Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn

by Ace Atkins

  “My mother was Catholic,” I said.

  “Did she take you to Mass?”

  “She died in childbirth,” I said. “Her brothers, my uncles, took me some when we moved to Boston. My father had lost all faith. Except what he found in whiskey bottles.”

  He nodded.

  “Can you think of any reason someone would want to burn the church?” I said. “Did anyone in the neighborhood hold a grudge or ever make threats?”

  “No.”

  “May I ask who would want to buy an old church?” I said. “Except another religious group.”

  “Holy Innocents was the last piece of a block someone needed for some kind of major redevelopment,” he said. “I guess they thought no one would notice the razing of a hundred-year-old historic structure. Or at least didn’t care.”

  “Do you recall the buyer?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Those decisions are made by men in pointy red hats.”

  “Perhaps you might find out for me?”

  He studied my face, seeming to take me more seriously now that he knew I’d been raised Catholic. “That should be fairly easy. If you don’t mind waiting.”

  I sat there in the hard pew for a half-hour before Conway returned with a name of a development company and a phone number. I thanked him. “I also appreciate you not asking how long it’s been since my last confession.”

  “That long?”

  I smiled. “Father, I don’t believe you’d even been born.”

  12

  Herbie Wu agreed to meet me outside his real estate office near Copley Square. I waited on a park bench next to the turtle statues, well within the shadow of the Trinity Church. I spotted Wu as he walked across the square. Not because he was Asian American, but because he looked like a multimillionaire real estate mogul named Herbie. He had on tan shorts, a light blue dress shirt, and a bright purple jacket. His sunglasses looked like they cost more than my SUV. The shorts-and-jacket combo was a bit disconcerting.

  I rose, introduced myself, and shook hands. He was short, with small hands and slick hair. He had one of those soul-patch things under his lower lip.

  “You know some important people, Mr. Spenser.”

  “A few.”

  “Fast Eddie Lee?”

  “I knew you did a lot of business in Chinatown.”

  “Everyone in Chinatown must do business with Mr. Lee.”

  “Traditional?” I said.

  “Not really,” he said. “Let’s say necessary.”

  I nodded.

  “And now you do a lot of business in the South End?” I said.

  “Some,” he said. “But not as much as I’d like. The South End has grown too expensive even for me. Property is being held hostage. Too rich. Even with some investors from back in the old country.”

  “Where’d you grow up, Mr. Wu?”

  He grinned. “Quincy.”

  I smiled. Pigeons fluttered away from two young boys chasing them. A man playing an accordion had set up nearby and played the latest pop hits. The man didn’t have much talent but seemed enthusiastic.

  “Last year you were about to purchase Holy Innocents,” I said.

  “Where did you hear that?” he said.

  “From a holy man.”

  “Did this holy man tell you they still wanted me to pay after the fire?”

  “Nope.”

  “I don’t pay for damaged property,” he said. “The contract was still being looked after by lawyers. We had kept it out of public record because The Globe would have had a field day with development on a historic property.”

  “And what had you planned to do with a hundred-year-old church, Mr. Wu?” I said.

  He rubbed the insignificant tuft of hair under his chin. “Hmm,” he said. “May I ask why you want to know? I don’t often air business in public with strangers.”

  “Especially with strangers introduced by crooks?”

  “Are you saying Fast Eddie Lee is not a legitimate businessman in Boston?” Wu said. He smiled. “I’m shocked.”

  “Heavens, no.”

  Herbie rested his elbows on his bare legs. I noticed he wasn’t wearing socks with his suede loafers. I didn’t pass judgment. I’m a no-socks man myself.

  “Condos,” he said.

  “You were going to turn an old church into a condo?”

  “Well,” he said. “You couldn’t tear it down. It was going to be part of a much larger development. I had plans for an entire stretch of what we developers call mixed-use. I don’t know if you’ve seen the church, but it’s not in the hippest section of the South End.”

  “And now?”

