Robert B. Parker's Lullaby

by Ace Atkins

I had to knock on the door for five minutes before she opened it.

  Grandma had been sleeping one off. I was shocked. But I composed myself and gave another introduction, since she’d been comatose when we’d first met.

  She didn’t answer me. She walked back in the apartment and sat down on a ratty plaid chair. Grandma Sullivan lit a cigarette and fanned away the smoke. She didn’t look quite as old and skinny today. She’d put on some makeup and wore a red camisole top that showed off some shapely freckled shoulders. Her nose was pert and her eyes a deep green. She was still in her forties, hard but not unattractive. Or maybe it was the dim light.

  A little bit of light from the half-open curtains looked to be causing her some pain. I walked over, closed them, and sat down on a sofa. A television played a soap opera on mute. A man was in a hospital with a bandaged head. A woman appeared to be crying.

  Grandma smoked some more. Strands of light bled from the curtains like thick fingers through the smoke. “You’re the detective.”

  “I slay dragons, rescue maidens.”

  “Mattie talks about you a lot.”

  I nodded.

  “She trusts you.”

  I nodded again. “She’s a good kid.”

  “Stubborn,” she said.

  “What makes her so good.”

  “Mother was the same way,” she said. “Couldn’t tell her shit. She knew it all.”

  “People have said similar things about me,” I said. “Can you tell me a bit about your daughter?”

  “She was wild with boys and drinking, but she straightened it all out for Mattie,” she said. “God bless that girl, she brought my Julie back for a while.”

  “How long?”

  “Few years.”

  Grandma walked over to the wall and the framed high-school photo of Julie. She held it in both hands and handed it to me with great care. Dust motes spun in a sliver of sunlight. The room had an attic-like quality, smelling of moth balls and old clothes. Toys and stuffed animals cluttered a rug in the center of the room. She stood over me as I studied the photo of Julie. She absently fingered her black-ink tattoo of her daughter’s name.

  “You know about the car wreck?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “Mattie was four years old when Julie got hurt,” Grandma said. “That wreck changed everything. Some stupid bastard T-boned her car as she was headed to work. That’s how she got into pills, and from pills into coke. You go on from there.”

  “What about the guy who hit her?”

  “We won ten grand in a settlement,” Grandma said. “He was some jerk-off business guy from Revere. Never said he was sorry, hid behind his lawyer like a woman’s skirt. Julie lost her job.”

  She tucked her unwashed hair behind her ears. Her complexion was blotchy. She stubbed out the cigarette and started a new one. I learned her name was Colleen.

  “And I guess the money did not provide a wealth of stability?”

  “Money went straight into her arm,” Colleen said. “I couldn’t stop her. Then she started stealing shit. She sold all my dead ma’s rings. She sold our TV. She’d moved in, and I had to kick her out. I kept Mattie. She didn’t care about Mattie anymore. She didn’t care about me until she got knocked up with the twins. That kept her clean for nearly a year. And then it was back to the stealing and lies.”

  “Who were her friends before she died?”

  “Don’t ever call those parasites friends. And don’t get Mattie’s hope up, either. How much is she paying you?”

  “A dozen donuts.”

  “You’re a funny one, aren’t you,” she said. She laughed as if I were being funny. “That how you got that eye?”

  I placed my hands in my coat pockets. I shrugged. Grandma smiled at me in a hazy way. Maybe through the smoke and booze, the scar tissue around my eyes and busted nose wasn’t as prom-

  inent.

  “Ever see Julie with a guy named Red Cahill?” I asked.

  She blew out some smoke and shook her head.

  “Moon Murphy?”

  She shook her head some more. She waved away the smoke.

  “Touchie Kiley?”

  She shook her head, not seeming to listen.

  “You don’t think much of me, do you?” she asked.

  I didn’t answer.

  “You have kids?”

  “Nope.”

  “You don’t want to outlive a kid,” she said. “I’d trade places with Julie any day.”

  I nodded.

  “I’m doing the best I can,” she said. “Mattie’s strong. Stronger than me.”

