by Ace Atkins
“And who are you?”
“I’m that one in ten dentists who doesn’t approve of Matt’s toothpaste,” I said.
“Excuse me,” she said.
“It’s pretty urgent,” I said. “He has a lot invested in those pearly whites.”
The woman wiped her nose and eyed me, picking up the phone and telling Greebel that his dentist was here to see him. I winked at her, and she told me to take a seat. I didn’t feel like sitting and walked to one of the large windows and looked out onto the Financial District, the Quincy Market, and far into the North End. Looking out at the North End made me think of Mike’s Pastry and a peanut-butter cannoli.
I looked at my watch. Perhaps on my way home to check on Pearl.
“Who?” Greebel said, walking out from his office. He had on a white dress shirt, a blue power tie, and pleated black pants. He placed his hands on his hips and stared at me. “What do you want?”
“To continue our conversation.”
“There’s nothing to continue,” he said. “We’re done.”
“You and your client might be done,” I said. “But I’m not.”
“No offense,” Greebel said, scratching at his neck and looking to be in bad need of a shave. “But I really don’t give a fuck.”
I turned to his older, portly secretary. She was still snuffling into a Kleenex.
“He always talk like this?”
She shrugged and looked back to Greebel. Greebel eyed me, nodding, and appearing to be contemplating his next move.
“Gretchen, call security.”
She nodded and picked up the phone again. I walked away from the window and over to Greebel. I could smell his cologne within ten feet. As he stared at me, I noticed he had some lettuce stuck in his teeth.
“Sure you don’t want to talk first?”
“I’m sure,” he said. “I don’t usually run such small errands. You continue to harass me, and I’ll call the police.”
“You ran an errand down to Southie yesterday,” I said. “To harass the mother of Chloe Turner. Made me wonder why an attorney in a big high-rise is driving all around Boston to protect his client. Must be some client.”
“You have any more issues, take it up with the club.”
I smiled and walked up even closer to Greebel. His breath was most unpleasant. I detected both onions and tuna fish.
“The club isn’t your client,” I said. “You’re a fixer for Peter Steiner.”
He snorted. “Who?”
“Peter Steiner,” I said. “He had Chloe’s bag. He sent you and the cash. Did you help him on the rape case as well?”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“You will not harass Chloe Turner or her family ever again,” I said. “Nor will you harass any more of Peter Steiner’s victims.”
“Please.” Greebel gave a smug little chuckle.
“Or I’ll come back here,” I said. “And I will knock those caps right off your rotten teeth.”
“Go ahead,” he said. “Threaten me. You heard it, Gretchen. You heard it.”
Gretchen heard it. She nodded, phone still cradled to her chin.
“No intimidation, no payoffs, no more threats,” I said. “I’m coming for Peter.”
“You’re making a very big mistake.”
“Please threaten me with something more original.”
Greebel must have felt the lettuce in his teeth, as he used his pinkie to dislodge it. He inched closer to me, craning his neck to look up at me. The teeth, the unshaven jaw, the breath, and the cologne were hard to take. Yet I stood my ground.
“This is the big leagues, pal,” he said. “I checked up on you. You’re a minor-league slugger at best.”
“I would recheck my sources.”
“Ha,” he said. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Tell Steiner to keep it in his pants,” I said. “Or else I’ll tie it in a knot and hang it from the tallest branch of the Liberty Tree.”
“What?”
I smiled and began to whistle “The Sons of Liberty” on the way out. Johnny Tremain would be proud.
19
Hawk called me bright and early the next morning. I’d just walked into my office, turned on the lights, and set a cup of coffee on my desk. Puppy Pearl trailed behind me, sniffing under the couch for a squeaky toy she’d left on her last visit.
“You got donuts?” Hawk said.
“Contrary to wild and slanderous accusations, I don’t eat donuts every day.”
“Seems like a waste of time to climb those steps then.”
“Where are you?”
“Parked in the alley watching two ugly motherfuckers been watching your office since sunup.”
“Where are they?”
“Out front the Restoration Hardware in a big-ass black truck,” Hawk said. “Don’t think they shopping for drapes.”
I walked to my window and stared to where Berkeley Street had passed Boylston and on toward what was once, a long time ago, the Museum of Natural History.
“Who are they?”
“Don’t know,” Hawk said. “I got word from Tony that some serious money down on your white ass.”
“Nice to be wanted.”
“Not like this it ain’t,” he said. “Couple of sluggers in from Providence.”
“You want me to come down?” I said. “Or you want to come up?”
“You already said you ain’t got no donuts,” Hawk said. “Shit, man. Get with the program.”
I walked back to my desk, slid open my right-hand drawer, and extracted my new Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum. I slid it into my jacket pocket. Pearl found her squeaky toy, and in the tradition of her predecessor, plopped up on the couch and went to work.
“I can wait,” I said. “Make them sit for a while.”
“Or maybe, in twenty minutes, you decide to take a little drive.”
“To somewhere where we might communicate better?”
“Now we talking.”
I told him I’d head over the river to the boathouse at Magazine Beach. Hawk grunted. He seemed to like the idea.
