Silent Night: A Spenser Holiday Novel

by Robert B. Parker

  “I also didn’t tell you that I enjoy piña coladas and walks in the rain,” I said. “And, I might add, you never asked.”

  “I hear that you or someone working with you has been snooping into my private affairs. If that’s true, I’d like it to stop. I’m sure there must be some misunderstanding.” He gave me a faint smile.

  “What exactly have you heard, Juan?” I said.

  “My foreman told me that you came out to my farm in Weston a few days ago. And one of my men in the city reports that you visited one of my properties recently. Each time with some black man. Each time one of my employees was attacked.” He leaned forward toward me. “True?”

  “A lot of people say that about Hawk,” I said. “They look at him and say, ‘That is some black man.’”

  He got up. “This is not a joke to me, Spenser. You are interfering with how I run my business. I don’t know what you’re trying to do. I thought when we met the other night we met as friends. I still hope so.” He paused. “But please understand. If you don’t stop, I will stop you.”

  I let his words hang in the air for a moment.

  “I’m sure you’re serious, Juan,” I said. “I’m also sure you are aware that someone has been threatening your brother and his boys’ shelter. In fact, if you recall our delightful encounter at the charity auction, you might remember my informing you that Jackie had requested my help in making the threats stop.”

  “I am quite capable of protecting my brother,” Alvarez said. “And I fail to see the connection between Jackie’s problems and your invasion of my properties.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “My investigative methods may seem as opaque to you as your business dealings do to me. We both have an interest in knowing who might be threatening Jackie and Street Business. Any ideas?”

  Alvarez’s demeanor softened, and he sighed. “Jackie,” he said. “He’s tried so hard, and always manages to fail. His intentions are good, but that’s not enough. Street Business is just a pipe dream, I’m afraid.”

  “It may be ambitious,” I said. “But who would want to see it fail?”

  Alvarez shrugged. “Who knows? Anybody. Everybody. Maybe a gang that sees Street Business as an invasion of its turf. Drug dealers or other criminals who see it as a threat. So-called concerned citizens. Not everyone supports housing homeless kids in the community, as you might imagine. Even real estate developers, perhaps. We have had many offers to purchase our buildings on Curtis Street, mine as well as Jackie’s.”

  “I’m curious, Juan,” I said. “Why do you own so many properties on Curtis Street?”

  He smiled without warmth. “I have many employees. There is not enough room for them all at my farm in Weston. And, frankly, I keep a couple of men in town to keep an eye on Jackie and Street Business, to make sure everything goes well.”

  “So why do you continue to support Street Business if you think it’s a pipe dream?”

  “Jackie is my brother, Spenser,” he said. “He is family. I promised my mother that I would support and protect the family, Jackie most of all. As long as he believes in Street Business, I must not fail him. To do so would be to dishonor my mother and the memory of my father. That I won’t do.”

  Alvarez gathered his coat and pulled a pair of leather gloves from his pocket.

  “Thank you for your time, Spenser. I trust we have simply had a misunderstanding. I will take care of my brother. It is difficult with my travel schedule and business obligations, but he is my responsibility.”

  “I understand you travel quite a bit,” I said. “I hope you get a break for the holidays. Any chance you’re heading south of the border for New Year’s?”

  He put his gloved hand out to shake mine. “Merry Christmas, Spenser. May the New Year bring you peace and prosperity.” His grip was strong and his smile cold.

  THE VISIT FROM Juan Alvarez had annoyed me enough that I abandoned my further thoughts of the turducken and decided to catch up with the sports section of The Boston Globe instead. Outside it looked cold, but the sun was shining. A few shoppers, bundled against the weather, clutched shopping bags as they hurried down the street. Patches of snow lay in irregular patterns across the Boston Garden.

  My office door opened, and Carmen came in. She held out her hand. “Hello again, Spenser.”

  “Hello, Carmen.”