  She’d started to cry, heavy with the booze, singing very softly a very old song. “‘Oft, in dreams I wander to that cot again. I feel her arms a-hugging me. As when she held me then.’”

  “You know that old song?” she asked. “I used to sing it to Julie. I was just a kid myself when she was born. Isn’t that some sentimental shit?”

  “I heard Bing Crosby sing it in a movie once,” I said. “I liked it.”

  She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Hell, you want a drink?” she asked.

  “It’s pretty early.”

  “I didn’t ask you for the time.”

  I shrugged. She walked into the small kitchen and reached into a cupboard over the stove. She pulled out some Old Forester and poured a generous shot into two jelly jars featuring Bugs Bunny and Tweety Bird. She handed me the glass as if it were made of crystal.

  “Ah, the good stuff,” I said.

  “Good enough for me.”

  “You know Mickey Green?” I asked.

  “Whaddya you think,” she said. “He’s the rotten son of a bitch who killed my Julie.”

  “Did you know him before she was killed?”

  “Yeah, I seen him around. Always acting like he was a good guy, doing little chores and crap to win favors.”

  “Mattie believes he’s innocent.”

  “Kids need something to believe in,” she said. She finished her drink in one gulp. “Like Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and all them saints. Me, I’m too old for that. So don’t break my little doll’s heart. Okay? Bad things happen in life. You swallow it and keep moving ahead.”

  I nodded. We just sat there for a while.

  “You aren’t half bad looking,” she said.

  “It’s the other half that ruins it.”

  “You look like you’ve been in some scraps.”

  “Trouble is my business,” I said.

  I downed the Old Forester. Mattie’s grandmother smiled at me for a while. It was a wavering, fuzzy smile. She leaned back in her chair, stretched, and let out a long, tired breath. An uncomfortable silence passed between us. I finished the booze, feeling it warm my stomach. I winked at her before I let myself out.

  The wind in the common ground swirled in a bright, chilled vortex. Trash spun and danced, hitting brick walls and collapsing in a heap. I walked back to Kemp Street but could not find my car. If it had been a horse, I would have whistled.

  I looked both ways. But my car had disappeared.

  18

  I saw two of them approach from Dorchester Avenue.

  I walked in the opposite direction toward Monsignor O’Callaghan Way and north toward the T station. Two more met me halfway through the projects. I kept a bright, smiling clip. I could confront them, but I wanted to see what developed. I did not leer. I did not stick out my tongue. I did not wave around my .38. I walked with intent.

  I nodded politely at an older Asian woman carrying groceries from her car. I waited on the sidewalk as a Hispanic boy played with a remote-control truck that jumped snow and trash. I turned up on a street called Logan, still within the brick maze of the Mary Ellen McCormack, and circled back toward Dorchester. I had not recognized any of the men. The first two looked like hard older guys, one with a beard, the other guy in an Army jacket. They looked like dopeheads, not toughs.

  I stopped and glanced back. The third man was young and Hispanic. The man with him was w
hite, with thinning black hair and a stubbled face. He wore a fake leather jacket advertising Marlboro cigarettes, the kind you win after collecting empty packs. Very stylish.

  They all watched me. They nodded to one another, closing in.

  I could stand and fight like Randolph Scott. But I did not figure a shootout near a playground was a good idea. I could turn back to them and give them the stink eye. The more I practiced, the more the stink eye worked. Practice made perfect. But I kept walking. I turned left on Devine.

  The quartet followed. Perhaps they would assault me in song.

  I reached for the .38 on my hip and slipped it into my peacoat pocket. I kept my hand there, walking. I began to whistle “Danny Boy.”

  After a few minutes, I decided I sounded pretty good. The street was very quiet at midday. There was a hush that came in the old snow piles and ice. Long rows of cars sat humpbacked and buried in snow. Someone had used a pink pen to write a eulogy to a dead friend on a mailbox. I made it to Dorchester and turned north again. I was out of the projects and headed into a grouping of haggard storefronts and a brand-new Dunkin’ Donuts. The Dunkin’ Donuts shone like a beacon in the distance.

