A Scourge of Vipers

by Bruce DeSilva

  * * *

  My first words to the homicide twins: “Believe me now?”

  “Believe what?” Wargart said.

  “That Mario’s still alive.”

  “Barely,” Freitas said. “He’s got a hairline skull fracture, a painful gunshot wound, and a dog bite that nicked an artery. The punk lost a lot of blood.”

  “He gonna make it?”

  “The docs at Rhode Island Hospital say yeah.”

  We were drinking coffee in that same interrogation room. By now, I was a regular, so they knew how I took it.

  “Start at the beginning,” Wargart said, “and tell us what happened.”

  “I don’t know much,” I said. “By the time I got there, it was all over but the bleeding.”

  * * *

  It was midafternoon by the time they were done with me. A squad car gave me a lift back to my vehicle, which was still parked in front of Zerilli’s Market. Just down the street, Patrolman Bobby Santo, one of the few Providence cops I remained on good terms with, was pawing through the trunk of that gray Honda Civic.

  “Hey, Bobby.”

  “Oh, hi, Mulligan. Nice work in there today.”

  “Not really,” I said. “All I did was call 911.”

  “And maybe saved two lives.”

  “Not me. Shortstop did that.”

  “Who’s Shortstop?”

  “Whoosh’s dog.”

  “His dog took the shooter down? I hadn’t heard that. The dicks have been in and out of there all day, but they aren’t telling me shit.”

  “The mutt woulda killed him if Whoosh hadn’t called him off.”

  “Too bad he didn’t let the pooch finish the job.”

  “This Mario’s car?”

  “Not exactly. It was stolen from a Stop and Shop parking lot in Johnston last week.”

  “Find anything interesting inside?”

  “Dirty clothes, a dozen empty Pabst cans, and a bunch of fast food cartons. Judging by the stink, I think maybe he’s been living in it.”

  “No bundles of hundred-dollar bills stuffed under the seats?” I asked. “No briefcase with two hundred grand in it concealed in the trunk?”

  “Two hundred grand? If I’d found that, I’d already be on my way to Brazil.”

  I thanked him, saddled up Secretariat, and pointed him toward Rhode Island Hospital. Turning onto Olney Street, I spotted another gray Honda Civic. It trailed me for a couple of miles, but when I crept through the congestion in downtown Providence, it dropped off and backed into a parking space.

  * * *

  I told the hospital receptionist I was Dominic Zerilli’s grandson, learned that he had been admitted, and rode the elevator to his room on the fourth floor. There, I peeked inside his door and saw him sitting up in bed, a fresh bandage covering the gash on his temple. His wife sat at his side, fingering her rosary beads.

  “Stop being so stubborn,” she said. “Next time, you might get yourself killed. It ain’t worth it anymore, honey. We got all the money we need. Why don’t you just walk away?”

  “I can’t, sweetheart. You know Arena ain’t gonna let me leave till I find somebody to take over.”

  “Mulligan to the rescue,” I said as I stepped inside.

  Whoosh looked up at me and managed a smile.

  “That mean you’re gonna take the job?”

  “Sort of,” I said. “Unless the governor’s bill passes and puts us out of business.”

  “Sort of? What the hell’s that mean?”

  “It means you two lovebirds can move to Florida,” I said. “We’ll hash out the details when you’re feeling better. How’s he doing, Maggie?”

  “He’s got a mild concussion,” she said. “If he was younger, they woulda sent him home already, but they want to keep an eye on the old coot for a coupla days.”

  “Who you callin’ an old coot?”

  “You,” she said. “It’s time you started actin’ your age.”

  Whoosh dismissed that with a wave of his hand.

  “So what happened this morning?” I asked.

  “Mario came into the store waving a pistol and demanding money. Said he needed at least fifty grand to start a new life out of state. I told him no fuckin’ way. That the ten grand I already gave him was all he was gonna get. So he locked the front door, herded me and Doreen into the office, and ordered me to open the safe. I worked the combination and showed him there wasn’t nothing in it but my Walther, my coded record book, and maybe twelve grand in cash.”

  “Then what?”

  “I gave him the twelve grand and closed the safe. He asked where I kept the rest of the money. ‘The Caymans,’ I told him, and that’s when the fucker pistol-whipped me.”

  “Sweetie,” Maggie said, “you know I don’t like that kind of language.”

  “And when he hit you, Shortstop jumped him?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Leaped through the air like he was Michael Fuckin’ Jordan and chomped down like he was Mike Fuckin’ Tyson.”

  Maggie scowled and wagged her finger. I wasn’t keen on Whoosh’s choice of words either. Jordan had played a little baseball, but neither he nor Tyson had ever been a shortstop. I would have gone with “leaped like Ozzie Smith,” but I couldn’t come up with a shortstop who’d ever bitten anybody. Ty Cobb was mean enough to have done it, but he’d played the outfield.

  “And that’s when the gun went off and shot Mario in the foot?” I asked.

  “Served the cocksu—” Whoosh hesitated and glanced at Maggie. “Served him right.”

  After I left them, I called the Providence cops and asked what Mario was being charged with. They wouldn’t tell me anything.

