Robert B. Parker's Old Black Magic (Spenser)

by Ace Atkins

  “It’s late,” I said. “Call me tomorrow at my office.”

  “The seller wants to move tonight,” he said. “Either you’re in right now or I go to someone else.”

  “Craigslist?”

  “Better than that,” Murphy said. “You’ve seen the painting. The way that man’s eyes look at you, trying to read your freakin’ mind. Like you’re just a passerby, a speck of time that few will recall.”

  “I’ll have to make some calls to the museum.”

  “Don’t make me wait,” he said. “These guys don’t wait for no one.”

  I hung up and Susan put on a pot of coffee for me. After I showered and changed, I called Vinnie and told him to bring some backup.

  56

  IT WAS TWO A.M. when I got to Plymouth in Susan’s car. Vinnie and two guys in his crew followed me in his Cadillac. As I got close to the town square, Vinnie flicked his high beams but kept driving down Main Street. I parked on the square by the old church and walked around to the unlocked side entrance Murphy had told me about. It was dark and cavernous inside Smith & James Antique Appraisers and Auctions. Only a few hanging lamps burning down the center of the warehouse.

  I pulled the .38 from under my jacket and called out to Murphy.

  “Spenser,” he said. “Hey. Back here.”

  I kept on walking past a display of vintage tabletop radios, old board games, and samurai swords. Murphy stood by a large worktable, shifting through parts of an old suit of armor. He held the helmet in his hands. It looked about as authentic as a Mexican cheeseburger.

  “Sixteenth century,” he said. “I got it at an auction in London. If you look closely, you can see the sword damage on the codpiece.”

  “I forgot mine,” I said. “Should I be concerned?”

  He didn’t answer. I looked down at the armor and up at Murphy, his face covered in shadow while he worked.

  “Where’s the painting?”

  “Oh,” he said. “It’s not here. What the hell are you thinking? This ain’t amateur hour. We got rules and plans to follow.”

  My gun hung loose at my side. I searched around the cavernous space for any movement or sounds. It was still and electric, only the gentle buzz of the lamps overhead.

  “I’ll take you to The Gentleman,” Murphy said.

  “In Mystic.”

  He stopped fumbling with the suit, carefully placing the helmet onto the worktable. I noticed several drops of blood on the table, another one tapping onto the wood. He leaned forward in the sliver of light to look at the blood on his fingers. He’d been beaten so badly his eyes were merely slits, large welts and bruises across his cheeks, with a busted lip.

  “I tripped and fell.”

  “Zimmer and Roebuck?”

  He shook his head, trying to smile, but stopping short with the sliced lip. “You found Famous Ray?”

  I nodded.

  “Where was he?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Nope,” Murphy said. “Not at all. The piece has bounced around like a fucking Ping-Pong ball in twenty years but somehow keeps on coming back to me.”

  “Jimmy Morelli says it’s bad luck,” I said. “Looks like he was right.”

  “Those cops didn’t do this,” he said. “They found the piece as some kind of game in their retirement. It was either solve this old case or do fucking tai chi in the park. They knew they were smarter than those fancy-ass Feds, realizing the art had never left Boston.”

  “And to the victor—”

  Murphy reached for an old rag and cleaned the blood off his face. He winced as he did so, holding on to the edge of the worktable for stability. With slow movement and a lot of pain, he inched forward toward me as if he wanted to tell me a secret.

  “Did you speak to the museum?”

  “Of course,” I said, lying through my bicuspids.

  “And they’ve agreed to the full reward?”

  “If you can produce the painting Alan Garner showed me last week.”

  “Alan Garner didn’t know crap about The Gentleman,” he said. “Or any of the stolen art. We just needed his contacts at the fancy-ass gallery on Newbury Street. He swore to us that he could not only move the painting but arrange for the transport overseas.”

  “And when he didn’t?”

  “He should’ve been more like Fish,” he said. “Good to his word.”

  “Did you kill him?”

