by Ace Atkins
“Wasn’t there some kind of big reward on those things?” Zimmer said. “A few million?”
“Five,” I said.
“Rich and I are retired,” he said. “And living off state retirement. If either of us had heard a whisper about our guys involved with that heist, we’d be on it like a supermodel and a ham sandwich.”
“What did you guys find at the crime scene?” I said.
“Benny Barboza in the trunk,” Zimmer said. “The car was clean. Didn’t find any prints. He was shot with a .45. All of it close work. The stabbing happened while he was still alive. We figured whoever killed him was trying to get some information. Never found the murder weapons. Never found the crime scene. No witnesses. No informants. No confessions.”
“And it was all pretty much chalked up to a war with the Morellis?”
“We expected a lot more blood,” Zimmer said. “We had a wiretap on Morelli’s house and there was talk about the killing. They talked about waiting for retaliation from the Old Man. But nothing good enough to make a case.”
Roebuck nodded, leaned back into his seat, and finally took a sip of his coffee. I wondered if this might be a moment to grab a muffin.
“Did you read the report?” Roebuck aid. “The homicide file from BPD?”
I nodded.
“Did you notice anything missing in it?”
“Besides a lack of basic grammar?”
The cops didn’t laugh, but they were still smiling. Roebuck leaned forward and pinched off some blueberry muffin. As he chewed, he looked over his shoulder at the young woman working the counter. In a low voice, he said, “They cut off Barboza’s nuts,” he said. “The guy who did it gave them to Morelli as a gift on Columbus Day.”
“Who was the killer?”
Zimmer shrugged. Roebuck stroked his gray goatee.
“Doesn’t matter much now,” I said. “We’re just a bunch of ex-cops talking about an old case.”
Roebuck looked at me, nodding, still stroking his goatee. “JoJo Morelli,” he said. “Did it himself. Someone probably snatched Barboza off the street and took him to JoJo. But JoJo did the dirty work. Nobody fucked with that guy and got away with it.”
“And I can’t talk to JoJo.”
“Not without a Ouija board,” Zimmer said. The men laughed.
“Lot of bad luck with these paintings,” I said. “Two guys in the crew are dead and third guy is in jail.”
“You think Jackie might have some answers for you?” Roebuck said.
“Jackie and I aren’t the best of pals,” I said. “We have a complicated history.”
“Twenty years is a long time,” Zimmer said. “But I’d watch your step with these guys. Jackie DeMarco may be half the man of his old man. But their memories run long. Trust us on one thing, nobody likes no one kicking up some old dirt. Especially off the dead.”
“Consider me forewarned.”
Roebuck finished the muffin. I was envious. He looked at me, crumbs still strewn on his Vandyke.
“I heard about you,” he said. “Know what you do and have done. This doesn’t scare you a bit.”
“Not really.”
“What’d you do to Jackie, if you don’t mind me asking?” Zimmer said.
“I embarrassed him a time or two,” I said. “And a friend of mine might’ve shot and killed one of his guys.”
“Bad blood,” Roebuck said.
“It ain’t good,” I said.
“You never know how these things shake out,” Roebuck said. “Jackie might be a true and authentic art lover. Probably has that painting hanging in his garage in Southie right now.”
“Right alongside this year’s Hooters calendar,” Zimmer said. “You got someone to watch your back?”
“Yep.”
“Is he any good?” Roebuck said.
“One of the top three in Boston,” I said. “Present company included.”
“Pretty cocky,” Zimmer said, smiling. “Hope it pays off for you.”
I shook the men’s hands, bought two corn muffins, and drove back to Boston. I ate only one and saved one for later. It was all I deserved.
38
I PARKED IN THE GARAGE under Post Office Square and walked a few blocks over to the address on Milk Street where Dominic J. Nuccio, attorney at law, kept an office. Although Nuccio never came through with his mysterious client, I figured he might know a thing or two about the death of Alan Garner and perhaps offer a line of communication with Jackie DeMarco. I’d found numerous clips in The Globe about Nuccio representing both father and son over the years. Amazing how the Internet had simplified my sleuthing. If only Sam Spade could’ve used Google.
