Murder in the Charlestown Bricks: A Dermot Sparhawk Crime Novel

by Tom MacDonald

  I thought about the gun attack. It had to be Bo Murray. I called Harraseeket Kid and left a message about the barrage of bullets and the shot-up windows.

  17

  Skeeter Gruskowski drove his red Corvette convertible with alloy mags over the Broadway Bridge into South Boston and parked in front of the Aces & Eights, a tired-looking place with graying shingles and sagging gutters. He went inside and nodded to the bartender, Gage Lauria, who was wearing a black sweat suit with white piping, classy by Aces & Eights standards. Skeeter removed his Ray-Ban sunglasses and tossed them on the bar, making sure they landed with a clunk.

  “What’s with the fancy shades?” Gage asked.

  “Like ’em?” Skeeter said.

  Gage scoffed and served a customer. Skeeter looked out the back window. An inbound commuter train crawled along the tracks, and beyond the tracks, a cluster of traffic choked the expressway, but the skies were blue and the trees were greening.

  “Hey, Gage.” Skeeter held out his wrist. “Like my new Rolex?”

  “Rolodex?” Gage laughed.

  “Not Rolodex, you dickhead, Rolex, it’s imported from Geneva, Switzerland, cost me thirty-five hundred.”

  “Is that what the guy in the trench coat told you, that it came from Switzerland?”

  “Fuck you, asshole. It’s real, the oyster dial and everything.”

  “Sure, sure, whatever you say, Skeeter.” Gage chuckled and loaded the dishwasher. “The Rembrandt on my calendar is real, too.”

  On the flat-screen TV the Red Sox were playing the White Sox in Chicago. The Chicago skies were blue, too. Skeeter ate a handful of pretzels and ordered a beer. Gage, a trim man of forty, with thick brown hair and an athlete’s build, poured a mug of draft and rested it on the bar.

  “Not that piss.” Skeeter pushed it away. “Give me a Heineken, ice cold with a glass.”

  “Did you hit the lottery or something?”

  “Sort of,” Skeeter said, as he put a prescription bottle on the bar. “Nitroglycerin, in case my heart flairs up again.”

  “It’s a good thing you have imported beer to wash it down.”

  “You don’t swallow it. It dissolves under your tongue.” Skeeter drank some Heineken, burped, and then startled Gage when he asked, “Are you up for a road trip?”

  “A road trip? What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talkin’ Route 66, the Mother Road. I love that song ‘I Get My Kicks on Route 66’ Remember the lyrics? Flagstaff, Arizona. Don’t forget Winona?” Skeeter hummed and sang out, “And Oklahoma City is mighty pretty.”

  “Quit singing. You sound like an idiot.” Gage dried his hands on a bar towel. “What the fuck are you on today, a batch of bad acid?”

  “A natural high, a Highway 66 high! We can see it all, Gage, Saint Looey, the Texas Panhandle, Santa Monica Pier. Wanna join me?”

  “Yeah sure, Skeeter, sign me up, crazy man.”

  “I’m serious,” Skeeter said. “I’m going to Route 66, gonna drive it from beginning to end, and I want you to come with me.”

  Gage folded the bar towel the long way and draped it over the faucet. “I can barely swing the rent. It’s not like the old days with the longshoremen.”

  “Those were good days, weren’t they? We raked it in back then.”

  “Yeah, back then. Now I’m pouring foam for pocket change.”

  “At least you’re not making license plates anymore,” Skeeter said. “What if I paid your rent for a couple of months, you know, advanced it to you? That way you can go on the trip.”

  “Cut the shit.” Gage propped his hands on the bar and leaned forward. “You’ve lost it. You went over the edge.”

  “I haven’t lost it, I came into some money,” Skeeter said. “I can lend it to you, no sweat.”

  “Sure you can.” Gage picked up his tip jar and gave it a shake. The coins jingled freely, with no bills to get in the way. “And just how am I’m supposed to pay you back?”

  “Hmm, an apt question.” Skeeter peeled the Heineken label with his thumbnail. “Forget about paying it back. My treat, the whole shebang, I’ll cover everything.”

  “You can’t afford that.”

