“Wait,” said Whelen. The pale eyes switched back to me. “Your wife killed The Pilot? You're the guy who owns the house?”
“That's right, and that's why I'm here. I don't like trouble, and I don't want any more of it. From you or anybody else.”
The tension went out of Whelen's face. He picked up his glass and drank.
“You must be married to some kind of woman. The Pilot was a pretty tough guy, they say. The papers are making quite a lot out of it. The Pilot shot down while attacking civilians, and stuff like that.” He glanced at Quinn.
“I don't write the headlines,” said Quinn. “Just the stories.”
“People are having a lot of laughs,” said Whelen. “Gunmen outgunned by mother of two. Big-city mobsters pick on the wrong country girl. Cute. I even seen the story on television. If I was the crime boss that some people think I am, I might be pretty pissed off to have people laughing at my gang like that. It's not good for business to have people laugh at you. Of course, I'm not a crime boss, and I barely even knew those two guys, so you're talking to the wrong man, Mr. Jackson.”
“Not according to Howie Trucker. I managed to have a chat with him before they flew him up here to the hospital. Howie said you sent them to find Rimini.”
Whelen turned to Todd. “Howie Trucker. Ain't he the famous liar? The crook that's never told the truth in his life?”
“Yeah,” said Todd. “That's him.”
Whelen turned back to me. “This Trucker guy has been bad-mouthing me for years. Every time he does something illegal he tries to blame me for it. I don't know what's wrong with him. I guess he's sick or something. Maybe he got kicked by a horse or something when he was a kid.”
“Maybe,” I said.
“So I guess we got nothing to talk about, Mr. Jackson. Sounds like those bums your wife shot got what was coming to them.”
“I think so. Here's the thing, Mr. Whelen. Maybe you sent those goons down there to find Rimini, and maybe you didn't, but you're said to be an influential man in these parts, so you can do me a favor by spreading the word that I want no more Charlestown muscle in my life, ever. I want me and mine to be left alone. You do that and we're square. We'll write off what happened as just a mistake made by a couple of wiseguys on their own.”
Whelen sipped his Guinness, and smiled. “And what if I don't spread the word?”
“I'll be unhappy.”
“So what?” said Todd.
I didn't look at him. I looked into Sonny's snowy eyes.
Sonny turned his glass on the table, making small damp circles. “You'll be unhappy, eh? Are you hinting that you're dangerous when you're unhappy, Mr. Jackson?”
“Unhappy people are always more dangerous than happy ones,” I said. “You know that. But you don't have to worry about me. You're surrounded by people who are more dangerous to you than I'll ever be.”
Sonny studied me without expression, then he said, “You say your wife never heard of Rimini. You ever hear of him?”
“Of course I've heard of him,” I said, telling him what I was sure he already knew. “Carla, my first wife, left me and married him. He's a schoolteacher. When things started to pile up on him, Carla remembered the place where we used to vacation on the Vineyard and told him to hide out there with me. Then she got squeezed by your toughs and told them what she'd told Rimini. The thing is, she never told me anything. Maybe she planned to, but she never did; anyway, your goons showed up before he did.”
The pale eyes brightened. “You telling me that Rimini's there now?”
“No.” I leaned forward. “Rimini showed up that afternoon. After talking to him and to my ex on the phone I finally got the picture. She said she sent him to my house because it was the safest place she could think of. But all she'd brought me was grief, and I didn't want him there, so I sent him on his way. I'd had enough of Tom Rimini's problems.”
“Where is he now?”
Time to lie. “I don't know.”
“Don't you now? All right, where might he have gone?”
“I advised him to go to the cops.”
He looked at me with those white-ice eyes. “And did he do that?”
I looked back. “I don't know what he did or where he went. But I know this: he's not at my house and I want no more of him or of you.”
“Well, Mr. Jackson, we don't always get what we want, do we? There are some people here in town, for instance, who want to see Tom Rimini and probably won't stop looking until they find him. Those people will take it bad if they find out people have been sheltering him and lying about it.”
