The dining table was eighteenth-century Spanish. Heavy and ornate and austere at the same time. The twelve chairs that were placed around the table were just as austere. The chair at the head of the table was larger than the others, more like a throne. In all the meals he'd had at this table, Justin had never sat in the chair at the head of the table. That was Jonathan's chair.
Justin had just put a small bite of Louise's perfect roast chicken into his mouth and was nodding with pleasure when his father said, "When I told you that Ronald's body had been found, how did you know where?"
"That place has a history." Justin finished chewing. He quickly cut another piece off the juicy breast and popped it into his mouth.
"What kind of history?"
"A violent one." Justin couldn't help but notice the expression on his mother's face now. Not anger or sadness or even confusion. It was one of wonder. When he finished chewing, he said, "Mom?" and she immediately understood his question.
"The things you know," she responded. "I remember when you used to know toys and TV and rocking horses."
"And business," his father added, "and medicine."
"Now," Lizbeth said, "you know murder. And places with violent histories."
There was a typical Westwood family silence. Justin used it to taste the roast potatoes and garlic, just as delicious as the chicken. He even managed to chomp on a few carrots. Then Jonathan asked, "So what are you going to do now?"
"Finish lunch 'cause it's the best food I've had since the last time I was up here. Then go see Vicky. And Billy. I'm going to do what you asked me to do, which is try to figure out what the hell's going on." And as something occurred to him, when he realized there was something else he needed to do first, Justin couldn't help himself: he allowed the tiniest line of a smile to cross his lips. "But first," he said, "I'm going to see a history professor."
Dolce was a small Italian restaurant in the heart of Providence's Little Italy. The tables all had red-and-white-checked tablecloths, most of the pastas came with a simple red sauce, the cannolis were the best in New England, and the espresso arrived steaming hot and joltingly strong.
As Justin sat toward the back of the room, sipping his second double espresso, he was the recipient of mixed responses from the twenty or so customers idling in the late afternoon. There were several middle-aged couples; one exhausted-looking skinny man in beige Bermuda shorts busily reading a Fodor's guide to Rhode Island; two women who were talking as if there were no tomorrow-both looked as if this was a much-needed hour break from husbands and kids. None of this crowd paid him any mind; they had never seen him before nor heard of him. Others were a little more attentive. Three men sitting four tables away were glancing over with a benign distaste. Justin had put two of them in prison and he'd attended the parole hearing for the third, attempting to dissuade the board from going along with an early release. The third man, whose name was Joey Fodera, had raped and murdered a professor of twentieth-century art appreciation at the Rhode Island School of Design. After she was dead, Fodera-his associates called him Joey Haircut-removed her sexual organs. His defense was that she'd reminded him of his first wife-who had disappeared several years before and never been found. The first wife had been so abusive, the defense attorney maintained, that seeing the professor involved in a heated conversation in a restaurant had triggered something in Joey: the memory of the rage and hatred he'd felt when his wife berated and humiliated him. The jury was hard to read-after four days of trial it could have gone either way-so both sides settled on a plea bargain of murder in the second degree and a twelve- to twenty-five-year sentence. After two and a half years in prison, Joey Haircut had ratted on another prisoner, looking to negotiate his way back onto the street. Justin's argument to the board wasn't enough to override the deal with the local DA and keep Fodera behind bars. Three days after the hearing, another sociopath was free and back at work.
Four or five other customers had also crossed paths with Justin back in the day. They nodded cautiously but respectfully when he walked in or as he sat and sipped.
Justin had just ordered espresso number three when the front door opened and a man who seemed nearly twice the size of anyone else in the room came inside. Along the way to the back of the restaurant, he stopped to shake a few hands. When Joey Fodera's hand met his, it held on a few seconds too long. Fodera quietly said something to the large newcomer, something that did not seem as friendly as, say, an invitation to come over and watch a ball game. The large man drew his hand back slowly and deliberately and he smiled at Joey Haircut. Justin, watching carefully, couldn't help himself. The smile made him shudder.
