A Scourge of Vipers

by Bruce DeSilva

  As we walked to the bench after time expired, Krueger bumped me so hard that he almost knocked me down.

  “What the hell?”

  “Play some fuckin’ defense, grandpa,” he said. “Keep up this shit and Sears is gonna get the spot that’s s’posed to go to me.”

  “Yeah?” I said. “Maybe you could grab a rebound once in a while, asshole.”

  During the second game, we sat on the bench and watched Keenan Jefferson, the kid who’d quit high school to marry his girlfriend, out-shoot, out-pass, and out-defend everyone on the court.

  “Hey, Krueger,” I said.

  He looked down the bench and glared.

  “If Martin keeps anybody, it won’t be you,” I said. “It’ll be Jefferson.”

  “You think? Wait till I go up against him. I’ll eat his lunch.”

  Late that morning, when the coaches pitted us against Jefferson’s squad, that’s not how it worked out. Fifteen minutes in, Krueger was visibly frustrated. When Jefferson flashed to the basket and dunked over him, the jerk fouled the kid hard, knocking him to the floor.

  Jefferson sprang up, went nose to nose with Krueger, and snarled, “Do that again and you’ll need a brace on your other damned knee.”

  Good for him.

  * * *

  First thing Monday morning, Chuckie-boy summoned me to his office.

  “How you holding up, grandpa?” he asked.

  “My knees are aching, and I’ve got a slight strain in my left calf. Other than that, I guess I’m doin’ okay.”

  “Good. The copy’s great. It’s generating a lot of chatter on our website.”

  “I saw.”

  “Readers are rooting for you and Jefferson to make the team, and they’ve got a big hate on for Sears and Krueger. Sears because he’s a thief and Krueger because he’s an asshole. Heroes and villains always make good copy.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Vipers’ management is loving it, too. Now that they’ve seen your first two stories, they’ve made good on their promise to buy a weekly quarter-page ad in the sports section once the season starts.”

  “You’re telling me it’s a quid pro quo?”

  “Damn straight.”

  “I’m not comfortable with that,” I said.

  “Like I give a shit.”

  * * *

  I was limping back to my desk when my cell phone rang.

  “Mulligan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s Lebowski.”

  “Hey, Dude. What’s up?”

  “The M.E. finally ID’d the floater, and this one’s a doozy.”

  “Don’t keep me in suspense.”

  “It’s a state legislator.”

  “Let me guess,” I said.

  “Shoot.”

  “Phil Templeton.”

  “How in hell did you know?”

  “He’s been missing for a few weeks,” I said. “Who’s running the investigation now, you or the Lincoln PD?”

  “Neither. The staties are big-footing us.”

  “Captain Parisi?”

  “You got that one right, too.”

  * * *

  “State Police. Parisi speaking.”

  “Good afternoon, Captain. It’s Mulligan.”

  “I know who you are. What is it this time?”

  “Phil Templeton.”

  Five seconds of silence, and then, “Usual place in thirty minutes.”

  In less than that, we were parked nose-to-tail behind the Johnston City Hall, our driver’s-side windows rolled down.

  “What about Templeton?” he asked, not bothering with a hello.

  “Turns out it was his corpse that got fished out of the Blackstone.”

  A five-second delay, and then, “The Providence cops think it was Mario Zerilli.”

  “But we both know it wasn’t,” I said. “You’ve got a high-profile murder case on your hands again, Captain.”

  “Worst kind,” he said.

  “How do you mean?”

  He glanced at me and blew out a long sigh. “Why should I tell you?”

  “Hey, I’m just trying to make conversation.”

  Ten seconds. “Can we talk off the record?”

  “Sure.”

  “Dunkin’ Donuts on Killingly Street in five minutes.” He cranked the ignition and took off.

  A state police captain doesn’t concern himself with speed limits, so he was already sitting in a corner booth when I walked in, his knife-scarred hands cradling an extra large. I picked up a medium regular at the counter and joined him. For a minute or two, neither of us spoke.

  Parisi and I had worked different sides of the street on a lot of the same cases over the years, and I’d developed a profound respect for him. If the feeling was mutual, he’d never let on. But a few years ago, when we were both investigating a child pornography ring, we’d nearly had a moment.

  The case was so ugly that it tore at our souls. One evening, after we’d both stumbled on a cache of online snuff films, we sat across a table from each other at Hopes. Taking turns buying each other shots of whiskey, we made a feeble stab at talking things out; but neither of us could find the words. That night, I thought there was a chance we might become friends, but Parisi wasn’t the type to let anyone get close.

  As I looked at him now, I sensed another moment coming on.

  “Jesus, Mulligan. I hate cases like this.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “You know how it goes. The governor’s office calling the state police superintendent for updates every day. Him all over my ass for results. Assholes with TV cameras trailing me around. Reporters shouting their dumb-ass questions.”

  “Some cops love the spotlight.”

  “I’m sure as hell not one of them. I was hoping I could avoid another freak show before I put in for retirement, but I guess I should have known better.”

  “When are you planning on leaving?”

  He gave me a hard stare.