  Her hand was cold from the outdoors, and it looked like she bit her fingernails. She had a strong grip. She wore no makeup on her smooth, dark skin except for a touch of lipstick. She smiled at me. I smiled back. I wondered how it must feel to be a woman whose looks were so startling. The combination of her blue eyes and strong features was oddly electric. I sat down again behind my desk. And waited for her to begin.

  She was wearing clean, well-worn blue jeans, work boots, and a blue-and-green checked wool shirt over a white tank top. She put her sheepskin parka on the back of my visitor’s chair. Her hair was straight and fell to her shoulders, and was so dark it was almost black. She gave me an open, friendly look. And there were those eyes again.

  “And what can I do for you?” I said.

  “I hear you help people. Jackie told Slide, and Slide told me.”

  “Word gets around.”

  “Yes.” She paused. “You know Jackie is Juan’s younger brother?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Is that a problem?”

  Carmen frowned. “Juan Alvarez is the reason I need your help.”

  “Maybe this would be easier if I offered you a cup of coffee?”

  “Do you have anything stronger?” she said.

  “My coffee is pretty strong,” I said, “but yes, as a matter of fact, I do.”

  I pulled my emergency bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue and two water glasses from the cabinet against the wall, and grabbed the tray of ice cubes from the small refrigerator next to my desk. I dropped the ice cubes one at a time into the glasses and poured two fingers of scotch into each glass. I handed her one and returned to my desk with the other.

  “How can I help?” I said.

  Carmen took a sip of the scotch, rolled it around her mouth, then closed her eyes and swallowed. It was good to encounter a woman who enjoyed scotch.

  “I come from a very poor area near San Juan. My father is Puerto Rican, my mother was Irish. She died when I was two. My dad had a lot of different jobs when I was growing up. Sometimes he drove a cab. Sometimes he gambled or dealt drugs. Small-time stuff. It was a shame, too, because he had a knack for sports. He played a little tennis and fell in love with the game. He put a racquet in my hand as soon as I could hold a doll. He saw what I could do, saw it could get us out of that slum we lived in.” She looked at me hard.

  I waited. She sipped her drink.

  “Go on,” I said.

  “I was his ticket. I was a quick study, and he saw a way out. He coached me, just like a lot of parents have coached their kids in tennis. Parents coached both Martinas, Steffi Graf, the Williams sisters, all of us. My dad worked me very hard, but I loved it. And I was talented. I was headed for the big time. Started when I was eight and never looked back.” Her voice rose slightly. “By the time I was twenty, I was playing Wimbledon, the Open. And not just playing. Winning.”

  I waited while she went back. I waited some more. Then I said, “What happened?”

  She took a deep breath and focused on me again.

  “The papers said that my knees went bad. I was only twenty-two, and I had to retire from professional tennis. The real story is a little different.”

  “You want to tell me about it?”

  “I fought with my dad. I was rebellious and wanted to be independent. I thought I knew everything. He stopped coaching me and left the circuit in disgust. I went crazy from the fame and money. I was wild and tried everything that came my way. Booze, drugs, men, women, you name it. I was young and healthy and strong and did my workouts
and continued my training no matter what else I did at night. And I was able to get away with it for a while.” She took a swallow of her scotch and looked hard at me with her amazing eyes. “You know how easy it is to throw everything away when you never had anything to begin with?”

  I nodded.

  “I thought I was invincible.” She gave a mirthless laugh. “When I hit bottom, I hit pretty hard. I don’t seem to do things halfway.”

  “And now?”

  “A couple of years ago I got straightened out. There was a very rich man I had met in London when I was playing Wimbledon who now lives in Boston. I ran into him.” She paused. “When we first met, I had no idea he knew my father, that his family had left the same bad neighborhood in Puerto Rico and come over here to live in Lawrence.”

  I nodded. “Juan Alvarez.”