Then Bruno Pecozzi arrived at his destination. Before he could say a word of greeting, the waiter was at Justin's side and Bruno ordered two double espressos, three cannolis, and one sfogliatelle. Then he turned to Justin and said, "Sorry I'm late. I had to do a little bobbin' and weavin' on my way over here."
"Somebody following you?"
"Hey, it's almost an insult these days if somebody ain't followin' me." He stuck his hand out and Justin shook it firmly. "So to what do we owe the pleasure?" Bruno asked. And then followed up his own question with, "Who am I kiddin'? It takes your fuckin' brother-in-law gettin' whacked to get you back home? What's the matter with you?"
And then Bruno drew Justin closer, dragging his chair along with him, and gripped him in a tight bear hug.
"Who we gotta kill?" the professional hit man said, and when Justin managed to give a quick shake of his head, Bruno looked disappointed. "What, this is just a social call?"
"Why don't you shut up and listen," Justin was able to say.
Bruno released him from the hug. "Good thing I like you," he said.
Justin watched the huge man sit down as his two cups of coffee and several desserts were now placed in front of him. He visualized the chilling smile plastered on Bruno's face when he'd stared into Joey Haircut's eyes.
"Yeah," Justin agreed, and slid his chair back to its proper place at the table. "Good thing."
If someone asked Bruno Pecozzi what he did for a living, he would reply that he was a consultant in the movie business. If that same someone went on to ask on what subject he consulted, Bruno would elaborate slightly and give out the information that he was hired on films that dealt with criminal personalities and their world and that his job was to enhance the reality of that world for directors, actors, and writers. If anyone pressed the giant man further, wanted more detail on Bruno's knowledge of that world, he would simply give a stare that wouldn't quit until the interested party would finally wither under the scrutiny and shrink away in embarrassment. And fear.
Bruno's assessment of his own career was, to a degree, accurate. He'd consulted on four different Hollywood pictures so far. On the very first one he quickly became a legend when the director-a temperamental three-time Oscar nominee who thought he was a genius and went out of his way to be crude and super macho to compensate for the fact that he was only five feet five inches tall-was trying to shoot a scene near JFK Airport in Queens. The scene kept getting interrupted because planes kept taking off and landing, ruining both the aesthetic of the shot and the sound. The director was working himself into a frenzy when Bruno disappeared for a few minutes. He returned, tucking his cell phone into his pocket, tapped the hysterical director on the shoulder, and said, "Okay, you can finish the shot now."
The director continued his rant, only now he began berating Bruno, telling him he might think he was a big-shot fucking hoodlum but to stay the fuck out of stuff he didn't know a fucking thing about. Bruno let him rant for maybe a minute or so, just long enough for the entire crew-including the director-to realize that suddenly no planes were landing or taking off. Everyone grew quiet, and the director said to Bruno, "What did you do?"
Bruno said, "I made a call."
There was another lengthy pause, then the director asked, "Who did you call?"
And Bruno quietly said, "If I told you that, then you wouldn't
have to hire me next time, would you, you piece of shit, ass-munching little dwarf?"
The director nodded his head, said, "Thank you," and the shoot went on.
Bruno got hired in quick succession on three more movies; made very good money for talking to the writers and the actors, giving them some details that did indeed enhance the reality of the world they were trying to re-create. And best of all he didn't have to cut back on his regular job.
Bruno's regular job was chief enforcer and hit man for the head of the largest New England crime family, Leonardo Rubenelli, known to close friends and associates as Lenny Rube, Ruby, or Leo Red. By Justin's count, Bruno had killed twenty-three people over the years while in Lenny Rube's employ.
And one at Justin's request.
That last hit was one that had no strings attached to it. Justin had no regrets about it-he'd have done it himself if he'd had the physical strength at the time-and Bruno never held it over Justin's head. It was a business transaction, plain and simple.
Both knew that that particular connection wouldn't stop Justin from doing his job if Bruno happened to be involved in anything Justin was investigating. And Bruno wouldn't hesitate to do anything necessary to carry out an assignment if Justin's job meant that Justin was going to be in the way.
