"So we tidy up, and Jumbo takes a shower and gets dressed. He tries to hide the scarf by putting it around his waist under his shirt, but he's too fat, so he has me do it around my waist. And he calls the front desk. You know the rest."
"Where's the scarf?" I said.
"After everybody left, I went out for a walk and put it and the bra in a trash can outside Quincy Market," Z said.
"Which they empty every night," I said.
"Long gone," Z said.
"Long," I said. "Jumbo ever tell you what happened?"
"Said she was drinking a lot of champagne. Says they was playing games with the scarf around her neck and he had to go to the bathroom, so he gets up and goes and closes the door. . . ."
"Always the gentleman," I said.
Z snorted.
"Yeah, he says while he was in the bathroom she musta passed out and rolled off the bed. He found her the way I said."
"You believe him?" I said.
"He was drunk," Z said. "She was drunk. Hell, I was drunk. Coulda happened. Or he coulda killed her. I got no idea."
"Only two people know," I said. "And one of them's dead."
53
JUMBO'S MOVIE WAS SHOOTING on a sunny day in the Rose Kennedy Greenway, where, not so long ago, the Central Artery had cast its shadow. The producer's name was Matthew Morrison. Z and I had coffee with him on the set, sitting in bluebacked director's chairs near the craft-services truck. There was a platter of turnovers on the counter.
"What kind of turnovers do you suppose those are?" I said.
"Usually some raspberry and some apple," Morrison said.
"Two of my faves," I said.
"What are the others?" Morrison said.
"Blueberry, strawberry, cherry, pineapple, peach, apricot, mince, blackberry, boysenberry . . ."
"Okay, okay," Morrison said. "I get it."
"Worst turnover I ever had was excellent," I said.
"Like sex," Morrison said.
"There's no such thing," I said, "as a bad turnover."
Morrison nodded. He looked at Z.
"Jumbo sees you on the set, Z," Morrison said, "he'll throw a shit fit."
"Eek!" Z said.
Morrison nodded.
"Seemed like I ought to mention it," he said.
"You know a man named Tom Lopata?" I said.
"It was his daughter . . . wasn't it?"
I nodded. A big guy wearing a cutoff Red Sox T-shirt and a tool belt bellied up to the craft-services counter and acquired some coffee and a turnover.
"You know him other than that?" I said.
"As a matter of fact," Morrison said, "I do. He was trying to sell us insurance."
"You personally, or the production?" I said.
"Insurance on Jumbo," Morrison said.
"Life insurance?" I said.
"Sort of," Morrison said. "With the production company as beneficiaries, in case Jumbo died or became disabled before he finished the film."
"Don't most movies have some kind of completion insurance?" I said.
"Of course," Morrison said. "But the poor dope didn't know squat about the business. He was just trying to sell insurance."
"What did you tell him?" I said.
"I explained to him that we had all that sort of thing in place," Morrison said.
"But let me guess," I said. "He didn't want to take no for an answer."
"He wanted to talk with Jumbo," Morrison said. "I told him that wasn't possible, that Jumbo didn't talk to people. He was pretty aggressive about it."
"Did he get to talk with Jumbo?"
"Oh, God, no," Morrison said.
"Maybe behind your back?"
Morrison shook his head. I noticed that there were still half a dozen turnovers on the craft-services counter.
"Jumbo's the franchise," Morrison said. "We keep a close eye on him. Ask Z."
Z nodded.
"I worked for Jumbo, but his manager paid me."
"Alice?" I said. "His agent?"
"Agent, manager, keeper," Z said. "All of the above. She paid the bill, and I was supposed to report anything out of the ordinary to the company and to her."
"But Jumbo could fire you," I said.
"Sure," Z said. "Jumbo got everything he wanted, as long as it didn't damage the franchise."
"Same deal with your, ah, successor?" I said.
Z shrugged and looked at Morrison.