  “I walked away,” he said. “I’ve gone on to other projects. In business you have to weigh your costs and benefits.”

  “Too high a cost?”

  “Way too high.”

  “That had nothing to do with rebuilding after the fire?”

  He shook his head. “To be honest, the fire would have helped me out,” Wu said. “Less red tape and meetings with the Planning Commission. Can you imagine how much flack I’d get from preservationists? We’d already been working on a plan to retain as much of the edifice as possible while working around it.”

  “So why get out?” I said.

  Across from the public library, a large bandstand was being erected. A group of tourists on bicycles cut through the park, all smartly wearing helmets. The guide stopped and pointed out some of the important sites around them. I thought about waving but decided to keep a low profile.

  Herbie Wu shook his head. “It’s been nice meeting you, Mr. Spenser,” he said.

  I didn’t move. “Just what did Mr. Lee tell you about me?”

  “He said you’ve been a pain in his ass.”

  “Did he say that in English or Chinese?”

  “I only speak a little Chinese,” Wu said. “He said it in English.”

  “And what else?”

  “Be careful of what I say,” he said. “But you can be trusted.”

  I nodded. The tourists on bicycles pedaled off toward Boylston Street. The accordion player had launched into a horrific version of “Squeeze Box” by The Who. I might’ve preferred “Lady of Spain.”

  Wu stood, the wind ruffling his expertly barbered hair. He checked his smartphone, bored, and offered his hand. I stood and shook it.

  “You weren’t wanted in the neighborhood?”

  Wu didn’t answer.

  “If it wasn’t money?”

  “It was money,” Wu said. “Everything is money. But this isn’t Chinatown. I pay taxes. I don’t have to pay protection.”

  “Who?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “I promise you I’ll leave you far out of this,” I said. “I only need a name. I walk away and you’ll never hear from me again.”

  “This wasn’t my first encounter with that bastard,” Wu said. “Or I suspect my last.”

  I waited. I could tell he wasn’t a fan of whoever may have smoked him out of the South End.

  “Doesn’t matter if you’re from Beijing or Bedford,” he said. “Business is the same everywhere. And right now, if you want to set up a lemonade stand in that part of the South End, you got to pay off Jackie DeMarco. It’s too close to Southie.”

  I nodded.

  “You’ve met him?”

  “Quite recently,” I said. “And we did not part on good terms.”

  “I have no proof,” Wu said. “But his people came to me two weeks before the fire. They knew of the impending sale. I told them I would not pay a nickel.”

  “Bingo.”

  “Excuse me.”

  “I always say that when I move down the food chain.”

  “Be careful, Mr. Spenser,” he said. “This is a man withou
t boundaries or ethics.”

  “Criminals rarely possess those traits.”

  “The same might be said about developers.”

  “Depends on what they develop.”

  “You promise to leave my name out of this?”

  I agreed. Wu nodded and walked away. I tipped the accordion player two bucks as I left.

  It was June now, hot as hell, and Johnny had the crazy idea to hit an old mattress factory in Dorchester. The building was big and brick, with a billboard on a far wall showing a little girl snuggled up for bedtime. The girl’s blanket had little moons and stars, reminding Kevin of when he’d been a kid. He remembered how his mom used to come in at night, tuck him in, make him feel safe before he dozed off. Even now that he was a grown man, she looked out for him. Looking over him. Although she didn’t know everything, she’d believe what he was about to do was right.

  “You brought it?” Kevin said.

  Johnny looked at him like he was a freakin’ idiot. “No. I forgot it. Hell, yes, I got it. It’s in the trunk. I made six of them. I figured with three of us working, we could spread them around.”

  “What about a security guard?” Kevin said.

  “Not tonight,” Johnny said. “Off on Friday night. Besides, they don’t make them here anymore. They ship ’em in from China or somewhere. It’s just a fucking warehouse now. Ready to burn.”

  “How do we get in?” Kevin said.

  “Back loading dock,” he said, holding up his crowbar. “A cheap deadbolt on a clasp. Snap, crackle, pop.”

