Jackpot (Frank Renzi mystery series)

by Susan Fleet

  But no skinny little black kid.

  At the next intersection he turned left and saw a kid running down the sidewalk with a basketball. He knew that stride! The boy was dressed for the mild weather, shorts, a ragged T-shirt and sneakers. Frank drove by him, turned left at the next corner, parked beside a fire hydrant and got out.

  Seconds later the kid whipped around the corner and spotted him.

  “Don’t run, or this time I’ll grab you.”

  The kid froze, a deer in the headlights, huge brown eyes, dark skin, and rail-thin, five-foot-three, might have weighed eighty-five pounds soaking wet, arms as skinny as drinking straws.

  “Detective Renzi, Boston PD. We need to talk.” He opened the passenger side door. “Get in the car.”

  The kid hesitated, eyes wary. Frank showed him his ID badge. “Get in and we’ll take a ride. I’ll bring you back, drop you off right here.”

  Pouting, the boy slid onto the front seat, clutching his basketball.

  Frank got in and did a U-turn. “Where we going?” A soft voice, the kid not looking at him, staring straight ahead, hugging the ball to his chest.

  “Not far. You shoot hoop?”

  No answer. He kept going on Mass Ave, took a right four blocks later and stopped at a basketball court. “You shoot hoop?” he said again.

  The kid nodded slowly.

  “Let’s see you shoot then.” Hoping the kid wouldn’t run, he got out and walked onto the deserted court, relaxed when the kid followed him. Frank asked him for the ball, dribbled to the free-throw line and took a shot. It clanged off the rim and bounced away. The kid chased it, put up a shot, made it and ran after the ball, his stick-legs working like pistons. He put up another shot and missed, rebounded the ball and threw Frank a perfect bounce pass.

  For the next half hour they took turns shooting, the kid running him ragged, full of energy.

  Frank mopped sweat off his face. “Man, I need a break. Let’s go sit for a minute.”

  Reluctantly, the kid followed him to the sideline and they perched on a cement slab. “You’re good,” Frank said. “Keep up your shooting, develop your passing skills, you’ll make a good point guard. Who’s your favorite? Rondo?” Assuming it would be the Boston Celtics point guard.

  The kid ducked his head, staring at the ground. “Nah. Kobe’s better.”

  He clutched his chest in mock horror. “You root for the Lakers?”

  The kid half-smiled, a tiny acknowledgement of his acting skills, said nothing.

  “You play hoop in school?”

  A shake of the head. No.

  “How come you’re not in school today?”

  The kid went still, his face tense.

  “Look, I’m not the truant officer. I don’t even know your name, and even if I did, I’m not gonna report you. Now that we shot some hoop, how about we swap names. I’m Frank Renzi. What’s your name?”

  “Jamal.” Barely above a whisper.

  No last name. Frank decided to let it go, for now. “Okay, Jamal. I won’t report you this time, but you need to go to school. You’re smart enough to know that. Who takes care of you, your mom?”

  A quick headshake. He didn’t ask about the kid’s father. If Mom wasn’t taking care of him, the father probably wasn’t either. That left Grandma.

  “You live with your grandma?”

  A slow nod.

  “What’s her name?”

  The kid looked at him, eyes wary. “You gonna tell her I skipped school?”

  “Okay, Jamal, here’s the deal. Promise me you’ll go to school every day next week, and I won’t tell her you skipped today. What’s your grandma’s name?”

  “Wilkes.” Digging his sneaker into the dirt. “Josephine Wilkes.”

  “I don’t know about you, Jamal, but I’m thirsty. There’s a Friendly’s ice cream shop a couple blocks away. Let’s go get a milkshake. Then I’ll drop you off where I picked you up, like I promised.”

  Ten minutes later they were in a booth at Friendly’s. The waitress, an attractive young black woman with pearly-white teeth and a welcoming smile, brought them glasses of ice water and menus, and left.

  Jamal didn’t touch the menu, just sucked up water through his straw.

  “You hungry, Jamal?”

  Jamal’s huge brown eyes met his, no expression on his face.

  “How ’bout we get cheeseburgers and milkshakes? You pick the flavor.”