  “Yes. Almost four years ago he got me into a rehab place, and after I got out he took me to live with him in Weston at his farm. He wants to get married, but that’s not for me.” She smiled. “I don’t mind playing his hostess at his social events, and up until recently he’s been good to me. I got bored sitting around while he traveled, which is a lot, so in my spare time I started giving tennis lessons to the area children, and some of the adults, too. People here have plenty of money for that. Juan loves tennis himself and built a beautiful all-weather tennis court in his big barn. Despite my ups and downs, I’ve kept in touch with my good friends, and once in a while I get a big-name player to come out for a match. So I’ve managed to rehab my reputation a bit as well.”

  “That’s good to hear. But we haven’t gotten to the why-you-need-me part,” I said.

  “Juan Alvarez is not the man I thought he was. When I knew him before, he was kind and gentle. And that is the way most people see him. But gradually I have learned that he can be vicious and cruel. He hides this side brilliantly, but now I see it. Until now, I managed to escape his temper, but when a runaway boy came to the barn out of nowhere and I befriended him, Juan was furious and ordered me to get rid of him or he would make him disappear. He was jealous of my affection for a lost boy, and I knew he meant he would do the boy great harm.”

  “Has he actually acted on his threats?”

  “I have heard from some of his employees that he has had people beaten and tortured. Even killed. Sometimes for minor mistakes, silly things. Last week, a maid forgot to lock the front door of the house. Juan had one of his men slam the door on the woman’s hand. He broke several bones in her hand.”

  “This may be a dumb question, but did she report it to the police?”

  Carmen smiled without humor. “No,” she said. “She is undocumented. Most of Juan’s workers are. If they go to the police, they will be deported. He has also convinced them that worse things will happen.”

  “Like what?”

  “Many of the workers have children. If the parents try to leave or make trouble, they fear Juan will harm their children, or they will never see their children again. He encourages that fear.”

  “Because they are illegal, they have no protection from him.”

  “Yes. I’ve heard he also holds some children of people he does business with in Mexico, to make sure they don’t double-cross him in business dealings. He’s stowed these kids, three or four at most, at Street Business, and Jackie knows nothing about it. And when officials question what goes on at Street Business, Juan pays off whoever he needs to to keep Street Business above the law. This way Street Business always looks clean. Of course, it’s all a lie, but he’s got enough money to keep everyone involved quiet.”

  I sat back and contemplated what she said.

  “Jackie is so sincere, and he looks up to Juan so much. He is blind to what Juan really is,” she said. “I am very fond of Jackie. He’s been so good to Slide.”

  “You mentioned torture and murder. Have you seen Juan actually harm someone?”

  “No, it’s just talk. But people who anger Juan sometimes disappear and are never seen again. It is never Juan who does this, of course. He always needs to be the good man. I think he has deluded himself into thinking that he really is a good guy. But he has others do his work for him. And he always arranges it in a way that cannot be traced to him, which allows him to maintain his charade as a good man.”

  “Is it just the stories you hear from the immigrant workers which make you believe Juan’s a criminal?”

  “That’s one part of it,” Carmen said. “But I have firsthand knowledge of some of his business dealings. Juan has a legitimate international trading and import business, but his real wealth comes from trafficking in drugs from Mexico. He launders the funds through his other businesses, and uses his money to buy status and respectability in Boston. But in truth he is little more than a drug dealer.”

  “So forgive me for being cynical,” I said, “but it seems like you hit the jackpot with Juan. He may be a bad man, but I imagine being a kept woman on a horse farm in Weston beats where you were when you met him.”

  Carmen looked into her near-empty glass. I raised the bottle. She shook her head and stirred the remaining ice cubes with her finger.

  “A whore is a whore, Spenser,” she said, “no matter how expensive the clothes.”

  “So why don’t you just leave?”

  “I can take care of myself, Spenser,” she said. “But I fear for the others, Martita and her baby, her brother. And for one in particular.”

  She drained the rest of the scotch from her glass.