Those were the unspoken rules of their relationship. They'd never been defined, but they didn't have to be.
Both men understood the reality of the world in which they were living. No enhancement was necessary.
"You look good," Justin said. "Where'd you get the tan?"
"Lyin' on the most gorgeous beach in the world." When he saw that Justin was waiting for a further explanation, he said, "The old country, my friend."
"It agrees with you."
"White sand, blue water, red wine. Throw in some fresh pasta and an iced limoncello and you got yourself a good vacation."
Justin's lip curled into a smile. "Somehow I don't think of you as the vacation type."
"Can't work all the time, you know what I mean? Especially when you start gettin' a little older. You gotta take it easy every now and again. Get away. It's why I like goin' back home. Everybody's friendly, you sit around and drink espresso, you get in touch with yourself-you know what I'm talkin' about?"
"Yeah. It sounds a lot like right here."
"All right, you keep makin' fun. But I'll give you a tip, 'cause you look like you can use some relaxation yourself. You wanna get away, you let me know. My aunt Lucia, she's got what you might call a little villa, up on a cliff, overlookin' the Mediterranean." Bruno touched his fingers to his lips and blew a kiss. "You spend a week there, you bring a girl, you'll feel like a new man. I'll get you a good price."
"When I feel like being a new man, I'll take you up on it."
Bruno stretched his long legs out under the table, took a cigar out of his pocket and stuck it in his mouth. He didn't light it, just chewed on it as if it were a pacifier. "So tell me why we're having this extremely pleasant dining experience," Bruno said to Justin. He finished half of a cannoli in one bite just moments after he finished his sentence.
"You already know about Ronald LaSalle?"
Bruno nodded. The nod said, What am I, some schmuck? You think I'm not gonna know what goes on in my own backyard?
"So what can you tell me about it?" Justin said.
"That's really why you're here? You think I know something about this guy's-whaddyacallit-demise? Jay, I been tellin' you, I was away on vacation."
Justin shrugged. The shrug said, What, you think I think you're just some schmuck who doesn't know what goes on in his own backyard?
"I'm not here in an official capacity," Justin said wearily. "I'm not necessarily looking for a who. I'm looking for a why." And when Bruno's eyes narrowed, trying to figure out the angle, Justin said, "I'm looking for something to tell my ex-sister-in-law."
"Tell her she shouldn'ta married a crook."
"Was he a crook?"
"You know another reason these big-money guys get whacked? You ever hear of an honest one windin' up the way this guy did?"
"What did he do?"
"Maybe he just knew the wrong people."
"Got anyone specific in mind?"
Bruno didn't answer. Justin couldn't tell if he was thinking about an answer or if he was just enjoying the cannoli he was biting into slowly and deliberately.
"So what's happenin' back in your sweet little hometown?" Bruno asked eventually, deciding to ignore the last question. "I miss that place." A year earlier, Bruno had spent several weeks in East End Harbor, consulting on a movie that was shooting there. He and Justin had reconnected after not having seen each other for several years. Justin had been in the midst of a difficult case, and Bruno had helped out. If killing a man could be said to be helpful.
"You read the papers?" Justin asked.
"I don't have to. People tell me stuff."
"Then my guess is somebody told you what's going on back in my sweet little hometown."
"You're a good guesser, Jay. I heard somethin' about it. That guy who bought it, your girlfriend's hubby… another scumbag money guy."
"There are a lot of 'em."
Bruno nodded, as if considering the number of nasty rich people populating the world.
"Bruno," Justin said, "Ronald LaSalle's body was dumped in Drogan's lot. It kind of swings the odds in favor of one of your associates being involved."
"Or someone who knows that Drogan's is our location of choice for doin' business. It's not the best kept secret in the world, you know."
"You can give me a starting point. I know you can."
Bruno chewed on his lower lip for a moment. "Okay. You know what I'd do if I were you?"
"I'm all ears."
