Robert B. Parker's Lullaby

by Ace Atkins

  I nodded. “Where can I find them now?”

  “I haven’t seen them in years,” she said. “I don’t care what Mattie thinks, I don’t want to be dragged into this. I got bill collectors on my ass and a dad who’s got the dementia.”

  “Mattie says Mickey wasn’t with her mom that night.”

  “How would she know?”

  “Who were her regular friends before she was killed?’

  “You check Four Green Fields?”

  “Yep.”

  “You keep asking there and you’ll find people who knew Jules. Good-time Jules. Lots of folks knew her.”

  “What about away from the pub?”

  “You check with Gate of Heaven?”

  I shook my head.

  “Priest there did some kind of outreach thing,” Theresa said. “I heard she was getting better before she got worse. Mattie wasn’t wrong about that.”

  “When did she make the turn?”

  “She’d always been wild,” she said, finding a seat on a wooden stool by the register. Her voice sounded distant behind the glass. “But she stopped having any pride in herself after this car accident. I mean, she would’ve never given a guy like Mickey Green the time of day. He followed her around like a kid, walking her home from the store, fixing shit in their apartment.”

  “What car accident?”

  “I don’t know everything,” she said. “It was like ten years ago. I just know it messed her up. Got her more into drugs and shit. Then she got straightened out again after the twins. A real roller-coaster thing.”

  “You know Mattie’s father?”

  “No,” Theresa said. “And neither did Jules.”

  I nodded.

  Theresa turned her head to the parking lot where Mattie sat on the hood of my car. It was getting late, and the streetlamps on Old Colony started to flicker to life. Mattie was smoking a cigarette and staring at nothing. She looked very small and awkward fiddling with the lighter. Her coat seemed ill fitting and shapeless and brought to mind Paul once again.

  “Don’t get her hopes up, okay?” Theresa said. “I heard she was spreading rumors about those guys, and that doesn’t do nobody any good.”

  “You know their real names?”

  “Moon is just Moon,” she said. “Big fat guy. Looks like a whale. He used to be a bouncer at Triple O’s before it closed.”

  Three teenage boys strolled and smirked inside and tried to buy a six-pack and some condoms. Theresa sold the boys the condoms and they shirked away. I walked over to the bubble gum aisle and looked for some Bazooka. They didn’t carry it. Bazooka Joe would have offered guidance.

  I walked back to the register.

  Theresa turned off the intercom and leaned to the cutout in the Plexi. “Red Cahill. They call him Pepper.”

  I nodded. She studied my face and let out a long breath.

  “These are some seriously connected people who don’t like old shit being kicked up.”

  “Connected to whom?”

  “‘Whom’?” Theresa asked. “You gonna buy anything? ’Cause if not, you can’t just loiter around. My heart feels like it’s gonna jump out of my throat talkin’ about this shit.”

  I smiled at her. “It’s been a pleasure.”

  “Are we finished?” she asked.

  8

  In the future, how about I handle the questioning,” I said.

  “If I hadn’t come with you,” Mattie said, “Theresa wouldn’a said shit.”

  “Do you have any idea what happens when I smile at women?”

  Mattie didn’t answer.

  “It comes with a permit,” I said. “I use it sparingly.”

  “She needed a little kick in the ass,” Mattie said, reaching to turn up the heat as we drove. She sank down into the passenger seat, pink Sox cap low over her eyes. She tapped her black-nailed fingers against the window glass as she stared out at the road. The night had grown dark outside the car as we headed south back to the Mary Ellen McCormack.

  “How about you just point me in the right direction,” I said. “And I do the legwork.”

  “Nope.”

  “Thanks for the help,” I said. “But I’m going to have to talk to some rough characters. People of low reputation.”

  “Wow,” Mattie said. “I’m scared.”

  “You hired me to do a job,” I said. “You need to respect the way I work.”

  “You need me,” she said. “I know people.”

  “I would have to play shamus and bodyguard,” I said. “I prefer one job at a time. And don’t fool yourself. I know a lot of crummy people, too.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “You hungry?” I asked.

