“Nice suits,” I said. “Are the holsters sewn into the linings?”
“Always a joker,” Al said. “The fabric is imported from Italy, the finest wool in the world.” He pointed down the hallway. “Our tailor, Don DeRosa, is from Sicily. Let me know if you want one and I’ll have him custom tailor it for you. A navy herringbone with thin lapels would look good on you. Don will fix you up.”
I wondered if Don was his name or a title. I decided not to ask.
“I’m not really a suit guy, Al.” A suit? My clothes have never felt the heat of an iron. “Thanks anyway.”
“You have a first-class lady, so you might want a first-class suit to bring her out.” Al paused. “I guess you’re not an opera fan, either.”
“Nope.”
“Too bad, I have opera seats that Cheyenne might enjoy. Me, I love the opera.” Al pulled a cigar from his breast pocket, ran it under his nose and sniffed it so hard I thought he’d unravel the tobacco wrapper. “You look good, Dermot, very good. I heard you, ah…”
“You heard right. I stopped drinking.”
“Well done.” He squeezed my arm. “Good man.”
I watched the men in the suits as they slowly sipped their coffee. They were all business, but they sure as hell weren’t businessmen.
“Al, I have a cousin who’s a Micmac Indian.” I opened a photo of Kid on my cell phone and showed it him. “His name is Harraseeket Kid, and he’ll be checking in on Ester from time to time. Your friends at the coffee bar might get a little jumpy when he comes in. Kid has a formidable presence, if you know what I mean.”
“Send me the photo, I’ll show it to them.”
Cheyenne and I left the Casa Abruzzi and drove to Somerville to her place. As I navigated the rotary at Tufts University, I said, “What about Ester’s job? Won’t he stalk her there?”
“He already stalks her there. Ester asked for time off to deal with the problem. The owners, Eileen and Jean, are cool people. They told her to take as much time as she needed. Her job will be waiting for her.”
“Good.” I parked at Cheyenne’s building and walked her to the door. “I’ll call you later.” We kissed and she went inside.
22
On the sunniest of summer mornings I walked to the Navy Yard and went to the office and told Buck Louis about my conversation with Juan Rico in the alley.
“Juan won’t testify,” I said. “I tried to convince him, but he’s afraid. He knows he’ll go away. If I were Rico, I wouldn’t testify, either.”
“His testimony wouldn’t have helped anyway,” Buck said. “A jury wouldn’t believe him.”
I didn’t agree with Buck on Juan Rico. I think his testimony would help Victor. But there was no sense arguing with Buck on it, because Rico refused to testify, so what’s the difference.
“I wasted my time, hunting him down,” I said.
“It wasn’t a waste of time. The meeting with Juan Rico was important. We now know with certainty that neither Diaz nor Rico killed Gertrude Murray. Diaz clean cuffs and shoes prove it, and Rico’s shoe size proves it. They are innocent of murder.”
“But we can’t prove it.”
“Not yet, but we will, because the truth is on our side.” Buck rubbed his jawline. “All we have to do now is get the evidence. It’s out there somewhere, and we have to find it.”
“I’ll re-canvass the neighborhood, focusing on the people I missed the first time around.”
“And I’ll call the prosecutor’s office and tell them what we know. I’ll try to get them to issue an arrest warrant for Juan Rico. If we get Rico into court, he’ll have to testify.”
“You said his testimony wouldn’t help the case.”
“I was wrong on that. I was looking at Juan Rico the witness, not Juan Rico the man with small feet. Rico’s small feet gives us physical evidence. He couldn’t have left the bloody footprint. Okay, Dermot, let’s get to it.”
I went back to Gert Murray’s building to question the residents I missed the last time, talked to three of them, and learned nothing. I was about to leave when I thought about Skeeter Gruskowski and decided to have another go at him. I knocked on his door, but he didn’t answer. Where was he? With his bad heart and empty wallet he couldn’t have gone far.
A bearded city worker known as Harry from Housing, who was also a longtime member of Alcoholics Anonymous, walked down the hall toward me. “Hey, Harry.” I said, getting his attention. “I’m looking for Skeeter Gruskowski.”