“So far,” I said, “all Tom Rimini has been to me is trouble. I moved to Martha's Vineyard to get away from trouble.”
“You want to know a funny thing?” asked Whelen. “I hear that The Pilot and Howie Trucker didn't go down there to find Rimini. I hear that they were already there, on vacation with their wives in a place Trucker owns down there. Not a bad place. I was down there once or twice myself. I hear that they got a call from Boston or somewhere and went over to collect Rimini as a sort of favor before they went to the beach. What do you think of that? You never know what's going to happen, do you? You're on vacation, you're going to the beach, then you do a friend a favor and you end up dead.”
“Even Attila the Hun probably went on vacation,” I said, “and we all end up dead sooner or later. But Howie Trucker's not dead yet. I imagine the cops will want to keep him alive so he can talk to them.”
“Fuck Howie Trucker,” said Todd.
“The Pilot was a stupid man,” said Whelen. “His brain was in his crotch. I hear that Howie was supposed to keep him in line on this caper, but I guess he didn't do his job. Your wife a looker, Mr. Jackson?”
I saw the bruises on her face. “Yes.”
He nodded. “Yeah. Well, The Pilot never could keep his hands off a good-looking woman.” His glacier eyes bored into mine. “Whoever sent him made a mistake. People make mistakes.”
I thought it was as near as I was going to get to an admission of error.
“Yeah,” I said. “I guess The Pilot paid for his own, and for the one made by whoever sent him. I don't want any more mistakes.”
“Yeah,” said Whelen. He sat back. “Well, thanks for the drink, Mr. Jackson. See you around, Mr. Quinn.”
I got up and Quinn slid out of the booth and stood beside me.
“One other thing,” said Whelen, looking up at me.
“What's that?”
“You sure you don't know where Rimini is?”
“I know where he isn't. He isn't at my house, and I don't want any more wiseguys looking for him there.”
He cocked his head to one side. “Don't try to be too smart or too tough, Mr. Jackson. It's not healthy. You happen to run into Tom Rimini, you tell him to go home. Tell him his friends miss him.”
“I'm hungry,” I said to Quinn, “but I've changed my mind about having pub grub. Take me to the nearest Big Mac.”
“Sure,” said Quinn, and we walked out of the Green Harp feeling Irish eyes on our backs.
“You're terrific,” said Quinn. “You should take up politics. You're a born diplomat. You're lucky Todd didn't shoot your balls off.”
“I doubt if anybody does much shooting in the Green Harp,” I said. “Sonny likes a nice Irish bar and likes to keep his own life quiet and peaceful. Todd probably does his shooting somewhere else, when Sonny isn't around. Was Pete McBride there just now?”
“Yeah. Chunky fellow at the far end of the bar. Works the docks, mostly. Collects from the unions and shippers both, they say. And they say he skims from Sonny's take but never enough to make Sonny mad. Why?”
I remembered the man at the end of the bar, and stored his face away in my mental files.
“No reason,” I said. “You know where he lives?”
“No. Why?”
“No reason. You think you can find out?”
“Probably.”
“Let me know, if you find out.”
We got into the old Toyota and found a McDonald's.
“Why don't you eat decent food?” complained Quinn, as I worked my way through a Quarter Pounder with cheese, big fries, and a small Coke. “You cook like a dream at home but whenever you get on the mainland you pig out on fast food.”
“You don't know how good you've got it,” I said. “You can eat like this anytime you want to, but over on the Blessed Isle we repelled the Big Mac Attack when they tried to build in Vineyard Haven a while back, so now we don't have any McDonald's or Taco Bells, or KFCs, or any place to get decent, cheap, fast, dependable food. So when I come across the sound to America I eat as much of this stuff as I can.” I waved a fry. “The whole world can't be wrong, Quinn. The U.S.A. makes the most popular fast food on the planet, for God's sake. Wise up. This is manna from heaven!”
Quinn gave me a sad look.
