"He refers to your employers as the Boston Glob."
Cosgrove grinned again. It pleased him. "Yeah, I know. You gotta love old Fix. He's almost perfect."
Cosgrove finished his wine. The waiter removed our dishes, offered us dessert. We declined.
"Brandy," I said.
"Sure. How about in the bar. Makes me feel upscale."
I paid for dinner and we went back to the bar. It was fuller than it had been. Tables were occupied, so we sat at the bar. Cosgrove had Galliano. I had brandy and soda.
"Good thing about Fix is he knows he's a lout. Stays out of the way when Alexander's talking to the Dover-Sherburne Republican Club, you know. Lets Westin handle the press. Fix knows that if the Friends of the Wenham Library spent ten minutes with him, they'd call the cops."
Cosgrove drank his Galliano, and put the glass down and looked at his watch.
"Gotta run," he said. "Mary gets home from class at nine."
I nodded.
Cosgrove said, "Anything you want to tell me about Browne, or Alexander, or anybody, you just give me a call, buddy. You know where I am."
I nodded again. "I'll be in touch," I said.
Cosgrove left and I sat at the bar and had another brandy and soda. But I never liked sitting alone at a bar, so after I finished the second one I paid the check and went home.
Chapter 10
The rain had stopped. The streets were dry. I sat in my office with the morning sun coming through the window and read through the clips and Xerox copies and computer printouts that Wayne Cosgrove had assembled for me. My office was quiet.
I didn't know what I was looking for. I hoped I'd know it when I saw it. There were interviews with Browne, the text of speeches, editorials endorsing him, columns speculating on his future, columns assessing his performance, news stories covering his participation in key house votes and floor maneuvering, pictures of Browne at ribbon cuttings and tree plantings.
I felt like I was studying for an exam in a subject I didn't like. The office felt hot. I opened the window a crack and the November draft was cold on my back. I closed the window. Read in sequential mass like that, the news coverage of Browne's career became an immersion course in politics. As I read I realized that no one took it seriously, in the sense that one takes, say, love, seriously. Everyone took it seriously the way they take baseball seriously. The question was of performance, of errors made, of runs scored, of wins and losses. Rarely was the question of substance discussed. Was Browne good or bad? Were the things he did good for people or bad for people? These questions disappeared behind a tone of journalistic objectivity. The excitement was: Would he win the election or lose it? Was his support of legislation calculated to help his chances or hurt them? Was the vote in Congress a defeat for the President; was it a victory for the House leadership? Even the editorials tended to judge politics in terms of a contest, or victory and defeat.
At noon I went out and got a roast beef sandwich with chutney on whole wheat bread and a cup of black coffee and brought it back to my office. I ate in the silence and drank my coffee and looked occasionally at Susan's picture on my desk. Let us be true to one another, dear. I read some more reportage. I looked at pictures of Browne at ship christenings and fund-raising parties. I even read the text of a couple of his speeches. Somebody, maybe Adlai Stevenson, had said that wanting to be elected disqualifies you for the job. I read some excerpts from the Congressional Record. I read a letter to the editor that Browne had written to the Worcester Telegram. I looked at a picture of Browne shaking hands with an eagle scout. I studied the ADA rating list where Browne received good marks.
At 2:30 I went out and bought another cup of black coffee and brought it back to my office. I read some more. What kind of a man wanted to be in politics? Was it possible to be a good man and do politics? Maybe not. I drank some of the coffee. Swiveled my chair and stared out the window. Maybe it wasn't possible to be a good man and do anything. The afternoon sun reflected off the windows across the way and I couldn't see in. I didn't know if the art director was there today. Maybe she could see me. I waved, in case. Maybe being a good man didn't amount to anything anyway. It didn't seem to get you much. You ended up in the same place as the bad men. Sometimes with a cheaper coffin.
I looked at Susan's picture again. I drank the rest of my coffee and dropped the empty cup into the wastebasket.
"The sea of faith is at its ebb, babe," I said out loud to her picture. Her picture smiled its elegant, devilish smile and made no comment.
At about 4:15 I saw it, and when I did I knew it. It was a picture of Robert Browne among a group of men and women. The caption said it was after he'd spoken at a 1978 fund-raising dinner in Rockland. Browne was smiling and shaking hands with a portly white-haired man in a double-breasted suit. Browne's wife was beside him, smiling as hard as he was. There were well-dressed men and women crowded in the background and in among them a face that I recognized. Vinnie Morris.
Vinnie Morris worked for Joe Broz. What made that interesting was that Broz was the sole owner and proprietor of a large and successful mob. Vinnie was what you might call the executive assistant.