"Same deal," Morrison said. "Jumbo can be self-destructive, and we like to keep close tabs. Hell, I even followed up with Don, the new bodyguard. Lopata never got to Jumbo."
I looked at Z.
"Maybe Tom sent a messenger," I said.
Z nodded.
I shook hands with Morrison and thanked him for his time. Then I stood and went to the truck and took two turnovers.
As we walked away, Z said, "None for me, thanks."
"I didn't get any for you," I said.
And took my first bite.
54
STEPHANO DELAURIA CAME alone to introduce himself, on a drab June day with low clouds and rain spitting just enough to be unpleasant. I was at my desk and Z was standing with his arms folded on the top of the file cabinet, his chin resting on his forearms. He turned his head slightly to look at Stephano as he came into the office.
Stephano glanced briefly at Z. I opened the top right-hand drawer of my desk.
"No need for access to a piece," Stephano said. "I am not going to kill you today."
"Promises, promises," I said.
I left the drawer open.
"My name is Stephano DeLauria," he said. "Do you know who I am?"
"I do," I said.
Z hadn't moved. With his chin on his forearms, he looked steadily at Stephano. But there was about him a sense of potential kinesis, as if a spring was being coiled. Hawk was the only other person I'd ever known who gave off quite that kind of energy. Except that Hawk's spring was always coiled.
"Then you probably know why I've come to Boston," Stephano said.
His voice was very deep and flat. But it made the kind of throbbing purr that powerful engines make.
"I probably do," I said.
He smiled blankly, and we sat silently, looking at each other. His face was narrow. His features were sharp and prominent. His dark hair was combed straight back. He had a healthy outdoors look about him, as if he took long hikes.
"I have come to kill you," he said.
"Hot damn," I said.
He smiled again, a small, aimless smile, without meaning.
"It is my rule," he said. "I give one warning. If you stop what you're doing, I will go back to Los Angeles--disappointed, yes. But it is the way I do business."
"What is it I'm doing?" I said.
"We both know," Stephano said. "So does the Indian."
"And if I don't stop what we all know I'm doing?"
"It will give me pleasure," Stephano said. "It will allow me to kill you."
He looked at Z.
"Both of you," he said.
"Might be smart while it's two to one," Z said, "for us to kill you right now."
Stephano shook his head.
"I can kill you both now, if I must. Here, now, with your desk drawer open," he said. "But then it would be over quickly, and . . . I enjoy the process."
Z looked at me. I shook my head.
"So far it's all talk," I said. "Let's see what develops."
With his chin still on his forearms, and his gaze still fixed on Stephano, Z shrugged. Stephano stood.
"Down the road," he said, and walked out of the office.
55
I CALLED SUSAN.
"I am going to have to check out for a while," I said.
"Business?" Susan said.
"My appointment in Samara has arrived," I said. "I don't want to lead him to you."
She was silent for a little while.
Then she said, "Don't let him succeed."
"You know I wouldn't do that to you," I said.
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"God, you're thoughtful," she said. "Can you stay in touch?"
"I can call," I said. "And I will."
"You sound like this will take a while," she said.
"I think so," I said. "I think he likes foreplay."
"So he is a sadist," Susan said.
"I would guess."
"While he's enjoying the foreplay, why don't you kill him?"
"I'm hoping to learn a little," I said.
"Besides which," Susan said, "you don't do that, do you."
"Only if it were about you," I said.
"You just plow along," Susan said. "You care about other people, but they don't dissuade you, or distract you."
"Except you," I said.
"Except me," Susan said. "You continue to be who and what you are, and you continue to do what you set out to do."
"Born to plow," I said.
"It scares the hell out of me," Susan said.
"Scares the hell out of me too," I said. "Sometimes."
"But I greatly admire it," she said.
"Good," I said.
"You might want to exploit his sadism in some way," Susan said.
"Suggestions?" I said.