"I'd check out where this Ronald guy worked. What the fuck kind of name is Ronald, by the way? It's like that fuckin' hamburger clown."
"I'll ask his parents at the funeral what the hell they were thinking, okay? You mind staying on the subject! What is it I should check out at his office, Bruno?"
"The usual stuff. Who he worked with, who he did business with. You know, that kind of shit."
"This just your insight into police work or is there someplace you're trying to move me toward?"
Bruno downed his next espresso in one quick gulp. Then he leaned forward, put one elbow on the table and his hand under his jowly chin. In a softer voice he said, "Jay, I can't help you here. To be honest, I shouldn't even be havin' this little snack with you."
"Why not? What makes this one so special?"
"I got a few problems of my own I should be takin' care of."
"What kind of problems? They connected to what happened to Ronald?"
Bruno shook his head. "You know me, I'm not big on sharin'. I kinda like to internalize."
"What the hell aren't you telling me?"
Bruno choked back a laugh. "Almost everything that's ever happened to me I'm not tellin' you."
"So why are you having this little snack with me?" Justin asked.
"'Cause when did I ever strike you as a guy who gives a fuck about what he's not supposed to do?"
Justin smiled thinly. And as he did, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. One of the customers-one of the ones who had paid no attention to either of them, who had no connection to either of them, the skinny guy in Bermuda shorts and a brown polo shirt-was heading toward their table. At least Justin thought it seemed like that's what the guy was doing, and he tensed in his seat, his cop sense putting him on edge. But no, the guy in the shorts was just on his way to the men's room. As he passed by the table, the man smiled an abstract but polite hello, just a nod to two strangers, and Justin relaxed, embarrassed that he'd overreacted. The guy was past them now, and Justin was about to say something to Bruno, ask a question about Ronald's business, but then his Spider Sense was tingling again and he realized the guy in the shorts had stopped walking. Still smiling and nodding, the guy was reaching into the front of his shorts. Justin s
aw it, saw the glint of metal, and he immediately began to move, was throwing his chair back and scrambling over the table, and managed to knock the gun off course before a shot could be fired, and then Bruno was moving, too. Justin was amazed at the huge man's speed. And also his strength, which he felt when Bruno swatted him out of the way. The gun was still in the man's hands, was being raised again for a shot, but Bruno's hand wrapped around the guy's forearm, enveloping it. And that was the end of the gun's movement. Justin was close enough to hear the snap, like a twig being broken in two-the sound of an arm bone breaking. Justin saw the look of pain in the guy's eyes, but he didn't utter a sound, and he never stopped struggling, never stopped trying to get the gun up and pointed and ready to fire. But there was no longer any chance of that. Bruno's hand swept along the side of the man's head, and the guy in the shorts went down hard. Two other men came from nowhere, were pinning the man down on the floor. Justin looked at the man's face. He no longer looked like a vapid and tired tourist. His eyes were hard. Cold and deadly.
"You should get the hell out of here," Bruno said, looking up at Justin.
"I think you have it backward," Justin said. "I'm the cop."
"Not from what I hear. I hear you're a suspended cop."
"I can wait until Billy's guys get here. Suspended or not, they'll want to hear what happened from another cop."
"Billy's guys aren't gonna get here," Bruno said quietly. "Nobody's gonna call 'em. So there ain't gonna be nothin' for anyone to tell or anyone to hear."
Justin looked around, realized that the place had emptied out. The only ones left in the restaurant were him and Bruno, the man in the Bermuda shorts, and the two men pinning the guy in shorts to the floor. Justin also realized that the curtains had magically been drawn along all the windows. Nothing happening in the room could now be seen from the street. The guy on the floor was conscious, but he wasn't saying a word, wasn't struggling. Justin realized he was looking at a pro. A pro who knew what was about to happen. "What the hell is this?" Justin said. "What the hell is going on?"
Bruno made sure the two men had the situation under control, then he stepped over to Justin, steered him a few feet away, and spoke quietly so no one else could hear what was being said.
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