  45

  I was stuffed, but I didn’t know how to unsnap my jeans in a way that wasn’t suggestive.

  “Yolanda, that was the best soul food I ever tasted.”

  “How many soul food meals have you had?”

  “Counting tonight?” I asked.

  “Counting tonight.”

  “One. But damn, it was good.”

  “The smothered chicken was my mama’s recipe. It was the first thing I ever learned to cook.”

  “If this keeps up, I’ll need my own ZIP code.”

  Her dining room table was scattered with china we’d scraped clean of the onions-and-gravy-lathered chicken, the fried okra, the collard greens, and the sweet potato pie. I helped her clear it and load the dishwasher.

  “Go get comfy in the living room,” she said. “I’ll be there in a sec.”

  I sank into the sofa in a room that was all mint green and light, the setting sun burning gold through the open mullioned windows. Yolanda strode in, set a birdbath-size glass of white wine on the glass coffee table, and handed me a tumbler half filled with amber liquid.

  “Gimme one more minute, baby,” she said, and turned back to the kitchen.

  I rolled the drink around on my tongue and knew instantly that it was better than my brand of Irish whiskey. She returned with an open bottle of Locke’s Single Malt and placed it on the table. Then she flopped down beside me, tucked those long legs under her, picked up her wineglass, and laid her head on my chest.

  “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about,” she said. “I definitely could get used to this.”

  “I know I could.”

  She dropped her hand to my thigh.

  “Are you really wearing Bruins boxers?”

  “No. I don’t have any. That was just a joke.”

  “Actually, I picture you in Blackhawks briefs. Maybe I’ll get you some.”

  “I’ve already got what I need,” I said. And then I kissed her.

  “You know I’m breaking a rule here, right?” she said.

  “The one about not dating white guys?”

  “The one about not dating clients.”

  “I’m a client?”

  “You gave me a five-dollar retainer.”

  “Give it back. I don’t need a lawyer.”

  “Oh, yes you do.”


  ‘What? Why?”

  “Because I think you’ve got a solid wrongful termination case.”

  “I never thought of that.”

  “Let me ask you a couple of questions,” she said, her voice suddenly lawyerly. “Did The Dispatch give you an opportunity to explain before they fired you?”

  “No. My boss never even told me why I was being fired. He just ordered me to collect my personal stuff and get out.”

  “He offer to hire you back?”

  “Yeah. With a raise, too.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I don’t remember. I wasn’t exactly sober at the time.”

  “But you didn’t accept?”

  “No.”

  “That’s good. We can show damages.”

  “Huh,” I said. I was warming to the idea.

  “I’ve already done my homework on General Communications Holdings International,” Yolanda said. “Over the last decade, three dozen wrongful termination complaints have been brought against them. Only eleven had merit, and they were all settled out of court.”

  “For how much?”

  “The amounts varied, but the average was a hundred and forty thousand.”

  “Sounds like a lot.”

  “It’s nowhere near what the legal costs would have been if the cases had gone to trial.”

  “How do you know about this?” I asked. “There’s no public record of out-of-court settlements.”

  “One of my law school classmates used to work for the firm that represents them. He quit a couple of months ago when they didn’t come through with the partnership he’d been promised, so he was more than willing to rat them out.”

  “You really think I should sue the paper?”

  “I do. I’ll take the case on a contingency basis.”

  “Meaning what, exactly?”

  “The firm gets twenty-five percent if they settle before we file.”

  “And if they don’t?”

  “If we file and they settle before trial, our fee goes up to thirty-five percent.”

  “And if they don’t settle?”

  “They will,” she said.

  I took a moment to mull it over.

  “I got fired because of Grandison,” I said. “Isn’t that a conflict of interest for you?”

  “Not anymore. I’ve informed her that her actions created a conflict with another client and that she will have to seek other representation.”

  “Okay, Yolanda. Let’s do it. After I collect, will you marry me for my money?”

  “My annual salary is four times what you’re likely to get.”

  “Can I marry you for your money?”

  “I don’t think my money’s what you’ve got your eye on.”

  She rose, slipped out of her dress, took me by the hand, and pulled me into the bedroom.

  46

  When I stepped into McCracken’s suite in the Turk’s Head Building, I observed that Sharise had chosen a very short skirt today. Or maybe it was just a very wide belt. I also saw that the “Shamus Mulligan” nameplate had been mounted on one of the interior office doors.

  “Mr. McCracken is expecting you,” Sharise said. “You can go right in.”

  He greeted me with his customary bone-crushing handshake, and we seated ourselves on the leather couch. The coffee table had already been set with a fresh pot and all the fixings, and this morning, there were also doughnuts. I snagged a leaking jelly as the P.I. poured us each a cup.

  “So,” he said, “when can you start?”

  “Look,” I said, “I’m not ready to give up writing just yet. Any chance I could work for you part-time?”

  “Full-time would be better, but if that’s what it takes to get you started. For now, I’ll pay you sixty bucks an hour for the time you put in on each case. How’s that sound?”

  “Works for me.”

