Robert B. Parker's Old Black Magic

by Ace Atkins

  “You want me to bring you a cocktail?” Henry Cimoli said. “Or do you think you might actually boost up a notch or two?”

  “I’m on level seven.”

  “My grandmother could do that backward.”

  “Like Ginger Rogers.”

  “Or a tough Sicilian woman,” he said. “How about you get off this crazy thing and work the bag some? I haven’t seen Hawk in weeks. Don’t want you going AWOL, too.”

  “Hawk’s in South America.”

  “What the hell is Hawk doing in South America?”

  “Whatever it is that Hawk does.”

  Henry nodded and made a motion like he was turning a key in his mouth and then tossing it over his shoulder. I made it to three miles, getting a decent sweat going, and followed Henry to a row of heavy bags hung from a welded cage. Henry had recently decided to return the gym to its roots. No more Zumba and yoga. Half the gym was boxing and the other half was free weights and Crossfit equipment. He’d stripped the walls back to exposed brick and hung up old boxing photos and faded title cards. Willie Pep. Rocky Marciano. Marvelous Marvin Hagler.

  “I miss the kid,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “Z made you better,” he said. “He pressed you to get back in fighting shape.”

  I wrapped my hands. I didn’t disagree.

  “He’s living the life,” he said. “Out there in Los Angeles. You know, he finally got his investigator license?”

  “Learned from the best.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short,” Henry said. “He learned some from you, too.”

  Henry was built like one of Santa’s elves on steroids. Despite his age, he kept in fine shape with push-ups, sit-ups, and pull-ups. He liked to amaze the young girls by hopping onto the chinning bar and cranking out some reps while singing “The Best Is Yet to Come.” He wore white tracksuits. He whistled while he worked.

  They thought he was adorable.

  “You’re slower than fuckin’ Christmas, Spenser,” he said. “Stick and move. Stick and move. Or have you forgotten how this all works?”

  I hit harder. One. One. One two three. One two three two.

  “You need a regular sparring partner,” he said. “Your rhythm is off. A bag ain’t a person. You need someone to hit back.”

  The buzzer sounded. I reached for a water bottle.

  “I know plenty who hit back.”

  “But with skill?” he said. “I doubt it. Back-alley palookas just make you feel tough. If you don’t challenge yourself, you’ll backslide. And if you backslide in your business, you’ll be wearing your ass for a hat.”

  “Poetic.”

  “But true.”

  I pressed on to three more three-minute rounds before Henry worked me out with training gloves. We moved up and back, across wooden floors by high industrial windows. Black fans overhead cooled us down as I shadow-boxed. The knots across my back and in my neck loosened up. I had a nice sweat going, my breathing slow and controlled.

  “Not bad for an old guy,” Henry said.

  “This coming from you?”

  “Happens to us all, Spenser,” he said. “If I don’t ride you, you’ll turn to shit. It’s all the same. Just harder than before.”

  “No kidding.”

  “And lay off the donuts and booze,” he said. “That crap’ll kill you.”

  I took a shower, changed back into my clothes, and walked back to the parking deck near Faneuil Hall. I was clean and refreshed, smelling of the cheap aftershave Henry kept in the locker room. Within five minutes, I was back at the Navy Yard.

  When I pulled up to park, I noticed a late-model Cadillac idling by the marina. I watched it as I walked to the back of the older-model Toyota Land Cruiser I was driving that year. After grabbing my gym bag, I locked up and crossed the street. The headlights popped on and off. I felt for the gun on my hip as the driver’s window rolled down.

  Vinnie Morris whistled for me. I took my hand off the .38.

  “Christ,” he said. “Where the hell have you been? Stopped by your office.”

  “Ever heard of cell phones?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Don’t care for ’em.”

  I adjusted the bag on my shoulder and waited for him to tell me what he’d found out. A brisk wind came up off the harbor, the wind chimes on house boats making delicate tinkling sounds.