  “Nope.”

  “I’m hungry,” I said. “It’s late. I’ll start again Monday.”

  “I got school Monday.”

  “I don’t,” I said. “Being an adult has its privileges.”

  We followed Old Colony, passing check-cashing businesses and liquor stores and secondhand car dealers. I turned onto Monsignor O’Callaghan Way and slowed by the front gate of the housing projects. The old brick buildings looked to be built from the same design as Depression-era hospitals and mental asylums. In the last decade or so, someone had added a few murals and a modern-looking sculpture. Neither did much to dress up the place.

  I stopped the car and offered her my hand.

  Mattie removed her ball cap and shook my hand. She tucked her reddish hair behind her ears and slipped the cap back on.

  “I wasn’t tryin’ to screw with you,” she said.

  “Never dream of it.”

  “Theresa was just trying to give you the same bullshit she gave my ma.”

  “Maybe she told me some things.”

  “What things?”

  “I got stuff to check out,” I said. “Leads to follow. Hoodlums to rough up.”

  Mattie rubbed her cold nose and nodded. She reached for the door handle. “You call me tomorrow?”

  I smiled. “You bet, kid.”

  “Spenser?”

  “Yep?”

  “Please don’t call me ‘kid.’”

  She pushed the door open and stepped onto the curb. I turned up the collar on my leather jacket and put my hands in front of the heating vent. I watched Mattie Sullivan open a spiked gate with a key and walk down a path lined with skinny leafless trees. A group of teenagers were lounging on a playground in their parkas and puffy coats. Five or six of them blocked Mattie’s path.

  She busted through them like Gale Sayers, splitting the group in half, and kept walking with her head down and her hands in her pockets.

  I smiled.

  I cranked the engine and drove north on the expressway to the Back Bay, where the boutiques on Newbury Street were still full of shoppers and the dinner crowd was heading out for cocktails in their cashmere coats and hats. The trees of the Public Garden were still strung with white Christmas lights. Tonight was Susan’s night to volunteer at a women’s shelter in Charlestown, and she’d left me a message to expect a very important houseguest at my apartment.

  I parked on Marlborough Street and headed up the steps to find Pearl the Wonder Dog waiting for me with a squeaky rubber chicken in her mouth.

  I scratched behind her ears and gave her a cookie. Peanut butter and bacon sounded like a terrific combo to me.

  “What’s for dinner?” I asked.

  Pearl didn’t answer. She panted.

  Seeing I was on my own, I opened the refrigerator. I pulled out a sweet potato, a yellow onion, and some andouille sausage we’d bought at Savenor’s in Beacon Hill. Since Susan wouldn’t be dining with me, I reached for a bottle of Tabasco.

  “First things first,” I said to Pearl. She looked at me earnestly and tilted her head.

  I went to the bar and poured myself a measure of scotch and then added a lot of ice and a lot of soda. I flicked on the stereo and sipped the drink while listening to a Tony Bennett LP, “I’m Always Chasing Rainbows.”


  I placed the sweet potato in the oven and tried Vinnie Morris. He didn’t pick up.

  I asked his voice mail about Red Cahill and a heavy named Moon. His voice mail did not respond.

  I listened to Tony for a while, then put on a pot of stone-ground grits. I sliced the andouille and chopped the onion and cooked them both in some olive oil. I added a splash of Tabasco and some salt and a lot of black pepper. When the sweet potato was done, I peeled and chopped it and added it into the mix. I found some maple syrup from Vermont and drizzled some into the pan, along with a dash of brown sugar.

  I lowered the heat and checked on the grits.

  I set a single place at the table with good china and gave Pearl another cookie as I dolloped the andouille-and-sweet-potato mixture on top of the steaming grits.

  Tony sang a sad song. But he sang it with hope.

  I was halfway finished when the phone rang.

  “Excuse me,” I said to Pearl. Pearl eyed the grits.

  I picked up the phone.

  “Do you go out looking for flaming piles of shit, or do people leave them at your door?”

