Sixkill s-40

by Robert B. Parker

  "Cabs?" I said.

  "Not in town."

  "Doesn't anyone want to leave?" I said.

  "They drive," Cataldo said. "And good riddance."

  "If you wanted to get into Boston and you didn't have a car, how would you get there?" I said.

  "Why would I want to go to Boston?"

  "See a ball game?" I said.

  "That's why they make TVs," Cataldo said.

  "Because you are a sophisticated urban guy?"

  "Like you?"

  "Not that sophisticated," I said. "How would you get here?"

  "Borrow a car or get somebody to drive me."

  "Thank you," I said. "If you never leave town, what do you do there?"

  "Write parking tickets, keep the kids from loitering on the common, play softball, drink beer, bang the old lady."

  "What else is there," I said.

  "This about the kid got killed?" Cataldo said. "Dawn Lopata?"

  "Yes," I said. "Know her?"

  "Sure," Cataldo said. "Not a bad kid, really, just a fuckup. Always getting caught for something, like smoking dope in the girls' room at school, or cell-phoning nude pictures of herself that ended up on the Internet, or skipping school, or driving after-hours on a learner's permit. You know? Not evil, just fucked up."

  "How about the family," I said.

  "Old man's a blow," Cataldo said. "Big house, nice car, and no cash. You know the type?"

  "Sure."

  "Mother stays home mostly; she used to call a lot, see if we knew where her daughter was. Don't know much else about her."

  "Older brother seems fine," I said.

  "Yeah, good grades, played sports, went to Harvard," Cataldo said. "I don't know how he escaped."

  "No trouble with the law," I said.

  "Except for what I told about Dawn, none of them."

  "You know what they got for cars?"

  "Yeah, he just got a new one, and was blowing off to me about it."

  "What kind?"

  "Cadillac DTS, maroon."

  "The big sedan?"

  "Yeah, top of the line," Cataldo said.

  "Anything else you know?"

  "Lots," Cataldo said. "But not about the Lopata family."

  After I hung up, I called Dawn's friend Christine. They had left Dawn after they lunched with Jumbo. Neither Christine nor James owned a car, and neither she nor James knew how Dawn traveled to Boston on the day of her death.

  44

  WE WERE DRIVING on Atlantic Ave.

  "You doing any juice these days?" I said to Z.

  "At Cal Wesleyan, we called them PES," Z said. "Performance-enhancing supplements."

  "Still using?" I said.

  Z shook his head.

  "Not since Jumbo fired me," he said.

  "What made you quit?" I said.

  Z grinned.

  "A great truth was revealed to me," Z said.

  "Which was?"

  "He was my supplier," Z said.

  "How long you been doing them?" I said.

  "Freshman year," Z said. "Playing, you know, like, majorleague college football, you seem to need them to keep up. Guy you're competing with for the starting job is using. The pass rushers are using. The DBs on the other side are using."

  "Who was your supplier then?"

  "One of the alums," Z said. "Fella named Calhoun, was paying my way, he used to get them for me."

  "Part of your scholarship," I said.

  "Scholarship, hell," Z said. "I was on salary."

  "Don't seem to need them," I said.

  Z nodded.

  "Always been a big, strong mofo since I was a papoose," he said.

  "Papoose?" I said.

  "Authentic Injun talk, Kemo Sabe," Z said.

  "Christ," I said. "And I'm still learning to say 'Native American.' "

  We pulled up in front of the Inn on the Wharf, where Dawn Lopata had died. The doorman came to the car. He was a sturdy young guy, and his nameplate said Mike. I gave him a twenty.

  "Can we talk for a moment?" I said.

  "Sure thing," Mike said.

  "Name's Spenser; I'm working on the Dawn Lopata death," I said.

  "Sure," Mike said. "Seen you here before."

  "My associate, Mr. Sixkill," I said.

  Mike nodded at Z.

  "You remember her?" I said.

  "The dead girl? Sure," Mike said. "I mean, she wasn't so special to remember when she came in, but then, you know, she gets killed, and everybody's talking about it and it's on the news and you go over it in your head . . . a lot."