  “Well,” he said. “Got something for you. You know a guy named Devon Murphy?”

  I shook my head. Vinnie popped the cigarette lighter in the car and fired up a cigarette.

  “Big-time art thief,” he said. “He once ripped a fucking Monet off the wall of the MFA and walked out like it was nobody’s business.”

  “Get caught?”

  “Nope,” he said. “Used it to bargain for reduced time on a bank job in Quincy. I’m telling you, he’s got balls. Real piece of work.”

  “And you think he might have something to do with the Winthrop?”

  “Don’t know,” Vinnie said, blowing out smoke from the side of his mouth. “Don’t care. I’m just telling you if you want to know about crooks that are into art, Devon is your guy.”

  He stretched his hand out of the Cadillac and handed me a little piece of paper.

  “He knows me from my time with Gino,” he said. “He’d steal anything Gino wanted. Gino would show him some kind of fucking antique in a catalog, and two days later Devon would have it in the back of his truck. He’s in Plymouth. And said he’ll talk to you. I told him you were stand-up.”

  “Thanks, Vinnie.”

  “Like I said, just don’t screw me,” he said. “I got a reputation to uphold. I called in a favor.”

  I nodded.

  “The fucking Navy Yards?” he said. “This is where we used to take guys for Broz and work them over.”

  “Now there’s a Tedeschi’s market,” I said. “And a gourmet restaurant down the street.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “How about a drink at Pier Six?”

  Vinnie reached out his hand and ashed the tip of his cigarette. “Some other time,” he said. “Let me know how it goes with Devon. If he gives you any shit, I can apply some pressure.”

  “I’ll win his trust with my overwhelming charisma.”

  “Well, if that don’t work out,” he said, “let me know if I can put the screw to his nuts.”

  I thanked him and walked up to my condo. I turned on a few lamps and fixed myself an old-fashioned with some Bittermilk mixer and Luxardo cherries. I didn’t have an orange but made it work. Lots of ice, a jigger and a half of Wild Turkey.

  I sat down at my kitchen table and opened up my laptop. I typed and drank, researching what I could on Devon Murphy. It turns out I could adequately drink and research at the same time.

  Spenser. Master of multitasking.

  8

  I MET DEVON MURPHY DARK and early the next morning at the Marshland diner off 3A in Plymouth. He was waiting in a corner booth when I arrived, studying the breakfast menu from behind a pair of half-glasses. I recognized him from his mug shots.

  “What do you think of biscuits and gravy?” he said.

  “I’ve had the blueberry pancakes,” I said. “I had fantasies the whole drive down.”

  “Vinnie said you’re a stand-up guy,” Devon said, still studying the menu.

  “Sit down too long and you’ll develop piles.”

  “And could be a real smart-ass.”

  “I prefer a purveyor of truth.”

  He was a smallish guy with a craggy face and lots of wispy white hair. In his white T-shirt and navy blue windbreaker, he looked a little like an aging Alain Delon. He seemed like the kind of guy who would’ve enjoyed jumping from rooftop to rooftop before his knees gave out.

  “What do you think?” he said.

  �
�About what?”

  “Biscuits and gravy,” he said. “I can’t really decide. That omelet looks good, too.”

  “Since I’m paying, I’d get the omelet,” I said. “Linguica and Vermont cheddar. No competition.”

  “Done,” he said. And tossed down the menu.

  A waitress walked over and we both ordered. Within seconds, I had a hot cup of coffee in hand. I mixed in some sugar and leaned back into the seat, taking in the steady rhythm of the restaurant. I liked diners most early in the morning, infused with the smell of bacon and hot coffee. There was always a lot of energy and enthusiasm. Everyone seemed to be laughing, taking their time before starting their day.

  “Vinnie said you had some questions.”

  I nodded.

  “About the Winthrop job?”

  I nodded again. Damn, I was good at this.

