Boxer’s guy—it was Redbeard, which meant Barkeep was the one whose hand I’d wrecked—cleared the corner of the half-pipe and caught me exposed. He had an angle on me, a shot.
But the motion caught his eye the way it’d caught mine. He stared. His jaw dropped. I guess he’d never seen a raggedy red couch move so fast. “Hey,” he said, frozen, as the couch came at him.
The couch rammed Redbeard, rammed him hard, knocked him on his ass.
Then Randall Swale straightened.
I may be mistaken—like I said, things were moving along at a good clip—but I’m pretty sure I smiled.
Randall came around the couch, took one step, and kicked Redbeard in the head. He kicked with his good foot, like an old-fashioned straight-on football kicker. He kicked with power and form.
Redbeard did not move.
Boxer, who’d stayed put in case I backtracked into the half-pipe, couldn’t see any of this. But he sensed things were going badly. “You got him?” he said, hollering it, his voice losing its cool for the first time. “What in fuck-all’s going on over there?”
Randall grabbed Redbeard’s semiautomatic and tucked it in his pants. Then he shoved the couch in my direction. It was still one hell of a drop, but at least it wasn’t to concrete. Without letting myself think, I rolled off the edge, held my breath, and crash-landed on my feet. Felt it in my spine and hips, lost balance, splayed out, rose.
Randall pointed at the corner he’d come from.
We took off.
We ran hard.
Boxer must have figured out it was time to ditch his post, because he came around the corner of the half-pipe and tossed shots at our backs.
We ran harder.
Randall crash-barred a set of double doors like they weren’t even there.
I followed.
Right about then I would’ve followed Randall Swale any-damn-where.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“That was an intriguing way to answer a question,” Randall said two hours later, pushing away his plate.
“What do you mean?” I said. “What question?”
I smiled at Sophie as she cleared the table. When Randall and I had stiff-legged our way into Charlene’s place a half hour ago, Sophie’d taken one look at us and announced she would make omelets. I had no idea how hungry I was until she said it.
Damn, she was a good kid. Bustling around, cleaning up in a yellow apron, acting like she was thirty-five. All she asked in return was that we ignore her, pretend she wasn’t listening to every word as we talked things through.
From Sophie’s point of view, the invisibility act had another benefit: by the time I realized we shouldn’t be discussing things in front of her, we’d said so much already that I could only shrug.
She was the only female in the house taking an interest, that was for sure: neither Charlene nor Jessie had bothered to come downstairs.
“The question was,” Randall said, “whether Boxer was Charlie’s guy. Or whether he and Teddy were planning a mutiny.”
“Looks like he’s Charlie’s guy all the way.”
“’Twould certainly appear.”
I thought. “That might do us some good,” I said after a while, “if we could turn Boxer against Fat Teddy.”
“I don’t see it, though. Boxer looks like a loyal soldier. Keeps his opinions to himself, including his opinion of Teddy.”
“Especially his opinion of Teddy.”
Randall nodded. “And does as the boss man says.”
From the corner of my eye, I saw Sophie frown. And could tell she wanted me to see that.
“What is it?” I said, gesturing. “Spill.”
“Did you come any closer to figuring out who killed Gus?”
The kitchen went quiet.
“If Teddy did it,” Randall said after a while, “Charlie’s warehouse move was to protect his dipshit son. Which would make sense.”
“Or,” I said, thinking it through as I spoke, “Charlie shot Gus—or had Boxer do it, same thing—to clean up after the mess Teddy made when he was dealing drugs without his father’s okay.”
“This would also make sense,” Randall said.
“Meaning my banzai run to Springfield netted us jack shit,” I said.
Randall and Sophie agreed by saying nothing.
We sat.
“Either way,” I said, “we did learn something. Charlie Pundo was willing to take one hell of a risk.”
“Killing you, or trying to.”
“And torching a dump he owned, and being there while it all happened.”
“A man with his history,” Randall said, nodding, “might as well tattoo PRIME SUSPECT on his forearm when pulling a move like that.”