  Murphy coughed out a laugh, placing a fist to his mouth. I looked down at the foot of the armor, half expecting to see a MADE IN CHINA stamp.

  “He didn’t make a deal with me,” he said. “Now are you ready to make the deal? Or not? They wouldn’t work with a guy like me, with the record I got. After all the fiddle-farting around you’ve been doing since taking the job, I figured you were ready to finish the job.”

  “You and I meet Zimmer and Roebuck,” I said. “I see the painting. And then I transfer the money.”

  “Yep.”

  “And what else?”

  “There’s nothing else,” he said. “I’m paid. You’re paid. Those two old cops and the museum make an agreement. It’s as easy as making a BLT.”

  “Why didn’t you just arrange this when we first met?”

  “Like I said, I was the swingman,” I said. “Now, with other parties involved, time is of the fucking essence.”

  “Those cops didn’t beat you,” I said.

  Murphy closed his eyes. His face looked like two-week-old hamburger meat. Whoever had worked him over had probably worn a ring, slicing lots of deep cuts and scrapes.

  “I’m sorry, Spenser.”

  The big overhead lights cut on in quick succession down the rows and rows of antiques. Murphy pushed both hands on the table to keep himself on his feet. Somewhere a door swung open and I heard shoes clattering on the linoleum floor. I raised the gun at Murphy.

  “What’d you do?”

  “Didn’t have no other option.”

  Down the long aisle, Jackie DeMarco walked toward us. He had a baseball bat in his right hand and four guys marching behind him. He had on a black muscle shirt and long workout shorts. He looked like he’d just walked away from batting practice. As he got closer, he smacked a few Tiffany lamps toward center field. Colored pieces of glass flew in all directions.

  I noted he wasn’t wearing a codpiece and would be an easy shot.

  “Our driver is here,” Jackie said. “Don’t be a hard-on, Spenser. Let’s go.”

  “Where we headed, Jackie?” I said.

  “Mystic,” he said. “You play nice and I’ll buy you a fucking pizza.”

  “I make the deal with the museum,” I said. “And then you steal the painting.”

  “Nope,” he said. “I take back the fucking painting. That painting has always been mine.”

  “Actually, it originally belonged to the Diego de Castilla,” I said. “Since then, it’s passed through hundreds of hands and owners. The lineage is quite fascinating, if you could read.”

  “Well, it’s fucking mine,” he said. “And those crooked cops will trust you. You make the deal, get the fucking painting, and we’ll take care of the rest.”

  “Gee,” I said. “You’re a true tactician. I make the deal and you’ll take care of the rest. Meaning you’ll probably kill me and the cops.”

  Jackie shrugged. I had to hand it to him. He had big traps, probably spent a lot of time in the gym doing shrugs in the mirror. The four guys behind him stood close by. One of them, a short, stocky guy, picked up an old toy airplane and studied its wings.

  “I don’t want to step on your lines,” I said. “I believe this is when you tell me this is an offer I can’t refuse.”

  “Don’t even fucking try,” Jackie said.

  “You could just shoot me here.”

  “But then I wouldn�
��t get what was owed to me.”

  “It would be a shame to disappoint you.”

  “You got it.”

  I looked to Murphy, wiping the blood out of his eyes. I shook my head with my own disappointment. Somewhere out there, Vinnie and his duo were waiting. I’d told them to hold off unless they heard shots and to follow me wherever Murphy had arranged. Now we’d just have a caravan. Nothing like a little confusion to make an exchange work for the better.

  “Can I ask what’s in this for me?” I said. “Besides a pizza.”

  “You don’t fuck up and I’ll let you’ll live,” Jackie said.

  “Jackie,” I said, sliding my gun back into my belt. No one made a move to take it from me. “You really are too good to me.”

  57

  TWO OF DEMARCO’S GUYS RODE with me to Mystic, one in the passenger seat and one directly behind me to make sure I followed directions. The guy beside me was short and thick, built like a life-sized garden gnome. I didn’t get a good look at the guy behind me, but in the rearview he had an unpleasant face with a big honker and a deep scar across his right eyebrow. He gave me directions as I drove.