I wanted to say, "Oh, ho." But it would have sounded odd in the empty office. Maybe I ought to hire an assistant, so when I said, "Oh, ho," someone would hear me. A dog might suffice. I could look knowingly at the dog and say, "Oh, ho," and the dog would wag its tail, and I'd give it a cookie.
Vinnie was Broz's instrument. He had no life of his own. If he was at Browne's fund-raiser, it was because Broz sent him. If Broz sent him, it was because there was business to be done. Broz would have the same interest in politics as Exxon does in oil wells.
I wrote Joe Broz on a piece of note paper and read some more. I read until 9:15 and there was nothing else. I stuffed all the clippings and Xerox copies and photos back into the big envelope and put the envelope into the bottom drawer of my file cabinet. Then I sat back down at my desk and looked at my notes. Joe Broz. Not a lot of notes for twelve hours research.
I put the note in my pocket, stood up, and looked out the window at the dark street and the empty buildings. I was hungry. I got out my bottle of Irish whiskey and had a drink. I was still hungry. I capped the bottle, put it away, and went home. I had a steak, a bottle of red wine, and went to bed. The wine helped me to go to sleep but not to stay there. I woke up at 3:30 and lay awake and thought disjointedly about life and death until dawn.
Chapter 11
The morning was clean and cold and bright. I bought a corn muffin and a large black coffee at the Dunkin' Donut shop on Boylston Street and stood out front, on the corner of Exeter Street, and had breakfast. It was early. People with clean shaves and fresh perfume were going by on the way to work. They all walked with hurried purpose, as if they were all late for work. I dropped my empty cup into the trash and strolled down Boylston. I turned up Berkeley past my office building toward Police Headquarters. It was just after eight when I went into Martin Quirk's little cubicle off the homicide squad room.
Quirk looked like he'd been there for hours. His sleeves were rolled up, his tie loose. There was a half-empty container of coffee on the desk. When I came in Quirk nodded.
I said, "Good morning, Martin."
Even with his tie loose and his sleeves rolled, Quirk looked, as he always did, brand new. As if he'd just come from the Mint. His coarse black hair was short and freshly cut. His face was clean shaven. His shirt was gleaming white and crisp with starch. His gray slacks were creased. The blue blazer that hung on a hanger from a hook on the back of his door was unwrinkled.
He said, "You want any coffee?"
I said yes and he went into the squad room and brought me a cup and a refill for himself.
"How's Susan?" he said when he was back behind his desk.
"She's away," I said.
He nodded.
I said, "I'd like to take a look at your intelligence file on Joe Broz."
"That's the Organized Crime Unit," Quir
k said. He drank more coffee. His hands were very thick and the fingers were long and blunt-ended.
"I know," I said. "But I don't have any friends over there."
"And you think you have friends over here?" Quirk said.
"Everything's relative," I said. "At least you know who I am."
"Whoopee," Quirk said. "Why do you want to see it?"
"I think he owns a politician."
Quirk grinned. "Everyone else does," he said. "Why shouldn't Joe?"
"I want some evidence."
"Don't we all. Explain things to me. If it sounds good, I'll get you the file and you can sit here and read it."
I leaned back a little, put one foot up on the edge of Quirk's desk, and told him. He listened without interrupting, his hands locked behind his head, his face blank.
When I finished he said, "I can get the names of the two stiffs you rousted in Springfield."
"And?"
"And?" Quirk frowned. "Christ, are you getting senile? And maybe they'll lead you somewhere. Maybe they got sent around to remind Alexander that whoever was blackmailing him was serious. A message."
I nodded.
"Yeah," I said. " 'Don't think I'm kidding, see what I can do if I wish.' That kind of message."
Quirk smiled. "See, if you apply yourself, you can do it."
"Okay, get the names. Might be worth talking with them again. How about the file? Give me something to do while you're talking to Springfield."
I spent three hours looking at the file that OCU kept on Joe Broz. I was looking for intersections between Browne and Broz. I found none. The only intersection I found was between Alexander and Broz. Broz's eldest son went to Georgetown University. When Congress was in session, Alexander lived in Georgetown. It didn't look like a clue.
When I left, Quirk said, "How come you haven't told me to keep all this to myself?"
"I didn't think I needed to," I said.
Quirk handed me a piece of paper with two names and addresses written on it. "The two stiffs in Springfield," he said. "I told the Springfield cops you were cooperating with me, unofficially, on an investigation."
"Well, it's sort of true," I said.
"Sure it is," Quirk said. "While I was out of the office you didn't steal my jacket. If that's not cooperation, what is?"
"Thanks for the use of the file," I said.
"Let me know how things go down," Quirk said.
"Sure," I said.
When I got back out on the street it was nearly time for lunch. After I ate it, there'd be only five or six hours to kill before supper. No wonder I. hadn't thought about the Springfield stiffs, busy as I was. Even now there were decisions to make before I could drive out to Springfield. Should I eat before I left? Or stop at a Hojo on the Mass Pike?
