Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn

by Ace Atkins

“How is it, working for Jackie?” I said. “Does he provide dental?”

  The guy with mean, sleepy eyes smiled. Many teeth were yellow. The others were gold.

  “Guess not.”

  “Buzz off.”

  “I’m sure Killer Kowalski can try to clean and jerk me over to the Navy Yard,” I said. “But here isn’t the place.”

  Mean Eyes stepped to me and grabbed my arm. I punched him right in his bad dental work, causing his head to snap back, and he faltered a bit. Killer Kowalski stepped forward and wrapped my body in a bear hug. His strength was substantial. A short Hispanic man ran in front of his scallops and oysters in an effort to protect them.

  Shoppers stepped back as Mean Eyes charged me. I leaned in to Kowalski and kicked Mean Eyes onto his backside. Kowalski hugged tighter, and it became difficult to breathe.

  I rocked my head back into his face several times. His grip loosened and I slipped free. Mean Eyes reached into his coat and I kicked him in the stomach, scattering his gun across the sidewalk. A pile of aluminum tubes lay in a neat pile by the tent. I picked one up and held it like Big Papi, moving toward Killer Kowalski. The wittiest thing I could think of was “Okay, let’s go.”

  He smiled and stepped forward. I swung and hit him in the neck. I swung again and connected with his head. The tube made a hollow musical sound as it connected with bone. Killer was unfazed. He had dark skin and black eyes. With the tailored suit and big gold watch, he had the appearance of a pro athlete. His muscles swelled in the tailored suit.

  I stepped forward, fist raised.

  To my amazement, he did the same, and we began to circle each other like a couple of stray dogs.

  People were screaming now. Someone was yelling for the cops. Blood rushed into my ears and my vision narrowed. My body felt light and loose and I wanted to hit the man again and again. Mean Eyes jumped on my back and I turned backward and ran him into the big table of shellfish. The table broke; ice and shellfish scattered. The Hispanic owner yelled that he was calling the cops, too.

  I got back on my feet.

  People in the market scattered as we fought. I searched for the aluminum pole but could not find it. I tasted blood in my mouth as I stepped forward. He was a few inches taller than me and about the girth of an American brown bear. If I got close to his body, he’d get me to the ground. Never let a bear get the upper hand.

  I stepped forward, throwing a right, and he ducked it. He came up with a right and connected. I saw stars popping and stepped back. My breathing was very good. My newly reconstructed knee worked great. He was no more to me than just a thick heavy bag. I stepped in with a combination on his body. My blows were fast and hard but seemed to show no effect on him. He countered with a barrage that brought tears to my eyes.

  I stepped back, fists raised. I threw a right and a hook. The hook connected. He nodded in appreciation. His eye began to bleed. The man almost seemed to enjoy it.

  It was only us. Wind rushed down Blackstone Street, fluttering the tents. I heard sirens way off. I landed a hard right. He landed two quick jabs in my ribs. They hurt a great deal.

  Just as it was about to get interesting, Mean Eyes stepped in with a gun. Killer tried to wave him off. The man wanted more.

  Hawk entered the alley. Both men looked to him. And then at each other. They turned, but not before Killer wiped the blood from his busted eye and nodded. I attempted to catch my breath as they turned and walked away with purpose.

  “Who the hell was that?” I said.

  “New blood,” Hawk said.

  There were sirens coming close. The Hispanic man was calling me unpleasant names in Spanish. Hawk grabbed my elbow and turned me away from the market and out of the alley.

  24

  My hand was in a bucket of ice.

  Tyler King was seated in a chair before me. I’d already assaulted two men in a very public place. Why not add kidnapping to the mix? Z had insisted Tyler join us after he’d made a drop of some kind at the Quincy Market. Z had a small bruise under one eye. King had several more. Hawk leaned against a concrete wall and waited by a metal door.

  We were in a storage cellar around the corner from a bar where Z worked as a bouncer. Z wore jeans, work boots, and a black T-shirt with the sleeves cut out. It read ROCKY BOY, MONTANA ALL-STARS.

  “Go fuck yourself,” Tyler said.

