked to the door and set his hand on the knob. “I told Gino if something goes down between you and him, it’s between you and him. I’m on the fucking sidelines.”
“I appreciate that, Vinnie.”
“But I’d consider it a personal favor not to put me in a bind and to back the fuck off,” Vinnie said. “You got to realize this is about shit tons of money. Lots of big-time players want a piece.”
“You ever meet Rick Weinberg?” I said.
“See you around, Spenser.”
“Or Harvey Rose?”
“Nice name.”
He opened the door halfway. He looked down at the place where the sunlight spilled across the office floor. “No matter what you do, things will shake out the same,�
� Vinnie said. “That’s what I came here to tell you.”
“And that if I stop poking around, Gino won’t turn me into a hunk of Swiss cheese for shooting his beloved nephew.”
Vinnie looked over to Z and grinned. “Stick close to this one. He’s quick.”
He closed the door with a light click. I propped my running shoes on the edge of the desk and leaned back in thought. Z’s hand came back out from under a pillow. He set a .44 by his leg and nodded. “You better watch your back with that guy.”
“Wait till you meet my enemies.”
44
JEMMA HAD TRIPLE-LOCKED the door and it took a moment of assurance before she let me into my apartment. Pearl trotted in first. I followed triumphantly with breakfast. I had stopped off at the Flour on Washington and bought some cinnamon-cream brioche and lemon-ginger scones. I filled a bowl of water for Pearl and set about making coffee.
“Do you feel better?” she said.
“Nothing like running steps to sweat off guilt.”
“He pulled the gun on us.”
I nodded.
“I borrowed one of your T-shirts,” she said. “I hope that’s okay.”
“Just don’t take the one from Karl’s Sausage Kitchen.”
Pearl lapped up all of her water. I again refilled the bowl. I waited for the water to boil and measured out eight heaping spoonfuls of coffee into the press. When the water started to bubble, I poured it over the grounds. While it steeped, I squeezed some oranges and set the juice on the kitchen counter.
“First-rate,” she said.
“How’s your head?”
“Horrific.”
I went to the bathroom and returned with two aspirin. I mashed the plunger on the press and poured us both some coffee. Brioche and scones were set in the toaster oven on low while I stirred just a little cream and sugar into my mug.
“I apologize for last night,” she said. “Quite embarrassing.”
“Don’t apologize,” I said. “Blame Kentucky’s finest.”
“I’m sure you saw more than you were bargaining for.”
“I averted my eyes.”
Jemma smiled and took a sip of her coffee. “Quite embarrassing.”