“Hey,” Nuccio said. “You can’t just walk in here. I’ve got an appointment with a client.”
I walked in anyway and took a seat. Nuccio sat behind a large desk piled high with files and papers. He had a small white box stamped Mike’s open and a pastry in hand. The room was dark, dim light showed from half-closed blinds, and a desk lamp gave off a soft yellow glow.
“Is your client a cannoli?”
“Can a man just get a coffee break?” he said. “Jesus. Where’s my secretary?”
“Taken with my good looks and charm.”
“If she just let you barge in here—”
“No,” I said. “I insisted.”
It looked like it had been a rough day in court. His suit was rumpled and his curly gray toupee looked askew. The secretary showed at the door, out of breath and apologizing. Nuccio held up a hand and sent her away.
“What do you want, Spenser?”
“I’m still waiting to hear about your mystery man.”
“Well,” he said. “He’s thinking it over. When I know, you’ll know. If you could just shut the door on the way out.”
“Or I could just go talk to Jackie myself,” I said. “Although the last time I did that, it didn’t go so well.”
“Jackie who?”
“Give me a break, Nuccio,” I said. “You’ve only been to court for Jackie DeMarco since he was breaking windows in the North End. And by the way, I like Modern better. You don’t have to wait so long waving dollar bills around to get help.”
“I’ve been going to Mike’s since I was a kid,” he said. “And so what if I’ve represented Jackie DeMarco? I represented his father, too. It’s all in my book.”
“I know, Boston, the Mob, and Me,” I said. “I saw it for ninety-nine cents on Amazon. You really should hire a better graphic designer. The font you used is an embarrassment.”
Nuccio leaned back in his chair. It was black leather with a very high back, making him seem much smaller than he actually was. Although I was pretty sure the idea was to make him look larger, more grand. He drummed his fingers on his table, absently reaching with his free hand and adjusting his hair.
“Alan Garner is dead,” I said.
“Never heard of him.”
“You read The Globe?”
“Sure.”
“Front-page Metro,” I said. “Ever heard of Gino Fish?”
“Sure,” he said. “Mr. Fish was a client.”
“Garner was his right-hand man,” I said. “Just like you, he promised the return of The Gentleman for a price. But unlike you, he knew where to get it and even showed it to me before someone shot him. Being a veteran sleuth, I’m thinking your visit and Garner’s offer to broker might be related.”
“Even if it was, ever heard of attorney-client privilege?”
“Can we please cut the cannoli?” I said. “Does Jackie still have the painting or not?”
“I never said Mr. DeMarco has the painting.”
“You said your client could put his hands on it.”
“But I never said my client was Mr. DeMarco,” he said. “And if I had said it was Mr. DeMarco, I did not stat
e he had the piece in his possession, only that my client could get his hands on it in a goodwill gesture to the museum and the city of Boston.”
“And for the five million reward.”
Nuccio made an offhand gesture and smiled.
I crossed my legs and looked at Nuccio across his desk. It was hard to see him, as the papers and files had been stacked so high. I had to crook my neck to the side in order to keep eye contact. He pushed away the box from Mike’s and crossed his arms over his chest.
“Can we please get to it?” I said. “I know DeMarco has been on your speed dial for years. You dedicated your book to his late father and dedicated chapters to their family history. I also know that twenty years ago, Crazy Eddie Ciccone enticed a young and naïve security guard named Chad Hartman to open the back door to the Winthrop Museum with promises of a night of pleasure from a girl named Charity. Eddie and Benny Barboza tied up Hartman and another guard. They stole a Picasso sketch, a Goya, and a priceless El Greco. Mikey Mike Marino was the wheelman. It’s widely known that that the three amigos were in the DeMarco crew. Two of the men are dead and one isn’t talking. So it brings up the question, does DeMarco still have the painting? Did he already sell it? Or did Benny Barboza or Mikey Mike Marino bury it so deep no one recalls where they put it?”