  A whoop-whoop siren came from deep down the alley and the men turned. A patrol car rolled by slowly with its lights on, a spot flicking back and forth over the road and up onto the brick warehouse, finally falling on their faces, burning their eyes. “Christ,” Johnny said.

  The patrol car stopped, and in the blinding light, a door opened and a shadow of a cop got out. “Show me your hands, fucknuts.”

  “Screw you, Ray,” Johnny said. “You about gave me a fucking heart attack.”

  “You’d have to have a heart first,” Ray said, snorting. “And a dick.”

  Ray turned off the spotlight and followed them over to Johnny’s car. Johnny popped the trunk to show six brown paper bags set neat in a row, as if ready for lunchtime. Each of the men grabbed two bags. Johnny ran down the layout of the place where they were most likely to get more bang for the buck. The third floor was pretty much empty, but there was a room with a lot of scraps and trash in it. The fourth floor was gold, with old mattresses stacked ten feet high and ready to burn.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” Ray said.

  “Yes, Officer,” Johnny said, flicking at his badge. “But do you?”

  “I just want to do some good,” Ray said, heading toward the loading dock. He was just like the rest of them, would give up his left arm to be a firefighter. If he hadn’t gotten on with the cops first, he’d still be waiting for them to call his number. Instead, you had to be a fucking veteran, the son of a fireman, or some dummy minority. All of them could add so much to the department. All of them wanting to fight fires since they were kids.

  As the big rolling door slid back, Kevin recalled that little room in Lynn where he’d grown up. The stars and the moons on his blanket and the little red fire hat on the hook by the door. She was so sure he’d be part of it someday. The happiest days were after they’d look for fires, both of them coming up smelling like smoke, talking about what they’d seen and heard. Never talk about his father. He was nothing. He could never be a man like those in the department. Not like what Kevin would become.

  Kevin carried a sack in each hand and walked into the darkness, a small bit of light shining through the dirty industrial windows. He was to set both on the first floor. Johnny would call them on the walkie-talkie when it was time to set it off.

  Two years since he turned in his application. Two years of calling every month to see where he stood on the list. Still fifty ahead of him. None of them ready for the challenge like he was.

  Kevin sat on his haunches in the middle of the desolate building. It was warm inside, with trapped heat from the long summer day. He lit a cigarette and smoked a bit, taking in the big, cavelike space that smelled of mold and stagnant water. New boxed mattresses stacked ten to fifteen high as far as he could see. He watched the glowing tip of the cigarette and took a breath. Everything just seemed endless.

  “Now,” Johnny said. “Do it!”

  13

  Some might deem this entrapment,” I said.

  Hawk said, “Heard it was Give a Honkie a Donut Day.”

  “Is that a thing?” I said.

  “Is now.”

  I reached into the box from Kane’s and selected a cinnamon sugar. The selection was dazzling. Toasted coconut. Oreo sprinkles. Maple bacon. Since Kane’s had come from Saugus to the Financial District, I’d been unfaithful to my old standby.

  “Who eats meat on donuts?” Hawk said.

  “It’s not just meat,” I said. “It’s bacon. Bacon makes everything better.”

  Hawk nodded. We leaned against the brick wall above the marina at Rowes Warf. Hawk selected a coconut, careful not to get any shavings on his fitted T-shirt. It was the kind that wicked away sweat. In the late-afternoon heat, his face and bald head shone with perspiration.

  “What’s in it for me?” Hawk said.

  “C’mon,” I said. “How’d you know I needed a favor?”

  Hawk just looked at me. He reached for a donut and took off a healthy bite.

  “Arson case,” I said. “Looks like it’s circling back to Jackie DeMarco.”

  “Hot dog.”

  “And given our history with Jackie,” I said. “Well. You know.”

  “Ha,” Hawk said.

  I ate a donut, trying to make it last, and stared out into the harbor. It was late afternoon and the water was filled with motorboats, little speedboats, and yachts. The water ferry from Logan skitted along, churning waves, cutting a path to the Boston Harbor Hotel.