  “Hello, Vinnie.”

  “Jesus.”

  I reached over the table and finished the scotch.

  “What you got?” I asked.

  “Red Cahill and some guy named Moon. Right?”

  “Red likes to be called Pepper,” I said. “Like red pepper. It’s cute, right?”

  “There isn’t shit cute about Red Cahill,” Vinnie said. “Whatta you want with these animals?”

  “Coming from you, that is high praise.”

  “I ain’t the man I used to be.”

  “Me and you both,” I said.

  “Since Joe got old, the city is a little screwy,” Vinnie said.

  “It was screwier with Joe Broz.”

  “Maybe, but he consolidated.”

  “Big word,” I said.

  “I try,” Vinnie said.

  “And now?”

  “You read about that shooting in Dorchester last month?”

  “Five men,” I said.

  “Yep.”

  “Town is changing again,” I said.

  “Yep.”

  “And hot Pepper has something to do with this?” I asked.

  “Bingo.”

  “He a shooter?”

  “Maybe better than me,” Vinnie said.

  “Nobody is better than you.”

  “I’m just saying.”

  “So who’s in charge?” I asked.

  “You’re not gonna believe this.”

  “I hate stories that start out that way,” I said. “Will this give me indigestion? Because I’ve got a top-notch meal waiting for me.”

  “Gerry Broz is reclaiming his old man’s territory.”

  “Red Cahill works for Gerry Broz?”

  “And Gerry Broz is no friend to you,” Vinnie said.

  “He may hold a grudge,” I said.

  “He’s been wanting you dead for a couple decades.”

  “I may have shot him.”

  “There is that,” Vinnie said.

  “Indeed,” I said.

  9

  Monday morning, I dressed in a pair of gray sweats and laced up my New Balance running shoes, taking along some street clothes in a gym bag. At eight a.m., I met Hawk at Henry Cimoli’s place on the waterfront. We waited until the yoga class had finished their meditation and deep breathing and then took over the back room. Hawk hung the speed bag, and I lifted the heavy bag, Hawk hooking the chains onto the swivel.

  We turned on the lights.

  “You ever think about takin’ up yoga?” Hawk asked. “Deep breathing, meditation. All that shit.”

  “No,” I said. “You?”

  “I am the model of inner peace.”

  “Even when kicking the crap out of someone?”

  Hawk grinned. “Especially then.”

  The yoga teacher was young and slim, with long red hair wrapped into a bun. She shut off the meditation music and carried the CD player out with her. On her way out the door, she and Hawk exchanged smiles.

  “Why didn’t she smile at me?” I asked.

  “You an acquired taste,” Hawk said. “My sexual energy is recognizable and immediate.”

  “Of course.”

  “How many rounds?”

  “Let’s hit six,” I said. “We take turns on the speed and heavy. Maybe some shadow work.”

  “You still talkin’?” he asked.

  I nodded, and we slid into the rhythm we’d developed over the years. I found the punching, footwork, and breathing to be a kind of music. Hawk’s hands worked on a speed bag like Gene Krupa on drums. My hands weren’t quite as fast, but my punches were solid. By the third round, I was sweating. Hawk glistened.

  His bald black head shone. His biceps and forearms swelled from his T-shirt. But I did not hear a grunt. Hawk was effortless in both speed and violence.

  We finished the workout with some bench presses and arm work. Hawk and I tossed around the medicine ball, quick passes back and forth. Some of the young ladies watched as we worked.

  “Poetry in motion,” Hawk said.

  “No,” I said. “I don’t think they’ve ever seen a medicine ball before.”

  “Good thing Henry keeps one for us.”

  “Nostalgia,” I said.

  After a fat guy in swim trunks left us in the steam room, I told Hawk about Mattie Sullivan and Moon and Red “Pepper” Cahill. Gerry Broz, too.

  “Just where’d you shoot him?” he asked.

  “Right in the Public Garden.”

  Hawk grinned and shook his head.

  “Leg,” I said.

  “You saved the motherfucker’s life,” Hawk said. “Joe Broz knew that.”

