by Ace Atkins
“I prayed long and hard for it, Jackie,” I said. “I feel so fortunate.”
“Always with the smart mouth,” he said. “You gotten older, Spenser, but always with the same fucking smart mouth.”
I showed my palms in a modest gesture. Vinnie stood at my side. He had not said a word since walking into the construction trailer set in the center of the hundreds of impounded cars. He had on a slim gray linen suit and a starched dress shirt with a black tie. A crisp white show hankie in the pocket and silver cuff links. His salt-and-pepper hair was cut with precision.
Jackie DeMarco had on one of those bright blue oversized dress shirts that the salespeople promised were slimming if worn untucked. Jackie needed his money back. He was even more bloated in the middle and in the face than he was when I saw him last. His black hair was long and shaggy around his ears and face.
We all sat in a little grouping of mismatched furniture: a couch, a big leather recliner, and a couple folding chairs. He’d decorated the walls with a poster of Tom Brady and a few Playboy centerfolds. One particular work of art showed a nude woman bent over the open hood of a Ferrari.
“Let’s cut the shit,” DeMarco said. “I’m sure Nuccio told you that I want in.”
“Want in to what?”
“That missing painting,” He said. “The El Greeko. Whattaya think? It’s mine.”
“El Greeko?” I said. “You continue to amaze me, Jackie.”
Vinnie was standing. We exchanged a look, and Vinnie covered his smiling mouth with a hand. Two more men were in the room with us. I didn’t recognize either of them. They were big and dumb shooters that tried to look tough but had given Vinnie Morris a wide berth when he’d strolled into the trailer.
“So where is it?” DeMarco said. “You find that fucking thing and I better get my cut. That’s nobody’s shit but mine. It belongs to me.”
“Actually,” I said. “It belongs to the Winthrop Museum. But continuing on your course of logic, please do let us know why you consider it your property.”
“Didn’t Nuccio tell you?”
“Nuccio wouldn’t even say he worked for you,” I said.
“He said you know the crew who stole it.”
“I do.”
“So it’s fucking mine,” DeMarco said.
“Possession is nine-tenths of the law,” I said. “But you don’t have it.”
DeMarco let out a long breath and took a seat in a folding chair across from me. He set his elbows on his knees and looked up at me. “Ain’t none of this legal,” he said. “But right is right.”
“Only when it’s wrong.”
“Christ,” he said. “You are such a fucking ass ache. If you think you’re gonna fucking la-dee-da around the city, scoop up that painting, and make some dough, go ahead. But you better spend it real quick.”
Vinnie shook his head. He lifted his chin at DeMarco. “This is a waste of time,” Vinnie said. “This asshole doesn’t know where it is.”
“Asshole?” he said. “Better watch it, Morris. My crew took it. That means it belongs to me.”
The two big guys at the edge of the trailer turned their attention toward us. One of them brushed his right hand at his jacket. Jackie lifted his eyes at them and shook his head.
“Two guys in your dad’s crew are dead,” I said. “And one has become a license-plate artiste in Walpole. Nobody seems to know what happened to the art other than the Picasso sketch ended up with a dealer named Alan Garner.”
“That was from a long time back,” he said. “Before I took over. They unloaded that piece right after the job. That was chickenshit stuff.”
“Did you kill Garner?” Vinnie said.
“Fuck no,” he said. “That’s not my style.”
“Let’s hope not.”
“Is that a threat, Vinnie?” DeMarco said.
Vinnie eyed him coldly and nodded. DeMarco tried to look tough and cool. But I saw his face flush as he swallowed. He turned his small black eyes back on me. I was offended he found me less threatening.
“Benny Barboza pulled that heist for my father,” he said. “He didn’t care nothing about the art, but he knew a big piece like that might get my old man out of prison. That’s why they did it. It was all done for love and respect.”
“Sounds like a Lifetime movie,” I said. “I’m tearing up just thinking of it.”
“Only my old man didn’t want to use the ace in the hole,” he said. “He wanted Benny to keep the piece hidden until everything cooled down. He pissed off the Feds, and they’d lean on him even harder. He wanted to do his time with no trouble. My old man was like that. Smart, always thinking ahead.”
I tilted my head and studied his chubby, tanned face and small, mean eyes.
“Whattaya looking at?”
“Searching for the family resemblance.”
“Benny hid it away,” he said. “And then he got fucking whacked.”
“By whom?”
He lifted his eyes up at Vinnie and stared for a short moment. He then looked back at me and said, “The Morelli brothers.”
“I heard that was over coke.”
“Maybe,” he said. “I don’t know if anyone knows anymore. But they wanted Benny down to hurt my father. They were close. Benny was family.”
“And the paintings?”
“Whattaya think, ace?” he said. “The Morellis jacked the painting. Spoils of war and all that horse shit.”
“Then why come to me?” I said. “If you know who has the paintings.”
“Because Jimmy Morelli and my old man made peace before my dad died,” he said. “I can’t go into the North End and rough up an old fuck like Morelli. Besides, Morelli says he doesn’t have it. He says that’s all on his no-good brother.”