“Across from the Shell sign,” Hawk said.
He clicked off before I could answer. I found a leather holster for my .38 and strapped it to my ankle. If I’d planned better, I would’ve removed my bazooka from storage and hoisted it onto my shoulder. Sluggers in from Providence deserved a warm welcome.
I drank my coffee and responded to a few messages. After ten minutes, I heard the outside door open and pulled the .357 at the ready.
It was Mattie. She held up her hands.
“Jesus Fucking Christ,” she said. “What are you? Nuts?”
I nodded toward the couch, where Pearl was working on the rubber toy and trying to get the remnants of peanut butter I’d slathered inside.
“Can you watch her?”
She nodded. I took the stairs down to my Land Cruiser, and the engine turned over with a mighty roar on the second try. Classics had style but were often temperamental.
I took Storrow over to the BU Bridge and Cambridge.
I had spotted the truck two blocks down Berkeley Street. It was a big black Chevy with a grill guard and camper over the bed. The driver was good, not overly aggressive, and I wasn’t completely sure it was them until I crossed the river. The traffic was light, and despite their best intentions, they had to stop behind me with a single car length between us. The windows were tinted.
It appeared he’d been too lazy to remove his snow tires from the winter.
I turned onto Memorial and soon pulled into the parking lot by the Riverside Boat Club. The large truck got caught at a light across the street while I crawled out of my car, stretched, and headed toward the boathouse.
It was a lovely early m
orning on the river. Most of the first-light joggers and dog walkers were gone, and all that remained was one old man in a scally cap sitting on a park bench under some tall trees. He was tossing peanuts to a squirrel. I didn’t see Hawk. But one didn’t often see Hawk. I knew he was there.
“Good day,” the old man said.
“We’ll soon find out.”
I took a leisurely stroll through the racing shells up on racks and on toward the river. A crew of female rowers headed down the Charles with a motorboat following close behind, words of encouragement shouted through a bullhorn. They pulled strong and hard onto the slick silver surface. A small wake headed to the rocky shoreline.
I stopped and stared across the river to the Mass Pike and on toward the stadium lights of Fenway. The air was warm and sluggish. Geese hunted for bugs around the reeds. I took in another breath of air, hand in my pocket feeling the .357 as another crew rowed out from under the River Street Bridge. Two men walked past the boathouse and between the shells and on toward the river.
One white. One black. Both had beards and wore sunglasses. The white man had on an army-green tank top. The black man wore a maroon-colored tropical shirt. Festive.
“Hey, asshole,” the white man said.
I didn’t move, as I wasn’t overly fond of his greeting.
“You,” the black man said. “Old man.”
I was really starting not to like these guys. I turned as they entered my personal space.
“Lovely morning,” I said. “Are you here to feed the squirrels or geese?”
“You’re that guy they call Spenser?” the white man said. “You don’t look so tough.”
“Same could go for you,” I said. “You should go up in size on that tank top. Makes your belly look like the Pillsbury Doughboy.”
“Oh, yeah?” the white man said.
“Fuck him up, Buddy,” the black man said.
Buddy’s tank top didn’t do much to hide his belly or the clear outline of a pistol tucked under the tank and into a pair of camo cargo shorts. From over their shoulders, I watched a silver Jaguar slide into the parking lot, the engine purring low and effortless.
“Yeah, Buddy,” I said. “Fuck me up.”
“From now on, mind your own goddamn business,” the black man said.
Buddy took a big step toward me and moved into a fighting stance. He lifted his chin at me. “Come on, old man.”
“You guys the best Greebel could find?”
“Who the fuck is Greebel?” Buddy said.
“Peter Steiner?”
They didn’t answer. The black man looked to me and shook his head. He turned and spit as Buddy took a step toward me. It was too close for my liking, and I bopped him twice, very hard and very fast, on the schnoz. Blood ran down to his chin, but he moved forward undeterred. He wiped the blood and flicked it away with his fingers.
“Fuck him up, Buddy. Kill his ass.”
Buddy feinted a right to my midsection, and I countered with a fist to his throat. He landed a solid punch to my right ear, hard enough that I could hear the Bells of St. Mary’s. The man was close enough to smell, which was most unpleasant, and I head-butted him twice, knocking him from his center of gravity and back on his heels.
There was a hard snick of a gun. And Buddy stopped to catch his breath.
“Now you gonna stand there and take the beating, old man,” the black man said. “You understand? Take that shit.”
I saw Hawk only slightly before they did. He had slipped into a crisp Burberry trench coat, long enough to hide the sawed-off 12-gauge in his hands.
“Hey, young brother,” Hawk said. “Drop that gun. Down on your knees. Hands on your head.”
The younger man started to argue. But when he turned to Hawk, he nodded and did as he was told.
Hawk kicked the gun away, found a park bench along the path, and took a seat. He had the shotgun trained on the man’s back. He looked up to me and Buddy and said, “Continue.”
“What?” Buddy said.
“Y’all got paid to kick this man’s ass,” Hawk said. “Just giving you the space and opportunity.”