  “Joe thought I’d have to kill him,” I said. “But he wanted Gerry to try for me anyway. Thought it would make him a man.”

  “That’s love,” Hawk said.

  I nodded and wiped my face with a towel, leaving it over my eyes and settling back into the cedarwood bench.

  “Feds been lookin’ for Joe Broz’s ass for ten years,” Hawk said. “I see him on America’s Most Wanted.”

  “I think he’s dead.”

  “Men like Joe Broz don’t die, man,” Hawk said. “He down in Florida givin’ it to some old widow.”

  “You know Gerry was back into the rackets?”

  “Figure he be back,” Hawk said. “He don’t possess many skills.”

  “He ain’t Joe Broz.”

  “No,” Hawk said. “He ain’t.”

  “Vinnie says Gerry was behind that shooting in Dorchester.”

  “You goin’ straight ahead at this?” Hawk said. “If so, a brother might need to consult his schedule.”

  I took the towel from my face and wiped my eyes. “Not yet,” I said. “I want to poke around it. See what jumps out.”

  “You gonna use your red-skinned protégé?”

  “Z’s in Montana,” I said. “Business with his family.”

  “So you gonna screw around and then call me when your ass in a sling?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Be good to talk to this guy, Mickey Green,” Hawk said. “See what he know.”

  “Thought had crossed my mind.”

  “Maybe he was neck-deep in this shit, too.”

  “Probably.”

  “Where she live in Southie?”

  I told him.

  “Never been real fond of black folk there.”

  “You know it’s not the same,” I said. “It’s black and white and Asian. Gay and straight. Yuppies moving into condos on the harbor.”

  “Still a tough place to grow up.”

  “You think Mickey Green will agree to see me?”

  “What else he got to do at Cedar Junction,” Hawk said, “besides play with himself?”

  “I still want to call it Walpole.”

  “Don’t have the same ring,” Hawk said. “Walpole sounds tough. Cedar Junction sound like a pec
kerwood jamboree.”

  After the workout, I showered and shaved and dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. I slipped my running shoes back on and clipped my .38 Chief’s Special onto the rear of my belt. I slid into my leather jacket with the zip-in liner and reached for my Boston Braves cap.

  I felt calm. My breathing had slowed. My heart beat at an easy rhythm, and my head was clear. I now needed only coffee and some corn muffins to fuel my day.

  When I returned to my car, I found the little red light blinking on my cell phone, so I called my voice mail. Spenser, master of technology.

  “I need to see you,” Mattie Sullivan said. “Don’t freak out or nothin’, but they won’t let me leave the counselor’s office. I told them I’m fine, but a couple douchebags tried to run me over this morning. I ripped my pants. No big deal, but thought you should know.”

  I circled back to Southie.

  10

  Mattie told the school counselor I was her uncle, and the counselor bought it. I’d like to think it was the wisdom in my eyes or the deep calm resonance of my voice. Or maybe the counselor just thought Mattie could use a day off. She’d shown up for science class in torn khakis, her knees and elbows skinned and bloody.

  We found a Dunkin’ Donuts on Perkins Square where Broadway and Dorchester Street converge. We sat at a stand-up bar overlooking Broadway, watching people line up at the check-cashing business. Next door was a hardware store, and across the street was a pizzeria called McGoo’s in the bottom of a three-decker. There was also a bank, a barbershop, and a Goodwill in the little shopping district. The skies hinted at a cold rain.

  I chose two corn muffins and a black coffee. Mattie chose a grape-jelly-filled. The folly of youth.

  “Did you see these guys?” I asked.

  “Sort of.”

  “Was it Pepper and Moon?”

  “Nope,” she said.

  “How do you know?”

  “Do I look stupid?”

  “What’d they look like?”

  “The guy driving was older,” she said. “Gray hair and kinda scruffy. Other guy I couldn’t see so well. He mighta been black. Or maybe Mexican or somethin’.”

  “How do you know they were trying to hurt you?”

  “I figured that out about the time the car’s grille nipped at my ass.”