  “Just for the record,” Murphy said. “I was at Walpole when it happened. If you don’t believe me, check the records. You’ll see. I was at the end of a four-year stretch.”

  “And bargained down the time with a Rembrandt?”

  “No,” Murphy said. “That was another time. And it was a Monet. For a bank job in Quincy. This was fencing some stolen jewelry from some rich broad on the hill. It was all a misunderstanding. I’d been dating the woman and she gave me a few things to sell. And when I sold them, she tried to make out like I stole from her. She was crazy. The whole thing was nuts ’cause she caught me in bed with her sister.”

  “That can cause a little animosity.”

  “A little?” Murphy said. “She wanted to shoot my freakin’ dick off.”

  I nodded again. I drank some coffee. I decided not to take notes, only listen, see where Murphy might lead me.

  “Vinnie said you ran in the same circles with art thieves?”

  “No,” he said. “I was the circle. I was the best damn art thief in New England. Don’t believe me? Look it up.”

  “No one is doubting you, Devon.”

  “I once stole a fucking suit of armor from some wise guy’s beach house in Marblehead,” he said. “While he was asleep in front of the fucking television. I remember it like it was yesterday. He was watching Johnny Carson and Burt Reynolds. Carson got Reynolds to shave off half his mustache and they were laughing like crazy about it.”

  “Have any theories on the Winthrop?”

  He shrugged. He drank orange juice from a tiny glass and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Maybe,” he said. “Since it was my fucking idea.”

  “Do tell.”

  “I’d been wanting to rob that place since I was a teenager,” he said. “I once hid under this fancy table and stayed there all night long. The guards were the worst. They maybe made one or two rounds a night. To be there after everyone was gone. Man, now that was a powerful feeling. Better than being a rock star.”

  “Did you plan it?”

  “I planned to rob the place,” he said. “But not like they done it. That was an absolute mess. They had all the time in the world and still damaged the art. I’d rather have been arrested than mess up those paintings. Cutting the canvases from the frames. Goddamn animals.”

  “Sound like anyone you might know?”

  Murphy looked at me, dead-eyed, and cocked his head. “Hold that thought,” he said. “Here comes breakfast.”

  The waitress slid down the omelet before me and the pancakes before him. Murphy deftly switched them around as soon as she was gone. He seemed to have a very light touch. The plates didn’t clatter a bit.

  “I have some suspicions.”

  I cut into the pancakes and waited. I have learned over the years that the best way to elicit information is not to fill the dead air. As Devon Murphy had been around cops since he first boosted a car at thirteen, the method had little or no effect. He just chewed on his omelet, drank the rest of his minuscule orange juice.

  “The museum is pretty sure it was a local crew.”

  “They’d be right.”

  “And that they didn’t know what they were getting into,” I said.

  “Right again.”

  “Not knowing where to sell off a priceless painting.”

  “Whoever they are,” he said. “These numb nuts probably couldn’t find their asses with both hands and a flashlight. Let alone a solid black-market dealer. That’s what turned this whole thing into a freakin’ mess.”

  “And who and why?” I said.

  “I can guesstimate a little of the why,” he said. “But you’re going to have to find out the who on your own. If it’s all the same to me, I’d rather not try to start my car in the morning with a gun to the back of my head.”

  “These people still around?”

  “Maybe,” he said. “Like I said, I can only speculate. Right or wrong, that may be an unhealthy exercise. The Winthrop is something no one, and I mean no one, likes to talk about. It was so big and caused so many fucking headaches for people. Including Gino Fish, although I bet Vinnie didn’t tell you that tidbit.”

  “No,” I said. “He didn’t.”

  “I don’t know why he worked for Fish,” he said. “He wasn’t like Broz. He didn’t have class or a code. Fish did for Fish. I worked my ass off for that old queer and got ripped off so many times. He’d give me sometimes twenty, twenty-five percent on something he knew he could sell. That’s the way it worked with us. He had a buyer, wrote out a grocery list, and I was the professional shopper. I knew who had things. I knew how to get to those things.”

