Boston Cream
Page 1
Praise for High Chicago
Winner of the Arthur Ellis Award for Best Crime Novel
“Combining fast-paced action with well-structured plots, and featuring a complex but likeable protagonist, Shrier’s novels are fast winning him legions of loyal fans. If you enjoy contemporary hard-boiled tales with nuanced characters, check out High Chicago; you won’t be disappointed.”
—The Record (Sherbrooke)
“Shrier … writes with an easy assurance and a killer sense of humour.… High Chicago is a great addition to the mystery shelf.”
—NOW (Toronto)
“A crackling good mystery … a compelling portrait of modern secular Jewish life complete with its wisdom, contradictions and abiding humour. High Chicago is often funny, sometimes violent and always thoughtful, with a powerful sense of place throughout. Toronto may have just found its Spenser in PI Jonah Geller, and I can’t wait for his next case.”
—Sean Chercover, award-winning author of Trigger City and Big City, Bad Blood
“A more than worthy sequel [to Buffalo Jump], with an intriguing plot, a wicked sense of humour and masterfully managed dialogue.”
—Calgary Herald
“With High Chicago, Shrier cements his reputation as a fine mystery writer. I suspect and hope that he and Jonah will be around for a long time to come.”
—Canadian Jewish News
“A plot brimming with greed, deceit, violence and murder makes High Chicago a fast-paced, entertaining read.”
—José Latour, bestselling author of Crime of Fashion
“What a great book High Chicago is. I thoroughly enjoyed it, could not put it down.”
—Deon Meyer, bestselling author of Thirteen Hours and Trackers
“A fast-moving and violent tale that proves your deadliest enemy is probably the person sleeping right beside you. I hope Geller returns for a third book.”
—Lee Goldberg
Praise for Buffalo Jump Winner of the Arthur Ellis Award for Best First Novel
“Howard Shrier’s first novel, Buffalo Jump, is a winner.”
—National Post
“A cast of compelling oddballs; a complex, funny and always surprising hero and a plot as fresh and twisty as today’s headlines—Shrier juggles them all deftly and nails his first crime novel with the aplomb and impact of a seasoned pro. A completely satisfying read that made me wish Jonah Geller could work cases on my shows.”
—René Balcer, Emmy Award-winning executive producer/head writer of Law & Order, creator of Law & Order Criminal Intent, winner of the Peabody Award and of four Edgar Awards from the Mystery Writers of America
“A crime story that is both thrilling and thoughtful.”
—Kelley Armstrong, bestselling author of the Women of the Otherworld series
“A great debut novel from Montreal-born Torontonian Shrier, and it introduces PI Jonah Geller in what is certainly going to be a fine series. The plot is tight, the characters engaging, and this one even has a believable—and sympathetic—bad guy.”
—The Globe and Mail
“Blunt action, realistically and graphically described and paced with just enough time to catch your breath before the next sudden eruption. Add the right feel for dialogue, a plot and writing that’s just the ideal temperature for a mystery-thriller and you have Buffalo Jump.… A debut novel with a well-juggled storyline brimming with dry humour, a cast of oddball characters, and graphic scenes that come alive with action. A must-read.”
—The Hamilton Spectator
“Delivers a fast plot with the requisite brutalities and, not least, a sharp look at what happens to people—Americans—who lack anything like sensible health coverage.… Buffalo Jump depicts pretty vividly how that sad system works.”
—Joan Barfoot, London Free Press
“This first book by Shrier is top-notch, a page-turner to rate with the best of them and with some memorable characters. It also contains just the right dose of cynicism and dark humour, both of which mark the best of the private-eye novels.”
—Guelph Mercury
“There’s a new Howard [not Howard Engel] on the horizon, and his protagonist bears only a passing resemblance to Engel’s creation. No schmuck, he is tougher, slightly grittier and strictly a big-city sleuth; he is, in fact, a Cooperman for the new millennium.… Buffalo Jump is a fine debut novel.”
—The Record (Sherbrooke)
Also by Howard Shrier
Buffalo Jump
High Chicago
Vintage Canada Edition, 2012
Copyright © 2012 Howard Shrier
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
Published in Canada by Vintage Canada, a division of Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto, in 2012. Distributed by Random House of Canada Limited.
Vintage Canada with colophon is a registered trademark.
www.randomhouse.ca
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Shrier, Howard
Boston cream / Howard Shrier.
(Jonah Geller mystery series; 3)
eISBN: 978-0-307-35957-5
I. Title. II. Series: Shrier, Howard. Jonah Geller mystery series; 3.
PS8637.H74B68 2012 C813.’6 C2011-904065-4
Cover images: (top) Jac Depczyk © Getty Images
(bottom) Denis Tangney Jr. © Getty Images
v3.1
To my sons Aaron and Jesse, for all they give me,
and to Harriet for everything else.