I took him back to his office building, and thanked him for his time and his help. “I hope this doesn't put you in wrong with Sonny,” I said.
“Well, it might not have helped, but it probably didn't hurt. Sonny never said anything incriminating. I could have taped the whole thing and I'd still have nothing worth writing about.”
“How about AGGRIEVED HUSBAND CONFRONTS GANGSTER IN CHARLESTOWN BAR. That's a story.”
“You want that in the paper?”
“No, no, and no.”
“You going to tell me why you want to know where Pete McBride lives?”
“Sure. So I can track him down if I have to. I want his address. And his phone number, if you can get it. And find Graham, while you're at it. For the same reason.”
“You're something else,” said Quinn. He walked into the building and I drove to Jamaica Plain.
The Riminis lived in a big house on a quiet side street. I could see how a couple of schoolteachers might have a hard time paying the mortgage on a place like that.
I parked and went up to the door. The lawn was newly mowed, and there were flowers under the windows and on both sides of the walk. I knocked. The door opened and I was looking into the eyes of the woman I'd loved and married long ago. My heart seemed to hesitate then start again.
“Jeff!”
“Hello, Carla.”
“Oh, Jeff, I'm so glad to see you.” She put her arms around my neck and pulled my lips down to hers. They were warm, familiar lips and they held mine for a long kiss. Then she put her head on my chest and began to cry.
— 9 —
Her body fit against mine as though it was made to be there. Her arms were now around my waist and her soft hair drew my face down so I could inhale the scent of it. My arms were around her and I noticed that my hand was caressing her back. It was a gentle movement, like that I gave to my children when they were sad or hurt.
Abruptly she pulled away and brushed at her eyes. “You must think I'm a complete idiot! Come in.” She reached for my hand, then pulled her own back. She turned and I followed her into the house.
She waved me into a chair. “I'll bet you could use a beer!”
“Sure.”
“Some things never change.” She tried a smile that didn't quite work and went into the kitchen. The beer she brought back was the light kind, but I sipped it anyway. If God wanted us to drink light beer, She'd have made light grain.
Carla sat on the couch. “It's so good to see you again. You haven't changed much in fifteen years.” She picked at something imaginary on her sleeve. Her skin looked tight and her eyes were those of a spooked deer.
“A lot of water's gone under the bridge,” I said.
“Yes.” She leaned forward. “I read about what happened. That PILOT DOWNED AND TRUCKER WRECKED IN ACCIDENT WITH HOUSEWIFE story. It was all my fault! Is your wife going to be all right? I'm so sorry! It was so stupid of me to send Tom there, but I never imagined that those men would come here. . . . I'm such a coward!”
I agreed with some of that, but I said, “Forget it. It's just more of that water. Zee and Diana will be fine. What's important now is that we all get shuck of the guys who are after your husband.”
“Where is he? Where's Tom? Is he all right?”
I drank off the rest of my thin-tasting beer and stood up. “Let's go for a walk.”
“A walk?” She looked puzzled, but nodded. “All right.”
When we went out, there was a blue Lincoln sedan parked about half a block up the street behind my truck. It hadn't been there when I pulled into her driveway. We walked away from the car, up the block, passing other big old houses like hers. It was a nice, quiet street.
“Why are we out here?” she asked.
“Probably for no good reason,” I said, “but I want to be careful. There are at least two people who want to find Tom: Sonny Whelen and a guy named Graham, who says he's a cop. I doubt if either one of them has a satellite system to keep track of the people they're interested in, but it's possible that one or both of them have bugged your house or tapped your phone or car. You can go down to your local magazine store and buy a catalog for the stuff you'd need to do that. It's less likely that they have a big ear listening to us out here on the street, so that's why we're here.”
She looked around almost wildly. “Do you really think our house might be bugged? I can't believe it. It's like a movie.”
“It's not a movie,” I said. “It's real life, and your house probably isn't bugged. But if it is, you and Tom can't talk without having somebody else hear every word you say. I think you should play it safe. Do you have any money?”