“Well,” Sophie said. Standing at the sink, she didn’t bother to turn as she spoke. “He must have had one hell of a strong reason.”
“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Randall said.
“Oh please,” Sophie said.
“You’re right, kid,” I said. “But there’s a disconnect. He said he was doing it for family, but he could barely mention Fat Teddy without spitting.”
“Huh,” Randall said.
“Huh,” Sophie said.
Charlene came in. Evening wear: fluffy slippers, cotton pajama pants, an old POWERED BY YATES T-shirt of mine that nearly reached her knees.
“Hey baby,” Randall said.
“Hey,” she said without looking at either of us. She started to microwave a cup of tea, then circled the room pulling shades—it was dark now.
“Care to hear a tale of derring-do and manly skill?” Randall said.
“No.”
Randall, Sophie, and I froze until Charlene pulled her tea from the microwave and headed upstairs.
“What’s that about?” he said, mouthing it, barely audible.
“I hired a tech,” I said.
“Oh?”
“With a busted elbow.”
“Oh.”
“Conway busted it,” Sophie said.
“Thanks, punk,” I said.
“That guy?” Randall said.
“Render a man useless, then hire him out of guilt,” Sophie said. “It’s the Conway Sax way.”
“A one-armed grease monkey,” Randall said. “If only your shop worked on unicycles.”
The two of them cracked up.
“Who needs enemies,” I said.
Once their laughter petered out, we were quiet.
“What comes next?” Randall said.
“The day before Gus was killed … the day before I tossed him out … he was hanging around with some dude in his apartment. Partying, getting high. He said so himself.”
“So?”
“So I need to know who the dude was.”
“Because?”
“Because it’s a blank space,” I said. “A space that might tell us something. Think about the timeline. This dude was one of the last people to see Gus alive.”
“Maybe the last. Other than the killer.”
“Unless the dude was the killer.”
“Pardon me,” Randall said, “but aren’t we pretty damn sure at this point that some combination of the House of Pundo killed Gus? Or, failing that, this Houston con man?”
“Pretty sure’s not sure enough.”
He finger-drummed the table. “The cops must be looking at this mystery friend.”
“I don’t think they know about him. Lima told me he stopped by the place and it reeked of weed, but he didn’t mention anybody other than Gus. So maybe the dude was gone by then. Or in another room.”
“Naturally, you haven’t mentioned this critical bit of intelligence to Lima.”
“I may have forgotten to.”
Randall sighed and pushed his chair away from the table. “So you’re not going back to work tomorrow, to train the one-armed mechanic who hates your guts. Instead, you’ll chase after Gus’s mysterious pot-smoking comrade.”
“I might.”
Randall squeezed
and kissed Sophie. “Great omelet, Muffy.” He’d been calling her that since he first saw her cheerleading getup. “See if you can talk some sense into Charlie Chan here, ’kay?”
“Fat chance,” she said.
“Fat chance,” he said, and started toward the front door.
“Randall,” I said.
He stopped. Turned.
“Thank you,” I said.
“De nada,” he said, and left.
“Did he really save your life?” Sophie said, turning on the dishwasher.
“Pretty much.” I explained what he’d told me once we cleared out of the skate park and he was driving me back to the Hi Hat to fetch my truck. He’d felt bad about stiffing me, so he’d headed for Springfield. He found my empty truck, failed to raise me by phone, spotted a Town Car easing from the club’s alley. He followed, watched Pundo’s men lug me into the skate park, reconnoitered, and decided the best move in an unarmed one-on-four attack was to set fire to the dump before Boxer and his men were truly ready for it.
“Not bad for a gimp,” Sophie said. She undid and hung her apron, then patted me on the shoulder as she walked past. “Turn out the lights when you come upstairs to face the music.”
How was I supposed to not smile?
The smile faded, though, as I was left alone on the first floor with household noises.