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
PROLOGUE
It was five minutes before ten in the evening and Harinder Patel was ringing up Mr. Gordon’s usual sale: a pack of Marlboro Lights and ten tickets for the lottery. How a man like Mr. Gordon could spend so much on the lottery was beyond Harinder. It was all a load of nonsense, in his opinion. A tax on the poor, on the dreamers of the world who wanted to be rich without working for it. But a sale was a sale and he wished Mr. Gordon luck with his numbers, as he always did. “This week is your week,” he always said, though clearly it never was. The man’s clothes were old and worn and the smell of cheap wine always drifted off him like sewer breath.
When the door shut behi
nd Mr. Gordon, Harinder began to get ready for closing. Another fourteen-hour day behind him, and not enough to show for it. A few packs of cigarettes, a few cartons of milk, tickets for the blasted lottery. Not nearly enough. Maybe I should buy some tickets myself, he mused. But he knew he wouldn’t. He might have been poor but he was no dreamer. Anything he got in this life he would have to earn.
He had no regrets about having moved to Boston. It was an agreeable city by any standard, other than the weather, and with so many excellent universities, he’d had high hopes that his son Sanjay would enter one of the professions. Sadly, he had not. He was studying marketing communications, if you could believe it—Harinder had no idea where that would lead; neither, he supposed, did Sanjay. But it was an education, and maybe a diploma—not even a degree—would help Sanjay find a rewarding career. If nothing else, maybe he would come up with some brilliant marketing scheme to bring more customers into the store. Lord knows we could use the help, he thought. And soon.
He knew he had made a mistake in choosing the location: Somerville, of all places. And on Bow Street, which didn’t draw nearly enough traffic, neither on foot nor by car, and so little parking on the street. And would construction on Union Square ever be complete? Always something being torn up and fixed: street, sidewalks, street again for underground pipes.
It had seemed like such a deal at the time: house with ground-floor business for sale. But the house was old and drafty and in constant need of repair, and the business … he was so far behind in his payments that if things didn’t turn around soon, Harinder knew he would lose it all.
One minute to ten.
He was walking toward the front door to lock up when it banged open and two men came in, backed by a wintry blast of air. As soon as he saw them, he knew they were trouble. Hard-looking men, one of average size and one who was enormous, at least a head taller than his companion.
“Evening,” said the smaller of the two. He had long, dark-blond hair combed back from his forehead and was smiling, though not in a way that could be described as friendly. Harinder couldn’t help thinking that this was how a wolf would smile at its next meal.
No hat or gloves in this weather, Harinder noticed. Who went out like that? Maybe, he thought, the lack of gloves was a good thing.
“Good evening,” Harinder replied, his voice sounding high and thin to his own ears.
The man nodded at his larger friend, who turned the Open sign in the door to Closed, then turned the lock and leaned against it. Clearly the smaller man was in charge.
Harinder tried to keep the panic from rising in him. If they robbed him, so be it. There wasn’t much cash in the register; how could there be? But he did fear violence. He knew from reading the Herald that the city was full of drug-crazed criminals who would kill you for the change in your pockets.
Thank God Sanjay is not here, he thought. Like all young men he could be something of a hothead, more inclined to fight than back down from a threat.
“How’s it going, Harry?” the smaller man said. “Okay if I call you Harry? ’Cause I ain’t really sure how to pronounce your name.”
Harinder looked from one man to the other. He had never seen them before—how did they know his name? And why the talk? If they were here to rob him, why not get it over with? “Please.… ” he said.
“Please what? Am I making you nervous or something?”
“No, sir. Not at all.”
“You look nervous.” He turned to his friend at the door. “Don’t he look nervous to you?”
The big man said, “Yup.”
“I bet he thinks we’re holding him up. Is that what you think, Harry? You think this is a holdup?”
“No,” Harinder said quickly. “Of course not. It’s just that I was about to close for the evening.”
“Ah. Closing time, huh? Long day serving all your customers. Good day today? Lots of people in and out?”
“I can’t complain,” Harinder said.
The big man by the door snorted. “Maybe you should,” he said. The man at the counter looked over at him and the big man said nothing more.
Harinder looked at the clock over the door. Two minutes past ten. What if his wife came downstairs to help him close up, as she sometimes did. Would they panic and harm her? “What can I get for you?” he asked.
“Now that,” the man said, “is the fifty-thousand-dollar question.” He walked over to the counter, unzipped his coat and reached inside it.
Dear God, Harinder thought, here it comes. But instead of the pistol he was anticipating, the man took out an envelope and placed it on the counter next to the cash register.
Harinder looked at the envelope but didn’t move to touch it. It seemed thick, as if a letter had been folded over many times.
“Open it,” the man said.
The envelope wasn’t sealed. The flap at the back was just tucked in. Harinder opened it and saw a stack of hundred-dollar bills.
“That’s five thousand right there,” the man said. “You want to count it or take my word?”
