“Anything new on your end?” I continued.
“With limited information,” she said, “Grant Worthington still makes the most sense.”
“But you don't have enough to act on yet?”
“Not yet.”
“I'll let you know what I learn,” I said.
“Drew,” she said, “be careful. Burke would be pissed if you went and got yourself killed.”
“Sure thing,” I said.
“I'd be a little pissed too,” she said.
“See, you do care,” I said. Sanchez had already hung up.
When I got to my office I had visitors. Big Lou and his bodyguard Little John were standing next to my office door.
“If I knew there would be company, I would have bought a Box 'O Joe,” I said.
“I think I scared the guy with the bow tie,” Little John said.
Little John was a large man dressed all in black. His neck disappeared into his oversized body. Little John's bald head glistened under the fluorescent lighting.
“Be nice to George,” I said. “He does my taxes.”
George Saunders was the CPA who had the office across from mine.
“He any good?” Big Lou said. “I'm looking for a new accountant.”
I shifted my slightly upward gaze from Little John downward to Big Lou. He was a small guy at four feet ten inches. I had never seen him in anything other than custom-tailored Armani suits.
His selection for the day was a charcoal gray suit, white shirt, and a solid red silk tie. He had a matching hankie neatly folded into a triangle in the front breast pocket. I didn't know too many men who still had hankies. Big Lou was old school.
“I didn't know you even filed a tax return,” I said.
“For the businesses the IRS knows about,” he said.
“I'll get you his card,” I said as I opened my office door.
We stepped into my office and I closed the door behind us. I had one of George's business cards on my desk, so I handed it to Big Lou. “George is a great accountant, and a good guy,” I said. “Just make sure you only involve him in legitimate businesses.”
Big Lou took the business card and said, “You have my word.”
I first encountered Big Lou and Little John working a case to help out a family friend in trouble with a loan shark. We didn't get off to the greatest start, but they showed up to help when my back was against the wall.
Big Lou owned a restaurant in the North End of Boston. I don't know about his other ventures, and I didn't ask. At one point Big Lou was a major loan shark in Beantown, so I figured he hadn't strayed too far afield of what he understood best.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” I said as I sat down behind my desk. Big Lou took a seat in one of the client chairs on the other side of my desk. His feet dangled above the floor. Little John stood leaning against the wall. I think he may have been counting the Red Sox bobbleheads on my desk.
“I've heard some talk you should know about,” Big Lou said.
“Do tell,” I said.
“Seems you have agitated Eddie Garavito,” he said.
“I do like being an agitator.”
I leaned back in my chair and sipped my coffee. “You want me to throw on a pot?” I said pointing to my cup.
“You got Hazelnut blend?” Little John said.
I shook my head. “Regular black coffee.”
“What are you drinking?” he said.
“Dark Roast. Thought I'd switch it up this morning.”
“You don't need no coffee, Little John,” Big Lou said. “Can we get back to business?”
I tilted my head and extended my open left hand toward Big Lou to continue.
“As I was sayin',” Big Lou said, “word is Eddie Garavito ain’t so happy with you.”
“I thought Grease was the word?” I said.
“I liked that movie,” Little John said. “Especially Greased Lightning.” He moved his left arm across his body, hand laid out flat, like John Travolta in the song and dance number in Rydell High's garage.
“Enough from the peanut gallery,” Big Lou said looking over at Little John.
“Sorry, boss,” Little John said.
As I turned back to look at Big Lou, I swear I saw Little John mouthing the words to Greased Lightning.
Big Lou must have seen it too. He was shaking his head. He looked up at me and said, “You do realize who Eddie Garavito is, right?”
“A member of the Garavito family?” I said.
“Always the wisenheimer,” he said.
“Yeah, a member of the Garavito family. So what do you know about the Garavito family?”
“One of Boston's oldest crime families. Rivaled Al Capone in the sale of alcohol during prohibition. They've changed with the times and control a fair amount of the illegal drug trade throughout New England.”
“Then you should understand you don't want Eddie pissed off at you.”
I spread my hands apart and said, “Comes with the territory.”
“And how does that work out for you?” Big Lou said. “I seem to recall you fighting off a big goon, intent on putting a bullet in your head, by starting a snowball fight.”
“It was a solid ice ball to buy the time I needed to jump him.”
Big Look shook his head. He couldn't understand either Little John or me.
“Thing is,” he said, “Eddie is sending some of his guys to warn you off.”
“I think I already met them,” I said. “Moe, Larry, and Curly. They drive around in a black Escalade.”
“When did this happen?” he said.
“Last night in Charlestown.”
“They didn't waste no time. My news is really fresh. Came over as soon as I heard it.”
“I'm touched you care,” I said.
“I don't care that much. Me and Little John are attending a lecture at the Kennedy School later this morning.”
I looked at Big Lou quizzically.
“I'm not crazy about politicians,” he said, “but I'm fascinated by politics.”
