Paul said, “Who’s Andy Warhol?”
“It’s better you should not know,” I said.
At one thirty I tuned to the ball game. Relief. At two I said to Paul, “You hungry?”
“Yeah.”
“Why don’t you walk over to that sandwich shop on Newbury and get us some food.”
“Where is it?”
“Just a block down and around the corner. Right across from Brooks Brothers.”
“Okay.”
I gave him some money. “Get whatever looks good,” I said.
“What do you want?”
“Use your own judgment,” I said.
“Okay.”
He went out and I kept at the files. Paul came back with turkey sandwiches on oatmeal and roast beef sandwiches on rye and two lemon turnovers and a carton of milk. I had coffee from the coffee pot. By three Paul had finished with his file. He said, “I’m going to walk around.”
I said, “You need any money?”
He said, “No. I still got change from what you gave me before.”
At five Paul came back. He’d bought a book on ballet at the Booksmith up Boylston.
He read his book while I worked on the files. It got dark. I turned on the lights in the office. At eight fifteen I said, “Enough. Come on, I’ll buy you dinner.”
We went up to Café L’Ananas and ate. I got a bottle of wine and Paul had some. Then we walked back to my apartment. “What about your car?” Paul said.
“We’ll leave it there. It’s only a four-block walk to my office.”
“We going back tomorrow?”
“Yeah, I’m not through.”
“I only found three people on the list.”
“More than I’ve found so far.”
We went upstairs and went to bed.
CHAPTER 27
It was nearly noon the next day before I found anything. It wasn’t a bloody dagger or even an Egyptian dung beetle sculptured from gold. It was a list of addresses. It wasn’t much, but it was all there was. It was on a single sheet of paper by itself in an unlabeled file folder in the back of the bottom file drawer.
“What’s important about that?” Paul said.
“I don’t know, but it’s the only thing that doesn’t have a simple explanation.”
I got a city directory out of the bottom drawer of my desk and thumbed through it, looking up the names of the people at the addresses. The fourth one I looked up was Elaine Brooks.
“Isn’t Elaine Brooks your father’s girl friend?”
“Yes.”
“This isn’t where she lives.”
Paul said, “I don’t know where she lives.”
“I do. I followed her to you, remember?”
“Maybe she used to live there.”
“Maybe.”
“She’s on my list,” he said.
“From the card file?”
“Yes.”
“Let me see this list”
He gave it to me. There were two other names besides Elaine Brooks. I consulted the city directory. Both the names were listed in the city directory as owning property at one or another address on the list. Elaine Brooks owned two addresses.
“The card file alphabetical?”
Paul said, “Yes.”
“Okay. I’m going to read you some names. You look them up and see if they are in your file. If they are, pull the card and give me the address.”
I went through the whole list of addresses, looking each up in the city directory and giving Paul the name I found. All of them were in the file. None of them were listed on the cards at the address in the city directory. “What kind of insurance is listed?” I said when we were through and all the cards were pulled.
“This one says casualty.”
“Yeah?”
“This one says homeowner’s.”
“Any of them say life?”
Paul ruffled through the cards. “No,” he said.
I took the cards and made a master list of names and both addresses and the kinds of insurance each had. All had casualty. Everyone was insured with a different company. When I was through, I said to Paul, “Let’s go take a look at this property.”
The first address was on Chandler Street in the south end. The south end was once rather elegant redbrick town houses. Then it fell into slum wino. Now it was coming back. A lot of upper-middle-class types were moving in and sandblasting the bricks and buying Dobermans and installing alarm systems and keeping the winos at bay. It was an interesting mix: black street kids; winos of many races; white women in tapered pants and spike heels; middle-aged men, black and white, in Lacoste shirts. Our address was between a soul-food takeout and a package store. It was burned out.
“‘Bare ruined choirs,’” I said, “‘where late the sweet birds sang.’”
“Frost?” Paul said.
“Shakespeare,” I said. “Why’d you think it was Frost?”
“’Cause you always quote Frost or Shakespeare.”
“Sometimes I quote Peter Gammons,” I said.
“Who’s he?”
“The Globe baseball writer.”
We drove to the next address on Symphony Road in the Back Bay. Symphony Road was students and what the school board called Hispanics. The address was a charred pile of rubble.
“Bare ruined church,” Paul said.
“Choirs,” I said. “Do we sense a pattern developing?”
“You think they’ll all be burned?”
“Sample’s a little small,” I said, “but the indices are strong.”
The third address was on Blue Hill Avenue in Mattapan. It was between a boarded-up store and a boarded-up store. It had burned.
“Where are we?” Paul said.
“Mattapan.”
“Is that part of Boston?”
“Yes.”
“God, it’s awful.”
“Like a slice of the South Bronx,” I said. “Life is hard here.”
“They’re all going to be burned,” Paul said.
“Yeah, but we gotta look.”
And we did. We looked in Roxbury and Dorchester and Allston and Charlestown. In Hyde Park and Jamaica Plain and Brighton. The addresses were always obscure so that we sometimes crisscrossed the same neighborhoods several times, following our list. All the addresses were in unpretentious neighborhoods. All had been burned. It was dark when we got through, and a little rain was starting to streak my office windows.