Harry leaned his broom against the wall and scratched his bushy brown beard. “Skeeter’s gone. He left yesterday in a fancy Corvette. He won’t be back for a while.”
“Where did he go?”
“Don’t know.”
“Where did he get the Corvette?”
“Don’t know, didn’t ask,” Harry said. “Skeeter said he’d be gone a month or two. He gave me two stamped envelopes, one for each month’s rent. And then he gave me three hundred dollars to mail them at the appropriate time.”
I told Harry that I was investigating Gertrude Murray’s murder, and that I wanted to ask Skeeter a few more questions.
“A few more questions?” Harry sounded surprised. “You already talked to him?”
“Yes, earlier in the week,” I said. “Skeeter told me he called 911 for Gert. He told me about his bad heart, too.”
“He told you about his heart? Skeeter is usually mum about his heart. He doesn’t want people to know about it, figures it makes him an easy target in the bricks.”
“Makes sense,” I said. “He would be an easy target.”
“I heard you think Diaz is innocent.”
“I do, based on the evidence I’ve seen.”
“You’re the only one who thinks that, but I have to agree with you. Diaz might be a thief and a junky, but he’s not a killer.” Harry’s face flushed. “Wait a minute, do you think Skeeter had something to do with the killing?”
“I’m still gathering information,” I said. “How well do you know Skeeter?”
“Pretty well, I guess. Skeeter and I watch sports together, the Red Sox and Patriots, sometimes the Bruins. He has cable. Once in a while his buddy joins us.”
“What’s his buddy’s name?”
“Gage Lauria,” Harry said. “They were longshoremen together in Southie, over there at the Conley Terminal. Gage got in trouble for embezzling union funds. The poor bastard lost his job and went away, federal time. Talk to Gage if you want to find Skeeter. He should be able to help you.”
Finally, some progress.
“Where can I find him?”
“He tends bar at the Aces & Eights in Andrew Square, been doing it since he got out.”
“The Aces & Eights, I’ll go there.” I thought about the Corvette and the two months’ rent and the three hundred dollars for Harry. “Skeeter laid out a lot of money for a guy who’s supposedly broke. Did he say where he got it?”
“He didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.”
Of course he didn’t, Harry’s a Townie.
“Thanks for the help, Harry.”
23
I got into my car and banged the steering wheel. Where the hell did Skeeter get the money? Nobody has money in the projects. Gert did. Gert had a coin collection. Son of a bitch! That bastard killed Gert for her coin collection. I had him. I never suspected him, and now he was gone. He played me, the bastard. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, drove to the Aces & Eights and parked in front. I had a feeling there would always be parking in front of the Aces & Eights, unless an ambulance pulled in to resuscitate a patron. The building tilted to the side like an old man on a rickety cane, and the drainpipes looked like they belonged on the Leaning Tower of Pisa.
I went in.
A group of men gathered at the bar, honing their skills as gin-joint athletes, alternating reps between shots and
beers. The noncompetitive drinkers sipped wine from juice glasses, content to pace themselves for the long haul. Their faces were blank and their clothes were tattered. It was the first time in my life I felt overdressed.
Each year on my sobriety date I get together with my sponsor, Mickey Pappas, and we watch On the Bowery, and on Mick’s anniversary we watch Fat City. Mickey tells me the movies are a good remember-when, as if I needed reminding. The Aces & Eights could have been in either film.
I stepped up to the rail and cleared my throat. A drowsy barman shuffled over and leaned on the chrome tap dispenser. Ribbons of flesh flapped under his chin, pennants to a hard-lived life, or maybe they were flags of surrender. He opened his mouth, fighting a yawn. Crooked gray teeth jutted from ulcerated gums like tombstones — an oral history of a roadhouse cemetery. I put a twenty on the bar and said, “I’d like to talk to Gage Lauria.”
He rubbed his bulbous nose with a shaky hand, never taking his eyes off the bill. “I know Gage Lauria, know him well. As a matter of fact I’m working his shift today.” He scooped up the twenty. “I heard he left town.”
