by Mike Lupica
The small screen read “Desmond.”
I stood, held up a finger to Richie, and walked about twenty yards away, out of his earshot.
There were no salutations.
“You told the coppers where to find my guns,” he said. “That wasn’t part of our deal.”
“We had no deal,” I said, “other than me keeping you alive.”
“Those were my guns,” he said.
“I probably never mentioned it before,” I said. “But I hate illegal guns. Hate them. Especially the fast-shooting kind that shoot schoolchildren.”
And ended the call.
Before my phone was in my back pocket, it started buzzing again.
This time the screen read “Unknown Caller.”
I stayed where I was, almost certain of who the unknown caller was.
Women’s intuition.
“Sunny Randall!” I said in a cheerful, receptionist’s voice.
“You fucked me over,” Tony Marcus said, not sounding cheerful at all.
“Well, hello yourself, Tony,” I said.
I saw Richie staring at me. I smiled and waved.
“Once Albert was gone,” he said, “those guns should’ve reverted back to me.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Who gives a rat’s ass what you think?” he said. “I’m tellin’ you how it is. And what it is.”
“It may be a fine point,” I said. “But since we don’t know when exactly Albert died, we may be dealing with a chicken-and-egg thing here.”
“You tipped off the goddamn Feds, didn’t you?” he said.
No reason to tell one last lie. Or keep secrets.
“As a matter of fact, I did.”
“What’s Desmond think about that?” he said. “Maybe he thinks those guns were more his than mine, even if I did make a deal with his brother.”
“I don’t care what he thinks,” I said. “And I’ll tell you why, Tony. I get that guns are a part of my world. Part of my own family business, if you think about it. But if I just took a shitload of them off the street, and off you, well, hooray for me.”
“Just so you know?” Tony said. “We got a brand-new grudge going now, girl. So you take care watchin’ your back.”
“So it goes,” I said.
I hung up on him and walked back over to Richie. He asked to whom I’d been speaking.
“The usual,” I said. “Bad guys.”
“You’ll tell me which ones later?” he said.
“If you can somehow manage to charm the information out of me,” I said.
I smiled at him.
“Give me an honest answer,” I said. “Do you think I’m looking older?”
Richie smiled back.
“I’ll tell you when we get back home,” he said. “Provided you can charm that information out of me.”
I kissed him on the lips and then the three of us walked back over the bridge to River Street Place. I still didn’t think of it as home, and didn’t know if I ever would. But it would do for now.
Acknowledgments
One more time, I would like to thank the real Mike Stanton, my tour guide in Providence.
I would also like to thank three dear friends who were generous with counsel and support in the writing of this book:
David Koepp, Harlan Coben, and Raymond Kelly, former Police Commissioner of the City of New York.
And finally, David and Daniel Parker, Ivan Held, Sara Minnich: Who gave me the chance to come play with the cool kids.
About the Authors
Robert B. Parker was the author of seventy books, including the legendary Spenser detective series, the novels featuring police chief Jesse Stone, and the acclaimed Virgil Cole/Everett Hitch westerns, as well as the Sunny Randall novels. Winner of the Mystery Writers of America Grand Master Award and long considered the undisputed dean of American crime fiction, he died in January 2010. Mike Lupica is a prominent sports journalist and the New York Times--bestselling author of more than forty works of fiction and nonfiction. A longtime friend to Robert B. Parker, he was selected by the Parker estate to continue the Sunny Randall series.
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