by Ace Atkins
“But don’t do it too much,” I said. “Or you’ll go blind.”
Gredoni turned, gave me the hard look, and returned to the lesson. “Make sure your hand is tight at the bottom,” he said. “Or it will hop up. Keep her tight and it will jump less. Take a little bend in your knees.”
The range ran about thirty yards behind the shop, with white paper targets down at the end. The targets were on a motorized runner that Gredoni had moved about fifteen yards out. The target looked to be the outline of a Middle Eastern man with a bushy black heard. Strategic circles around his midsection.
“My hands are sweating,” the kid said.
“That’s all part of it.”
The kid took a wider stance, his baggy jeans drooping off his butt, and squeezed off a shot. The kid flinched. “Holy shit,” he said. “That was awesome.”
“Wow,” I said. “Right in the fez. Assassinating Sydney Greenstreet?”
“Spenser,” Gredoni said. “Shit. What the hell do you want?”
“I’m a paying customer,” I said. “A little R-and-R. You know, shooting not only lowers stress but improves coordination.”
“Bullshit.”
“Okay,” I said. “I came to bust your balls.”
He eyed me, snorted, and turned back to the pudgy kid. “Put a little kink in your arm and a little lean forward,” Gredoni said. “Bend the legs. Especially with a big gun.”
Gredoni stepped back and watched as the kid raised the weapon in his hands, squeezing off several rounds one after another. The kid turned around, laughing and waving the barrel wildly. Gredoni snatched it from his hand, checked the load, and told him he had one in the chamber. “Jesus,” he said.
“Before we both get shot,” I said. “How about a quick word?”
“If you came to shoot,” he said. “Shoot. If you came to talk, I don’t have anything to say.”
“Just how long are you going to cover for Welles?” I said. “I spoke to some of your investors. I know what you had planned for Strawberry Hill and why it didn’t work out.”
Gredoni shook his head, picked up a pair of earmuffs, and started to move them up to his ears.
“Did you know he’s using your name now?” I said. “And your credit card?”
“Bullshit.”
“Used it yesterday at Logan,” I said. “He rented a Chevy Malibu. Never really thought of Welles as a Chevy guy. I thought he’d rent an Aston Martin with machine guns and an ejector seat.”
“You sure?”
“Yep,” I said. “Good call on the collision. Last time I saw Welles, two shooters in a black SUV were chasing him out of downtown Lynn.”
“Crap.”
“Yep.”
Gredoni’s apt pupil walked over to a table and ran his hand over an M4 and two black tactical shotguns. He looked up at both of us, grinned, and gave a big thumbs-up. I wondered if Gredoni rented out the range for birthdays and bar mitzvahs.
“Someone’s after him,” I said. “And I’m betting you’re number two with a bullet. So how about we start back at the beginning. Who is Welles?”
Gredoni swallowed and nodded. He walked from the range back into the shop and told the guy with the mustache to take over. He pressed a button, unlocking the front door, and we both walked out together to the front parking lot. As soon as we were outside, he lit a cigarette.
“Concord didn’t fall apart from permitting,” I said. “Did Welles run off with the money?”
“Shit fell apart,” he said.
“Why?”
“We were juggling separate business plans,” I said. “We’re working on it. Okay? It’s complicated.”
“Why?” I said. Ah, the art of repetition.
Gredoni leaned against the wall to the gun range. A mural of the American flag and a soaring eagle clutching the Constitution in its talons had been painted on the cinder block. The shooting continued inside, sounding as if the kid had put down the Glock for the M4.
“He’s using you,” I said. “The same way he used everyone. If you don’t help me catch him, the investors will turn on you.”
Gredoni didn’t answer. He seemed to take a lot of comfort in the cigarette, drawing the smoke deep and then letting it out slow. “You see these guys after Welles?”
I nodded.
“How many?”
“Two.”
“What they look like?”
“Don’t know.”
“Whatta you mean you don’t know?” he said. “Aren’t you the private eye?”
“I was too busy diving behind a dumpster,” I said. “Besides, they had on ski masks.”
“Guns?”
“Assault rifles,” I said. “I didn’t ask for the make and serial number. They dressed and moved like military guys.”
He nodded as if that made a lot of sense.
“You help me,” I said. “And I help you.”
“These guys?” Gredoni said. “These assholes Welles pissed off, they aren’t the forgiving type. And I’d back off this. You’re way outclassed here.”
“Don’t kid yourself,” I said. “I’m a pretty classy guy.”
“Shooters,” he said. “Guns for hire. Soldier-of-fortune types. He brought them on board, had them do some training to attract investors. Now we’re tits-up, and they still haven’t gotten paid. They really want their money.”
“Oops.”
“We trained the Lynn police,” he said. “Freakin’ Boston police. SWAT. We taught a class down in Quincy at an old airfield. With his connections, he’d fly these guys in like sports stars. They all had nicknames like Hammerhead, Crow, Blackjack. I mean, shit. Real hardasses. If I were you, I’d get out now.”
“I need to know more than nicknames to help Welles,” I said. “And get my client’s money back.”
