Robert B. Parker's Old Black Magic

by Ace Atkins

  I smiled and tapped my finger on the Kane’s donut box. “Any chance of me escaping BPD headquarters with this box under my arm?”

  “None whatsoever,” he said. “You wouldn’t make it five feet.”

  28

  BENNY WAS A GOOD MAN,” Tracy Barboza said. “A wonderful man. A caring brother. A loving husband and great father. He was only married to a couple of their mothers, but that didn’t stop him from taking responsibility. He took care of ’em all up until the day he died.”

  We sat across from each other at a round green picnic table outside Kelly’s Roast Beef on Revere Beach. It was an overcast day, warm and muggy and smelling heavily of the sea. From where we sat, you could see the waves lapping against the shore. People had set up blankets and umbrellas along the beach, drinking beer and lazing about in portable chairs. Many had brought dogs. I had great admiration for dog people.

  It was nearly two o’clock by the time she could meet with me. I decided to double down on lunch with the surf and turf, a lobster roll and roast beef sandwich. Tracy Barboza said she wasn’t that hungry and ordered onion rings and a Diet Coke.

  “What they did to him wasn’t right,” she said. “Nobody deserves that.”

  Tracy Barboza was a stocky, middle-aged woman with bleached blond hair braided on each side of her head like a German beer maid. Her face was long and a bit flabby, with a healthy portion of eye makeup on her lids and lashes. She wore sunglasses on top of her head and an extra-large T-shirt reading Reclaim Revere dropping long over a pair of shorts.

  On the phone, she’d told me she did volunteer work for a local group planting gardens in blighted neighborhoods.

  “I’ve seen the file.”

  “You seen the pictures?”

  I nodded. No longer as interested in the final portion of the rare roast beef.

  “You seen what they done to my Benny?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Wasn’t right,” she said. “You want to shoot somebody, shoot somebody. Boom. Done. Dead. But this? Did you see they cut his throat and knifed him twenty-seven times? By the time they found my brother in the trunk of his own Cadillac, he looked like a side of beef. Cops knew who did it but were too scared to do anything about it.”

  I wanted to assure her that Quirk and Belson were afraid of no one. But instead I filled my mouth with the lobster roll and let her continue talking. The wind blew hard and fast off the shore, nearly taking our paper plates with it. I liked it at the beach. For a long while, Henry Cimoli had a condo right down the street.

  “Do you know Eddie Ciccone?”

  “Crazy Eddie?” she said. “Sure. Sure. Everyone knows Crazy Eddie. I went out with him a few times in high school. I’m telling you, he was all hands. Nice Catholic girl like me with an older guy like Eddie? I wouldn’t have even thought about him, hadn’t been his friendship with my brother. Eddie and Benny. They were friends, thick as thieves. Never saw anyone cry as much in my life as Eddie at the funeral. Be honest, I didn’t think he would make it. Don’t ask me what happened to him, because I don’t know.”

  “He’s in Walpole.”

  “Figures,” Barboza said. “The trouble they got into. Christ.”

  “I tried to talk to him,” I said.

  “And he wouldn’t.”

  “Nope.”

  “That’s Eddie,” he said. “Loyal even past death.”

  She helped herself to a few more onion rings and then pushed the rest away in an act of restraint. I handed her a couple napkins and she wiped the grease from her hands.

  “Both of them worked for Mr. DeMarco?”

  “Sure, sure,” she said. She wiped her brow with the napkin. “Sorry. It’s been a hell of a day. Putting in a tomato garden over where the dog track used to be and working like a bastard all freaking morning. We got two people coming from the mayor’s office tomorrow and we want things looking nice, you know? Used to be a junk lot, filled with all kind of shit. Amazing what you can get to grow if you just break up the ground and stick in some plants.”

  “Who else did your brother work with?”

  “Mike Marino,” she said. “All those guys who hung out at Mr. DeMarco’s garage. Mikey Mike. He was a real piece of work, too. Midget short, but funny. God rest his soul. You know he got the cancer a few years ago? I just heard he died last year. Back when we were kids he used to cruise the beach in a convertible Olds Cutlass. Cherry red. Even with the top down, everything smelled like Old Spice and fucking cigarettes. My brother. His friends. God.”