“Do you know where he went?”
“My memory is a little foggy on that one.” He looked at the twenty in his hand and then he looked at me. “He told me where he was going but I can’t seem to recall. My memory ain’t what it used to be and keeps getting worse. It could be early onset Alzheimer’s”
More like early onset Budweiser. I put another twenty on the bar and kept my finger on it. “Where is Gage Lauria?”
He hesitated, but only for a brief second. “Chicago, I think.”
I removed my finger. “Can you be more specific?”
“He said Chicago, that’s all.” His hand flicked out and snagged the twenty. It was the quickest he’d moved since I came into the place. “He was excited to go, no question about it. Who wouldn’t be excited to get out of this dump?”
“Yeah, who wouldn’t,” I said.
The drone of the television provided the only sound, except for the snorts, sniffles, and grunts — I glimpsed to see if Belichick was on the tube. A stooped man ordered a glass of port wine, using the same juice glass he’d been drinking from, and he took to a booth, cupping it with both hands like a priest carrying a chalice. I asked the barman for a Coke, no ice, and paid with a crisp ten, telling him to keep the change. I drank some and enjoyed the thick syrupy sweetness. Nothing beats a barroom Coke from the tap.
“You said you were filling in for Gage.” I waved the glass for a refill. “Who makes out the schedule?”
“That’d be Dick Murphy, the owner.”
“Is he in?”
“No sir, I don’t believe he’s in at the moment.”
I waited for him to elaborate, but of course he didn’t. Talking to this man defined the tired cliché of pulling teeth. No wonder he had so few left in his mouth.
“When will Dick Murphy be in?”
“Let’s see, when will Murphy be in?” He kept looking at the bar for another twenty to appear. “Sometimes he comes in early, sometimes he comes in late, sometimes he —”
“Quit screwing around and tell me when Murphy will be in.” I slammed my palms on the bar. “When will Murphy be here.”
“Whoa, easy.” He stepped back. “He’ll be in at three.”
I had a couple of hours to kill, so I drove to the L Street Bathhouse for a swim. I got my gym bag from the trunk, changed in the locker room, and inched into the icy salt water. After twenty minutes my body began to numb and shrivel, and my fingertips wrinkled to fleshy prunes. I showered off the salt and drove to Castle Island, where I ate a couple of hotdogs, drank another Coke, and walked around the fort three times, listening to cawing seagulls.
I drove back to the Aces & Eights at three o’clock. I went in and saw a well-dressed man sitting at a table, writing on a yellow legal pad with an Adirondack pencil. I assumed he was Murphy, either that or the place was being audited.
“Mr. Murphy?” I said.
He looked up.
“I’m Dick Murphy.” He had short white hair parted on the side, and stylish horn-rimmed glasses over his bright blue eyes. He placed the pencil on the pad and gestured for me to sit. “Can I help you with something?”
“I’d like to talk to you about Gage Lauria.”
“Gage?” He studied me more closely. “Why?”
“He bartends here, right?”
“Gage works here.” Murphy put his hands on the table as if readying for a debate. “He’s on the books. All my workers are on the books.”
“I don’t care about your books,” I said. “I heard Gage went to Chicago, and I was wondering if you knew anything about it.”
“I might.” His eyes fixated on me. “Who are you?”
I was surprised he hadn’t asked earlier.
“My name is Dermot Sparhawk,” I said. “I’m investigating a murder in Charlestown, and I’d like to ask Gage a few questions about it. I work for a lawyer named Buckley Louis, who represents Victor Diaz. Diaz is charged with the murder. I’m investigating it.”
“I heard about the murder.” Murphy adjusted his glasses. “I grew up in those projects, in McNulty Court.”
Common ground. “I lived on O’Reilly Way.”
“I moved out decades ago.” He picked up the pencil and tapped the eraser on the table. “What does Gage have to do with a murder in Charlestown?”
“He’s friends with a man named Skeeter Gruskowski,” I said. “I’ve been looking for Gruskowski, and my search led me here.”