“So far, they’ve left me the hell alone,” he said. “I’d like to keep it that way.”
“Your buddy Welles might end up floating facedown in the harbor.”
Gredoni looked at me, tossed the cigarette down, and crushed it with the heel of his boot. The boots did little to help his deficiency in height. “He’ll fix everything,” he said. “He’s a smart guy. He’s got big ideas, big plans. Tell your client, the Kelly broad, she’ll get her money back.”
“Please excuse my pessimism.”
“Give us two days.”
“You talked to Welles?”
He didn’t say anything. He just glared at me.
“Those guys weren’t just trying to scare him.”
“Two days,” he said. “He’s figuring it all out. Everybody will be happy. Something really big is going to happen. Welles will make it work. It’s what he does.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Then I guess we’re all screwed,” Gredoni said. “And it won’t freakin’ matter.”
“What’s the deal?”
Gredoni just stared at me with dead eyes. I waited.
Without another word, Gredoni shook his head and walked back into Gun World.
19
Later that afternoon, I tried my best not to contemplate the toxic charisma of M. Brooks Welles as I crushed dried lavender with a stone pestle. Pearl sat on my kitchen rug as I worked. I had set Joe Williams’s “A Man Ain’t Supposed to Cry” on the turntable. Joe sang “I’ve Only Myself to Blame” as I added a couple teaspoons of the lavender to a bowl filled with sprigs of thyme, honey, olive oil, lemon juice, and grated lemon zest. I mixed them together and then added the marinade to a large Ziploc bag filled with two breasts from a free-range chicken. The chicken had lived so humanely it had apparently died with a clear conscience.
I set the chicken in the refrigerator and started to prep an appetizer of thin slices of potato topped with chopped pear and sprinkles of Roquefort. I had a bottle of Côtes du Rhône on the
counter and a bottle of Macon chilling. Covering both bases. My condo was open and inviting, with a few strategic lamps giving off a pleasant glow. I had left my gun and cap hanging on the coatrack by the door. The harbor outside was turning dark with rain pelting the window.
I sang to Pearl, “I have given you my true love, but you love a new love.”
Pearl stared at me and cocked her head from side to side. I started to slice the potatoes as I heard a jangle of keys and Susan walked through the door and into the living room and kitchen. “What’s that smell?”
“Roquefort.”
“I loathe Roquefort.”
“Even if sprinkled with pears on slivers of potato?”
“Possibly even more.”
“Trust,” I said. “Trust is key.”
“Speaking of trust,” Susan said, “have you heard something about a reconciliation with Connie and her con man?”
“She told me she’s confused,” I said.
“That’s an understatement.”
“He must really be good,” I said. “He has Johnny Gredoni screwed up, too. The man stole his credit card and his identity and Johnny didn’t blink. He told me that Welles works in strange and mysterious ways.”
“Did he really say that?”
“Sort of,” I said. “He said to give Welles two days and all will be made right.”
“Do you believe him?”
“Of course,” I said. “That’s why I spent the afternoon cooking. Everything will go perfectly.”
“Ha,” Susan said. “And what have you been working on?”
“Poulet au citron et lavande.”
“So what you’re saying is that you’re trying to impress me with fancy chicken.”
“Can’t fool you.”
“And Joe Williams?”
“It’s been a long day,” I said. “And a man ain’t supposed to cry.”
“Too many lies?”
“And too many people wanting to believe them.”
“Sounds like we had a very similar workday,” Susan said, kicking off her black pumps and finding a spot at the kitchen island. She watched as I prepped the salad. I washed the greens in a colander and set them on a paper towel to dry. I began to cut up a green pepper and a purple onion.
“What will you do if Connie wants you to drop it?” she said. “And goes back with Welles?”
“Probably the same as you.”
“Nothing,” she said.
“Maybe more than nothing,” I said. “I signed on to help Connie. Not help Welles. Or whoever he might be.”
I uncorked the Macon and poured her a nice serving in a stemless glass. I was drinking rye. Neat. The rain tapping on the windows gained intensity while Susan turned to stare out at the waterfront.
We sat on my new sofa, listening to Joe Williams. After a while, I switched out the record for Count Basie. Upon completion of side A, I set the potato slices and the chicken in the oven. I poured Susan some more wine and helped myself to a bit more rye. The rain fell pleasantly along the docks and out into the ocean. From the second floor, the Charlestown Bridge and the lights of the North End bloomed in interesting patterns. Or perhaps it was the rye.
“The chicken might take a while.”
Susan gave a wicked grin. “That’s about like saying your car ran out of gas.”
“Did I mention that my chicken is free-range?”
“That,” she said, “and then some. But I know where it roosts.”
She set her bare feet in my lap and I turned off the lamp on a side table. The record finished and we were left with silence and then the sound of rain tapping hard against the window.
“Do you mind if we just sit here and relax?”
“Not at all.”
“I can take care of your chicken after dinner.”
I made a crowing sound. Susan ignored me.
“It’s nice here,” she said.
I nodded. Pearl walked up, snuffling at my hands, and then inserted herself between us. She jogged her snout up and down, insisting on getting a good head scratching.