  “Sorry. None of my business,” I said, and he softened a little.

  “Some days, I’m just so tired of it all. I got another year left in me, I think. Two at the most.”

  “What will you do?”

  “June and I have been talking about selling the house in Coventry and buying a cottage on the Maine coast. Get ourselves a couple of Labrador retrievers, some fishing gear, maybe a little sailboat.”

  “Sounds nice.”

  “What about you?”

  “Me? I’m only forty-four.”

  “Yeah, but there’s no future in what you’re doing. I hear your buddy McCracken wants to take you on. You’ve got the stuff to be a decent P.I., Mulligan. You ought to jump at it.”

  “I’m thinking it over.”

  “As P.I.’s go, McCracken’s okay,” Parisi said. “He’s the one who sent Templeton to me.”

  “I heard.”

  “What else have you heard?”

  “Hold on. I’m the reporter here. This is supposed to work the other way around.”

  “Humor me.”

  This time, I was the one who needed the ten-second delay.

  “A few days ago,” I said, “the Lincoln cops responded to a tip that Templeton’s house had been broken into. They found the front door jimmied and signs of a struggle. Sometime today, the ME identified his body. He’d been beaten and then shot through the neck with a large-caliber slug.”

  “That all you got?”

  “I know Lucan Alfano tried to bribe Templeton. I know Templeton refused the money. And I know Alfano warned him that that things would go badly for him if he didn’t cooperate.”

  Five seconds, and then, “Alfano couldn’t have done it. He got dead before Templeton went into the river.”

  “Somebody working with Alfano could have done it,” I said.

  “Hell, Mulligan. Anybody could have done it.” Five seconds. “But it’s a plausible theory.”

  “Do you have a suspect?” I asked.

  “If I
do, I’m sure as shit not telling you.”

  “I bet you don’t.”

  “Are we done?”

  “One more thing,” I said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Have you looked at the Green Airport surveillance video for March 3?”

  Ten seconds this time. “Why would I want to do that?”

  “To see who picked Alfano up at the airport that day when he arrived on a late-morning flight from Atlantic City.”

  Five seconds. “You’ve seen this video?”

  “I have.”

  “How the hell did you manage that?”

  “By asking nicely.”

  “Gonna tell me who’s on it?”

  “No,” I said. “It’s something you should see for yourself.”

  22

  “That new profession you’ve been nudging Mario into? It’s strong-arm work, isn’t it?”

  “What?” Whoosh said. “Where’d you get that idea?”

  “I can’t say.”

  It was early Tuesday evening, and we were sitting in Whoosh’s office at the back of the convenience store, him in his swivel chair and me on a corner of his keyhole desk. This time, not even a Beggin’ Strip could lure Shortstop’s rump out of the visitor’s chair.

  “This ain’t something I can talk about, Mulligan.”

  “No?” I said. “Then let’s try it this way. You know this guy?”

  He took the cell phone from my hand and studied the photo.

  “No,” he said. “Who is he?”

  “Lucan Alfano.”

  He looked at the photo again.

  “That’s Alfano? He looks sorta like Paulie Walnuts.”

  “So you’ve heard of him, then,” I said.

  “Fuck, yeah. Everybody in my line of business had heard of him.”

  “Talk to him lately?”

  “Of course not. He’s dead.”

  “But you talked to him sometime in late winter, didn’t you?”

  Whoosh slipped a deck out of his shirt pocket, shook out a Lucky, and set fire to it with a cheap disposable lighter.

  “That bet you made against the Celtics?” he said. “It’s startin’ to look like it’s gonna pay off.”

  “Here’s what I think happened,” I said. “Alfano needed muscle for a job in Rhode Island. He called up here looking for a name, and somebody suggested Mario. If Alfano had reached out to Arena or Grasso, they would have steered him to someone more reliable. Dickie Theresa, maybe, or one of the Sirica brothers.”

  “So?”

  “So the way I see it, Alfano must have reached out to you.”

  Whoosh chose to ignore that.

  “The Bruins are one-to-four to make it to the Stanley Cup round,” he said, “and you ain’t laid down a bet yet.”

  “I like their chances,” I said. “Put me down for a nickel.”

  “You got it.”

  “Here’s what I don’t get,” I said. “You’re against legalizing sports betting, but Alfano was for it.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “From a bunch of state legislators he tried to bribe.”

  “Huh.”

  “Why would you and Mario want to help somebody who was working against you?”

  “If he was, it’s news to me,” Whoosh said. “What was his angle?”

  “Apparently, he was working for Atlantic City gambling interests who want to swoop in after legalization and run the show.”

  “The governor wants the Lottery Commission to take the bets.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “but Alfano was trying to get the bill held up until she agreed to privatization.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit.”

  “Okay, I’ll take your word for it. But what’s this got to do with Mario?”

  “Alfano’s bribe offers came with a warning,” I said. “He told the legislators things would go badly for them if they didn’t play ball. I think the badly part was Mario.”

  Whoosh stubbed out his cigarette and started another, taking the time to consider how much he was willing to tell me.

  “Can we talk hyper— What’s that fuckin’ word?”

