by Ace Atkins
“She was the princess of Swampscott,” I said. “Sometimes she’ll still play dress-up.”
Susan gently kicked me.
“What about your sisters?” Susan asked. “What do they like to do?”
“They like the cartoons. They watch a ton of freakin’ cartoons. All that Japanese crap. Dora. SpongeBob. They like to go to the playground when you don’t freeze your ass off. They have friends at school. I don’t know. Kid stuff.”
“Do you enjoy playing with them?”
“I don’t play,” Mattie said. “I’m fourteen.”
I almost mentioned the tiara at the princess party but did not care to be kicked under the table twice.
“That’s not too old to play.”
“I got stuff to do.”
“Like what?” Susan asked.
“Get my sisters ready for bed,” she said. “Make sure they have clean clothes for school. All that. Sometimes my grandma helps. Sometimes she can’t.”
Mattie finished her cheeseburger in record time. She sat back. She eyed Susan. And then she eyed me. She smiled slightly and took a deep breath. “What about you, Susan?”
Susan widened her eyes. “Me?”
“Yeah,” Mattie said. “You got kids?”
“No.”
“How come?” Mattie asked. She crossed her arms across her chest and leaned back.
Susan smiled slowly, admiring Mattie’s tactic, and nodded. “I wanted children when I was younger, but after my divorce, it wasn’t practical.”
“Why’d you get a divorce?”
“Her husband was an asshole,” I said.
Mattie smiled. Susan did not. She grasped my knee firmly.
“We became different people.”
“That’s me,” Mattie said. “You’re asking me about bein’ a kid and all that. It’s not the same. I don’t even remember things before my ma died.”
“But you realize you are the same person,” Susan said. “That kid is you. It’s your life history. Past, present, and future.”
Mattie shrugged.
“You can’t stop your life while you search for what happened,” Susan said. “Unhappiness won’t bring back the dead. That’s something hard to understand for many of my patients.”
“You ever lost a parent?”
“No,” Susan said. “Not like you have. You’ve gone through a horrific event.”
“This is what I do,” she said. “I’ll see it through.”
“But it will grind you down.”
“Nah.” Mattie shook her head. She looked at Susan with very old eyes. “It keeps me going.”
Susan nodded. Mattie nodded back at her.
I took a breath. Susan let go of my leg. There was a sliver of tension at the table. It was up to Mr. Personality to cut through it.
“Who’d like a malt?” I asked. “You know I skipped lunch? Something I haven’t done in twenty years. My dedication is unwavering.”
I ordered two malts.
The protest broke up and some of the protestors filtered into the restaurant. I detected the protest had not been about eating red meat. A few of the coeds removed their heavy winter jackets and scarves to reveal some very tight T-shirts. The T-shirts protested the war. I took note as the malts arrived.
“You ever thought about what you’d like to do when you graduate?” Susan asked.
“That’s a long time,” Mattie said. “Like in four years.”
“Four years goes quick,” Susan said.
“You’ll have to excuse my friend,” I said. “In a previous life, she worked as a guidance counselor.”
“I don’t know,” Mattie said. “Maybe be like him.”
I jabbed a thumb at my chest in surprise. I raised my eyebrows in triumph.
“Yeah,” Mattie said. “All you do is go around and ask questions. Bother people till they give you answers. I figure I could do the same thing. You basically act like an asshole and don’t let people lie.”
Susan grinned. “The young lady makes an excellent point.”
“Sometimes I do have to shoot people.”
“I could do that,” Mattie said. She sipped her milkshake. Her pink ball cap was slightly askew. Her winter coat had been buttoned all wrong.
I looked to Susan. Susan watched Mattie.
“Shooting people is not the highlight of my work,” I said.
“If I got a gun,” Mattie said, “I’d shoot down Red Cahill and Moon Murphy in two seconds.”
I didn’t say anything.
“I’d kill ’em both and go to prison for the rest of my life with a smile on my face. That’d be my freakin’ vacation.”
Susan’s face showed concern. I nodded.
I understood.
26
After dropping off Mattie in the projects, I made two phone calls. I checked in with Bobby Barrett, the patrol officer I’d met. I told him about my run-in with Moon and the thugs who’d stolen my car and escorted me away from the Mary Ellen McCormack. He said he’d been checking on the Sullivans and would continue. He didn’t offer much hope for my car.
I thanked him anyway.
I then called my answering service to learn that a Mr. Red Cahill had called that afternoon. He would like to arrange for a meeting tonight.
“Jeepers,” I said to the service operator.
“Excuse me, sir?”
“It’s an expression I use when filled with both anticipation and dread.”
I called Red’s number. He answered on the second ring.
“Where?” he asked.
“No fond greeting?” I asked.
“Where?”
“Quincy Market.”
“Sure,” he said. He had a gravelly voice. Subdued. “What time?”
“An hour?”
“Come alone or I ain’t sayin’ shit.”
I agreed.
Then I called Hawk.
“You want me to make my presence known?” Hawk asked.
“No.”