  "You remember when she arrived here?"

  "I do," Mike said. "I was working early evening that week, and she came in a brand-new bright red Caddy. I mean, I'da remembered the car even if nothing happened. Leather interior, all the bells and whistles. Looked like it had about ten miles on it."

  "She driving?" I said.

  "No, a guy was driving. He let her off, and she went in the hotel, and he drove away."

  "Remember the guy?"

  Mike shrugged.

  "Not much," he said. "Suburban-looking guy. Maybe fifty. I was mostly checking out the ride."

  "Ever see her again?"

  "I was off duty when the EMTs brought her out," Mike said. "But I hung around, so technically, I guess yes. But she was covered."

  "How 'bout the car or the driver?"

  Mike shook his head.

  "No."

  "You wouldn't have a number for the car?" I said.

  "No, no reason," he said. "Maybe if we parked it . . ."

  "He didn't come back to pick her up," I said.

  "Not on my shift," Mike said.

  "Thanks for your time," I said.

  "Hope you catch him," Mike said.

  "Hell," I said, "I don't even know who I'm after."

  45

  WHEN WE WENT IN to visit Buffy and Tom Lopata, Buffy eyed Z silently as she showed us to the living room. She was wearing tight black pants that narrowed to the ankle, black open-toed sandals, and a black polo shirt hanging over the pants. Her arms were pale and very thin. Tom joined us from upstairs, as he had before. I wondered if they ever spent time together.

  "My associate," I said to them, "Zebulon Sixkill."

  Tom Lopata put out his hand. He was wearing madras shorts, black penny loafers without socks, and a white shirt with a buttondown collar. His shirttails, too, were over his pants.

  "Hi," he said. "How ya doin. Great to meet you."

  Z shook hands and nodded.

  Mrs. Lopata lit a cigarette.

  "What the hell kind of name is Sixkill?" she said.

  "Cree," Z said.

  "What?" she said.

  "Cree," Z said. "Indian tribe."

  "You're an Indian?"

  Z put up his hand, palm out.

  "I come in peace," he said.

  "So why is your name Sixkill?" Buffy said.

  "Buffy," Tom said. "For crissake."

  She ignored him. She was staring at Z.

  "Goes good with Zebulon," Z said.

  "Well, you are a strapping, handsome Indian," Buffy said.

  "Yes," Z said.

  "Could you folks tell me where you were the night Dawn died?" I said.

  "My daughter?" Buffy said. "Is there a new development?"

  "No," I said. "Not yet. I'm just trying to tie up some loose ends."

  "Here, I suppose," Tom said. "Probably watching TV."

  "That your memory, Mrs. Lopata?"

  "We weren't watching together," she said. "He won't watch my programs."

  "Hell, you won't watch mine, either," he said.

  "I don't want to watch some dumb sports thing," she said.

  "But you were both here, in the house, together that night."

  "Absolutely," Tom said.

  "No," Buffy said.

  I looked at her.

  "No?" I said.

  "I was here, but he was out gallivanting in his new toy," Buffy said.

  "Toy?
" I said.

  "She likes to joke," Tom said. "I got a new car; I may have taken it out for a spin, see how she handled."

  "Red Cadillac sedan," I said. "Leather seats?"

  "Yeah," Tom said.

  "Nigger car," Buffy said. She snubbed out her cigarette and lit a new one. "Neighbors probably think he's a pimp."

  Tom shook his head sadly.

  "Doorman," I said, "at the Inn on the Wharf says Dawn was delivered to the hotel in a new red Cadillac convertible."

  Tom stared at me.

  "According to the doorman, the driver was a suburban-looking guy, maybe fifty," I said.

  Tom didn't say anything. Buffy turned and stared at her husband. Z and I waited. Tom looked at Buffy.

  "For God's sake," she said, "you are a pimp."

  "Don't talk to me like that," he said.

  "You delivered your daughter to that pig so he could fuck her to death," Buffy said.

  "For God's sake," Tom said. "It's not like I knew."

  "Pimp," Buffy said.