“Okay,” I said. “Then we talk to his brother.”
“His brother died last year,” he said. “The fucking big C. But I know for a fucking fact that fat bastard hung that El Greeko on his wall at his summer place up in Maine. I know people who seen it. You want to find it, go talk to his bigmouthed, big-titted wife, Angela, and find out what gives.”
“Wait,” I said. I held up my hand. “Are you trying to hire me, Jackie?”
“I’m saying that I’m offering you some very exclusive fucking information, Spenser,” he said. “And if you’re as goddamn smart as you think you are, you’ll follow up on it and make us all some money.”
“Working for both a respected museum and a disreputable hood might be construed as unethical.”
“Fuck ethics,” he said. “I’ll give you twenty percent of the five mil. How’s that sound?”
I looked back at Vinnie. He shrugged. Vinnie was a practical man.
“Why don’t you just do it yourself?” I said. “If you’re so sure.”
“She won’t talk to me,” he said. “And I don’t want to get my good name mixed up with all this shit. If you didn’t look around this place, I got a huge professional operation down here.”
“Doesn’t want the Chamber of Commerce to get mad,” I said.
“All those bastards who get their cars towed might get pissed,” Vinnie said.
“Why are you just now interested in this?” I said.
“The reward wasn’t as big.”
“If Angela Morelli can get the painting,” I said. “We may have to cut up the pie even more.”
“Do what needs to be done.”
“How sure are you, Jackie?” Vinnie said. “That the Morellis got the paintings?”
“Hunnard and ten fucking percent.”
“That much,” I said.
“Okay,” Jackie said. “Got it now? You unnerstand the complexity of the situation?”
“A Mafia musical chairs,” I said.
Jackie nodded. I stood up. Nobody shook hands and Vinnie and I both wal
ked from the trailer. The two big guys gave me a hard look as I passed. Vinnie moved past them as if invisible.
As we crossed the lot, Vinnie turned to me and smiled. “I thought you said the museum said there would never be a reward for you?”
“True,” I said. “But what Jackie doesn’t know can’t hurt him.”
“He’s never known much.”
“Let’s hope he’s right about this one thing.”
41
IT WAS SUSAN’S turn to cook, so we had reservations at Harvest. She’d arranged for a corner table near the open kitchen, and as the waiters walked past with loaded trays, I eyed my options. Susan read the summer selections while I decided on a hamburger. A burger and cold beer at Harvest were tough to beat. Of course, a burger and beer anywhere were seldom disappointing.
Susan set down her menu and removed her reading glasses. She chose the Scottish salmon, with another vodka gimlet. We ordered and I told her about the events of the last two days.
“Mafia musical chairs,” she said. “I like that.”
“It’s taken a while to untangle the knot.”
“If it were simple, the Winthrop would’ve figured it out years ago.”
“Or if they’d let BPD handle the case,” I said. “And not let the Feds try and make it a fancier show than it really was. Lots of international travel on the taxpayer tab.”
“Didn’t you punch out Jackie DeMarco last time you saw him?”
“Nope,” I said. “Just a shot in his kidneys to get his attention.”
“And he still was willing to talk to you?”
“Money,” I said. “The international language.”
“I thought that was love.”
I shrugged. The waitress brought me a fresh beer and Susan a gimlet. Speakers played some classic Coltrane overhead. The restaurant was dim and quiet, warm yellow light spreading across the open space. Dark polished wood and stainless steel.
“Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs,” I said.
“My,” she said. “A big heart and a big neck.”
“Don’t all good Jewish girls get what they want?”
“But of course,” she said. “I asked for a man with a forty-eight-inch chest who could quote the Bard.”
I raised my beer. We touched glasses. Susan spotted her friend Judith Marvin Webb across the room and offered a demure wave.
“I’m glad Vinnie joined you today,” she said. “That gives me some comfort.”
“He pretty much insisted,” I said. “Alan Garner was a friend, and he feels like he owes Gino to see it through.”
“Quite a complicated code of ethics.”
“Vinnie’s a dying breed.”
“And Hawk.”
“Of course.”
“And you,” she said. “And Z.”
“We are trying to pass it on to the next generation,” I said. “You used to be able to rely on someone’s word. Hoods have to live by a certain code, too, or they won’t be hoods for long. Their word is pretty much all they have.”
“So Jackie now expects to be compensated?”
“I’ll let Jackie take it up with the Winthrop.”
“Won’t that violate your code?”
“No,” I said. “Unless he gives me something solid. The reward is up to the Winthrop. I’m just a hired hand, ma’am.”
“Like Shane?”
“Only taller.”
“So tomorrow you’ll drive over to Bedford and ask the missus of the late Morelli brother to hand over the painting.”
“That’s the plan,” I said. “What could go wrong?”
“I’m sure she’ll just take it down from her wall and hand it over,” she said. “I mean, with your charm and charisma.”
“I could charm the pants off a snake.”
Susan drank a little of the gimlet. Her large eyes peered over the rim of the glass. Under the table, she patted my knee. She looked dubious but smiled.