  “Witty,” Hawk said.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  Hawk didn’t move. He stood in the shadow with shades on. “Hawk,” he said.

  Tyler swallowed. He had dirty hands, grease under his stubby fingernails. He wore a green Sox cap like they pass out free on St. Paddy’s Day. I stepped in closer and got a good look at his neck tattoo. Mickey Mouse extending his middle finger.

  “What the hell?” he said. “Why’re you busting my nuts? What’d I ever do to you?”

  “We work for Disney,” I said. “I know a lawyer there. Did you realize you’re guilty of copyright infringement?”

  I turned to Hawk. He started to whistle “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah.”

  “Song of the South.”

  “Yes, suh,” Hawk said.

  Z smiled. Hawk and I had perfected our act long ago. We were the Martin and Lewis of beating the crap out of people. My hand hurt. My ribs hurt. Jackie DeMarco had definitely traded up in his hired help.

  “Who sent you?” Tyler said. “Christ. You can’t stick a fucking gun in a guy’s back and knock him around until he talks. This ain’t some Arab country. Shit. We got rights here.”

  “Sure,” I said. “But how about a little talk. Or else my associates here might take you out on a deep-sea fishing trip and use you as bait.”

  “Bullshit,” Tyler said. “Hawk does shit for money. How much money do you want to let me go?”

  Hawk shook his head. “This ain’t for pay.”

  “How about you, Pancho Villa?” Tyler said, looking to Z. “I’ll give you a lot of pesos.”

  “I’m full-blooded Cree,” Z said, muscular arms crossed over his chest. “We get paid in scalps.”

  Tyler swallowed again and turned his eyes up to me. He looked at me and nodded and said, “What do you want?”

  “I want to know why Jackie DeMarco had you burn that church in the South End.”

  “What the fuck?” Tyler said. He began to laugh. “I got no freakin’ idea what you’re talking about. He didn’t burn a goddamn church.”

  Hawk stepped up out of the shadows and into a slice of light. Tyler looked up into the light and blinked. I held up a hand for him to wait. Hawk took a step back. There was a single bulb in the room shining on many boxes of liquor. A wino’s dream.

  “Jackie wanted to send a message,” I said, “after he started cutting into Gino Fish’s territory.”

  Tyler narrowed his eyes and shook his head. “Who the fuck is a Gino Fish?”

  I shook my head at his lack of understanding of local history. My hand rattled around in the ice. I pulled it out and examined it. My knuckles were fat and getting fatter. I stuck it back in the bucket. My ribs ached with each breath. I figured a couple might’ve been cracked.

  “I can hit him,” Z said. “I’d like to hit him again.”

  Tyler winced and turned his head. Z grinned, standing tall and still.

  “Why’d you have me followed?” I said.

  Tyler jacked his head up at me. He stared at me and yelled, “I got no fucking idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Two guys,” I said. “Black SUV picked me up before we went into the tunnel. You called ahead after you got tipped I was coming.”

  Tyler snored. “Nobody tipped nobody.”

  “Double negative,” Hawk said. “A terrible reflection of today’s education system.”

  I held up my swelling hand and said, “We met,” I said. “They told me. One of them looked like he just esc
aped a traveling circus.”

  “So fucking what?” Tyler said. He smiled, pleased that his connection to DeMarco was now public knowledge.

  Z looked to Hawk. Hawk stayed by the door. Outside, you could hear the late-afternoon bustle around Faneuil Hall and the market. People yelling and hooting. Ready to party on a Friday night. Two-for-one cocktails. Guinness on tap. Jell-O shooters for everyone.

  “Go ahead and scream,” Z said. “Nobody gives a shit.”

  I looked to Z and nodded. Z walked up to Tyler King and snatched up a good bit of his shirt. Z pulled back his arm, which when coiled resembled Secretariat’s hind leg.

  “They were with me,” Tyler said. “But nobody tipped me. I saw you over at the Muscle Factory and then over at the packie. You got a blue Explorer. I know fucking cars. It’s my goddamn job.”

  “Nope,” I said. “You got tipped. You were waiting for me.”

  “Believe what you want.”