  “As an operative of McCracken and Associates, you can work under my P.I. license, but you ought to have your own. Sharise has done the paperwork, so sign the forms on your way out.… Oh, and is it okay if I keep your name on the door?”

  “Sure thing. So what’s my first case?”

  “You know Brian Annunzio?”

  “The criminal lawyer?”

  “That’s the one,” McCracken said. “He’s hired us to help prepare the defense for his latest client.”

  “What’s the charge?”

  “The guy’s ready to cop to attempted robbery, assault and battery, and possession of an unregistered firearm; but the Providence cops are also looking at him for two murders and for stealing two hundred grand from one of the dead guys.”

  I turned and stared at him.

  “Are you talking about Mario?”

  “I am.”

  “If Mario can afford Annunzio, he must have Alfano’s money stashed somewhere.”

  “He claims he doesn’t.”

  “Then how’s he paying the lawyer?”

  “Whoosh is footing the bill.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “I’m not,” McCracken said. “He isn’t springing for bail, though. Says he doesn’t want the punk running around loose for a while.”

  “I’ll bet. Are you sure you want me on this one? I haven’t exactly been getting along with Mario lately.”

  “Me either,” McCracken said. “As you may recall, the last time I ran into him I popped him in the nose.”

  “Did you tell Annunzio about this?”

  “Didn’t have to. Mario gave him the whole story.”

  “And he still wants us?”

  “It’s why he wants us. We already know the case. Anybody else would be starting from scratch.”

  “Have you talked to Mario yet?”

  “I have.”

  “What’s his story?”

  “Says he didn’t shoot Templeton. Claims he never even heard of the guy.”

  “What’s he saying about Romeo Alfano?”

  “Says he didn’t kill him either.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “The way Mario tells it, he did get pissed off at Alfano.”

  “When I spilled the beans about what his boss was really up to?”

  “Yeah. After you and I left the hotel room, he told Alfano he was quitting and demanded payment for services rendered. Alfano pulled a gun on him. Said that if Mario had been any good at his job he wouldn’t have let us get the drop on him.”

  “And then?”

  “Mario says he scooped his empty revolver off the floor, turned tail, and beat it out of the hotel. When he heard that Alfano was dead and that the cops thought he’d shot him, he just kept on running.”

  “Don’t tell me you believe that,” I said.

  “Could be the truth,” McCracken said. “The cops ran ballistics on the gun Mario used to pistol-whip Whoosh, and it’s not a match to the one that killed Alfano.”

  “So they can’t tie him to either murder,” I said.

  “Not yet, anyway.”

  I’d given up cigars during the Vipers tryout, but I was jonesing for one now. I drew two Cohibas from my shirt pocket and clipped the ends. McCracken stuck one in his teeth, and I set fire to it with my torch lighter. Then I got mine going. We smoked in silence until I tapped two inches of white ash into my empty coffee cup.

  “Mario’s not the only one who had motive and opportunity to kill Alfano,” I said.

  “Freitas and Wargart like him for it,” McCracken said, “but I hear they still think it could have been you.”

  “What about you?” I asked.

  “I’ve been wondering about that. Think the desk clerk saw me leave the hotel with you that day?”

  “Could have,” I said. “And if he told the homicide twins—”

  “Then they might suspect both of us.”

  “You know what I’m thinking?” I said.

  “What?”

  “That it could have been them.”

  McCracken nodded. “When we left the hotel, the first thing you
did is call Wargat. You pointed him and his partner right to that hotel room.”

  I took a moment to think it over.

  “I called Parisi, too,” I said.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “If he was at state police headquarters when he answered his cell, it would have taken him a good forty minutes to get to the hotel,” I said. “In that case, the homicide twins would have beat him to the scene.”

  “But was he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  McCracken shook his head. “Parisi’s a straight arrow,” he said. “But Wargart and Freitas have been on the pad for years.”

  “Really? I hadn’t heard that.”

  “Oh, fuck yeah. I wouldn’t trust those two assholes with their own kids’ lunch money.”

  * * *

  That afternoon, the House finally voted on the governor’s gambling bill and defeated it by twenty-three votes. It then took up the Republican version, which called for sports gambling to be run by private enterprise, and passed it with a solid majority. The next morning, the House bill passed the Senate with a margin of seventeen votes. Whoever the Alfanos had been working for had gotten something for their money.

  That evening, Fiona and I met to commiserate over brews at Hopes.

  “The tax on private sports gambling will amount to only six percent of the revenue we could have brought in if the Lottery Commission had been authorized to take the bets,” she said.

  “Twelve million a year is better than nothing,” I said.

  “You think?”

  “You don’t?”

  “No, I don’t,” she said. “We’ll have to spend most of the first year’s proceeds just to fight the federal lawsuits the NCAA and the professional sports leagues are going to file against the state. Besides, the whole thing is tainted now.”

  “By the bribes that got handed out?”

  “And by all the super PAC money,” she said. “The way I see it, that’s just legal bribery.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to veto it.”

  “Told anybody else yet?”

  “Just you.”

  “Mind if I give the story to Mason?”

  “So you can rub The Dispatch’s face in it?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m all for that.”

  * * *