  About halfway there, I had enough and looked at the guy in the backseat. “You know, my phone has Siri.”

  “But Siri won’t shoot you in the head for taking a wrong turn,” the guy said.

  “They told Murphy I was to come alone.”

  “You go in alone,” he said. “You drop us at the gates.”

  “A hint of where we’re headed?”

  “A place called Elm Grove,” the guy beside me said. “It’s a fucking cemetery.”

  “Ominous,” I said.

  “Opens up at six,” he said. “You drive straight down the road. When the road doubles back to the gate, the guys will meet you there. They said there’s a spot overlooking the river.”

  “Lovely.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll be watching you.”

  “I feel so much safer,” I said. “If the dirty cops miss, you’ll try and finish the job.”

  “Try?” the man beside me said.

  “All the dipshits try,” I said. “It’s a Boston tradition.”

  I looked into the rearview again. The ugly guy smiled. The big gnome beside me started to laugh. We all laughed together in merriment as we headed into danger. I started to recite the Saint Crispin’s Day speech but figured they’d heard it all before.

  I turned off the interstate and followed a state highway for a mile or so. At a large sign that read Elm Grove Cemetery, the man behind my neck told me to make a right turn.

  “You’re good,” I said. “Maybe better than Siri.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” he said. “And pull over there by Jackie.”

  I drove through the ornate iron gates and followed DeMarco’s big black SUV where it had pulled over by a large statue. I got out with my newfound friends. Jackie and his other pal got out, too.

  Jackie stretched and yawned. It was dawn, and the morning light was a dark purple, with lots of shadows around the marble headstones. I looked up at the marble figures on the pedestals. It was a woman cradling her young son, a book held open in her lap. The figures were so lifelike, I almost expected them to peer down at us.

  Jackie didn’t notice anything around him. He might’ve been in a Sam’s Club parking lot in Dorchester. He lit a cigarette and pointed out the Mystic River on the far side of the cemetery.

  “Follow the road until it doubles back,” he said. “Park your car by that big open spot at the river.”

  “Your associates have been over this.”

  “Well, I’m fucking going over it again,” he said. “Don’t try and get away. Don’t try and get smart. And don’t fuck this thing up.”

  “Wait,” I said. “Do you have a piece of paper and a pen?”

  “Shut up, Spenser,” he said. “We’re gonna move the cars, but we’ll be around. These two cops will be here in an hour.”

  “They’re probably already here.”

  “Nope,” he said. “I got a guy watching the entrance. It didn’t open until six.”

  I nodded. Jackie was perhaps a bigger moron than I’d figured.

  “Either way,” I said. “There’s no chance they’ll bring the painting.”

  “No shit, Nostradamus,” he said. “Just keep ’em talking about the reward and how the transfer works and all that crapola. And me and the boys will catch ’em with their pants down.”

  “So to speak,” I said. “I really hope they wear pants.”

  “This is a nice, quiet place,” DeMarco said. “It’ll work as good as any other. There’s one landscaping guy who rides around in a truck. We’ll keep him occupied until we get what we want. Stick to the plan and nobody gets shot.”

  “Then why’d you take a run at me the other night?”

  “Because I didn’t.”

  “At the Navy Yard,” I said. “Somebody shot a guy who very loosely resembled me. He was pilfering through my truck.”

  “Then what do you care if he’s dead?”

  “I care because it was supposed to be me.”

  Jackie tossed down his cigarette onto the gravel road and rubbed it out under his jogging shoe. “Don’t I know what you look like?”

  I nodded.

  “And if I wanted you dead, don’t you think I could get the job done?”

  “Sorry I doubted you,” I said. “But I had to ask.”

  “I’m good at what I do, Spenser,” he said. “How about you just shut your big fucking mouth and see how this all works out. The day ain’t over yet.”