“My step will be as stealthy as the catamount’s.”
“You and Natty Bumppo.”
I drove back to my office and slipped into a leather rig for my
.357. I placed the loaded .38 in my side pocket. I searched my drawers for some grenades but came out with nothing more than a handful of bullets.
I placed those in my jeans pocket.
I zipped up my leather jacket, fixed my Braves cap down over my eyes, and drove toward the Quincy Market in the rental car.
A light snow had started to fall. The snow drifted so fine and light, it could be detected only in the streetlights on Boylston.
27
I liked the Quincy Market despite itself. You had to look beyond such authentic Boston staples as the Cheers Bar and Ned Devine’s Irish Pub to appreciate the charm. But inside the old brick building you could find some decent fast food and a hot cup of coffee. At night, white festival lights shone off icy brick pathways.
I bought a cup of coffee and found a seat inside the center of the market, under the rotunda.
A group of Japanese tourists was posing next to a pushcart that sold Boston T-shirts and Sox hats. All the pushcarts had cute little names: A Hat for Every Head. Happy Hangups. Every Bead of My Heart. In spring, the carts would move outside and the open space between buildings would be filled with tables topped with umbrellas. Women with very long legs would be sipping wine and smoking cigarettes.
I looked forward to that time. But now it was too cold.
I warmed my hands with the coffee cup. I looked out for thugs with red hair.
I didn’t have to wait long.
Halfway through the coffee, a man with the lean, muscular build of a welterweight walked through the side door to the market. He scanned faces.
I raised my cup. He caught my eye.
Red Cahill crossed the rotunda and slid into the seat on the other side of me. Less than half of the tables were filled with tourists dining on pizza, chicken fingers, or teriyaki chicken. I wondered i
f every food court in America served teriyaki chicken.
I asked Red.
“How the fuck do I know?”
“You always find hot pretzels, too.”
“So the fuck what?”
I drank some coffee. I waited.
“Mr. Broz said you want to talk.”
I nodded.
Red wore a black leather blazer and a black skully cap. His nose was red and growing bulbous. His eyes were so blue they looked almost transparent. He seemed fidgety as he waited to get down to it. He had big, thick hands and hard, round knuckles. I detected the bulge of a gun under his left arm. I expected nothing less.
I drank some more coffee. His knee pumped up and down like a piston.
I watched faces in the rotunda. Businessmen and -women out in Beantown. A few families.
Hawk was out there somewhere, moving as a catamount.
“Julie Sullivan,” I said.
“Who?”
I groaned and worked a crick out of my neck. I shook my head.
“Can we get to it?” I asked. “Or do you want to play Abbott and Costello?”
“Who?”
I smiled. I noted calcium deposits over his brow. I figured it must impair brain activity.
“You fight long?” I asked.
He nodded. “Mr. Broz said you fought, too.”
I nodded.
“You go pro?”
“I did.”
“What happened?”
“An ex-champ derailed my aspirations.”
“I went out west,” Red said. “I found a manager, but he didn’t do jack. He took me to a queer bar and wanted to suck my cock.”
“He must have had great faith in your talent.”
“I came back and tried to get on with some promoters,” he said. “They talked a lot of shit but could never get me a decent fight. I had to eat. You know?”
“So you started selling drugs?”
“It’s a living.”
“It is.”
“Who was your trainer?” Red asked.
“Henry Cimoli.”
“Holy shit,” he said. “Get the fuck out of here.”
“Nope.”
“He’s famous.”
“He’d agree.”
“You must’ve been pretty good.”
I smiled. I finished the coffee.
“You still think about it?” Red asked. “Things you could’ve done different?”
“Not so much anymore.”
“But you loved the life,” he said. “Being a fighter. The training and all.”
“I did.”
I scanned more faces. Two large men walked through a side door. The two men did not look at us. They walked over to a pizza kiosk and debated pepperoni or anchovies.
“Let’s say I knew this woman,” Red said.
“Julie Sullivan.”
“Yeah, Julie,” Red said. He rubbed his hands together. The skin was cracked and chapped. He blew his breath into a fist and nodded. “So what?”
“So it seems she was in the company of you and Moon Murphy before she got killed.”
“You know what I do for a living?”
“Yes.”
“So maybe she just wanted a score.”
“Maybe she did.”
“And maybe I’m not responsible for dumb whores who get hooked and get killed,” he said. “I sell dope. Sue me. What she does when she’s fucked up is her business.”
I rubbed my jaw. I listened.
“Why’d you send those guys for me?” I asked.
Red screwed up his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You sent a welcome wagon out to the projects to steal my car and chase me out of Southie.”
“If I wanted you out of Southie, I woulda done it myself.”
“Or tried.”
He looked at me and snorted.
I tilted my head.
He met my eye. He nodded.
I nodded back.
“I don’t want trouble,” Red said. “I come here because Mr. Broz asked me to. He don’t want trouble, either. You want to know about that broad, and I told you. I sold her dope. But I didn’t kill her.”
“And Moon?”