  “All we want to know is about the fire,” I said. “I know what you do for Jackie. And I know why you burned the church. You lit it in the cellar in two places and then hauled ass in that alley. I saw you on surveillance tape. You can either talk to me about it. Or I’d be more than fine calling the police.”

  “Call ’em,” Tyler said. “And I’ll sue the fucking Mex for assault and kidnapping.”

  “Cree,” Z said. And then he punched him once but very effectively in the face.

  “I don’t know nothing about no fucking church fire,” Tyler said. He spit out some blood. “Mr. DeMarco wouldn’t ever touch a church. Are you nuts? He goes to Mass every Sunday with his wife and kids. That’s some crazy bad luck.”

  “It wasn’t going to be a church anymore,” I said. “The archdiocese had sold it. It was sold to a man named Herbie Wu.”

  “Am I not speaking English?” Tyler said. “I got no fucking idea. How many ways can I say it?”

  “Then tell DeMarco I want to talk,” I said. “You set the fire. But he called it.”

  “Jesus Christ, man,” Tyler said. “You can beat the crap out of me. Toss me in the ocean. Do what you want. But that doesn’t change that we didn’t burn no fucking church. Now either let’s get down to the beatin’ or let me fucking go.”

  No one spoke for a good thirty seconds. My hand swelled with each breath. The storage room was small and tight. I felt empty and hollow after the adrenaline surge of the fight. I looked down to Tyler and his small, hard eyes.

  “Let him go.”

  Z didn’t seem pleased. But Hawk held open the door. Light poured into the dark room and Tyler stumbled to his feet.

  “Jackie won’t like this,” Tyler said. “Jackie ain’t gonna forget this one goddamn bit.”

  After he left, Hawk closed the door. We gathered like bugs under the single warehouse light. Hawk shook his head. “Mmm.”

  “You believe him,” I said. “Don’t you?”

  Hawk nodded.

  I looked up to Z. He shrugged in agreement. “Now what?”

  “Wait for the best-laid plans to unravel.”

  “Or Jackie DeMarco to shoot your ass,” Hawk said.

  “Yes,” I said. “Or that.”

  Rob Featherstone was a Spark. He’d been a Spark for maybe twenty years, running the fire museum and handing out coffee when he wasn’t playing with his model trains. He was a tall bald guy, with what hair he had left dyed jet black on his freckled head. “My back,” he’d say. “If I hadn’t screwed up my back, I’d been a Boston firefighter. All I ever wanted since I was a kid in Brockton.”

  Featherstone had cornered Kevin at the Scandinavian, right as he was about to hang it up for the night. Two more fires, this time set by Johnny and Big Ray. Kevin had followed the fires, gone back for a cup of black coffee before getting home. He had an early day of work at the Home Depot.

  “He’s freakin’ nuts,” Featherstone said. “Crazy as a shithouse rat. I don’t want to say nothin’ bad about him. I just want you to know who you’re dealing with.”

  “Who?”

  “Who the hell you think?” he said. “Fucking Johnny Donovan. You’re a young guy. Impressionable. What are you, twenty-one? Hadn’t you taken the fire exam?”

  “Twice.”

  “Yeah,” Featherstone said. “And maybe next time you’ll pass, you know? You don’t want Johnny Donovan anywhere around you. He’s bad, bad news. Tried to join up with us five years ago and we wouldn’t have him. The way he rides around in that red Chevy, misrepresenting himself as a real-life jake. I mean, come on. He’s like a crazy uncle I once had who thought he was Napoleon. Wore military outfits and the whole deal before they sent him off to Bridgewater.”

  “Don’t worry about me.”

  “He’s got the crazy eyes, Kevin,” he said. “I’ve seen it. And that fucking guy Ray. I know he’s a cop, but the department up there has no use for him. They been wanting to shit-can him for four years. He knows he doesn’t have much time. It just pains me, seeing you sitting there with those two. Bad news.”

  “Okay.” Kevin got up to leave. “Thanks.”

  Featherstone held up a hand. “Wait,” he said. “There’s more. I want to ask you something.”

  Kevin waited.

  “Has either one of those two talked to you about all these fires?”

  Kevin took a breath. He started to sweat. But kept it cool, breaking off a piece of donut and shrugging. “Not really. Why?”