  Jamal gave a tiny nod. Frank signaled the waitress who came right over.

  “We’ll both have a cheeseburger with fries, and a milkshake. Coffee milkshake for me. What flavor you want, Jamal?”

  “Chocolate,” Jamal said softly, hesitated, then said, “please.”

  After the waitress left, Frank did an extended monologue on his favorite basketball players, Celtics greats Bill Russell, Dennis Johnson, threw in Larry Bird to see what the kid would do.

  “And Magic Johnson,” Jamal muttered.

  Frank grinned. “You know your basketball history, for sure. Who taught you that?”

  “Cousin Tyreke,” he said, and froze, a stricken expression on his face.

  Pretending not to notice, Frank said, “You live with Tyreke?”

  Jamal’s big brown eyes filled with tears. He clamped his lips together and shook his head.

  Then the waitress arrived, set down plates with cheeseburgers and piping hot French fries, then the milkshakes, coffee for Frank, chocolate for Jamal.

  “Anything else I can get for you?” she asked, smiling at Jamal whose eyes were focused on his cheeseburger.

  “Just the check when you get a chance,” Frank said.

  She tore off a slip, set it on the table and told them to have a nice day.

  Jamal devoured his cheeseburger and fries in record time. Frank didn’t. His stomach was too jumpy. He cut his cheeseburger in half, took two bites, ate a few French fries and set his plate aside. Jamal stared at the other half of his cheeseburger, seemed like the kid hadn’t eaten a square meal in weeks.

  “Want the other half? Go ahead. Why let it go to waste? Besides, I think you beat me at hoops.”

  When Jamal finished the burger, Frank paid the tab and they went out and got in his car. “How old are you, Jamal?”

  “Ten,” Jamal muttered, not looking at him.

  “You running with a gang?”

  The boy shook his head, still not looking at him. “No. Gramma would kill me.”

  Relieved, Frank said, “Gramma’s right. Kids get mixed up with gangs, bad things happen.”

  Jamal nodded, mumbled, “That’s what Gramma says.”

  “Okay, Jamal. Here’s the deal. You go to school every day from now on and I won’t tell your grandmother you skipped school today. I’m gonna check. What school you go to?”

  “Alma Lewis Middle School.”

  He held out his hand. Jamal hesitated, then shook it.

  “I coach a middle-school basketball team in Mattapan sometimes,” Frank said. “How about I pick you up at Grandma’s on Sunday morning and we shoot some more hoop?”

  Jamal looked at him, frowning now. “Be better if I meet you at that playground.”

  His anxious expression made Frank’s heart ache. The kid didn’t want a cop coming to his apartment, too many eyes watching. “Okay. Meet you at the playground at eleven. Maybe this time I’ll beat you.”

  Jamal’s lips twitched, almost a smile. “Don’t count on it.”

  _____

  Sandwich, MA

  He couldn’t wait to finish dinner. He shoveled down his mother’s tasteless slop, answered her incessant questions and raced downstairs to his room. His shoes were lined up beside his bed: blue Nikes next to his spare work boots next to the black loafers he wore to church on Sundays. Perfect.

  He powered up his computer, got on the Internet and checked the Boston Globe website. An article in the Metro section said no one had claimed the twelve-million-dollar Megabucks prize.

  The back of his hand felt like a thousan
d bugs were crawling over it. He scratched furiously, digging at the skin with his nails. Drops of blood beaded around the scab. Disgusting. He grabbed a towel off the shelf above his bed, wiped off the blood and turned back to the computer screen.

  Today’s article was longer than yesterday’s. The winning ticket had been sold at Marie’s Variety, a small store in Boston’s North End. People in the neighborhood were thrilled. Two men with Italian-sounding names said they figured the winner was Italian, one of their pals, maybe, the ones they played bocce with in Paul Revere Park.

  He didn’t care if the winner was Italian as long as it was a little old lady with cable. He logged off the Net, clicked on the file that contained his journals and opened the one labeled Lulu.

  His Powerball princess. Twenty-six million dollars.

  Lulu. His first lucky winner.