  “Sure I can.” Skeeter laid a $100 bill on the bar. “Keep the change.”

  “A hundred?”

  “Follow me.” Skeeter opened the barroom door and pointed to the red Corvette convertible. “Ain’t she a beauty?”

  “You can’t be serious.” Gage shouldered the door to keep it open. “No way it’s yours.”

  “Wanna bet?” Skeeter pressed the fob and the car tweeted. “I bought it on the Auto Mile, out there in Norwood. I told the suit I wanted the best ’vette on the lot.”

  “What the fuck’s going on?” The expression on Gage’s face changed from skeptical to baffled. “Where did you get it?”

  “I told you, the Auto Mile.”

  “Not the car, knucklehead, the money. You live in the projects, for Christ’s sake.”

  “I’m taking a break from the bricks.” Skeeter opened a checkbook. “What’s your rent?”

  “A checkbook?” Gage stared at it. “In a leather case?”

  “How much?”

  “Nine hundred a month.”

  “I’ll pay four months ahead.” Skeeter filled in $3,600. “Who do I make it out to?”

  Gage Lauria’s mouth hung open in disbelief. “Better make it out to me,” he said. “The landlord likes cash.”

  “Got it.” Skeeter handed him the check. “Don’t worry, the funds are in there. Now you can go on the trip”

  “Not so fast.” Gage tucked he check into his pocket. “Where did you get it, Skeeter? I don’t wanna be in the middle of Flagstaff when a bunch of Feds close in on us. I’ve had my fill of the Feds.”

  “I know you have. You stood up on that one.”

  “Stood up, my ass. I was a patsy for the union.” Gage’s voice grew louder with each word. “The money?”

  “Okay, okay, I’ll tell you. I came into a small fortune, ten grand to be exact, and I took it to Foxwoods and turned it into a big fortune, six hundred grand.”

  “Fuck off, Skeeter.”

  “Look at this.” Skeeter took a document from his pocket. “Here’s the title to the car. There’s my name, Craig Gruskowski. And here’s the receipt. The car is paid in full.”

  “Gimme those.” Gage studied them. “Jesus, it is paid in full.”

  “I’m not conning you.” Skeeter slapped him on the shoulder. “Are you in or not?”

  “What about your heart?”

  “My heart’ll be fine. I cut back on the cigars, started drinking light beer.”

  “You’re a regular health nut.”

  “So what do you say, Gage?” Skeeter urged. “Where’s your Sicilian sense of adventure? You can do it, I know you can.”

  “Maybe.” Gage looked inside the Aces & Eights. One of the patrons was slumped on a barstool, muttering about his sainted Irish mother. Another was passed out in a booth, his face in a pool of beer. Across the street a construction crew was busy erecting a new building, and next to the building a trendy bar had just opened. A man wearing a suit went into the new bar. Gage said, “Okay, I’m in. I’ll go on the trip.”

  “Yes!” Skeeter yelled. “I’ll buy you a Swiss watch, just like the one I got.”

  “I don’t want a watch,” Gage said, and then quickly added, “but I’ll take an iPhone.”

  “You got it.”

  The deal was done. Skeeter and Gage would be taking a road trip across America. Gage went into the Aces & Eights, returning to the stink of defeat, where the highpoint of the day was punching out. Skeeter drove back to the Charlestown projects, where he ended up after he gambled away everything.

  Three days later, after the check had cleared, Skeeter Gruskowski picked up Gage Laur
ia in front of the Aces & Eights, handed him a coffee, and said, “First stop Chicago, Illinois, the headwaters of Route 66.”

  “I’ve never been to Chicago before, even when I was playing college ball,” Gage said. “We played Marquette once, but that was in Milwaukee.”

  “Tomorrow it’s Wrigley Field for the Cubs and Cardinals. I got us two primo seats right behind the Cubs dugout.” Skeeter tossed Gage a box. “Your new iPhone, ready to go.”

  Gage said thanks and tore it open. They drove up Dorchester Avenue to the Broadway Bridge and ramped onto the Mass Pike west, heading for Chicago and Route 66.