  “You think Jackie’s still holding a grudge?”

  “I shot two of his best men.”

  “If they were his best,” I said, “he might’ve traded up.”

  Hawk nodded. He wore a pair of dark Oakleys, but I felt a hard stare behind the Oakleys. He’d set his gym bag on the brick wall, the zipper open, showing a pair of blue Lonsdale mitts.

  “Insurance racket?”

  “Nope,” I said. “Jackie’s casting a hand over some property in a bad part of the South End.”

  “Someone wouldn’t pay up.” Hawk continued to stare from behind his sunglasses. As he chewed, a fleck of shaved coconut dropped on his shirt. He flicked it away as if it were a gnat. “We need to pay Jackie a visit?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “I’m still in the gathering phase. I’d prefer him not knowing about it.”

  Hawk shook his head. “Someone like DeMarco ain’t stopping with what he got,” he said. “If he’s moving out of Southie, man has delusions of grandeur. Wants to be his daddy or the new Joe Broz.”

  “He’ll have to work on his wardrobe.”

  Hawk snorted.

  “Only one?” I said. I nodded to the box with ten left.

  “The rest are for you, white boy,” Hawk said. “After all, it’s your day.”

  “You ever hear anything about DeMarco burning people out?”

  “Not my line of work, babe,” he said. “I’m not into subtlety.”

  Hawk reached for another donut anyway, a maple-bacon one. He smiled as he ate. It must’ve been good. Hawk rarely smiled.

  “Vinnie?” I said.

  Hawk licked his fingers. “Or Gino Fish.”

  “Gino isn’t what he used to be,” I said. “But Vinnie is more.”

  I rested forearms on the high wall looking over the harbor. Whe
n Hawk and I had been young, it was sometimes tougher outside on the street than in the boxing gym. A man had to walk with purpose if he wanted to keep his wallet. Now the expressway was a Greenway and blight was a thing of the past.

  Hawk hoisted his gym bag on his shoulder and left. I turned and kept looking out at the Boston Harbor, the light sailboats zipping to and fro without much effort. The sails full of wind and energy, speed, and power.

  In an effort to double my strength, I reached into the box Hawk had left for a second donut. Always prepared.

  14

  Vinnie Morris ran the business from an old bowling alley right off the Concord Pike. When I walked in, a fat guy in a Hawaiian shirt was cleaning rental shoes and singing an old Bonnie Tyler song. “‘Turn around, bright eyes,’” he sang. And then he continued the chorus. He didn’t need to contemplate his day job.

  He stopped singing, looked me over from head to toe, and then pointed up the staircase. The staircase was wide, metal, and mid-century mod. There were plastic plants and a painted mural of a ball hitting a strike. The pins exploding around it. The fat man kept on singing the same lines as I climbed the steps.

  Upstairs, Vinnie sat at an empty bar, talking on a landline. Two cell phones sat near a spiral notebook. A cigarette twirling smoke up into a paddle fan.

  He pointed to a nearby seat. I walked behind the bar and helped myself to a cup of coffee. Last time, he’d offered me grappa. I’d accepted and hence learned my lesson.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Okay. Okay. Fucking do it,” Vinnie said into the phone. He turned to me. “Hello, Spenser. Why don’t you just help yourself?”

  “Service with a smile.”

  He hung up the phone.

  “Bar opens at five.”

  “I never knew the bar to be open.”

  “It’s a new thing,” he said. “I mean, what the hell. Why not?”

  Vinnie was the most distinguished-looking thug I’d ever met. Salt-and-pepper hair. Clean-shaven lantern jaw. A medium-sized guy in middle age who kept himself trim. During a divorce, his wardrobe had devolved into track suits, but in the past couple years he was back to his old self. Today, he wore a tailored navy linen shirt, with linen pants the color of vanilla ice cream. An alligator had died to make his belt and shoes.