As she did so, I looked toward the bar and spotted the profile of a familiar face. Only this time he had on a Sox ball cap that didn’t quite go with the suit. He leaned over a tall beer and furtively turned to stare at our table. Men often turned to stare at Susan. But this guy was looking right at me. It was Paul Marston.
“Excuse me for a moment,” I said.
“Someone you know?”
“Unfortunately.”
I walked over to the bar and tapped Marston’s shoulder. He turned around with a feigned look of surprise.
“Just getting a bite,” Marston said. “Nice place. Has it been here long?”
He smiled widely and swiveled his stool to face me. The cologne cut right through the pleasant smell of tonight’s seasonal specials. “Sorry to hear about your contact,” he said. “Best laid plans and all that sort of rubbish.”
“And now, with a lack of anything better to do, you’re back to watching me?”
“The board remains unconvinced you actually saw The Gentleman in Black,” he said. “The paint chips have proved to be inconclusive, I’m sorry to say.”
I shrugged. “You should try and curl the bill of the hat,” I said. “You look ridiculous.”
“Oh, yeah?” he said. “Thanks. Who’s the lovely lady you’re with?”
“Someone who doesn’t like interruptions,” I said.
“Introduce me.”
“Nope,” I said. “If you think I’m tough, just wait.”
Marston smiled up at me, looking very silly in the Sox cap. He wore it far back on his head like a child, with his hair loose over his forehead. “Where are we headed tomorrow?”
“Garner’s dead,” I said. “I guess it’s all over.”
“Is that why you met with Mr. DeMarco today?” he said. “How did that go, by the way?”
“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” I said. “You guys will get along famously. You could talk fashion. You’re into hats. He’s into the untucked look.”
“I offered DeMarco a solid deal with full backing of the Winthrop.”
“Good for you.”
“They don’t need you anymore, Spenser,” he said, smirking. “We have everything you do.”
I reached for the bill of his cap and tugged it down over his eyes, and told him that he looked much better. I returned to my seat with Susan.
“Who is that annoying man?” Susan said.
“My rival on the case.”
“You have no rival.”
“Exactly.”
42
THE NEXT MORNING, I drove to Bedford and a planned community built around the old Huckins Farm. Angela Morelli lived in a pleasant, respectable two-story house that backed up to a horse pasture. The house was painted a flat gray with white trim, flanked by a two-car garage and a lot of new landscaping. The trees were short, tied to stakes, and surrounded by fresh red mulch and a neatly clipped lawn. If the wife of the late JoJo Morelli was looking for respectability, this seemed to be the right address.
I parked in her driveway and knocked on her front door.
A woman in a sleeveless black silk top and fancy jeans opened the front door. She was blond and barefooted, much younger than I expected, and very well made up for ten in the morning. Her makeup looked so perfect it had to be airbrushed. Her nails had been painted a bright blue and her blond hair bleached nearly to the roots. Being an expert in the field, I noted she was tanned, toned, and surgically enhanced.
“Mr. Spenser?” she said.
I nodded. She invited me in. The home was pleasant and uncluttered but decorated very much like a furniture showroom, with impersonal art and extra-large furniture groupings. Big frilly pillows, brass lamps, and tasseled rugs. She invited me to join her outside and we walked through the kitchen to a flagstone patio. She’d already set out a coffeepot and two cups onto a wrought-iron table.
The pasture was the centerpiece of the development, with houses and condos ringed around it. Several horses huddled together by a water trough, only one with the decency to acknowledge our presence before continuing to drink.
“Like I said on the phone, I don’t really know what to tell you,” Angela said. “JoJo did for JoJo, and I didn’t ask a lot of questions. I didn’t really know his whole story until after he died, with the criminal accusations and all that kind of stuff. You know he got cancer a few years ago? Died last year. Kept on thinking he was gonna beat it until the end.”
“I’m very sorry.”
She shrugged. “I knew what I was getting into with an older man,” she said. “Some nice old ladies at Saint Leonard’s set us up. They told me the Morellis were good people and that JoJo was a real gentleman.”
“Was he?”
“To me and his family, he was a prince,” she said. “To all others, he was a prick.”
“Are you still in contact with your brother-in-law?”
“Jimmy Morelli is a prick to everyone,” she said. “Even family. Just what is it you want to know, Mr. Spenser? Because I can’t get all into the family business. That could get my tit into the ringer.”
“Did your husband ever mention the robbery at the Winthrop Museum?” I said. “A Picasso sketch was taken. Two priceless paintings?”
She didn’t seem to be listening as she continued to watch the horses playing in the field. It had been a while since I’d been around such large animals. My Western instincts were heightened. I wondered if she’d be impressed if I lassoed one and rode about the pasture bareback like when the Lone Ranger met Silver. Maybe that’d get her talking.
“There were two big paintings?” she said.
I nodded. She shook her head, reaching to the center of the table and several apples set in a wooden bowl. She grabbed for one and toyed with it in her hands, rolling it back and forth.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I only know about one.”
I thought it highly unprofessional to perform a spit take. I restrained myself.