Nuccio stroked one of his wild eyebrows as he listened. When I finished, he stood up and adjusted the blinds in his darkened office. Little dust motes spun around in the slatted light. He took a breath and paced a bit, trying to figure something out or doing a bit of courtroom posturing. The walls were lined with pictures of Nuccio and many of his famous clients. Several of them I recognized from their mug shots.
“Who is this Garner person?” he said.
“He brokered the deal on the Picasso sketch,” I said. “He offered the museum a deal for the return of the El Greco. But before the plan could be put in motion, someone shot him.”
“That has nothing to do with nothing.”
“It has something to do with something,” I said.
“But not my client.”
“Of course not.”
“You don’t believe me?” Nuccio said, moving back behind his big padded leather chair. He placed his forearms on top of the chair and widened his eyes. He had probably had more hair in his bushy eyebrows than natural hair on his head.
“You won’t even admit your client is DeMarco,” I said.
“This matter is all very complicated,” he said. “Delicate, too.”
“Jackie DeMarco is many things,” I said. “But not delicate.”
Nuccio grinned just a little. He continued to study me as he stood behind the chair. He swallowed and nodded as if agreeing with himself.
“I can’t promise a painting,” he said. “But maybe I can help you sort out some of this crapola you’ve been swimming through.”
“Are you tossing me a life preserver, Dominic?” I said. “Gee, thanks.”
“Sink or swim out there, baby,” he said. “And I can’t confirm or deny any of the story you told me.”
“But you know a guy who knows a guy.”
Nuccio walked around the chair and sat back on his leather throne. He reached down and took a bite of the cannoli, stuffed with chocolate and powdered with a lot of sugar. He chewed for a long time, savoring his treat, and then swallowed.
“Did you tell the cops about me coming to your office?” Nuccio said.
“Nope.”
“That’s good.”
“But if DeMarco was working with Alan Garner, it won’t be long until they’ll be knocking on his door.”
Nuccio reached for a napkin and wiped his mouth. He drank a little coffee and pointed at me with a long, bony finger. “I’ll get you a meet with Jackie,” he said. “But if you screw him or screw me, you’re on your own.”
“Wow,” I said. “You’re too good to me.”
“He calls the time and the place,” Nuccio said. “That’s not up for debate. No way. No how.”
“I’m so excited. I just don’t know what to wear.”
“Oh, and Jackie doesn’t like you,” he said. “But I guess you know that.”
“No offense taken.” I shrugged. “The feeling is mutual.”
39
WHEN DID THEY STOP MAKING the El Dorado?” I said.
We were both sitting in Vinnie’s car, that year’s Cadillac CT6 sedan. It was black, with a dark tan interior. The car was steeped in that rich new-car smell.
“They haven’t made the El Do for fifteen years,” he said. “Christ. Where you been?”
“Fleetwood?” I said.
“They haven’t made Fleetwoods in twenty,” he said. “Next thing you know, you’re going to ask me about the Edsel. Trust me, that didn’t work out.”
“In a realm all its own,” I said.
“Sunroof, Bose stereo, V-6 turbo,” he said. “Top-grade leather. Galvano chrome accents.”
“What’s Galvano chrome?”
“I’m not sure,” Vinnie said. “But it’s nice stuff. Full-grain aniline-dyed leather. That means it’s thick and strong, not like that cheap crap they put on Chinese sofas.”
I felt around the dash and examined the deluxe accents, and the futuristic GPS and odometer.
“It suits you,” I said.
“And that old boat of a car suits you, Spenser,” he said. “Where’d you pick that up? Some Army-Navy store?”
“Quincy.”
Vinnie nodded. We’d just pulled up in front of Jackie DeMarco’s impound lot in Southie. The last time I’d been there with Hawk, a few bullets had flown. Vinnie had a few questions about Alan Garner and believed his presence might calm future altercations. I wasn’t so sure. But happy to have the company.