  “Hypothetically?” I said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Go on.”

  “Let’s say Alfano did call me. He woulda been careful not to let on what he wanted muscle for, and I woulda been smart enough not to fuckin’ ask. And if he decided somebody needed to be tuned up, he never woulda told Mario why. He woulda just given him a name.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I get that.”

  “We done?”

  “Not yet. Whoever sent Alfano must have sent somebody else by now. Any idea who?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “Haven’t gotten any more calls from Jersey?”

  “No.”

  “You heard Phil Templeton got shot, right?” I asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s one of the guys Alfano tried to bribe,” I said, “but he didn’t take the money. He called the state police instead.”

  “So?”

  “I think that’s why Mario shot him.”

  “Aw, Christ. You sure it was Mario?”

  “I can’t prove it,” I said, “but it’s more than a hunch.”

  “The cops are looking at him for this?”

  “I’m not sure if they’re on to him yet,” I said, “but they will be. There’s surveillance video of him picking Alfano up at the airport.”

  “Shit. Is there anything solid connecting the kid to the shooting?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “They don’t know where Templeton was killed, and they don’t have the murder weapon. The shot was a through-and-through, so they don’t have the slug either. Looks like Templeton was grabbed at his house, but according to the Lincoln cops, none of the neighbors saw anything.”

  “No prints?”

  “None that point to the killer. At least that’s what my sources are telling me.”

  “Okay then,” he said. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

  With that, he pulled himself to his feet, shuffled into his storeroom, and returned with a box of Cubans for me.

  “Think you could give me a hand with somethin’?” he asked.

  “And what would that be?”

  “I got no clue what odds to offer on the Vipers’ tryouts.”

  “People want to bet on that?”

  “Hell, Mulligan. People bet on every fuckin’ thing. You know that. Besides, them stories you been writin’ have stirred up a lot of interest.”

  “Huh.”

  “Thing is, I don’t know whether any of the former college players have stayed in shape. And I got no feel at all for the playground guys.”

  “You want me to figure the odds?”

  “Be good practice for you.”

  “In case I end up taking over.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay. Give me a second.”

  “Take your time, and get it right.”

  “At first, I figured the tryouts were just a publicity stunt.”

  “But now you think they ain’t?”

  “Coach Martin seems to be taking it seriously,” I said. “And a few of the players look pretty good. Do you know if the Vipers actually have a roster vacancy?”

  “When the tryouts started, they had one open spot,” Whoosh said. “But from what I hear, Cartwright, the kid from Kent State who’s under contract with the Pistons, needs shoulder surgery and is gonna miss at least half the season.”

  “Two spots, then?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’d make it even money that none of these guys make it.”

  “With two spots open?”

  “Right. There are still a lot of unsigned free agents out there, Whoosh.”

  “Okay.”

  “Of the ten players still left in the tryouts, I’d make Jefferson the favorite at two to one. I’d put Benton at four to one, Sears at six to one, and Krueger at ten to one. The rest of the gu
ys have no shot, but I’d put them down at fifteen to one to generate some action.”

  “What about you?”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah. I got a bunch of people wanting to lay down a few bucks on you making the team.”

  “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

  “Most of them are broads, Mulligan. You know the type. Gals who decide what horse to bet on based on how pretty they look. I’ll put you down at twenty to one. Since you got no shot, that’ll make me some easy money.”

  “Okay.”

  “Want a piece of the action?”

  “Probably shouldn’t.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “I’d hate to have anybody think I was doing something shady to influence the outcome.”

  “Like playing matador defense against a guy you bet on?”

  “That or breaking somebody’s arm.”

  “Nobody but me will know you placed a bet.”

  “Okay. Give me a nickel each on Benton and Jefferson.”

  “Done.”

  “About you taking over?” he said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Best we wait to see how this legalization thing shakes out.”

  “Understood.”

  “And Mulligan?”

  “Um?”

  “I want you to know I didn’t see none of this shit about Mario comin’.”

  “No?”

  “If Alfano reached out to me, and I still ain’t sayin’ he did, he never mentioned anything about killin’. No way I woulda involved the kid in anything that heavy.”

  “Maybe Alfano lied to you,” I said.

  “Coulda, I guess.”

  “Or maybe Mario was just supposed to rough Templeton up but couldn’t control his rage.”

  “Rage? It was just a job.”

  “Templeton was gay,” I said.

  “A homo? You fuckin’ sure?”

  “I am.”

  “Aw, fuck.”

  On the drive home, I figured I should tell Joseph to put a few bucks on Jefferson. Then I remembered that he didn’t have any money.

  23

  It wasn’t quite nine P.M. when I parked Secretariat on Washington Street outside Hopes, shoved through the door, and found Yolanda perched on that same bar stool.

  She was dressed in a mint-green business suit with no blouse visible beneath the jacket, and black high heels she didn’t need to make those legs look great. She wasn’t wearing any gold tonight. Instead, a sterling pendant dangled from a silver chain and fell between the swell of her breasts. Two empty stemmed glasses rested on the bar in front of her. Yolanda was a sipper. She must have been waiting for a long time.