  18

  I called Cheyenne Starr and I asked her if she’d like to join me for dinner. She said yes and asked where we were going. I told her about a place in Randolph, a classy trattoria called Caffe Bella. She asked what she should wear, and I drew a blank. She might as well have asked me who won the 1907 Kentucky Derby. I answered the question by not answering it. I told her that I’d be wearing a shirt with a collar, and shoes, not sneakers. She laughed and told me she’d be ready at six o’clock.

  We arrived at Caffe Bella at seven and the place was packed. The bar was three deep with patrons vying for libation. The wait time for a table was forty minutes, but the awaiting customers wouldn’t have cared if it was four hours, once they got a drink. The maître d’, a man with an Irish face and a booming voice, came up to us and said our table was ready. Had he made a mistake? He led us to the rear of the dining area and sat us under a tapestry of a winemaking scene in an Italian vineyard. We were secluded in a semi-alcove, almost like a private room, but with the energy of being out on the town. I palmed him twenty, and he said, “Angel told me to take care of you. I’ll split it with her.”

  I glanced at the bar and sure enough Angel the beautiful bartender was on duty, pouring beer and mixing drinks. I caught her eye and nodded a thank you. I had been to Caffe Bella once before when I met a key witness here, and the witness’s information busted open a case I was working on. The witness happened to be Angel’s friend.

  A fortyish waitress with a taut, curvaceous build came to the table to take our order. She didn’t walk so much as shift, her hips swaying with power. I didn’t stare, but she was impossible to miss. Cheyenne, who didn’t seem to notice her, ordered a Caesar’s Salad with shaved grana pandano and grilled salmon. I asked for the sauté pan, a hearty meal served in a saucepan loaded with Cape Cod little necks, PEI mussels, and Italian sausages, cooked in a marinara that couldn’t be topped. We both ordered Cokes, mine without ice.

  When the waitress left, I asked Cheyenne about her day. She told me she spent most of it inside the Nashua Street Jail, working with the inmates. Her eyes lit up when she talked about her work.

  “I just love what I’m doing.” She smiled and touched my arm. “I feel like I found my purpose in life. Does that sound corny?”

  “No, not all. You’re lucky you love what you do.”

  “I agree.”

  She held my hand until the waitress returned with a wicker basket of homemade breads and dipping oil. Cheyenne asked me about my day and I gave her the abridged version, telling her about the people I interviewed while canvassing the neighborhood.

  “You really got around. I can’t believe you talked to all those people. So, what’s next, Dermot?”

  I loved it when she called me Dermot.

  “Victor Diaz’s sister, Ester, is next,” I said. “She has an insanely jealous boyfriend who lives with her, so I have to talk to her at work.”

  “Where does she work?”

  “Keldara Salon and Spa in Dedham,” I said.

  Cheyenne dipped the bread in the oil and popped it in her mouth. “Mmm, this is so good. Did you book an appointment at Keldara?”

  “No, I don’t need a haircut.”

  “A haircut? You don’t go to a place called Keldara Spa and Salon for a haircut. You go for shampoo and styling, or a facial.”

  “The last time I got a facial the man was wearing boxing gloves.”

  “Glad I missed that one. Hang on.” She punched up her cell phone and put it to her ear.

  “Who are you calling?” I asked.

  “Dedham, Massachusetts,” she said into the phone. “Keldara Salon and Spa.”

  “They’re probably closed.”

  “Got the number, let’s see.” A second later she said. “Keldara?” Cheyenne smiled and winked. “I’d like to make an appointment with Ester. Two, actually.” She paused. “Tomorrow at four o’clock is fine. The name is Sparhawk.” She ended the call and looked at me. “Maybe I can be your assistant P.I.”

  “You’re hired.” I leaned across the table and kissed her, and she kissed me back. I almost levitated out of my chair.

  The waitress was back again. She handed me another napkin and said, “Use it as a bib or you’ll ruin your shirt. The sauté pan is a hands-on meal, not for the delicate eater.”

  I tucked it into my collar and started to eat, but my eyes kept going to Cheyenne, with her big brown eyes and full cheeks, all a blend of symmetry. After the meal, the waitress served coffee and pointed to my bib. “See what I mean?’ The cloth was dotted with so much red it looked like I needed a cut man. I thanked her and she went away smiling.