“Skeeter, Gage’s pal from the longshoremen. He comes in once in a while, has a few drinks, tells a few jokes.”
“I heard that Skeeter left town and Gage went with him.”
“They left for Chicago yesterday. Gage asked for time off and I told him to take as much time as he needed. He’s too good for this shit hole. He never should have worked here in the first place, but he couldn’t find a job.”
“Because he’s an ex-con.”
“You know about that,” he said. “Gage Lauria is a good man. I’m friends with his father, his whole family actually.”
“How long has he worked here?”
“Year, year and a half. I can look it up if it’s important.”
I shook my head. “And now he’s in Chicago.”
“That’s what Gage told me. To be frank, I hope he never comes back. I hope he meets a nice Italian girl in Chicago, maybe in Cicero, that’s Italian. I hope he stays there and has a big family.”
Shit, maybe they aren’t coming back.
“He left yesterday, you said.”
“He did,” Murphy said. “He paid me two months’ rent before he left.”
“Gage rents from you?”
“He does, he lives upstairs.” Murphy looked up toward the ceiling. “He paid me a thousand for the next two months. I don’t know where he got the money and I don’t care. He wasn’t dipping into the till, because I have cameras.”
Cameras in this dump?
“The rent is only five hundred a month?”
“It’s not exactly the Ritz,” Murphy said. “And I know he doesn’t make much bartending, so I give him a break on the rent.”
“Where is up there, exactly?”
“Above the bar, on the second floor,” he answered. “When Gage got sprung from the hoosegow he needed a place to live, so I took care of him.”
“How much time did he do?”
“Five, six years, something like that. He stole from a pension fund, that’s what I heard. Then I heard he was a fall guy for the union. Who’s to say? He did federal time, though, did it out there in Fort Devens, so at least he was close to his family.”
“And Skeeter was in the same union.”
“Yup, same union, the I.L.A.”
“Where did they get the money?”
I said, thinking out loud. “Skeeter lives in the projects. Gage lives in a rooming house. Where did they get the money for Chicago?”
“Supposedly Skeeter hit it big at Foxwoods.” Murphy thought for a second. “He must have hit it big, because he picked Gage up in a new Corvette.”
Harry was right. about the Corvette. I felt my blood pressure rise.
Murphy continued. “Gage said that Skeeter got a stake, I think he said ten grand, and then he gambled it into a bigger stake at Foxwoods, six hundred grand.”
Ten grand to six hundred grand? No way possible. Murphy must have read my mind, because he said, “I’m just telling you what Gage told me.”
“Can I look at Gage’s room?”
“I don’t see why not.” Murphy got up from the table. “This way.”
We went up a slanting stairwell to the second floor, which was also slanting. Balancing on the floorboards, I felt like a surfer riding a wave. Murphy took out his keys and led me into Gage’s apartment, which consisted of a single room with a window and no air conditioner. The heat was stifling. A metal cot abutted one wall. Next to the cot was a nightstand with a glossy pamphlet of Route 66 on it. The pamphlet showed an arcing red line that went from Chicago to Los Angeles, presumably the path of the famous highway.
“The tenants share a bathroom down the hall,” Murphy said. “They share a payphone, too. Like I said, it’s not the Ritz.”
“It’s not bad, either.” I picked up the pamphlet. “Did Gage say anything about Route 66?”
“He didn’t.” Murphy looked at the pamphlet. “He said he was going to Chicago.”
“Gruskowski read books about Route 66. He watched a video of Billy Connolly riding a motorcycle down Route 66.”
“Billy Connolly, the Scottish comedian?” Murphy took off his glasses. “Why would Billy Connolly care about Route 66?”
“Maybe he likes deserts.”
I saw trophies, a pair of high-top Converse sneakers, a leather basketball, a whistle on a cord, an Adidas gym bag. Murphy must have noticed me looking, because he said, “Gage was the best schoolboy basketball player in city in his day, all-scholastic two years running. I never saw a better white ballplayer.”
Murder in the Charlestown Bricks: A Dermot Sparhawk Crime Novel Page 8