  “Crazy Eddie, Benny, and Mikey Mike,” I said. “Interesting guys.”

  “You ain’t kidding,” she said. “I know people call them a crew. Or the Mafia or whatever. But they just did business. Okay? That doesn’t mean anything. Maybe some of that business wasn’t completely legit. But what is? Benny and his pals had a real time of it back then. I miss them a lot.”

  “Speaking of not completely legit,” I said. “Did Benny ever talk to you about art?”

  “Art?” she said, sort of laughing. “Benny? You got to be kidding. Whattya mean?”

  “Paintings,” I said. “Maybe a big one, life size, of a scary-looking Spanish guy with a pointy beard. Apparently had a thing for black.”

  Tracy played with the rubber band that wrapped one of her pigtails. “No,” she said. “Why?”

  “Your brother may have been involved with the Winthrop heist,” I said. “About a year before he died.”

  “The Winthrop?” she said. “Are you kidding me? They have a five-million-dollar reward to find those paintings. Jesus.”

  I nodded. Across the street, a white Jeep Cherokee pulled to the curb by a green-roofed shade shelter. I could see the bulky outline of a man behind the wheel but didn’t think much of it. I went back to Tracy and the rest of my lobster roll.

  “If Benny had those paintings, could I get a cut?” she said.

  “If you can find it, I don’t see why not.”

  “Why do you think Benny had something to do with the robbery?”

  “I wish I could tell you everything,” I said. “But I can’t.”

  “You think maybe this painting was the reason someone killed him?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Right now I can’t say for sure. I need to know more.”

  The Jeep hadn’t moved. The man still stayed behind the wheel. Maybe he was waiting for his kids at the beach. Maybe he was meeting friends. Maybe he was some kind of weirdo who liked to watch people in bathing suits. Or maybe it was someone watching me. The man had on sunglasses and some kind of woven cap. He turned toward Kelly’s and then quickly turned back.

  “Afterward, did anyone go through your brother’s things?” I said.

  “Sure,” she said. “I did. And so did our mother. We gave his clothes and most of his crap to Goodwill. But I think Eddie came over and got his CDs.”

  “Did Eddie go through his things, too?”

  “I don’t remember,” she said. “That was a long time ago. I just remember Mr. DeMarco being really good to us, especially my mother. He took care of everything. The back rent, Benny’s car, the funeral. We didn’t have to pay for nothing, and then every month until my mother died, he sent her money. Can you believe that? She didn’t have to worry about a thing. Mr. DeMarco was like that. A real class act. Wish I could say the same for his son. Jackie is another freakin’ animal.”

  I did not disagree. “Did you keep anything of Benny’s?”

  “Some,” she said. “Yeah, sure. But you’d think I’d remember some big weird painting.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Depends on how it was stored.”

  “Holy shit,” she said. “We got to check. Like now.”

  “Where’s Benny’s stuff?”

  “Benny left behind so much crap,” she said. “He rented a place up by Point of Pines yacht club. Took me two we
eks to clean it all out.”

  I looked back to the Jeep. I didn’t mind being followed, but I hated to be insulted. The driver had a pair of binoculars, watching us talk at the little table. I started to wave and let him know he’d been spotted. Instead, I stood up and turned in that direction.

  “Hold that thought,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

  I jogged across Beach Boulevard, coming up behind the Jeep, and walked up on the driver’s-side door. I knocked hard on the glass.

  Paul Marston looked up from his seat. He shook his head, placing the binoculars on the seat beside him. Slowly, he let down the driver’s window. I could see the hat more clearly now, a tweedy little British hat most often preferred by cabbies or newsboys. He looked ridiculous.

  “The hat gave you away,” I said. “The last man to wear a hat like that in Revere was run out of town on a greased rail.”

  “Is that some kind of threat?”