I stopped in Cambridge and bought a brisket, pastrami, and Swiss cheese sandwich on a roll at Elsie's to eat on the way. The art of compromise-maybe I was political after all.
Chapter 12
The two Springfield sluggers were named Pat Ricci and Sal Pelletier. I decided to go alphabetically. Pelletier lived in a brick apartment building on Sumner Avenue near Forest Park. He didn't answer my ring, so I went back out and sat in the car and debated whether to call on Ricci or wait for Sal. While I was debating, Sal showed up, walking briskly along the sidewalk with a paper sack of groceries in his arms. He was the one with the tattoos.
I got out of the car and walked toward him. He didn't recognize me. I said, "Remember me?"
His eyes widened. He said, "Hey."
I said, "We need to talk. Shall we go to your place?"
"What do you want to talk about?" Sal said. He moved away from me as he talked.
"I was hoping you'd show me your tattoos," I said.
"Take a walk," Sal said. "I got nothing to talk about with you."
I could see the top of a quart bottle of Miller High Life beer sticking out of the grocery bag. I took it out and dropped it on the sidewalk. It broke and the beer foamed around the broken glass.
"Hey, what the fuck are you doing?" Sal said.
"It could be you and not the bottle," I said. "I want to talk."
Sal dropped the bag and turned and ran. I jogged along after him. He didn't look in shape and I figured he wouldn't last long. He didn't. He turned into the park and 100 yards past the entrance he stopped, gasping. I jogged up and stopped beside him.
"Oughta take up running gradually," I said. "Starting all out like that is dangerous."
Sal was sweating in the cold November sunshine, and his face was red.
"Whyn't you leave me alone," he said. "I didn't hurt them kids."
"Sal," I said, "let us cease to play grab-ass. I want to know some things from you, and you are going to tell me."
Sal's chest was still heaving.
"Remember how hard I can hit," I said.
Sal nodded.
"Who hired you to roust those two kids?" I said.
Sal opened his mouth, and closed it, and shook his head. I shrugged and hit Sal a modified version of the left hook I'd hit him with before. It sat him down.
"I can hit you with that left hook until evening," I said. "Who hired you to roust those kids?"
Sal's head sank forward. "Nolan," he said, "Louis Nolan."
"Who's he?"
"A guy around."
"He connected?"
Sal nodded.
"Who with?"
Sal shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "He's just connected, you know? He's one of those guys that's in touch with the big boys. You know that. Everybody knows that. He asks you to do something, you're glad to do it. Glad to do him a favor, you know?"
"So he told you to lean on these kids?"
"Not them kids especially. Just any Alexander person. Didn't matter who. Whoever was handy."
"Why did he want that done?" I said.
"Said he wanted to send Alexander a message."
"What message?"
Sal shook his head again. "He don't tell guys like me anything he don't have to. Just give us the deuce and said to get it done."
"Where do I find Louis Nolan?"
"You won't tell him you got it from me?"
"You don't tell him I'm coming," I said, "I won't tell him I saw you."
"Wheeler Avenue," Sal said. "Up Sumner past the X." He gestured the direction. "I don't know the number."
I said, "Thanks, Sal, see you around."
He was still sitting on the ground when I turned down Sumner Avenue toward my car.
I drove up Sumner Avenue. When I passed the X-shaped intersection Sal had mentioned I started looking for Wheeler Avenue. I almost missed it. It wasn't much of an avenue. It had been overnamed. It was a short residential street that ran one block between Sumner and Allen Streets. I drove past it a little ways and stopped at a drugstore and looked up Louis Nolan in the phone book. The number was 48. I drove back and turned up Wheeler Avenue.
Forty-eight Wheeler Avenue was a modest white Cape with a one-car garage, at the Allen Street end of the block. I parked on Allen Street in sight of the house and looked at it. Nothing happened. I looked some more. Same result. No clue appeared.
I got out of the car and walked to the house and rang the front doorbell. Inside I could hear a vacuum cleaner. I rang the bell again. The door opened and a man in a suit and vest said, "Yes?"
His white hair was in a crew cut and his white mustache was trimmed close. He was middle-sized and blue-eyed and erect.
I said, "Mr. Nolan?"
He nodded. His face was pink and healthy-looking and his eyes were bright and opaque, like polished metal.
"Vinnie Morris sent me," I said.
He nodded again and gestured with his head into the house. I went in. He closed the door behind me. The living room was to my left, the dining room to my right. A plump woman about Nolan's age was vacuuming the living room. Nolan gestured me toward the dining room.
"Kitchen," he said. "Want some coffee?"
"No, than
ks."
Robert B Parker - Spenser 10 - The Widening Gyre Page 5