  I passed an auto-repair school, a liquor shop, a travel agent. The Andrew Station stood at the corner of Dorchester Avenue and Dorchester Street. I walked inside and paid two bucks for a pass.

  The quartet was inside the station. The two old guys were conversing. I bet they were conversing about me. I did not take it to be complimentary.

  I slipped the pass into the turnstile and headed down the stairwell. The young Latin guy and balding man in the faux-leather Marlboro jacket followed.

  I stood at the T platform with maybe twenty other people headed inbound to the city. It had been some time since I’d taken the T. I could take the T from my apartment to Fenway. But on really nice days I chose to walk down Commonwealth. I worked in a driving profession. It was hard to tail a person on the T.

  The men stood back. They conversed some more. They looked like schoolgirls gossiping. The two older guys joined them.

  A subway poster advertised a new exhibit at the Museum of Fine Arts. A new exhibit called “Art of the Americas.” George Washington stood proud on horseback. Washington wouldn’t have retreated into a T station. George would’ve charged right for them.

  I heard the rumble of the T. I glanced over at the two men. They did not try to approach me. They looked confused about what to do next. I wondered why Red or Moon hadn’t come for me themselves.

  I looked back at Washington. He had wooden teeth and a big set of brass balls. But muskets and swords were not .45s and .38s and Glocks. Four against one. Shooting it out on a crowded platform.

  I stepped onto the T. The men stood dead-footed in the station. The doors closed with a hiss. Through the dirty glass, I smiled and waved to the quartet. They did not smile back.

  I took the Red Line to South Station and got off. I walked upstairs to the large terminal where you could catch a bus to Logan or a train to New York. My cell phone was in my lost car. I found a bank of pay phones, glad to see they still existed.

  I called Henry Cimoli’s gym to find Hawk.

  19

  You got it wrong, babe,” Hawk said. “You suppose to follow bad guys. Bad guys don’t follow you.”

  “Perhaps I should have explained the rules.”

  “Mighta shot you while you doin’ the explainin’.”

  “That would’ve been poor form.”

  “Bein’ a thug don’t have no form,” Hawk said. “Sometimes it got rules. Sometimes it don’t.”

  Hawk and I sat at a corner table in the bar of the Long Wharf Marriott. The bar had a big bank of windows that looked onto a small marina dotted with sailboats covered up for the winter. Further out, you could see the choppy cold waters of the Atlantic and buoys being knocked to and fro. Hawk wore sunglasses.

  “Never liked that car anyway,” Hawk said. “Whatever happened to your old convertible?”

  “Susan said it was no longer practical.”

  “She says the same about my Jaguar.”

  I took a sip of Sam Adams. Hawk drank a glass of Iron Horse champagne. He topped himself off with the bottle.

  “I could see you in a Mini Cooper,” I said.

  “Ain’t nothin’ mini about me, kemosabe.”

  Hawk was dressed like Johnny Cash today. Black boots, black pants, black shirt opened wide at the chest, and a black leather trench coat. A sterling-silver belt buckle with a turquoise center. Everyone in the bar turned to look at him when he made his entrance. Hawk was a pro at the entrance.

  “This gonna be fun,” Hawk said.

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Been awhile.”

  “Since what?” I asked.

  “Since we kicked some ass.”

  I nodded.

  “You disappeared on me this winter,” Hawk said, and sipped the champagne. “Me and you workin’ out at Henry’s was the first time I seen your white ass in a long time. Thought maybe you takin’ it easy. Hangin’ it up.”

  “Nope,” I said.

  “What else is there to do?” Hawk said.

  “Yep.”

  “Glad you’re back.” Hawk nodded.

  I toasted him with half my beer. I drank.

  Hawk turned to study the choppy waters in the Atlantic. “Good ol’ Gerry Broz. That motherfucker just don’t know when to quit.”

  I signaled the bartender for another beer. Nothing against Southie, but I was happy to be on the waterfront. And I was happy to see Hawk. Although I never would admit I was happy to see Hawk. Nor would Hawk want me to admit the quartet had bothered me.