She looked at me with surprise. “Some. Not much. Our credit cards are used up and I can't pay the bills, but I have a little set aside.”
“I think you should buy a couple of cell phones and use them when you and Tom talk. You keep one here and I'll take the other one with me when I leave and get it to him. That way, nobody can trace his calls and find him. Or at least I don't think they can. When you talk you should both be very careful not to say where he is. Don't ask and don't let him tell you. And don't talk for too long, just in case somebody really can trace his location. Keep your messages short and sweet.”
“But I want to know where he is! I want to know he's all right.”
“And he wants to tell you both things, which is exactly why you have to make sure he doesn't.”
“But if the house isn't bugged . . .”
I had to twist the knife a bit. “If you know and the hoods come back, you'll tell again, just like you did last time.”
“Oh.” She kicked at a small stone on the walk. “Of course I would. I'm such a coward . . .”
I felt a kind of tenderness for her and was glad to cast the knife away. “No. Anyone would tell. The person hasn't been born who can stand up to every torture and threat. Don't be hard on yourself. Just don't ask where Tom is and don't let him tell you. That may give us time to get out of this mess.”
Her arm went around mine and she leaned against me. “You don't have to do this, Jeff, but I'm grateful.”
Her touch brought back other feelings I thought I'd gotten rid of long ago.
“Don't be grateful yet,” I said. “We're still in the stew.”
“Why are you doing it at all?” She looked up at me with the soft blue eyes I'd first seen in a college hallway twenty years before and thought I'd since forgotten but hadn't.
Why, indeed? Was it because I'd never really stopped loving her even after I fell in love with Zee? Or because I wanted her to be happier than I had ever made her, because I felt sorry for her and her addicted husband and wanted to save them from his sickness?
I said, “I'm doing it because my family and I are involved and I want to get us uninvolved, and the only way I know how to do that is to get you and Tom uninvolved, too.”
“Oh, if only we can do that! This has been a nightmare. You can't imagine. We're schoolteachers, not gangsters. I'm not made for this kind of life.”
True, no doubt. She'd not been made for the stresses of being a cop's wife, either. And now she was
married to a guy hooked to the mob.
“Your husband has a problem. Problems have solutions.”
“Not all of them.”
“This one does.”
Her arm tightened on mine. “What is it?”
I shook my head. “I don't know yet. But there is one. The thing we have to do is keep Tom out of sight until I've figured it out.”
“What will happen to him if they find him?”
I'd given that some thought. “It depends on who does the finding. If it's Sonny, and he thinks Tom will keep his mouth shut and keep bringing in some worthwhile money, Sonny's boys will probably slap him around a little and let him keep slaving for them. If Sonny thinks he'll turn to the cops and talk, they'll do worse. Graham, of course, wants Tom to do just what Sonny doesn't want him to do: be a mole and tell the cops all, then testify in court. If Tom doesn't play ball, Graham will probably arrest him on gambling charges and anything else he thinks might stick. Even if nothing much does, Tom will still be through as a schoolteacher and even more broke than he is now. It's a nice pair of pincers he's caught in.”
“It's hopeless,” she said.
I thought she might be right. “No, it isn't,” I said, “but it's best that you know the realities. Now, we should find ourselves a mall or someplace where you can buy a couple of cell phones.”
We turned and walked back. The blue sedan was still there. “I see your neighbor owns a Lincoln,” I said. “You live in a classy section of town. We didn't have any Lincolns in our part of Somerville when you and I were young.”
She glanced at the car, then shook her head. “ Somebody's just visiting.” Then she smiled. “We had that old Chevy that burned almost as much oil as gas. Remember?”
“I remember.” It had been my first car. Twelve years old when I bought it, full of dents and rattles and other needed work that I was too poor to have done. I kept it running by buying motor oil by the case and the cheapest retread tires I could find. Come to think of it, the rusty Toyota Land Cruiser I drove now was even older than the Chevy had been. I hadn't made much progress as far as cars were concerned.
Vineyard Shadows Page 6