  “Only that day dawns to which we are awake.”

  “Are you fucking awake?”

  “Barely,” I said. “It’s been a long night and I haven’t had much coffee. Long night for you, too. You had to beat up an old man.”

  “Don’t get in a huff over Murphy,” DeMarco said. “You can’t trust that Irish prick for nothing. Only way to know he’s telling the truth is to hold a lit cigarette to his nuts.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted two figures darting between marble monuments. One had on a baseball cap and silver sunglasses. The other carried a rifle. It wasn’t Vinnie Morris or his crew from the bowling alley.

  “So I’m just a sitting duck,” I said. “I’d hoped to play a more vital role.”

  “Your role is to draw them in and then get the fuck out of here.”

  “Not very creative.”

  “You don’t have to be creative,” he said. “When you’re lucky.”

  “Luck is the residue of hard work and design,” I said. “Both of which you are in short supply of.”

  “What do you know about fucking design?”

  I opened my palm and kept looking over his shoulder. I watched the two men continue around a mausoleum and disappear into the cemetery. A few seconds later, they ran to another large monument. I didn’t change my gaze over Jackie’s shoulder. His three guys stood together, bunched up and speaking among themselves. All their eyes were on me, completely unaware of the two old cops sneaking up through the cemetery.

  “You’ve got about as much subtlety as a rhino in a pastry shop.”

  “Just don’t get in our way,” he said. “Unnerstand? Hey. Hey. Are you fucking listening to me?”

  “Shut up for a second.”

  “What did you say to me?” he said. “Have you lost your goddamn mind, Spenser, talking to me like that? Do you know what I’ll fucking do to you?”

  “I said, shut your damn mouth, Jackie.”

  I spotted the glint off a rifle scope as DeMarco took a swipe at me. He leaned far and hard into the punch and nearly lost his feet. As I stepped back, a shot rang out in the cemetery and his men scattered.

  Jackie was down on his knees, holding his hands to his thick, bleeding neck.
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  I dropped to the grass and rolled behind a headstone. There was a lot of screaming and yelling, men giving directions as DeMarco seemed to be in a great deal of pain.

  And it had started off to be such a lovely day.

  58

  AS I HID BEHIND a gravestone and fed more bullets into my revolver, I hoped Vinnie and his crew hadn’t decided to stop off for Egg McMuffins. All the shooting and yelling had turned lovely Elm Grove into somewhere west of Tombstone. Jackie was shot, bleeding, and squirming behind a large pedestal. He’d taken off his black tank top and wrapped it around his neck to stop the bleeding. His large white stomach hung over his shorts, reminding me of a beached whale I’d once seen on the Cape. The blood covered his chest and arms as he pressed the shirt to his neck with his right hand and fired with his left.

  The shorter and rounder of the ex-cops, Roebuck, had a rifle set atop a marble crypt. The crypt had been built into the rolling hill and provided some excellent cover for a guy with a rifle. In all the shooting, Jackie and one of his crew, my chatty navigator, had been shot. Sadly, DeMarco looked like he’d recover. But for the ride home, I knew I’d need to rely on Siri.

  I was about a football field and a half from where Roebuck had set up shop. Zimmer had maneuvered over to a position closer to the highway. Between them, they held us at the apex of a V. They could take shots at us all day long, or until the cops arrived. But they couldn’t get out of the cemetery without passing Jackie’s SUV and Susan’s car.

  I had no idea what kind of shape DeMarco and his boys had left Murphy in. But if he could have contacted the ex-cops, they’d know this wasn’t my call and what to expect. Since I was there as a conduit with the Winthrop, I sincerely hoped they wanted to level the playing field and work an exchange. But as it had probably been them who had killed Marston thinking he was me, I didn’t much care if they got out alive. All I needed was someone to lay down some good shots from behind.

  I’d hoped these guys didn’t plan ambushes like Branch Rickey planned ballgames. Roebuck continued to shoot in our direction, and some chipped marble rained down on my head. I returned fire.