  “I don’t have children, Spenser, and I doubt that I ever will. But when Slide showed up at the stables, I sort of adopted him. Juan is jealous of Slide because he senses I care more for a lost little boy who needs my love and help than I do for him,” Carmen said. She thought for a moment. “I have not lived a true life, Spenser. I think Slide may have been brought into my life to open my eyes. I want to protect Slide. And I want to be the person Slide believes me to be.”

  “And where do I fit in?”

  “I want you to help me stop Juan Alvarez.”

  I swirled the ice in my glass, then set it down again.

  “I currently have a client,” I said. “Street Business. Jackie has asked for my help in eliminating a threat to its existence. Juan Alvarez is the principal support of Street Business, which you yourself acknowledge is a good place. Helping you bring down Juan Alvarez would seem to be a conflict.”

  “Unlike Street Business, I can pay you,” she said.

  “Not exactly the point,” I said.

  She nodded. “If it is possible to bring down Juan without harming Street Business, will you help me?”

  “I’d be a fool not to,” I said.

  SUSAN WAS GIVING PEARL her afternoon homemade Christmas cookie. Because we were at Susan’s house, homemade meant cookies from Rosie’s Bakery in Inman Square.

  “If we’re not careful,” she said, “Pearl will gain weight.”

  “Maybe ‘we’ could try to wean her off the cookies,” I said.

  “Never,” Susan said. “I think you need to run with her longer.”

  “In that case,” I said, “I think I deserve a cookie, too.”

  Susan brought a plate of Christmas cookies over to her coffee table. She sat down next to me on the sofa and rested her head on my shoulder.

  “So do you believe Carmen?” she said.

  “She has beautiful deep blue eyes.”

  “Martin Quirk has beautiful blue eyes. Do you believe everything he tells you?”

  “Oddly enough, Quirk’s eyes don’t seem to affect me in the same way,” I said.

  “Hmm.” Susan nibbled on a small corner of cookie. Her self-control was awe-inspiring.

  “You are suspicious of the tennis player,” I said.

  “I am suspicious of all women who have beautiful blue eyes and athletes’ bodies.” She lifted her head up and took a sip of her chardon
nay.

  “Based on what I’ve told you, what’s your professional opinion?”

  “Impossible to say without seeing her in person. Not that I doubt what you’ve told me. But if what she’s saying is true, the most fascinating subject in this whole drama is Juan Alvarez.”

  “How so?”

  “Controlling, domineering personality. Needs to be loved and respected. Generous, devoted family patriarch. Yet also a vicious criminal.”

  “Sounds like Michael Corleone in The Godfather.”

  “Exactly,” Susan said. “In the movie, his personality evolved, or devolved, over time. That’s not always the case with dissociative disorders. But it is fascinating that a person can believe they are good, even when they are doing very bad things. They find a way to separate themselves from the bad, even when they are the direct cause.”

  “I sometimes forget you went to Harvard,” I said. “I’m going to have to start writing the big words down.”

  “You don’t need to write anything down,” she said. “I’ll just talk more slowly.”

  Pearl wandered over to the coffee table and snuffled around the plate of cookies. Susan shooed her away. Pearl ambled back over to the fireplace, circled around three times, and then sat heavily on the rug in front of the fire.

  “So,” I said, “based solely on what I’ve described, do you think Carmen is being truthful in her motivations?”

  “Again, it’s impossible to tell for sure without seeing her. So much is revealed by body language, by tone and inflection of speech. But yes, it’s certainly possible she’s telling the truth. She sounds like a fundamentally strong woman who has taken some pretty significant knocks. She enjoyed some hard-earned success in a tough, highly competitive environment, and then spiraled down lower than she ever imagined she could go.”

  “And now she wants to destroy the man who helped her back up?”

  “Perhaps she’s reached a point in her recovery where she doesn’t need his support any longer, where she can stand on her own. She’s now able to see him for what he truly is.”