"I don't have one," she said. "But if someone wants to stall for a while before he kills you, an opportunity might be lurking."
"Might at that," I said.
"Is Z with you?" Susan said.
"Yes," I said. "Though not at this moment."
"Where are you?"
"Home," I said. "With the door locked."
"At least you've locked the doors," she said.
"I always lock the doors," I said. "There's no advantage to not locking them."
"Always so logical," she said.
"Except when I'm not," I said.
"Except for then," Susan said.
We were quiet again. It wasn't awkward. Nothing was awkward with Susan. We both knew there was nothing left to say, but neither of us wanted to hang up.
"But Z will be staying with you when you are out and about," she said.
"He will," I said. "He'll come and walk me to my office in the morning. We'll probably have breakfast on the way."
"At the Taj?"
"Probably," I said.
"Don't overeat and get logy," she said.
I grinned silently.
"I'll be careful," I said.
"When do you suppose he'll have enough foreplay," Susan said.
"Same as everybody," I said. "When consummation becomes irresistible."
"I know the feeling," Susan said. "In a different context."
"Yes," I said.
"I hope to experience it soon again," she said.
"I'll do my very best to survive," I said.
"Call me when you can," she said.
After we hung up, I wandered to the front window and looked down at Marlborough Street. Stephano was there, under a streetlight, leaning against a car. There were three other men with him. Stephano was smoking. All of them were looking up at my apartment.
I opened the window and leaned out.
"Can you guys do harmony on 'Old Gang of Mine'?" I said.
They looked up at me silently.
"How about 'Danny Boy'? 'Won't You Come Home, Bill Bailey'?"
Silence.
"Want me to lead?" I said. " 'Up a Lazy River'? You know that one?"
Nobody said anything; nobody moved except Stephano, who took a long drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke out slowly.
"Aw, you're no fun," I said, and closed the window.
I checked the lock on the front door, set the security alarm, and went to bed with a gun on my bedside table. There have been nights when I've slept better.
56
WHEN Z ARRIVED in the morning, I was showered and shaved and dressed for work. I had the little .38 in an ankle holster, and my new .40 S&W semiautomatic on my right hip. I still had the Browning nine-millimeter, but I kept it locked in the hall closet, as a spare.
Last night's quartet was no longer in front of my house, and we saw nothing of them as we walked to the Taj, but as we ate near the window on Newbury Street, Stephano stood outside and looked at us through the window. I smiled and shot him with my forefinger. He showed no reaction, and after a time, he walked away.
Z stared at the empty window for a time. Then he looked at me.
"You know," he said, "this is kind of fun."
"Except if we get killed," I said.
"But if we didn't run that risk," Z said, "what would be the fun?"
"Christ," I said. "A philosopher."
"Well, it's true. I mean, how exciting would this be if the winner got to capture the fucking flag? You know?"
"You played capture the flag?"
"Indian school," he said. "When I was little."
" 'Death is the mother of beauty,'" I said.
"What the hell does that mean?" Z said.
"Pretty much what you're talking about," I said. "It's from a poem."
"Oh," Z said. "That's why there's the part about beauty."
"You sure you weren't an English major at Cal Wesleyan?"
"Football," Z said. "What's that about death and beauty?"
"If there were no death, how valuable would life be?"
"Yeah," Z said. "Like supply and demand."
"It is," I said. "You got a weapon?"
"Got the .357," Z said. "And a bowie knife."
"A bowie knife," I said.
"I am a Cree Indian," he said. "The blood of Cree warriors runs in my veins."
"I'd forgotten that," I said. "You planning to scalp Stephano?"
"Get a chance and I'll cut his throat," Z said. "I'm good with a knife."
I nodded.
"Time to plow," I said.
"Plow?" Z said.
"Just an expression, I heard."
We finished our coffee. I paid the bill for breakfast and we left. There was no sign of Stephano and friends on Newbury Street. I looked at Z; he looked happy.