“Remember that time Joe Broz wanted me to kill you?”
“Which time?”
“When you humiliated his son out in the woods,” he said. “You should have put down that mutt right there and then.”
“Joe and I worked it out,” I said. “But his son tried for me anyway.”
“And you shot him in the fucking kneecap,” he said. “Let me make a clear distinction here. Jackie ain’t Gerry Broz.”
“He’s not Al Capone, either,” I said. “Or Albert Schweitzer.”
We watched the impound lot, waiting for Jackie’s call. When Jackie was close, they’d open the gates and let us in. Jackie would grant me an audience from his hubcap throne. As Vinnie shifted in his seat, I noted the edge of the automatic in his shoulder holster.
“Sorry about Alan,” I said.
“Me, too,” Vinnie said. “He was just a kid when he came on with Gino. I don’t think he had a freakin’ clue about the life. He was smart, interested in all that artsy-fartsy stuff. He knew antiques, paintings and shit. Liked to dress nice, wear fancy clothes. I think he dug working for a powerful guy.”
“Was he as close to Gino as I’ve heard?”
“Alan grew up in Lawrence,” Vinnie said. “Family didn’t have a lot of money. Father was a plumber, a mean, lousy drunk. Kicked him out when he heard he was gay. You know the story. Alan came to Boston, led the big party life that was all fucking and dancing. He grew to appreciate the finer things. You know? Gino was able to make that happen. Alan always had a sporty little car, nice place to live in the South End, didn’t have to worry for money.”
“He didn’t live with Gino.”
“Nope,” Vinnie said. “He didn’t want anything to happen to the kid. Gino knew his private life put his public one in jeopardy. In case you don’t know, most wise guys aren’t exactly socially progressive.”
“Many made the mistake Gino was weak because he was gay.”
“But never twice.”
“Just how did you go from Broz to Fish?”
Vinnie shrugged, turned down the music on the radio. The Greatest
Hits of Eddie Fisher. He kept his eyes trained on the expansive lot of DeMarco towing. There were hundreds of cars in the lot and only three construction trailers parked in the center. I recalled the last time I’d been there, Hawk out of sight and taking out one of DeMarco’s men.
“Joe was retiring,” he said. “It was either become some kind of personal assistant or go to work for Gerry.”
“I can’t imagine you taking orders from Gerry Broz.”
“Me and you both,” he said. “Joe understood me going with Fish. I don’t think Joe approved of Fish’s lifestyle and stuff, but he did respect the way Fish ran his business. He knew the man’s word was good and he did what he promised.”
“How old were you when you started working for Joe?”
“Seventeen,” he said. “Right out of high school. College wasn’t exactly an option.”
“And working for someone like the DeMarcos or the Morelli brothers wasn’t an option, either?”
“Sure,” he said. “I knew those guys. But your mom being Sicilian won’t get you too far. I never would be running things. I’d never had the respect for my Irish side.”
“Funny how things like that work,” I said.
“Hilarious.”
“What do you think Joe and Gino would make of Jackie DeMarco?”
“They wouldn’t trust him,” he said. “DeMarco is a new animal. He’s a reckless, stupid hothead. His word doesn’t mean jack. Half the time he’s talking straight out of his ass.”
“Great,” I said. “This should be a productive conversation.”
My cell phone rang.
I answered it and told the caller our location. The gates to the tow truck company rolled open and Vinnie drove his Cadillac on into the yard. We parked up close to the trailers, nose pointing back toward the gate. Vinnie unlocked the doors and reached for the handle.
“Here we go.”
“Yep,” Vinnie said.
40
YOU’RE A LUCKY MAN, SPENSER,” Jackie DeMarco said. “You know that, right? Considering the shit show that happened right here the last time. For me to allow you to drive on in here and have a civil conversation is kind of miraculous.”