I put my feet up on my desk and shrugged my shoulders, trying to loosen the back muscles that eight hours of city driving had cramped. “Your daddy,” I said, “appears to be an arsonist.”
“Why would he burn all those buildings down?”
“I don’t know that he burned them. He may have just insured them. But either way it would be for money. Buy it, burn it, collect the insurance. That’s his connection to Cotton. Your old man’s business was real estate and insurance. Cotton’s is money and being bad. Put them together and what have you got?”
“Bibbity-bobbity-boo,” Paul said.
“Oh, you know the song. How the hell could you?”
“I had it on a record when I was little.”
“Well, it fits. And then when your father needed a little cheap sinew to deal with his divorce situation, Cotton sent him Buddy Hartman and Hartman brought Harold and his musical blackjack.”
“What will you do now?” Paul said.
“Tomorrow I’m going to call up all these insurance companies and find out if your father was in fact the broker on these fire losses, and if they paid off.”
“The ones in the card file?”
“Yeah.”
“How will you know who to call?”
“I’ve done a lot of work for insurance companies. I know people in most of the claims departments.”
“Then what will you do?”
“Then I’ll file all of what I know for the moment and see what I can get on your mother.”
Paul was quiet.
“Okay.”
“This is awful hard.”
“It’s okay.”
“You’re helping me put the screws to your father and mother.”
“I know.”
“You know it’s for you?”
“Yes.”
“Can you do it?”
“Help you?”
“All of it. Be autonomous, be free of them, depend on yourself. Grow up at fifteen.”
“I’ll be sixteen in September.”
“You’ll be older than that,” I said. “Let’s get something to eat and go to bed.”
CHAPTER 28
It was raining hard in the morning when Paul and I ran along the Charles River. It rained all day. I sat in my office and called insurance companies. Paul had finished his book on ballet. He went out and, at my suggestion, walked up to the Boston Public Library and used my card to take out a copy of Catcher in the Rye. Five minutes after he was back, Susan called.
“The line’s been busy for an hour,” she said.
“Broads,” I said. “Word’s out that I’m back in town and the broads have been calling since yesterday.”
“Paul with you?”
“Yes.”
“Let me speak to him, please.”
I held the phone out to Paul. “For you” I said. “Susan.”
Paul took the phone and said, “Hello.”
Then he was quiet.
Then he said, “Okay.”
Then he was quiet.
Then he said, “Okay,” and hung up.
“She says there’s a prep school out in Grafton that specializes in drama, music, and dance,” he said. “She says she’ll take me out to look at it this afternoon if I want to go.”
“You want to go?”
“I guess so.”
“Good. You should. Is it a boarding school?”
“You mean live there?”
“Yes.”
“She didn’t say. Would I have to live there?”
“Maybe.”
“You don’t want me to live with you?”
“Eventually you’ll have to move on. Autonomy means self-reliance, not changing your reliance from your mother and father to me. I’m what they call in politics a transition coordinator.”
“I don’t think I want to go away to school.”
“Wait, see, take a look at the place. We’ll talk. I won’t make you do what you genuinely can’t stand to do. But keep open. Keep in mind that sometimes I go to unpleasant places and people shoot at me. There are drawbacks to living with me.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Some of the drawbacks might be mine,” I said.
“Oh.”
“Don’t make more of that than it is. If one of us starts fearing that honesty will hurt the other’s feelings, we’ve slid back some. I’m trying to work this out so it’s best for all of us, me as well as you. Susan too.”
He nodded.
“I’ve taken you this far. I won’t push you out of the nest until we both know you can fly. You understand that?”
“Yes.”
“You can trust me to do what I say. Do you know that?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Willing to make another trip out in the rain?”
“Yes.”
“I’m in a Dunkin’ Donut frenzy,” I said. “If you went up Boylston Street and bought some, and coffee to go, and hurried back before the coffee got cold, I might be able to make it until afternoon.”
He grinned. “Since I’ve known you you’ve been a health food freak.”
I gave him five dollars. He put on the yellow slicker jacket I’d bought him and left.
I called a guy in Chicago named Flaherty at Colton Insurance Company of Illinois. He told me that they had insured property in the name of Elaine Brooks, that six months later the building burned, and that while everyone guessed it was arson, no one could prove it and they paid and privately agreed not to insure Elaine again.
“Thing is,” he said, “if it was arson, it was also murder. Two winos were apparently cooping up in there and never got out. What they found was mostly charred bones and a muscatel bottle that had half melted.”
I said, “Thanks, Jack,” and noted the information on my master list.
He said, “You got anything I should know about on this thing, Spenser?”
“No, I’m into something else, this is just collateral, you know.”
“Well, don’t hold out on us. I throw a lot of investigative work your way.”
“Yeah, and it’s real exciting too,” I said.
“Don’t knock it, money’s good.”
“Money’s not everything, Jack,” I said.
“Maybe not, but you ever try spending sex?”