  He opened the article he’d retrieved from the Poughkeepsie Journal website two years ago, the day Lulu claimed the prize. Her picture was on the front page. Her name was Louisa, but he liked Lulu better. An article below her picture said the American Library Association was hosting a workshop on Women in Popular Culture that weekend. One session was on movie icons, and there, topping the list, was Judy Garland! Beautiful Judy, showing him how it could be done.

  After that, it was easy. He got Lulu’s address and telephone number from the cable company and told his mother he had to go to a conference. She didn’t like it, but he told her it might help him get another library job. He took two vacation days and drove to Poughkeepsie. At the movie seminar he sat in the back, enthralled, listening to them talk about Judy. Icon to millions, they said. Beautiful, talented Judy, fighting the demons within her. After the seminar, he finished his preparations. The next day he went to Lulu.

  Lulu was easy. Gullible, like his mother.

  She even looked like his mother, pale and thin with scrawny arms.

  The next day her murder had made the front page of the Poughkeepsie Journal.

  A familiar ache stirred in his groin.

  He rubbed himself through his pants, felt himself grow hard.

  Make sure the door is locked, said a nagging voice in his mind.

  He went to the door, secured the deadbolt and stood by his bed, feeling the excitement grow. Until the nagging voice said, They’re watching you.

  His girls, with their little beady eyes.

  He draped a towel over the fish tank and shut off the light. Now he was safe. The room was quiet. Dark. He opened his fly and stroked himself, remembering how Lulu had struggled, fighting him.

  But she couldn’t stop him. He had the power and she had none.

  His breathing grew ragged. He pumped harder and harder, seeking the glorious release.

  Did you turn off the light in the bathroom, Billy?

  His mother’s voice, humiliating him.

  He kept stroking, harder and harder until the muscles in his arm ached. But it was no use. He couldn’t come. He zipped his fly, turned on the light, pulled the towel off the fish tank and watched Judy.

  Beautiful, talented Judy. He would never hurt Judy. He watched his other girls swim through the water, flitting this way and that. Tessa and Lulu and Rosie and Florence. And his No-Name girl.

  His hands clenched spasmodically. Someone had a Megabucks ticket worth twelve million dollars!

  What were they waiting for? Why didn’t they claim the prize?

  He plunged his hand into the tank and captured Lulu, his Powerball princess. Her fins flailed against his hand, but he squeezed her tight.

  Finally, the fluttering stopped. When he dropped Lulu in the tank, she floated on her side on top of the water.

  _____

  Frank finished his chicken marsala dinner and signaled the waitress for another beer, his third. He’d considered eating at Doyle’s in Jamaica Plain, but too many cops hung out there. He didn’t want to run into anyone he knew. Besides, Nanina’s in Dorchester served great Italian food.

  The waitress brought him another Heineken draft and removed his plate. He was the lone person at the bar, a Formica-topped slab opposite the entrance with six barstools. Customers sat here to wait for take-out orders or a table in the dining room, but no one was waiting now. It was almost eleven.

  He glanced at the TV in the corner above the bar. Golf. Boring.

  He wished he could talk to Gina, but Ryan might be home. Last night he and Gina had met at a restaurant ten miles north of Boston, both of them down in the dumps but putting on a cheerful front, avoiding serious topics, like where he’d live after he moved out of his house on Sunday.

  Two days from now.

  Maybe he’d call Jack Warner. Jack worked homicide, too. Jack would probably put him up in his spare bedroom. But then he’d have to explain why Evelyn threw him out. Jack had been utterly devoted to his wife of thirty years until she died last year. He wouldn’t understand.

  But Rafe would, and Rafe owned a three decker. Maybe he’d call Rafe and ask if he had a vacant apartment. Yo, Rafe, can you spare a bed for a philandering husband thrown out by his ultra-Catholic wife?

  Imagining Rafe’s cackling laugh and his wise-ass reply: Best not to get caught if you screw around.

  But he didn’t feel like talking to Rafe either, didn’t feel like explaining the crap he’d put up with for twenty years. When it came right down to it, he was a loner at heart. That’s what his mother had said right before she died. “Frank, you’re a loner like your father.”