  “If this boy Red or Broz sent four men for your Irish ass,” Hawk said, “that’s a compliment.”

  I nodded. I drank some beer and finished my last bite of club sandwich.

  “Kinda respectful.”

  “I reported my car stolen,” I said. “But it’s gone. I’ll need a car.”

  “Yep,” Hawk said. “But I ain’t no chauffeur. I got shit to do. Many high-class women to please. I can’t be driving your ass around Southie.”

  “Red and Moon made their point,” I said. “I don’t know what Gerry’s deal is in all this.”

  “What do you want with his boys?”

  “Have a civil, polite conversation,” I said.

  “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that.”

  “Julie Sullivan was last seen in their company.”

  “And knowing they’re shitbag crackers makes you highly suspicious.”

  “Just a little.”

  “Man, you been making trouble for the Broz family since disco was cool.”

  I nodded. “Maybe I should just go and talk to Gerry. Patch things up between pals.”

  “He’d like that,” Hawk said. “Talk about that time you shot him. You know, the good ol’ days.”

  “You heard anything about his old man?”

  “Ain’t Joe dead?” Hawk poured the last bit of Iron Horse into his glass. Little bubbles rose to the top and spilled over the rim of the glass. He smiled with pleasure.

  “If he is, they need to take down that picture of him in the post office.”

  “This little girl,” Hawk said. “One who hired you?”

  “Mattie.”

  “Mattie saw Red and Moon snatch up her momma.”

  I nodded.

  “But they drug dealers and maybe shaking her down. How we know Mickey Green thing didn’t happen after?”

  “Mattie says he’s not the type.”

  “And how we know Mickey Green ain’t the type?”

  “We don’t.”

  “But you ain’t so sure after that fat boy come and try to whip your ass.”

  “Yep.”

  “And you hoping if you keep pissin’ people off, someone gonna slip up.”

  “Yep.”

  Hawk showed no expression behind the glasses. He took them off, neatly laid them on the table. “Notice I did not mention your eye.�
��

  “What’s wrong with my eye?”

  “Last time I saw your eye like that was after a warm-up bout with yours truly.”

  “You didn’t fare so well yourself,” I said.

  “Bullshit,” Hawk said.

  “You have what they call a selective memory.”

  “I remember selectively whipping your butt,” Hawk said, laughing.

  I sipped some more Sam Adams. I wished the Marriott put out some nuts for you. The old Ritz put out nuts and snacks. You could count on it every happy hour. I’d been served so many times at that bar that my mouth began to water at five.

  “You go with me to pick up Mattie at school,” I said. “And then we stop by and see Broz.”

  “Little girl got some fair questions,” Hawk said. “Deserves answers.”

  “You don’t think it’ll look like I had to bring my big, bad boyfriend along?”

  “Nope,” Hawk said. He finished his champagne and stood. He slipped back into the black leather trench and reached for his sunglasses. “I like you, white boy. But no one ever said I love you.”

  20

  Hawk popped the trunk of his silver Jaguar. Grinning, he pulled away a heavy wool blanket, the kind used to cover furniture, and showed off four shotguns. Two Mossbergs, a Winchester, and a sawed-off Browning twelve-gauge.

  We stood in the dim light of the Marriott’s parking garage. Hawk was still wearing sunglasses.

  “When one meets with the Broz family,” Hawk said, “one should be prepared.”

  “One should.”

  “Joe’s boy might need a lesson in etiquette with an ass full of buckshot.”

  “As Emily Post would recommend.”

  “Emily Post do know her shit.”

  “She do,” I said.

  He slammed the trunk closed.

  We drove in style back to Southie and Gavin Middle School. We parked behind a row of school buses and sat there in the parents’ line for about twenty minutes. When the final bell rang and the kids kicked open the doors, I was glad to be an adult. I would rather go up against any Southie tough than endure one more day of grade school, or any school, for that matter. Just the smell of the hallways induced instant dread. Kids passed Hawk’s car and stared inside.