“There’s something wrong with that argument,” I said, “but I can’t think what right now. I may call you later with my comeback.”
“Keep in touch,” Flaherty said.
We hung up. Murder, two counts. Better and better. Or worse and worse, depending on where you stood. From where I stood it looked like enough to keep Mel Giacomin in line.
Paul came back with coffee and doughnuts. Plain for me. Two Boston creams for him—disgusting. I made some more of my calls. Everything was clicking in. Giacomin was involved with some kind of arson ring, and there was no doubt, though at the moment, no proof, that Harry Cotton was in it with him.
Susan showed up in the MG at two thirty. She had on a soft felt hat with a big floppy brim and a brass ring on the hatband. She also wore a light leather trench coat and high-heeled boots of the same color. I wished I were going to look at ballet schools with her. “This will be the real test,” I said to Susan. “If the instructional staff doesn’t attempt to seduce you en masse it will prove they’re gay.”
She wrinkled her nose at me. “I’ll tell them how big and tough you are,” she said. “Maybe they’ll hesitate long enough for us to escape.”
Paul said, “What if they attempt to seduce me?”
I grinned. “That would be further proof, I think.”
They left and I finished up my phone calls. There were no surprises.
I made the final notes on my master sheet and then got out some fresh bond paper and typed it all out neatly and went out to a copy shop and had two copies made and came back and filed the original in my office. I mailed the second one to myself at my apartment and stuck the third copy in my pocket for handy reference. Also maybe for showing to Mel Giacomin along with threats. I looked at my watch. Four twenty. I had to get away from the desk.
I locked up the office, got into the Bronco, and cruised down to the waterfront. Henry Cimoli was sitting behind the office desk in the Harbour Health Club in white pants, sneakers, and a white T-shirt. He looked like the world’s toughest jockey. He had in fact been one of the best lightweight fighters around and gone fifteen rounds once and lost a split decision to Willie Pep. His arms bulged against the T-shirt and his short body moved like a compressed spring, a great deal of contained energy.
“Come to try and rescue what’s left, kid?” he said.
“Yeah. You think it’s too late?”
“Almost.”
I went to my locker and changed. In the exercise room there were weight machines, barbells, dumbbells, a heavy bag, two speed bags. The walls were mirrored. I started working on bench presses.
I was almost through my workout when Hawk came in at about seven. He wore silky-looking warm-up pants with the bottoms unzipped, and high white boxer’s shoes and no shirt. He had a pair of speed gloves in the hip pocket of the warmup pants and he carried a jump rope. Most of the people in the room eyed him covertly. He nodded at me, did a few stretching exercises, and began to jump rope. He jumped rope for a half hour, varying the step and speed, crisscrossing the rope.
As he finished I started on the speed bag. He hung the rope up and came over beside me and started on the other bag. As I began to get a rhythm down on the bag
he began to punch in counterpoint. I grinned and started to whistle “Sweet Georgia Brown.”
He nodded and picked up the beat. We began to alternate, picking up the pace. Like a battle of two drummers from the forties. Hawk picked up the tempo, I picked it up a little more. Hawk used his elbows and fists. I alternated one hand then the other. People began to group around us and the rhythm of the bag and the sense of competition began to carry me. I concentrated as the bag was a wine-colored blur in time with Hawk’s. We did paradiddles and rolls, and some of the men in the exercise room cheered at one or another of us. Then they began to dap in rhythm to the bags and Hawk and I carried them with us until the place was in an uproar and Henry came in from the front desk and yelled at Hawk, “Telephone.”
Hawk did shave-and-a-haircut-two-bits on his bag and I responded and we stopped, and Hawk, grinning widely, went to the phone. The rest of the room cheered and dapped. I yelled after him.
“Hey, gee whiz; my dad’s got a barn, maybe we can put on a show.”
Hawk disappeared around the corner and I went to the heavy bag. When he came back his grin wasn’t as wide, but his face had a look of real pleasure.
He leaned on the other side of the bag while I pounded it.
“You going to like this, babe,” he said.
“You been drafted,” I said.
“You been messing with Harry Cotton, haven’t you?”
I dug a hook into the bag. “I spoke with him.”
“You got that slick way, you know, how you talk so sweet to people. Harry putting out a hit on you.”
“He’s too sensitive,” I said. “Call a guy a weasel and tell him he smells bad and he goes right into a goddamned swivet,” I said.
“He do smell bad, that’s a fact,” Hawk said.
“You know Harry?”
“Oh, yes. Harry’s an important person in this town.”
“That him on the phone?”
“Yeah. He want me to whack you.” Hawk’s smile got wider. “He ask me if I know who you are. I say, yeah, I think so.”
I did a left jab and an overhand right.
“How much he offering?” I said.
“Five G’s.”
“That’s insulting,” I said.
“You’d have been proud of me,” Hawk said. “I told him that. I said I wouldn’t do it for less than ten. He say lot of people be happy to do it for five. I said that wasn’t the point. I said lot of people be happy to do it for nothing, but they can’t, ’cause they ain’t good enough. I said it’s a ten-thousand-dollar job at least. He say no.”
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