I caught Little John out of the corner of my eye. He apparently was making his way through the Grease soundtrack as he mouthed the words to Summer Nights. I wondered if he was performing both the T-Birds and Pink Ladies.
“Whatever floats your boat,” I said.
“Anyhow,” he said, “you need to make sure whatever you are looking into is worth the risk. Eddie Garavito ain’t playin' around. He won't hesitate for one second to put you six feet under if he feels you're getting too close to somethin' he don't want you near.”
“I think I want to be cremated,” I said. “My ashes spread at Fenway Park.”
“They don't let you do that,” Big Lou said.
“Unless they don't know about it.”
Big Lou wagged his finger at me and offered a crooked smile. “I wouldn't put it past you,” he said.
“I'm looking into the deaths of two escorts from Premier Escort Services,” I said. “The parents of one of the young women were clients.”
“Were?” Big Lou said. “You're risking your neck for former clients? I think you need a class in cost-benefit analysis.”
“Their daughter was a missing person when she turned up dead,” I said. “I feel a sense of obligation.”
“You're nuts,” he said.
“Maybe,” I said. “But I'm going to see this case through.”
“Unless Garavito pops you.”
“Unless that,” I said.
I glanced again at Little John. He had moved onto Hopelessly Devoted to You. He made quite the contrast to Olivia Newton-John's Sandy. If Big Lou and I talked long enough, Little John might make it all the way to the closing We Go Together.
“I don't know about Eddie Garavito's connections to Premier Escort Services,” Big Lou said, “but he don't like you sniffing around there.”
“Which means I'm on to something,” I said.
“May not even be related to your case,” Big Lou said.
“Just hope you're not digging your own grave.” Big Lou paused a beat. He snapped his fingers, “Oh yeah,” he said, “you want to be cremated.”
Big Lou got out of the chair. I stayed seated so we would be more at eye level.
“You're a big boy,” he said to me, “so I can't tell you what to do. But if I were you, I'd leave this alone. You're only asking for trouble.”
“Trouble does have a way of finding me,” I said.
Big Lou turned toward the door. “Let's go, Little John,” he said.
Little John stopped somewhere in the middle of Beauty School Dropout. He opened my office door. Big Lou paused at the open door and turned toward me.
He said, “Watch your back, Drew. Those guys Garavito sent were the warning. You may not get another.”
I nodded my head. Big Lou stepped into the hallway. Little John followed, closing the door behind him.
CHAPTER 21
“Why'd you have to sit so far up,” Tommy Two Fingers said. “I nearly had a heart attack climbing the steps.” He was hunched over and breathing hard.
“You need to improve your cardio,” I said. Tommy used just one of his fingers to express his feelings. He sat down next to me. We were in the back row of Harvard Stadium.
Tommy shoved his hands into the pockets of his Patriots sweatshirt. He was medium height and medium build. His thinning brown hair and unremarkable facial features meant he looked similar to many middle-aged men. Tommy used this to his advantage in running cons.
It had made him difficult to remember and identify back in the days when he picked pockets around Boston. The legend is that Tommy only needed two fingers to lift a wallet and be gone before anyone knew what had happened.
“The last time I met you I nearly froze to death on Boston Common,” he said. “Now I'm about to have a coronary from hauling my ass up all these steps. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to bump me off.”
“And miss out on all our stimulating conversations?” I said.
“It's on me, really,” he said. “I'm stupid enough to keep meeting you at places of your choosing. Next time you come to me.”
“Sure. I like to get out and about.”
Tommy took out a hankie and blew his nose. It sounded like Dizzy Gillespie blowing his trumpet. Tommy put the hankie in his back pants pocket.
“That's the second hankie I've seen in as many days,” I said. “The other was silk.”
“Silk hankies are for showing, not for blowing,” Tommy said.
I wondered if Big Lou knew that. He probably did. Being a hankie guy.
Tommy placed his feet on the bench in front of us. “So,” he said, “what you bring me all the way out here for?”
“All the way out here?” I said. “You live in Allston. I bet it took you less than ten minutes to get here.”
“The point is I showed up. What is it you want?”
“What can you tell me about Eddie Garavito's businesses?”
“You'll have to be more specific. Eddie's got lots of businesses.”
“Does he have any ownership in Dirty Water Companies?”
Tommy thought a few beats. He said, “Maybe.”
“Maybe?” I said. “Come on, Tommy, don't yank my chain.”
Tommy looked around. I'm not sure who he thought would be listening from where we were sitting. Other than a few pigeons, Tommy and I were the only ones in the stadium.
“Look, the Garavitos don't like people talking about them and their businesses.”
“But word of mouth is the best form of advertising,” I said.
“Not for the kind of businesses they run.”
I stretched my legs out over the bench and leaned against the back wall.
“I need to know if Eddie Garavito owns any part of a business named Dirty Water Companies. Dirty Water owns Premier Escort Services. Three gorillas warned me off of looking into Premier. Big Lou tells me Eddie Garavito sent them.”