“You don’t owe Connie a thing,” Susan said. “Just because she’s my client.”
“I’m a nosy guy,” I said. “I’m very curious about all this. And I hate liars.”
“You don’t say.”
I extracted myself from lavishing Pearl with attention and moved over to check on dinner and change out the record. Since the fire, my vinyl collection had grown to an impressive spot on my shelf beside my books and a few wooden sculptures I’d carved. One of them remained after the fire, a blackened horse, a bit cooked but otherwise intact.
As I peered from the window across the waterfront and down the road where I’d parked the car, I noticed a black SUV not unlike the one that had chased Welles. I walked over to my bedroom and picked up a pair of binoculars, trying to see if anyone was inside.
I could see the shadowed faces of two men. One of the men looked back at me with similar field glasses.
I waved.
The SUV started, lights came on, and it wheeled onto the access road and away in the rain.
“What is it?” Susan said.
“Not sure,” I said. “Ask me in the morning.”
20
Three days later Brian Lundquist called me at my office and told me he was at the Starbucks across the street. Although I was a dedicated Dunkin’ man, I crossed Boylston and met him at a little table looking across Berkeley at the old Museum of Natural History. It was now a high-end furniture store that sold five-thousand-dollar sofas and sheets with a million-thread count.
I grabbed whatever they called a medium cup and sat down across from Lundquist. It was late afternoon, gold and sunny, and the coffee shop was nearly vacant.
“How’s the con man?” he said.
“Winsome,” I said. “Charming.”
“Getting any closer to what he’s up to?”
“It seems he’s so personable and likable, no one can fault him,” I said. “My client waffles daily on whether to drop my services.”
“Like I said, must be good in the sack.”
“Or a complete sociopath,” I said.
“Or that.”
Lundquist reached for a couple fake sugars and added them to his coffee. I’d rather drink rat poison. He stirred the coffee and said, “When were you going to tell me about what happened in Lynn?”
“When I figure out exactly what happened,” I said. “One moment I was offered cheesecake and the next a black SUV is trying to run down my con man.”
“Welles.”
“M. Brooks,” I said. “Or Mike. Mikey. Or just ol’ Brooks.”
“Any closer to finding out who he is?”
“Nope,” I said. “But Johnny Gredoni promises Welles is very real and will deliver on what he says.”
“I heard those guys in Lynn nearly got you.”
I smiled and showed a slight width between my thumb and forefinger. “Missed it by that much.”
“Did they want to scare him or kill him?”
“If I hadn’t been there, he’d have been roadkill,” I said. “They had a GMC SUV. A Yukon with no license plate.”
“What’d Welles say about what happened?”
“Not much,” I said. “In the confusion, he took off and disappeared again. I traced his car to a rental. The rental was in Gredoni’s name, although Gredoni says he didn’t know about it.”
“So,” Lundquist said, looking very happy with himself. “Basically you’ve been chasing your tail.”
“You know, Healy was much nicer,” I said. “He offered encouragement.”
“Bullshit,” Lundquist said. “I worked with Healy half my life.”
“So do you have something to share with the group?” I said. “Or just jonesing for a Malawi cold pr
ess with notes of citrus and chocolate?”
“When did coffee stop being coffee?”
“When someone figured out guys like us would pay five bucks a cup.”
“It’s ninety-nine cents to fill my travel mug at the Shell station.”
“Ambiance,” I said. “We pay for ambiance.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “I forgot. Well, your friend Welles seems to have been born into thin air a few years ago. I found nothing on him prior to that. He showed up in Boston, becoming quick buddies with a lot of folks in law enforcement. He made a lot of friends fast. I just spoke to the chief in Foxboro. He freakin’ loves the guy. Their website has pictures of their training. Welles is IDed as ex-CIA. Navy SEAL. Vietnam vet.”
“Any cops check him out?” I said. “Or just take his word like everyone else?”
“Word came from Gredoni,” Lundquist said. “He knows a lot of cops. A lot of departments do business with him. He’s been around a long time. And despite being an absolute prick, sells pretty good merchandise at good prices.”
“I heard he used to deal with some unsavory characters, too.”
“Oh, yeah,” Lundquist said. “We know all about that. He worked with Broz until that organization turned to crap. Some folks in the North End and Providence. He did some straw buys for folks who weren’t allowed to buy weapons, but we could never make a case on him.”
“And now,” I said, “what about that ATF task force that you never mentioned?”
Lundquist gave a crooked smile and sipped his coffee. He looked over his shoulder at the barista and then back to me. “That’s still going on,” he said. “Something really big is about to happen. We’re not supposed to talk about it, but it’s what the ATF has been waiting for.”
“Gredoni told me a similar story,” I said. “He said Welles was going to work it out. Get everyone paid.”
“Once we arrest this jackass,” Lundquist said, “I can print him and find out who he really is.”
“Why not just do that now?”
“And spoil the operation?” Lundquist said, shaking his head. “I don’t think so. Just wait.”
“For this theoretical roundup that may or may not happen.”
“Exactly.”