I sat at the kitchen table a good long time. Thinking about fathers and sons and how disappointment runs in both directions.
* * *
When I finally padded up the stairs, ready to take whatever Charlene dished out, Jessie stepped from her room and we nearly banged into each other.
She said, “Howdy, stranger.”
I could have let it slide. Should have.
But it’d been one hell of a long day.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Haven’t been around much lately, have we? Since the problem daughter returned. We’re brave when it comes to bad guys, but in the domestic realm we’re all flight, no fight.”
The “we” bugged me. “Bullshit.” I hissed it, trying to keep quiet.
Jessie kept her voice low, too. “Is it? You’ve sure been dreaming up excuses to be elsewhere. Between work and the Barnburners, I never see you.”
I stammered.
Stopped.
She was right.
Hell.
“The disappearing act is fine by me,” Jessie said, “but your two devoted Bollinger gals, the paycheck and the fangirl, miss you around the house. They miss you a lot. And what hurts them hurts me.”
“What about when you hurt them?”
She stared at me, hands on bony hips.
I stared back. “You break her frigging heart,” I said. “How could you not? Look at you.”
“You think I don’t know it?” A tear rolled—even in the mostly dark hallway I could see it. “You think it’s something to be fixed, like … like a leaky head gasket?”
Why not? I thought.
I was smart enough to not say it out loud.
Barely.
Jessie let her single tear fall to the carpet. Then she stepped into the bathroom and pulled shut the door.
When I let myself in the master bedroom, Charlene had the lights out and lay with her back to me. Asleep.
Or faking it.
Either way was fine by me.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
At six thirty the next morning, I stood in the apartment I’d chucked Gus from.
There wasn’t much to see. He’d grown accustomed, junkie-style, to living out of a backpack. All his gear had fit in it and a plastic trash bag. The apartment was bare.
So look around anyway.
For what?
Hell, I’d know when I found it.
If.
I started with all the trash cans, glad my friend Trey hadn’t yet emptied them, and plucked every nasty item individually. Kleenex, fast-food Styrofoam, a couple of bags from the Osco Drug down the street.
Nothing interesting, nothing that pointed me anywhere, nothing written down. Which was no surprise, really. In the age of smartphones, what twentyish kid jotted notes anymore?
Living room: nothing.
Eat-in kitchen, with its yard-sale table and its Target plates and glasses: nothing.
Bathroom: less than nothing.
Bedroom: nothing.
Just to be thorough, I checked every teenager’s favorite stash space: pulled the twin-sized bed on its black metal frame away from the wall, leaned over, looked down …
… at nothing. Not even dust bunnies.
Hell. I sighed and worked the bed back where it belonged …
… and saw something.
Knelt on the bed, looked close.
“I’ll be damned,” I said out loud.
Scratched into the wall near the head of the bed, barely higher than the mattress itself:
4315 AGR
It was etched lightly into the off-white drywall, so I’d nearly missed it. Maybe it’d been scratched by a pen that had run out of ink. Or by a pushpin, or a tack.
In any case, it was fresh: I spotted fallen drywall powder on the baseboard beneath.
I straightened, keyed it into my phone’s notepad: 4315 AGR.
What is that?
I knew.
Almost.
It meant something to me.
Almost.
It would come to me if I didn’t focus on it.
So I forced my head elsewhere by policing trash into a single bag. Felt my mind humming, sifting possibilities all the while.
License plate? Not in Massachusetts, where the plates were still six characters max.
Initials? Maybe.
Address? That felt right.
I let it work its way through my head.
Left the apartment toting a full trash bag, was halfway down the steps when it hit me. I stopped and said out loud: “Arms at Granite Ridge.”
Then I smiled.
Chucked the trash in a barrel, hopped in my truck.
* * *
The Arms at Granite Ridge was the latest name of a big-ass apartment complex on Route 9, Framingham’s main drag. It was built into a hillside—the granite, I guessed—overlooking the road and, beyond it, a reservoir. Four buildings, maybe two hundred units apiece.