“Jeez,” Tommy said. “That's bad news.”
“My investigative prowess has me convinced they are all related.”
Tommy looked at me and said, “You don't need to be Sherlock Holmes to figure that out.”
“It would be nice to have it confirmed. Facts are better than assumptions.”
“True,” he said. “You know what they say about when you assume?”
“So, what can you tell me?”
“I can't tell you anything, because I don't know anything,” he said. “Do we understand each other?”
“Sure.”
“I need to know we're clear about the fact I can’t tell you anything, because I don't know anything.”
“I got it,” I said. “You're Sergeant Shultz.”
“I liked that show,” Tommy said. “What was it called?”
“Hogan's Heroes,” I said.
“Right. Hogan's Heroes.”
A couple in running shorts entered the stadium and started jogging up the stairs on the other side.
“Why do people do that to themselves?” Tommy said.
“You mean exercise?”
“More like torture,” he said.
“People like to stay in shape,” I said. “Be healthy.”
“I only ever ran when I was being chased by the cops.”
“I thought no one ever made you?”
“Mostly not,” he said. “But I wasn't as skilled when I first started out.”
I nodded my head and grinned. I had never been on the wrong side of the law, but I often relied on criminals for information. No different, I guess, than the criminal informants police use to help them catch more serious criminals.
“And this information you don't know, and couldn't tell me, would be?”
“A certain person with the initials EG owns a controlling interest in a company whose name resembles a song by The Stendells.”
“I mentioned that very song to Detective Lieutenant Sanchez,” I said.
“Good for you,” he said. “Are we done?”
“You've been a big help,” I said.
“I didn't help you with nothing,” Tommy said.
“Of course you didn't.”
“But you owe me,” he said.
“Story of my life,” I said.
“Catch you around, Drew.”
Tommy pushed himself up and started slowly down the stairs. For every step he labored to take, the runners across the stadium strode effortlessly up three. Tommy stopped and turned his head back toward me.
“By the way,” he called out, “Be careful. You have a big target on your back.”
“So I've heard,” I said.
CHAPTER 22
The Leonard P. Zakim Bunker Hill Bridge and TD Garden were lit up as I drove past them on my way to Logan to pick up Jessica. My phone rang and the Bluetooth took over my car's audio system, interrupting Aerosmith's Dream On. Steven Tyler was about to hit his high note.
Another unknown number. Or the same unknown number Crooked Nose had called me from the other night.
“Drew Patrick,” I said. “Private investigator for all seasons.”
“Cool it Chuckles.” It was definitely Crooked Nose.
I hadn't heard a clown reference in a while.
“Calling to check up on me?” I said.
“Have you considered our offer?”
I paused a beat. “Remind me,” I said, “what offer was that?”
“The one where you stop sticking your nose in where it don't belong and we let you live.”
“I always say live and let live.”
“Only if you’ve changed your mind,” he said.
“That would be a hard pass,” I said. “I wouldn't be worth the title on my business cards if I didn't actually investigate.”
“You sure about your answer?”
“I'm sure. Thanks for calling.”
“I was pretty ticked when you destroyed our tracking dev
ice,” he said.
I switched lanes to pass a slow-moving Honda Civic. I passed on the left and got back into the right lane in front of the Civic.
“I prefer to move about freely without being monitored,” I said. “But how much was it? I can send you a check.”
“You won't live long enough to write the check.”
The phone call disconnected. When the radio returned, Sting was belting out Roxanne.
A familiar Escalade pulled up to my left. The rear passenger window slid down and a gun barrel appeared. I hit the gas and rocketed forward. I left the Civic in my dust.
The Escalade sped up and pulled in behind me. I heard the pop as my rear window shattered. I instinctively ducked, but the bullet had already lodged into my glove box.
They got out from behind me and sped past. My phone rang again. I answered.
“That was your last warning,” Crooked Nose said. He hung up and I watched as the Escalade entered the Callahan Tunnel ahead of me.
I got strange looks from the other cars in the tunnel. The noise and exhaust from the traffic invaded my car through the broken window.
There would be no choice but to tell Jessica what was going on. Unless she was so jet lagged and missed the broken window and bullet hole in my glove box.
She didn't.
We had a long conversation on the ride back from the airport about my letting the State Police continue the investigation without my assistance. I should say Jessica had that conversation. I mostly listened. Then gave her the only answer she knew I would give.
“If you won't drop the case,” she said, “at least let Pinnacle back you up. Let me back you up.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Okay? Really? Just like that?”
“It seems the smart move,” I said.
Jessica was silent a beat. Then she said, “I honestly didn't think you would go for it.”
I glanced over at her and said, “Eddie Garavito isn't playing around.”
CHAPTER 23
The internet has simplified many aspects of investigating. Many newspaper and magazine articles are available to me online without ever having to leave the comfort of my office. Kids today don’t know how easy they have it when researching school papers. I wonder how many of them could navigate a stack of reference books in a library or an old microfiche machine?
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