  "She wanted a ride," Tom said. "I had the new car. Hell, she was going to have a date with a movie star, for crissake. Who wouldn't take her in?"

  "Without telling her mother," Buffy said. "Either of you, without telling the mother."

  "She made me promise," Tom said. "She knows what you think of her."

  "Her own mother," Buffy said.

  She put her second cigarette out carefully in the ashtray, picked up her cigarettes and a lighter from the table by her chair, stood, and walked out of the room.

  "Shit," Tom said. "She'll go in her room and pull down the shades and turn on the TV. And she'll sit there and stare at it and chain-smoke for days."

  "She do that when Dawn was bad?" I said.

  "Any of us," he said. "Except maybe Matthew. She did it less with him."

  I nodded.

  "You dropped her and left?" I said.

  "Yeah."

  "Any arrangement to pick her up?"

  "No."

  "You dropped her and came home?" I said.

  "Yes."

  "Wife awake when you got here?" I said.

  "No."

  "You sleep together?"

  He snorted a little humorless snort.

  "No," he said. "Any way you mean it."

  When we were driving back to Boston, Z said, "I've seen Lopata before."

  "When?" I said.

  "He was on the set, across from Jumbo's trailer, talking to one of the producers."

  "He didn't seem to recognize you," I said.

  "No," Z said. "I was in Jumbo's trailer, looking out the window."

  "You know what they were talking about?"

  "No clue," Z said.

  "You were sober?" I said.

  "Nope."

  "But you remember this guy," I said.

  "He was very . . ." Z waved his arms around. "You know?"

  "Animated?" I said.

  "Yeah, animated."

  "You remember which producer?" I said.

  "Sure," Z said.

  "We can ask him," I said.

  Z nodded. We were quiet for a time.

  "You know," he said. "Neither one of them ever called the kid by name."

  He'd grown more talkative recently, but quiet still seemed to be Z's natural condition. Conversation was always surprising.

  "Seem too immersed in being mad at each other," I said.

  "Why the hell do they stay married," Z said.

  "You Indians just don't understand white-man ways," I said.

  "Hell," Z said. "I'm still trying to figure out why you killed all our buffalo."

  46

  THE ALLEY THAT RUNS behind my office from Berkeley to Arlington was named Providence Street. When Z and I came down the back stairs of my office to get my car, which was parked on Providence Street, I noticed that the Berkeley Street end was blocked with a couple of orange traffic barrels. If people have threatened to kill one, one becomes unusually observant. I paused in the doorway.

  "Odd," I said.

  "The barriers?" Z said.

  "Yeah. Usually there's a cop."

  I looked up at the Arlington Street end. More barriers.

  "Odder," I said.

  "Street's one-way," Z said.

  I nodded.

  "Might be nothing," I said.

  "Might not," Z said.

  "Might be something," I said.

  Z didn't say anything.

  "Okay," I said. "I'll hang here. You go out the front door, turn right up to Arlington, and right again to that end of the alley. When I see you at that end, I'll step out."

  "And?"

  "And we'll see," I said.

  Z turned and went up the three steps to the first floor and disappeared. I stayed where I was. Halfway up the alley was a white Ford van with tinted windows. If there was something, I was betting the van contained it. Ordinary-looking. Couldn't see in. Plenty of room for four or five guys and their weapons. Since the visit from Alice DeLauria, I had been wearing my S&W .40. I took it out and cocked it, and held it at my side. It took Z maybe ninety seconds to scoot around to the Arlington end of the alley. When I saw him, I stepped out of the doorway and began to walk toward him. He strolled toward me. The side doors of the van opened.

  Bingo!

  Four guys got out. None of them seemed to notice Z. One guy had a shotgun. I shot him in the chest. He stepped back, half turned, and fell with the shotgun underneath him. I ducked between two cars, and several bullets ripped into them. Z's .357 boomed, and a second shooter went down. Face-forward. One of the remaining two spun toward Z, and I shot him from behind the car. The last guy threw his gun on the street and turned and ran.

  Z reached me.

  "You want him?" Z said.

  "You think you can catch him?" I said.

  "The Cree named Z," he said. "All-American."