  His father. What would Judge Salvatore Renzi say when he found out Evelyn had filed for divorce? Nothing good, that’s for sure. A flame of embarrassment shot up his neck onto his cheeks.

  What would he say? How could he explain? Tension gripped his gut in a vise, a tight sensation that wouldn’t quit, a constant companion since Evelyn dropped the divorce bomb.

  His father, an appellate court judge, had deep-rooted beliefs about marriage. Judge Salvatore Renzi believed that marriage was for life, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, till death us do part.

  At the divorce hearing, Evelyn’s lawyer would say Frank was having an affair. How would he explain that to his father? He slugged down half of his beer, unable to imagine it, much less figure out what he’d say.

  A news jingle sounded on the television set and the vivid graphics of a newscast flashed on the screen. The lead story involved a hit and run in Cambridge. The second story gave him chills. Wednesday night’s Megabucks drawing had produced one winner. The prize? Twelve million dollars.

  Did the Jackpot Killer know, Frank wondered. If not, he soon would.

  A prize that big would spawn a feeding frenzy, flashbulbs and cameras galore, every reporter in town sticking a microphone in the winner’s face, asking what they planned to do with the money.

  He drained his beer and set the mug on the bar. He hoped the winner wasn’t an elderly woman that lived alone.

  If it was, she might never get to enjoy her winnings.

  CHAPTER 11

  Sunday, May 7

  When Frank pulled up to the basketball court at 11:00, Jamal was already there, even gave him a smile. Now it was almost noon, the kid still racing around the court. He watched him dribble toward the hoop, a fierce look of concentration on his face. He did a little stutter-step, took a shot with his left hand and missed.

  Frank tried to remember if he’d had that much energy when he was ten. He should be home packing, but he couldn’t face it. Shooting hoop with Jamal was more fun. His house was no palace but it was home, comfortable and familiar. Tonight he had to move out.

  When Jamal tossed him the ball, he said, “You’re wearing me out, Jamal. Let’s take a break. Where do you get all your energy?”

  The kid shrugged and followed him to the cement slab on the sideline.

  “You got big hands. Put it there.” He held up his right hand like he was going to do a high-five.

  Jamal set his palm against his, the boy’s dark skin a stark contrast to his olive skin. “Your hand’s not as
big as mine, but you got long fingers. That’s great for playing basketball. What hand do you write with?”

  “My right hand. Sometimes.”

  “And other times?”

  “With my left.”

  “Far out. You’re ambidextrous.” Jamal gave him a blank stare, so he said, “That’s when you can use either hand to do things.”

  “My teacher don’t like it, though. She makes me use my right hand to write with.”

  “Okay. But basketball’s different. Being able to shoot with both hands is an asset. You took a shot with your left and missed, but that’s okay. Keep practicing. You’ll get better.”

  Jamal picked up the ball and bounced it with his left hand, ready to go play some more.

  “And study hard at school. You know why?”

  “So I learn stuff.”

  “Right. You’re smart but you need to learn how to take tests so you can get into college. Some college scout sees you play on your high school team, pass and shoot with both hands, you might get a scholarship.”

  Jamal stopped bouncing the ball, all attention now.

  “To play pro ball, you gotta go to college. You’re not Kevin Garnett you know, big guy with big hands and great defensive skills, gets drafted right out of high school.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Gotta go to college like . . . ?” Waiting for him to say, Magic Johnson.

  “Like Shaq.” The kid surprising him again.

  Frank wondered who put him onto Shaq. His cousin Tyreke? Maybe not. Jamal probably listened to Shaq’s rap music albums, might even have seen him in Kazaam. When the movie came out in 1996, the critics panned it, but back then Jamal was six years old. See Shaq up there on the big screen? Instant adoration.

  He rose from the cement slab. “You hungry? Want to go get a burger?”

  “Yeah, but . . .” Jamal scuffled his sneaker in the dirt.

  “But what?”

  “My gramma said I hadda be home by 12:30 so I can get cleaned up. We going to her mama’s house for dinner.”

  “Okay. I don’t want to make you and Gramma late for dinner. What’s her mama’s name?” Plot out the family tree, maybe he’d locate Tyreke in another branch of the family.