“Moon doesn’t like nosy guys from Beacon Hill asking questions about him at his favorite pub.”
“Why does everyone think I’m from Beacon Hill?” I asked. “You’re starting to give me a complex.”
“You ain’t from Southie.”
“The Man from Laramie.”
“Where’s that?”
“West of Pittsfield.”
“We done?” Red placed his scarred hands on the table and began to stand.
“How about I buy you some coffee?”
“Nope.”
“Cinnabon?”
“Nope.”
“You must’ve heard what really happened to Julie Sullivan, and why,” I said. “Word gets out in the neighborhood when something like that goes down. Your cousin’s doing life for it, but did he do it?”
He turned his light eyes away from me. “Mick always found trouble whether it was his fault or not. Since we were kids, he was the unluckiest bastard I ever met. Julie only came to me for drugs through Mickey.”
“Did you ever see her with a guy, maybe twice as old as her?”
“The boxing must’ve fucked up your hearing,” he said. “I barely knew her.”
“What time did you see Julie that night?”
He snorted again. “Man, that was four years ago.”
“After midnight?”
“Probably,” he said. “Yeah, it wouldn’a been till real late. I don’t start work till after midnight. I sleep in the day.”
“You see her with Mickey earlier?”
He turned and faced me full-on. His blue eyes took me in. Appraised me.
“I sold her drugs.”
“You have to throw her in the car to sell her drugs?”
“She tried to stiff us.”
“Good motive.”
“If I say I fucking killed her, what does it matter now?”
“Matters to Mickey. Don’t you care that he’s in jail?”
“Of course. Mickey is family.”
“So?”
“So I don’t fucking rat on family,” he said. “I don’t rat on no one.”
“Um, he’s been convicted and is currently incarcerated at Walpole. He can’t do worse.”
He nodded.
“Did he do it?” I asked.
He did not break his stare. Red scratched his face.
“You asked me if I did it,” he said. “I said no. You asked if Moon did it, and I said no. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“Did Mickey do it?”
“I’m sorry what happened to Mickey,” Red said. “He got mixed up in somethin’ that wasn’t his business.”
“Whose business was it?”
“I didn’t kill her,” Red said. “Moon didn’t kill her.”
“Who did?” I asked. “Why was Julie Sullivan killed?”
Red stood up. He offered his hand.
“Me and you through?”
“Probably not,” I said.
“You know if you don’t leave this alone, you’re gonna have big problems with Mr. Broz.”
“I just call him Ger. And yes, the thought had crossed my mind.”
“That don’t bother you?”
I shrugged. “Why does Gerry give a crap what I do?” I asked. “What’s he have to do with all this?”
“You’re causing him headaches,” he said. “Me and Moon take care of Mr. Broz’s headaches.”
“Does Gerry know what happened?”
“No.”
“And you don’t either?”
“Didn’t I give you my fucking word?”
“You are a street thug,” I said.
“And what are you?” Red asked me.
He turned and waded into a group of tourists gathering by a side door. As Red Cahill headed toward Faneu
il Hall, I spotted glittering light against a shiny black head following.
28
I had a visit from a federal agent this morning,” I said to Hawk.
“You don’t say.”
“He told me he was making a case against Gerry Broz and his crew,” I said. “He wanted us to quit bothering poor Gerry.”
“What happened to your buddy, that Fed Epstein?”
“Miami.”
“Jew heaven.”
“He would agree with you,” I said. “New agent’s name is Connor. He was not enthusiastic about a joint investigative effort.”
“So why are we staking out Broz’s boys?”
“You got anything better to do?” I asked.
“Got me a new woman,” he said. “Keeps silk sheets warm. Iron Horse chilled.”
“I brought coffee.”
“Ain’t the same, babe.”
“Simple pleasures are the best pleasures.”
“Best pleasures come in black lace with garters.”
“You have a point.”
We sat in the front seats of Hawk’s Jaguar, watching a two-story house on East Third Street, not far from Dorchester Bay. The house seemed like a midget among the three-deckers, pulled away from the other buildings and ringed by an actual front and backyard. In the backyard, there was a small metal shed. Christmas lights still hung on the front railing of the house. They looked pretty in the lightly falling snow, although we were a couple months past the season.
It was nearing midnight and no one had come from the house. Red’s green Range Rover sat parked up on a curb across the street. I’d parked on G Street before joining Hawk.
“You find out who owns the house?” Hawk asked.
“I’ll run it at my office.”
“You learn how to use the computer?”
“I subscribe to a service.”
“Progress, Spenser. Progress.”
We spent the next hour talking about spring training for the Sox. Talk of baseball led to the downfall of boxing. And the downfall of boxing led to a lively discussion of the good old days of boxing. We recalled the lead-up to the Clay and Liston fight in Miami. We laughed at Clay calling Liston a big ugly bear.
“Liston never got up after being beat twice,” Hawk said.
“Died a few years later.”
“Heroin,” Hawk said. “Never cared for that shit.”
“Killed a lot of good people.”