  “What did Fish have to do with the paintings?”

  “Not the paintings,” he said. “Just the Picasso sketch. I know for a freakin’ fact that at one time, he had it. I don’t know what happened to it. I’m sure he sold it off and doubled his money.”

  “And you think Vinnie knew?”

  “I think Vinnie protected Gino,” he said. “He wasn’t into the art. He was just out to make sure Gino didn’t get ripped off or whacked.”

  “Must have made you mad someone copied your plan.”

  “They didn’t use my plan,” he said. “They used my idea. But you’re not going to trick me into talking about who all was involved.”

  “Are the paintings still around here?” I said.

  Murphy looked around the room. Besides a very frail old man working on a massive plate of bacon, no one was in earshot. He looked at me again with his passive blue eyes and nodded.

  “Still with the thieves?”

  “No,” he said. Emphatically. “They’ve moved on down the line. I’m sure they’ve switched owners several times with different crews. And collectors. I don’t think I could lay my hands on the pieces anymore. A few years ago, I could’ve taken you right to ’em.”

  “Where?”

  Murphy smiled and ate a bit more. I drizzled some syrup over the pancakes. I polished off half the stack and finished my coffee. The waitress returned, almost by magic, and refilled my cup.

  “Okay,” I said. “The idea originated with you, but you were in the pokey at the time of the heist. You suspect the three who pulled off the job but won’t tell me names. But regardless of who stole it, they no longer have it in their possession, and it is in the hands of an unknown collector or hood.”

  “Doesn’t have to be one or the other,” he said. “Look at Fish. He was both.”

  “I appreciate your trepidation,” I said. “Boston can be an unpleasant little city. But since we’re having a nice leisurely breakfast down in ye olde Plymouth, how about just a hint? Some direction to send me on my way with a smile on my face. A spring in my step.”

  “You talk to the guard yet?”

  “Which one?”

  “If you’re worth your salt,” he said. “You’ll know the one.”

  “And that will lead me to?”

  “Ask him about the hookers,” he said. Murphy
grinned big.

  “That’s how they got him?”

  “Yeah,” Murphy said. “That part was all my idea. Sex works every freakin’ time.”

  9

  TWO DAYS LATER, I found myself in Woonsocket, Rhode Island, drinking a cup of coffee in my Land Cruiser and reading Arlo & Janis. Every few minutes, I’d look up from the newspaper and watch the front porch of a two-story white clapboard house clinging to the edge of River Street. Somewhere on the second floor, a guy named Chad Hartman had a one-bedroom apartment. Twenty years ago, he’d been a guard at the Winthrop.

  Chad was a white male, twice divorced, currently unemployed except for a comic-book show he occasionally updated on YouTube. They called him SuperChadz online. The night before, I’d watched three minutes of a freeform discussion on a potential Batgirl movie. I decided not to stick around for the next thirty minutes. No one could replace Yvonne Craig.

  As my coffee reached the half-empty mark, my corn muffins from Dunkin’ long gone, my cell buzzed.

  “I am shocked and amazed,” a man said. “Picked up on the first ring. I must be really hitting the big time. What an honor.”

  “I saw the Miami area code,” I said. “I hoped it was Gloria Estefan. Or Madonna.”

  “Madonna doesn’t live here anymore.”

  “Will the city survive?”

  “Just barely,” Epstein said. “We’re going through a period of mourning.”

  “For some reason I imagine you now in white linen suits.”

  “With mesh shirts and Italian loafers without socks?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Epstein said. “We have cigarette boats and everything. Every time I start my car, Phil Collins is singing.”

  “You going too native to recall your time in Boston?”

  “Not really,” Epstein said. “It was cold. Lots of snow and statues.”

  “Twenty years ago to the day, you got a call about the Winthrop Museum,” I said. “Ring any bells?”

  “Aha,” he said. “Indeed it does.”