  “You didn’t follow me here,” I said. “Unless you’re much better than you look.”

  “You wouldn’t know,” he said. “Only reason you see me now is I wanted to talk.”

  I leaned in to the Jeep. “Then talk.”

  “Who’s the woman?”

  “My hairstylist,” I said. “Thinking of adding some braids.”

  “What does she know about The Gentleman?”

  “Ha,” I said. “I’m off the case. Haven’t you heard?”

  “That’s a lie and we both know it,” he said. He smiled big and toothy, like he could set a record for cleaning a cob of corn. “You want that money just like all the rest. We are a greedy lot.”

  “I hope the Winthrop offered you a dental plan.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Keep grinning and find out.”

  The smile dropped.

  I walked away, back toward my car, and spent a minute feeling about the front and rear bumper. I finally found what I was looking for under the left-front wheel well. I pulled off the magnetic tracking device, walked back to Marston’s open window, and tossed it inside.

  Back at the table, I asked Tracy where she’d stored her brother’s things.

  “A rental unit,” she said. “By the T station.”

  “Go ahead and drive that way,” I said. “Don’t go in yet. Circle the block and wait for me to call.”

  “What’s going on,” she said. “Who’s that man?”

  “Someone who’d like to cheat both of us,” I said.

  “Is he dangerous?”

  “Only to your sense of smell,” I said. “Just drive and I’ll shake us both free. I’ll meet you there.”

  29

  I SIFTED THROUGH BENNY BARBOZA’S personal items for more than two hours. The storage facility was climate-controlled and cool, and the work wasn’t very hard, if frustrating. We learned that Crazy Eddie hadn’t taken all of Benny’s records and CDs. He’d left quite a collection of some oldies but not so goodies: Limp Bizkit, Kid Rock, Insane Clown Posse, Linkin Park, and Massachusetts’s shamefully own Godsmack. There were also a lot of kitchen utensils, coffeepots, a waffle maker, and pots and pans and dishes. He kept all four years of his yearbooks from Revere High, programs from Fenway, a jacket that showed he’d lettered in football and track, and a box filled with guns and ammo. Some really nice revolvers and automatics, a lovely Browning nine-millimeter, and several boxes of spare ammo. I also learned he liked to read international thrillers by Robert Ludlum and Tom Clancy.

  Tracy said it was his dream to someday visit Europe, drink at a café in Paris, and meet some relatives they had back in Italy.

  In all, it was a nice little collection for Benny Barboza that told me a lot about who he’d been. But I found nothing connected to the missing paintings. Tracy wanted to go back through the boxes again. I assured her there was nothing here.

  “Keep looking,” I said. “You might find something at home. Maybe with your mother’s things?”

  “I doubt it,” she said. “That son of a bitch. If he had it, where the hell did it go?”

  “That’s the sixty-million-dollar question,” I said.

  “Is that what that freakin’ thing is worth?”

  “To some.”

  “Holy Christ Almighty.”

  I crossed myself, left Tracy, and drove back to the city. I didn’t have the paintings, but at least I had a working theory of who might’ve stolen them. As to the motive and where they went, I called Murphy. As the originator of the plan, I figured he knew a hell of a lot more than he’d told me. When he didn’t pick up, I left a message.

  I drove south on Route 1 through Chelsea and over the Mystic River. The rusty barges and big oil containers littered the riverfront. Just as I got to Charlestown, my phone rang with a Miami area code.

  “Sam Spade,” Epstein said. “How’s that Falcon case coming along?”

  “Besides learning the cheaper the crook, the gaudier the patter?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Besides that.”

  “I spent two hours in Revere emptying out a storage unit,” I said. “I didn’t find a thing. It seemed to take even longer putting it all back how we found it.”

  “The glamorous life you lead.”

  “Did you guys ever look at a crew in Revere?” I said. “Benny Barboza, Eddie Ciccone, and one Mikey Mike.”

  “Mikey Mike?”

  “I know,” I said. “It was the nineties. Like Marky Mark. What can you do?”