Maybe he's getting in touch with his warrior heritage.
I lowered my voice on the assumption that all warriors had deep voices.
"It is a good day to die," I said.
He glanced at me.
"For who?" he said.
"Old Indian saying."
"Paleface see-um too many movies," Z said.
57
I HAD a small idea.
It was late afternoon and raining hard when Z and I got in my car in the Public Alley behind my building, and pulled out onto Arlington Street. We circled the block and went down Berkeley Street to Storrow, into the tunnel under the city, southbound, and exited in time to cross Atlantic Ave and drive into South Boston. Stephano and his colleagues picked us up on Arlington Street and stayed close behind us, even bumping the rear of my car a little at the Boylston Street stoplight. I ignored them.
Jumbo's movie was shooting in the big alley between the Design Center and the Black Falcon Terminal in Southie. And when we parked near the set, Stephano and friends parked near us, and made a show of walking behind us onto the set.
So far, so good.
Jumbo was in his trailer, having lunch. Z and I went in without knocking. Don came to his feet, and put his hand inside his coat.
"Hey," he said. "You can't come in here."
"Can, too," I said.
I hit Don with a left hook and a right cross and knocked him over backward. It stunned him, and while he was recovering, Z bent over and took the gun from inside Don's coat and put it in the side pocket of his own raincoat.
"What the fuck is this," Jumbo said.
He was eating a sub sandwich and drinking champagne.
"Want to tell you some stuff, ask you some questions, and point something out," I said.
"What's that fucking Indian want?" Jumbo said.
He was trying to talk and eat his sub at the same time, and was making a mess of it. Don was sitting on the floor, recovering.
"Here's what I know," I said to Jumbo. "I kn
ow that Dawn Lopata was strangled to death on your bed, naked, with a scarf tied around her neck."
Jumbo looked at Z.
"The fucking Indian tell you that?" Jumbo said. "He's a lying sack of shit. Always has been."
"And that you had him dress her, and get rid of the scarf, before anyone called for help," I said.
"Fucking snitch," Jumbo said. "You think you can trust a fucking loser like Z?"
"Had you called for help right away," I said, "maybe she wouldn't have died."
"Bullshit," Jumbo said.
"And maybe you should go to jail for that," I said.
"Fuck you," Jumbo said, and drank some champagne.
"Good point," I said.
I walked to the window of the trailer. And leaned against the wall beside it.
I said, "How'd she die, Jumbo?"
"How the fuck do I know," he said, and stuffed more of his sandwich into his mouth. "I already told everybody what I know. I went to the bathroom, she was fine. I come out, and she was dead."
I nodded.
"You recognize Stephano DeLauria, if you saw him?" I said.
"Alice's husband," Jumbo said. "Yeah, a'course."
"That him?" I said, and nodded out the window.
Jumbo stared at me. Then he heaved himself up and came to the window. The rain blurred things a little. But Jumbo recognized Stephano.
"Jesus," he said.
Stephano and his posse were under an awning, leaning against the side of a Penske rental truck full of lighting gear. They were all four staring at Jumbo's trailer.
"Seem to be interested in you," I said to Jumbo.
Jumbo looked out the window at Stephano.
"What's he want?" Jumbo said.
"Maybe he's worried that if you get busted for the Dawn Lopata thing, you might start spilling your big gut about things involving Nicky Fellscroft and AABeau and all that," I said.
"I wouldn't say nothing about nothing," Jumbo said.
"You know that," I said. "And I know that. But does Stephano know that? Maybe more important, does Nicky Fellscroft know that?"
I stepped in front of the window and waved at Stephano. He extended his right arm, sighted down it, and pretended to shoot me with his first two fingers.
"Guess he's waiting until Z and I leave," I said.
"God, Jesus," Jumbo said.
His voice was shaking. He looked at Don, who was now sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands.
"Fuck," Jumbo said. "Who's gonna help me?"
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