“I don’t understand,” Harinder said.
“Are you going to take my word or not?”
“Of course. But what does this have to do with me?”
“You could use fifty thou, am I right? In cash, tax-free. I know your situation, Harry. Fifty grand would pretty much bail you out.”
Fifty thousand dollars? Was the man joking? It was the answer to his prayers. He’d be able to pay his mortgage arrears, the suppliers who were threatening to cut him off, Sanjay’s tuition costs for the next semester. It was as if he had won a lottery prize without even buying a ticket. But how did this man know so much about his finances?
Again he said, “I don’t understand.” Because he truly didn’t.
“Do we have a deal?” the man asked.
“But I don’t know what you want for this.”
The man said, “Does it matter?” He reached into the pocket of his jeans and took out something Harinder couldn’t see. He took Harinder’s wrist and pressed his thumb hard into the veins there and Harinder’s hand opened involuntarily. The man put something cold and hard into his hand and forced it shut. “That’s what you get if you turn me down.”
Then he turned and walked to the front door. The big man standing there opened it for him and the two of them walked out, leaving the door open as the cold wind blew in again, bringing with it a few flakes of snow. “We’ll be in touch,” the leader said. “Tell you where you need to be and when.”
Only when he had closed the door behind them did Harinder open his hand and stare at the brass bullet and the groove the man’s hard thumbnail had left in his skin.
CHAPTER 1
Fuck. I woke up this morning with a headache. After two weeks without one. Not as brutal as the ones I’d had throughout the fall and into the new year, but bad enough. Like a jackhammer drilling into my left temple and radiating out from there. It kicked in harder when I got up to find my Tylenol so I sank back down and lay flat, eyes closed, trying to breathe through it. It didn’t help. It was ten to seven. I had to get to a meeting with a new client on the other side of town. And I had to pee.
I opened my eyes, took a few more breaths and sat up very slowly, trying to will the pain away from my head. I rose softly, not too steadily, and stood rocking gently back and forth until I found the place where I was centred, and kept breathing until I was sure I wouldn’t fall down. I breathed some more and decided it was worth risking one foot forward toward the bathroom. Then the other foot. I told myself there were lovely liquid gelcaps in there, plus a toilet, even a tap where I could wash my face and rinse my mouth and cool a cloth to put on the back of my neck. Step by step I did it. Out of my room, across the hall and into the bathroom. I exceeded the recommended dosage of Tylenol, but not by that much. Peed in the dark. Showered in the dark—lukewarm, to keep the blood from rushing to my head. Shaved in half-light. It all helped a bit, especially the cold cloth on my neck. Coffee helped too. Ge
tting dressed was largely neutral. By seven-thirty the pain was receding and I felt ready to leave for my meeting. Functional and focused, which meant no one needed to know about this little setback. Not Jenn, or the agency’s insurance people, or anyone even distantly related to me. And definitely not Dr. Nancy Carter.
If her name is familiar, it’s probably from the sports pages. She’s the neurologist who treats all the hockey and football players with head injuries. I was lucky to get an appointment with her, her receptionist said. “She needs people like you for a new study she’s starting.”
People like me. The concussed. The severely concussed. I had sustained what Dr. Carter called a contrecoup, my brain banging against my skull when I was hit from the side but good with a barbell, resulting in a Grade 3 concussion.
She said a third of the players she saw developed post-concussion syndrome: “You might get headaches, bad ones, and experience dizziness or sensitivity to light. You might notice behavioural changes, such as depression, anxiety or irritability.”
“If I don’t notice,” I said, “my mother will.”
She was right about the headaches: more frequent and intense than any I’d ever had. The first month, there were days I wouldn’t get out of bed for fear I’d set one off. Or puke. That was always fun first thing in the morning. I sometimes got dizzy without warning. One time I came to on the floor with a nasty welt on my eyebrow and no memory of falling face first. My focus, whether at work or at home, was also Grade Three. I’d stare at my computer, unaware of what I was reading, or forgetting what I’d been searching for. Was I depressed, anxious and irritable? Tick all those boxes. Just ask Jenn, ask my family. Ask anyone who had the displeasure of my company back then, especially after we changed the clocks in the fall and light began to bleed from our northern skies.
Only after three full months did Dr. Carter clear me to start light training. Oh God, I wanted to shout, bring it on. Exercise and martial arts are how I normally keep myself sane. But those first workouts wouldn’t have tired out someone in a walker. I had zero endurance. Light pedalling on a stationary bike could bring on the whirlies. I had to do the simplest katas in slow motion to avoid falling on my ass. And even as I improved over the following month and began to believe I might one day actually get back to full strength, Dr. Carter forbade contact training. “Once you’ve had a concussion, others happen more easily unless it completely heals. Think Eric Lindros. He was done as an elite player at thirty. You don’t want that, Jonah. That means thirty days symptom-free, no cheating, before I let you off the leash.”