Driving past the tennis courts and health club nobody ever used, I thought for the hundredth time this was the type of place people lived when they were starting out or starting over. I’d known a dozen Barnburners who spent time here after a divorce. The apartments were okay, but turnover was fierce because whoever built the joint in the 1980s took the easy way out and installed electric heaters in each unit. They were cheap for the builder, but brutal for renters. New tenants would get their December electric bill, faint dead away, put on an extra sweater, and vow to move out before the next winter hit.
I parked at the 4000 building, the one farthest from Route 9. Stood at the doorway pretending to search my pockets for keys until a young woman came out. Slipped in before the glass door latched, made sure the woman wasn’t eyeballing me, walked across a green-carpeted lobby to look at mailboxes. Found it:
4315 B. BLOOMQUIST
Back in Minnesota, you couldn’t throw a rock without hitting a Bloomquist. But I’d never met one around here, so the name seemed worth searching.
I used my phone to do a Google and a Switchboard.com. Didn’t find anything helpful—no address for a B. Bloomquist, which might mean something or might not.
I thought for a minute, then googled bloomquist and “university of massachusetts.”
Boom. There he was in an article from an Amherst newspaper: Bradford Bloomquist. Hometown: Brewster, Massachusetts. Graduated a year before Gus Biletnikov.
This was starting to make sense.
Two minutes later, I stood with my ear to the door of 4315.
Pink Floyd.
Really?
I knocked. Volume dropped, somebody spoke.
“It’s Conway,�
� I said. “Friend of Gus.”
As the dead bolt turned, I kicked out hard. My left foot went through the cheap door, but the door didn’t open—I’d timed it wrong, and the dead bolt hadn’t yet released. My ankle stuck and I fell backward, sitting down hard in the hallway with my foot higher than my head. Not to mention stuck in the door.
All the detective cred I’d built by finding the address and googling Bloomquist pretty much disappeared right then.
A guy in a bathrobe and a shaggy beard was looking down at me.
“Dude,” he said.
I pulled my boot from the hole, rose, bulled him into the apartment, slammed the door. We walked—me forward and pushing into his personal space, him backward—until he had nowhere to go and half-fell onto a futon.
I stood, breathing hard. Feeling like a jackass.
Bloomquist: long brown hair, that hippie beard. The bathrobe was terry cloth the color of red wine. Plaid flannel pajama pants, bare feet. I couldn’t help but do a double take at the feet: they looked like kayaks.
I eye-locked him, saw he was stoned to the gills. “Gus Biletnikov.”
“He was a friend of mine. He’s dead.”
Had he stutter-stepped at friend? Maybe just a little? “Tell me when you saw him last,” I said. “Tell me what you did with him. Tell me everything.”
“Are you a police officer?”
“No. My name is Conway Sax. I was Gus’s friend.”
“He never mentioned you.”
“He never mentioned you to me.”
Bloomquist nodded, scratching his beard. “Fair point. May I, ah, ask why you kicked in the door of my castle keep?”
“Sorry. Had to make sure I got in. Didn’t realize you’d be mellow. I don’t run across much mellow. What happened to Gus wasn’t mellow at all.”
“What did happen? He was shot, this much I know. You seem to know more.” As Bloomquist spoke, he rose and recinched his bathrobe. Gestured me to a sofa covered by a Mexican blanket. Turned down the stereo, sat facing me on one of those giant exercise balls.
Behind him was a folding table covered with hobby gear. Atop the table: a torso-only half-mannequin draped in a brown leather vest. The vest’s back faced me. It looked like an art project: a portrait of Bloomquist and, arced above the portrait, words:
THE DUDE ABIDES
I sniffed, realized that under the scent of weed and cigarettes and incense and bachelor pad hung the clean smell of leather. Looked harder at the table, was impressed at the array of tools. Adzes, awls, hole-punches, a dozen small knives, a whetstone and oil to keep their blades sharp.
Shotgun Lullaby Page 12