  "Go," I said.

  From a standing start, Z exploded down the alley. He'd been outrunning me in our interval training for several weeks. But this was like seeing some kind of different species. Z caught the shooter before he got to Arlington Street. He hit him in the back of the head with a forearm and the man went face-forward onto the ground. Z got hold of his collar and dragged him to his feet. And they came down the alley together more slowly than they'd gone up. I could hear sirens.

  "Put the gun down on the ground," I said to Z. "Don't want the cops to shoot us while they are protecting and serving."

  Without letting go of the collar of the guy he'd caught, Z put the .357 on the street. I put my .40 beside it. From Berkeley Street, a police cruiser came rolling through the barrels without even slowing; another came down the alley from Arlington Street, showing equal contempt for the barrels. Both cars stopped maybe ten feet short of us, and cops got out, shielding themselves with the open door, guns leveled at us.

  "Put your weapons on the ground," one cop shouted. "Slowly."

  I pointed at the guns on the ground.

  "They're down," I said.

  Two more cruisers showed up.

  "Okay," the talking cop said. "Now you. On the ground, facedown, hands behind your heads."

  Z frowned.

  "Do it," I said.

  We got down as instructed.

  "You guys ever gonna forget the Little Big Horn?" Z said.

  47

  IT WAS LATE, and the crowd in my office had cleared. The stiffs in the alley had been taken away. The survivor had been hauled off, too, and only Quirk remained. We were having a drink.

  "Sorry it took so long," Quirk said.

  "Always does," I said.

  "Coulda taken longer," Quirk said.

  "I know that, too," I said.

  Quirk nodded and rattled the ice around in his glass and sipped some scotch.

  "Slug you didn't shoot is Warren Carmichael," he said. "We've known him for years. Says he was hired by one of the shooters, now deceased. Guy with a shotgun: Squirrel Rezendes. Warren says he doesn't know why they were gonna
hit you, or who hired Rezendes."

  "And Rezendes, being dead, can't tell us more," I said.

  "Yeah," Quirk said. "Nice going."

  "Sorry," I said. "I was just trying to keep him from killing me."

  "Sure," Quirk said. "It's always about you, isn't it."

  "Who hired me in the first place?" I said.

  "Price was right," Quirk said, and looked at Z.

  "How about you," he said. "What do you get out of this?"

  Z sipped his scotch.

  "Squaw, two ponies," Z said.

  Quirk looked at me.

  "Who knew he was funny," Quirk said.

  "Surprise to me," I said.

  "Indians are always amusing," Z said.

  "Sure," Quirk said. "What do you figure Jumbo's owners will do now that they've fanned twice."

  "If at first you don't succeed," I said.

  "Think they'll hire local talent again?" Quirk said.

  "That hasn't worked out well for them," I said.

  "They haven't hired wisely," Quirk said. "The business with the traffic barrels. Talk about overthinking something . . ."

  "They'll send Stephano," Z said.

  Quirk and I both looked at him. He sipped his scotch.

  "Stephano DeLauria," I said.

  "Alice's husband," Z said. "Nicky Fellscroft's enforcer."

  "You know him?" I said.

  "I've seen him," Z said. "And I've heard about him."

  "I'm told he's good," I said.

  "Hall of fame," Z said. "Like a man playing with boys."

  "Like us," I said.

  "Maybe better," Z said.

  "I'll see what I can learn about Stephano," Quirk said.

  "I'll make a call, too," I said.

  Quirk nodded. He looked at Z again.

  "Why are you so sure?" Quirk said.

  "Been with Jumbo for a while. Pay attention. Everybody got a lot of faith in Stephano, and everybody scared of him."

  "But you're willing to go up against him," Quirk said.

  "Oh, sure," Z said. "Indians are always optimistic."

  "And with so little reason," Quirk said.

  "If you're right," I said to Z, "he may bring others."

  "So did Custer," Z said.

  48

  "I DON'T THINK he's changed," Susan said. "You know him better than I do, but I think he has gotten rid of a lot of stuff that wasn't really Zebulon Sixkill."

  "How'd he do that?" I said.