“His name is Buddy,” I said.
“Course it is,” Hawk said. “Bud-dy.”
Buddy let out a long breath, shook his hands, and then lifted them as fists. He motioned to me again with his head, a gesture I found most annoying. He stood maybe two inches taller and probably weighed eighty pounds more than me. His beard was big and burly like a logger from Oregon or a hipster from Brooklyn. He smiled as he circled me, and I noticed the glint of a gold incisor.
He grunted and came toward me, arms flailing. He landed one against the meat of my left shoulder and I tapped another on his bloody nose and two in his stomach. His stomach was large but not altogether soft, and the blows didn’t seem to have much of an impact.
“Come on, Buddy,” Hawk said. “Teach this man a lesson.”
I saw Hawk in my peripheral vision and shook my head.
“Man’s old,” Hawk said. “Probably needs one of them Rascal motor scooters.”
Buddy came at me again, loose and fast, hands flailing. I reached out and grabbed his thick hair and collared him into a headlock. He was strong, but not strong enough, and I twisted him down hard and fast into the pathway like a prized steer. I held Buddy’s head in the crook of my arm and squeezed in an attempt to unscrew his head from his body. I had on jeans and Red Wings that morning and walked the man counterclockwise into a subservient hold that would’ve brought admiration from Gorgeous George.
Down the pathway, I saw the old man feeding the squirrels had moved closer onto another green bench. His entire body turned to us as he cracked a peanut and ate it.
When Buddy’s face began to turn a bright shade of purple, his partner took exception.
“Let him go,” his partner said. “Shit, man. Let him go.”
Hawk stood and walked close to the man with his hands on his head. He pressed the end of the 12-gauge against the back of his head. “Shhh,” Hawk said.
Hawk pulled the gun from Buddy’s waist as he struggled to breathe. Hawk tossed the pistol far into the river. So far, I didn’t even hear a plop.
“Got to admire the progressive nature of these fools,” Hawk said.
“White and black,” I said, loosening my hold by a millimeter.
“Ebony and ivory,” Hawk said. “Y’all had enough? Ready to head back to Little Rhody? Had enough big-city fun?”
I let go of Buddy’s head and stood up. He moved into a seated position and gasped for breath.
The black man, still on his knees, stared at Hawk. He looked away and shook his head, spitting again.
“Nobody told me you’d be here,” the young black man said.
“You know who I am?” Hawk said.
The black man nodded. Buddy tried to stand, but I kicked his feet out from under him and told him to stay still. He sat back down hard. He looked up at me and tried to muster a hard look without success.
“Me and this white boy an old-school tag team,” Hawk said. “Your ass ready?”
The black man looked down at his partner and shook his head. “Naw, man,” he said. “Not you.”
Hawk turned and tossed the black man’s gun into the river. This time I heard a heavy plop.
“Long ride back to Providence,” Hawk said.
“Might I recommend a book on tape?” I said.
Hawk nodded. “How to Lose Friends and Not Influence People.”
Hawk pointed the shotgun at both men, explained the damage it could do at close range, and told them to run, not walk, back to their truck. They did as they were told. Hawk slid the shotgun up into its hiding place in his trench coat.
“An overcoat in June?” I said.
“You think I’m too eccentric for Cambridge?”
“Not by a long shot.”
As we passed the old man on the park bench, he looked up and cracked a peanut. He stared at me and Hawk and tipped his scally cap.
“How’d we do?” I said.
“Nice show,” the old man said, lifting his sack of peanuts to me.
I took a handful and offered a few to Hawk while we walked away.
“Maybe we should join the circus,” Hawk said.
“Plenty of time,” I said.
20
Later that afternoon, I took Pearl home and changed out the bloody shirt for a fresh one before meeting Rita Fiore at Legal at Long Wharf. She was waiting at the bar, keeping the full attention of the bartender who appeared to be rightfully taken with his customer.
“What are we drinking?” I said.
“A mojito,” Rita said.
I ordered a Sam Adams on draft and an ice water.
“Ice water?” she said.
“Had an early-morning workout.”
Rita looked as stunning as always. She had on a black pencil skirt that hit right above her knees and a cream-colored silk top that showed off her arms and highlighted her other assets. Her red hair was pinned up on top of her head, and she wore a pair of emerald earrings bigger than a cat’s eye. She smelled like Paris in April.
“What’s the occasion?” she said.
“I hadn’t seen you in a while.”
“How’s the background work coming?”
“It’s coming.”
“But you’re not done?”
“Close,” I said. “But no cigar.”
Rita sipped on her mojito. There was a lot of fresh mint nestled among the crushed ice. I knew it probably looked much better than it tasted. I never cared for mojitos. The bartender brought me the beer and winked at Rita. Rita winked back at him.
“Flirting in my presence,” I said. “I’m hurt.”
“You’ll always be my number-two backup.”
“Number two?”
“Sixkill has moved to the top of the charts.”
I grasped my heart to let her know how much she’d wounded me. “I grow old, I grow old,” I said. “I shall wear the bottom of my trousers rolled.”