  “What will you ask Ester?” Cheyenne said.

  “I’ll ask her about Victor’s accomplice.” I drank some coffee. “He’s the key to the case, at least that’s my theory. I’ll ask her if Victor has a girlfriend, and if he does, I’ll want to talk to her. Women in love tend to spill.”

  “Tend to spill?” Cheyenne laughed and tipped her head back.

  “What? What did I say?”

  “You sound like a detective from a 1950s P.I. movie.” She looked at me. “My father and I watch those old films. He has all the DVDs.”

  “I love the film-noir genre, too, especially the old black-and-whites with Robert Mitchum and Joseph Cotten.”

  “My father is a big Mitchum fan,” Cheyenne said. “He loved the movie with Deborah Kerr as a nun, Heaven Knows, Mr. Allison.”

  “Not to one-up you, but my father chauffeured Mitchum during the filming of The Friends of Eddie Coyle. He just got back from Vietnam and needed work, and the Teamsters put him on as a temp limo driver. Mitchum and Chief got hammered a few times with the Winter Hill Gang. I have a great photo of them.”

  “Was your father a member of the Winter Hill Gang?”

  “No, my father was a loner for the most part.” I thought about my father’s life. “He committed some petty crimes.” One of them wasn’t so petty. “But mostly he worked. I think the crimes gave him a break from the boredom, a challenge.”

  “He never went to prison?”

  “No, but he might have if he met you,” I said. She looked at me confused. I said, “Your prison program for Indians.”

  “Oh.” She laughed and put her hand in mine. “I see.”

  “I’d rob a bank myself if it was the only way to meet you.”

  She let loose a full-throated laugh and her big eyes sparkled. I kissed her again, this time a little bit longer. As I paid the bill I thought: Man, I’m in trouble. I’m falling for her. I left the restaurant walking on air.

  19

  I’d never been to a salon — a saloon yes, but not a salon — and I wasn’t looking forward to it. But with Cheyenne sitting next to me in the car, quietly giving directions, there was nowhere else I’d rather be. She guided me to a shopping mall on Route 1A in Dedham, and we parked in front of Keldara Salon and Spa, where Ester Diaz worked. I opened the car door for Cheyenne.

  “Where’s the barber pole?” I said.

  “Funny boy, follow me.” She reached for my hand and led me inside. The polished floors gleamed in the ambient lighting. Leather chairs and shampoo sinks and arched mirrors were arranged around the room, bringing to mind a Roman bath. I walked past an area called the
quiet zone. Quiet zone? Cheyenne and I checked in at the front desk, and seconds later Ester Diaz came out to greet us. Her hair was coifed and her makeup was flawless. Unlike her mother, Ester was petite and cheery, but the cheeriness vanished when she asked who’d recommended her.

  “Your mother,” I said.

  “My mother?” She inhaled through her mouth. “You know my mother?”

  “I talked to her in Carney Court yesterday.” I saw fear set into her eyes. “My name is Dermot Sparhawk and I work with Buckley Louis, Victor’s attorney. This is Cheyenne Starr. I am investigating Gertrude Murray’s murder.”

  “An investigator?” She looked around. “Is that why you’re here?”

  “I just want to pick your brain a little, just a talk.”

  “Sure, just a talk. Come this way.” I followed Ester to her station. She draped a smock around me and snapped it tightly behind my neck, probably fantasizing strangling me. So far it felt like a typical barbering experience, except I didn’t see any Barbasol shaving cream or bay rum aftershave. Ester went to work, shampooing my hair and massaging my scalp. My eyes began to close.

  “I’d like to ask you some questions before I fall asleep,” I said. “Victor had an accomplice the night of the murder.”

  “Robbery, not murder,” she said in a low voice. “Victor didn’t kill Gertrude Murray.”

  “Do you know the accomplice? His name might be Juan.”

  She shook her head no. I peeked at the mirror and looked at her face. Her brow was creased and her lips were tensed. I continued the questioning. “Does Victor have any close friends, anyone he hangs around with?”

  “Victor has lots of friends if that’s what you want to call them.” She cut my hair with steel scissors. “He is very popular.”