  “Something happened the other night,” Featherstone said. “At that triple-decker fire. Something that got me thinking.”

  Kevin studied the man’s face and the ink-black hair sticking out from the side of his head. “I don’t know,” Featherstone said. “As soon as that fire started, there was another one. On Dot Ave. At an old warehouse. You know?”

  “I heard something about it.”

  “Two set off back to back,” Featherstone said. “Just got me thinking, is all.”

  “Thinking about what?”

  Featherstone leaned back in the booth. He shrugged and rubbed the top of his bald head before leaning in and saying, “I saw Johnny’s red car at that warehouse the night before. I didn’t think much of it. Isn’t he in security or some shit?”

  “Yeah,” Kevin said. “He’s got a lot of contracts to watch old buildings. It’s what he does.”

  “Just doesn’t set right with me, is all,” Featherstone said. “Him being crazy and then seeing his car. I just wanted to warn you before I tip the boys.”

  “The boys?”

  “Arson,” Featherstone said. “They should talk to him. Even if he didn’t have nothing to do with it, he’d know something about the building.”

  Kevin felt his breath catch in his throat. He stopped chewing his donut.

  “Just stay clear, buddy boy,” Featherstone said, sliding out. “Don’t get the shit splattered on you.”

  Kevin nodded and smiled. Featherstone left the pastry shop, a low buzzing of fluorescent lights overhead. He looked to the cash register to make sure the woman working there was in back. He picked up the phone and called Johnny Donovan. It was nearly two a.m.

  He picked up on the first ring.

  “What?”

  “We got some trouble.”

  25

  The cops came for me the next morning. Thankfully, I’d just changed into a fresh T-shirt and jeans, replacing a butterfly bandage on my right eye. Feeling fine and somewhat dandy, I walked down my steps onto Marlborough and spotted Frank Belson leaning against a black unmarked unit. The rear door was wide open. Belson absently puffed on a cigar and waved me inside.

  “And if I refuse?”

  “You won’t get to meet the new boss,” Frank said. “And I’d really hate to miss that.”

  I shook my head and crawled into the backseat. Belson slammed the door, put out his cigar, and got behind the
wheel. We drove off in the opposite direction of the Public Garden before he took Berkeley over to Storrow. It was past rush hour and the road had yet to become clogged. Belson followed the Esplanade as a middle-aged woman in the passenger seat turned around to me and said, “Just what the fuck do you think you’re doing, getting into a wrestling match at the farmers’ market?”

  “Tea Party Museum was too far of a walk.”

  “You can’t pull crap like that anymore,” she said. “Tourists took video of you with their cell phones. You’re gonna be very popular on YouTube.”

  “Spenser, this is Captain Glass,” Belson said. “She doesn’t like me smoking in the car, either.”

  “And I don’t give any free passes to aging thugs who drink beer with cops.”

  I met Belson’s eye in the rearview mirror and raised my eyebrows. “Sometimes Frank and I drink cheap bourbon.”

  Glass had shoulder-length brown hair and green, unsmiling Irish eyes. Her skin was the color of milk, which contrasted with her black silk blouse. She wore a small gold cross on a lightweight gold chain around her neck and just a trace of red lipstick.

  “You were easy to spot,” Glass said. “But so was the other man.”

  “The other man who we understand attacked you,” Belson said. “Right?”

  “That’s right, Officer,” I said. “He came out of nowhere.”

  “However it happened,” Glass said, “several vendors want to press charges against you and the other man.”

  “Send the bill to Jackie DeMarco,” I said.

  Belson turned off at Mass Ave and doubled back down Commonwealth. I took it as a good sign we weren’t headed south to police headquarters. The direction meant this was a meet and greet and not an arrest. Had it been night, I might have thanked my lucky stars.

  “I should feel honored they sent Homicide to pick me up,” I said. “However, the last time I saw the big guy, he was still breathing.”

  “His name is Davey Stefanakos,” Belson said. “He’s got a rap sheet that looks like the Encyclopedia Britannica. Before he got into the life, he was in the Army and did a lot of that mixed martial arts crap.”