  “After we spoke, I did pull the files on the robbery,” Epstein said. “You know I can’t just make photocopies and FedEx them to you.”

  “But you can confirm or deny certain aspects of the case.”

  “I can’t,” Epstein said. “But I will.”

  “Do any of those names ring any bells?”

  “Benny Barboza,” he said. “Wasn’t he murdered? In that feud with the guys in the North End? Sorry if I can’t recall the names. That’s a lot of vowels for a simple Jewish boy like me to remember.”

  “Oy, vey.”

  “I do know Barboza was a key figure in a big racketeering case,” he said. “That kind of went up in smoke when he got whacked. What was left went to the state police.”

  “I’ve spoken with the guy who claims he planned the heist,” I said. “But he held back a lot of details.”

  “Devon Murphy.”

  “You know him?” I said.

  “Do I sound like a schnook?” he said. “How could I be the special agent in charge of Boston and not know Devon Murphy?”

  “Can I trust what he says?”

  “Ha,” Epstein said. “You can guarantee he knows a lot more than he’s saying. Murphy is always in for Murphy. Maybe you should talk to the Staties who worked those North End killings? Lot of blood and cocaine back then. They might help you get a picture of who was canoodling with whom.”

  “Whom?” I said. “I’m impressed.”

  I pulled off by a hydrant, pulled out my notepad, and wrote down the name of a state cop who’d worked the killings. Epstein didn’t have a phone number or even know if the guy was still with the Staties. I assured him I could track him down pretty easily.

  “For a crime-busting Fed, you’re not such a bad guy,” I said.

  “And for a hardboiled Boston snoop, I might say the same.”

  “But you won’t.”

  “Get that painting back and we’ll talk,” he said. “In the meantime, why don’t you get a new hobby?”

  “I used to whittle wooden figures,” I said. “I’d send you a work sample, but they were all incinerated.”

  “And now?”

  “I like catching bad guys.”

  “Same,” Epstein said.

  We hung up and I kept on driving over to Cambridge to pick up Pearl. I could toss her some tennis balls while I waited for Devon Murphy to call me back. Li
ve your life, do your work, then take your hat.

  30

  MURPHY AND I MADE ARRANGEMENTS to meet at the Ellisville Harbor State Park in Plymouth late that afternoon. I’d never been there, but it sounded like a nice enough spot. Murphy said they were dog-friendly and we could walk and talk at the same time. I conferred with Pearl about the plan and she agreed it sounded like the ideal spot to question a serial thief and liar. The running free on the sand would only be gravy.

  “Eddie Ciccone, Benny Barboza, and Mikey Mike Marino,” I said. I could recite it like running down a list of important saints.

  “Very good,” Devon Murphy said. “I’m impressed, Spenser.”

  “How come you wouldn’t tell me straight off?”

  “Have you met Crazy Eddie?”

  “I’ve indeed had the displeasure.”

  “To put it mildly, he’s the kind of guy who’d have you knee-capped,” he said. “Especially when he’s in the joint and impotent to taking action.”

  “Being impotent against action is the downfall of many a man.”

  The park had a sprawling rocky beach. Not the kind of beach for the novice, but perfect for wildly adventurous types like Pearl and me. Pearl snuffled at a rotting fish under a tangle of black seaweed. She stood over it, digging at it with her front paws. She looked like a center about to long-snap a football. Far down the rocks, a cluster of shingle-roofed cottages clung to the hill, slightly obscured by a thin fog.

  “Nice-looking dog,” Murphy said. He was a head shorter than me and had a pronounced limp as he walked, the wind rifling through his thinning white hair. He was scruffy, with white stubble, and was dressed in a black T-shirt, khakis, and running shoes.

  “German shorthaired pointer,” I said. “Pearl Three.”

  “Three?” he said. “You’ve had three dogs with the same name?”

  “I had the first Pearl when I was a kid,” I said. “The second Pearl came to me from my girlfriend’s ex-husband.”

  “And her name happened to be Pearl?”

  “Pearl Two had a very long, silly-sounding official name. We changed it immediately.”