In maybe two minutes Hawk came out and got in the passenger side. He was smiling.
"Richard having lunch," Hawk said.
"And you know with who," I said.
"Uh huh."
"And you are going to tell me as soon as you get through grinning like a goddamned ape," I said.
"That a racial slur?" Hawk said.
"Yes," I said.
Hawk grinned some more. "Haskell Wechsler."
I leaned back a little in the driver's seat.
"The worst man alive," I said.
"'That's Haskell," Hawk said. "Bet Gavin buys the lunch."
"Haskell know you?" I said.
"Of course."
"He spot you?"
"Of course not. Haskell don't notice nothing when he's eating."
"Let's join them," I said. "See what the specials are."
chapter thirty-three
HASKELL WECHSLER WAS a fat guy with very little hair. What there was, he had dyed black and combed up over his baldness and plastered tight against his scalp. He had pale skin and thick lips. He wore thick glasses, a huge diamond ring on his little finger, and an assertively expensive Rolex watch on his left wrist. The collar of his white dress shirt was folded out over the lapels of his gray sharkskin suit. The top several buttons of the shirt were undone over a humongous gold chain. He had tucked his napkin into the V of the open collar. He was a niche specialist, a loan shark who belonged to no mob but found space to operate just outside the not-quite intersecting fringes of other men's power. He lent money at ten percent a week to people who couldn't possibly pay it back and squeezed them ferociously for the interest. Even when they could make the weekly vig, they never paid off the principal and remained in permanent and perilous debt to Haskell. "Couple of bruisers at the table to the right," Hawk said as we walked in.
"If they try to shoot me," I said, "prevent them."
Hawk nodded. "I think I understand," he said and walked over and stood behind the table where the bruisers were carbo loading on linguine with clams. Gavin and Wechsler were sitting alone next to them at a table for four. I pulled out one of the empty chairs and sat down with them.
"Boy," I said, "good to see a familiar face, isn't it?"
Haskell had a mouthful of lasagna. He chewed it and swallowed and said to Gavin, "You know this guy?"
Gavin nodded. "And I don't like him," he said.
Haskell had a sloppy drink of red wine and put the glass back down and wiped his mouth on his napkin without untucking it.
"So," he said and looked straight at me, "you heard him. We don't like you. Take a fucking walk."
"I'm sure, Richie, you just give me half a chance, we could be pals again."
Without looking back, Haskell spoke to one of his bodyguards.
"Buster," he said, "move this douche bag away from my table."
Buster looked like the man for the job okay, but he was in a stare-down with Hawk.
"Got another guy here, Mr. Wechsler," Buster said.
"The nigger? So move him too."
"I know the nigger," Buster said.
Something in Buster's voice got Wechsler's attention. He half turned, his fat face made fatter by the huge mouthful of lasagna he was working on. He looked at Hawk and then turned back and looked at me, then he swallowed his lasagna and wiped his mouth again with his napkin.
"Hawk," he said, mostly to himself.
"You missed a spot," I said, "over there on the right. Where the smile lines would be in a human being."
"So whaddya want?" Haskell said.
His voice had a hoarse quality as if he needed to clear his throat. And he had some kind of speech impediment, not quite a lisp, that made his s's slushy.
"I want to know about Richie and you," I said, "and Carla Quagliozzi and Brad Sterling and Civil Streets, and Galapalooza and Francis Ronan and his lovely wife Jeanette, and a shooter named Cony Brown and how all of that is connected, or if it isn't, where the connections are and where they aren't."
Wechsler continued to eat as I talked. There was sauce on his shirt front and some on one sleeve of his suit jacket. His sallow face had gotten red from the energy he put into the eating. He looked at Gavin, still chewing, and said around his mouthful of food, "Who the fuck is this guy?"
"Private cop," Gavin said, "working for a loser named Brad Sterling."
"Who the fuck is Brad Sterling?"
"Nobody you know, Haskell."
"See. I don't know nothing," Wechsler said, "so take a fucking hike for yourself. Save yourself a lot of trouble, you do."
"Trouble is my middle name," I said.
"I never knew your middle name," Hawk said.
"So now you do."
"You have no obligation to converse with these men in any way," Gavin said to Wechsler. "My advice is to say nothing further to him."
"Are you Haskell's attorney?" I said.
"We'll have no further comment," Gavin said.
"How about the check," I said. "Who's going to pick up the tab?"
Gavin shook his head. I picked up a spoon and held it like a microphone toward Haskell.
"How about you, sir? Do you have any comment about the check."
"I got one comment for you, asshole. You just got yourself in serious trouble. Maybe not now, this ain't the time or place. But there will be a time and place, and you can fucking count on that."
"Just why am I in trouble?" I said.
"'Cause you fucking bothering me at lunch is why," Wechsler said.
Gavin gestured at the waiter, who was standing around uneasily. Nothing had happened to require calling the cops, but something was in the air, and he knew it. He came promptly with the check, and Gavin gave him a credit card and he scooted away.
"You don't even read the fucking check?" Wechsler said. "How you know they ain't cheating your ass."
Gavin shrugged and kept his eyes on the waiter, who returned very promptly with a credit card slip for Gavin to sign. Gavin signed the slip, added a tip, took his copy, and stood.
"Come on, Haskell," he said and he started out. Wechsler wiped up the last of his lasagna with some bread, stuffed the bread in his mouth, and stood up chewing.
"We'll be in touch, asshole," Wechsler said and waddled after Gavin. The two bruisers stood and followed their boss. Buster studied my face as he went by. It was the first time Buster had stopped looking at Hawk. When they left, Hawk sat down beside me at the table they'd departed.
"Well, you got their attention," Hawk said.
"'Bout all," I said.
"Looks to me like Gavin is Haskell's lawyer."
"Yes," I said.
"'That's something."
"I'm not sure it's worth dying for," I said.
"Most things aren't," Hawk said. "Why we don't do it more often."
"Yeah, well, let's try not to do it this time," I said.
chapter thirty-four
SUSAN AND I were leaning on the railing of the little bridge that spanned the swan boat pond in the Public Garden, on a handsome spring day with the sun out and only a small breeze blowing. We were watching somebody's spaniel which had jumped into the pond and outraged a squadron of ducks. The ducks paddled rapidly away from him under the bridge. The spaniel didn't care. He liked it in the pond and swam around with his mouth open, looking often and happily at his owner. "Have you any hint yet where Brad might be?" Susan said.
"How would I know anything?" Susan said.
"The question was idle," I said.
"If I knew something, wouldn't I tell you at once?" she said.
"Of course," I said. "And vice versa."
She thought about that for a moment and nodded.
"Yes," she said, "of course. My question was idle too."
The spaniel swam vigorously about in the pond, his owner standing right at the edge in case the dog needed help. Occasionally the dog would lap a little of the water. The ducks had apparently forgotten about him. They clustered about one of the swan boats on th
e other side of the bridge luring peanuts from the passengers. A stumble bum wandered by us wearing all the clothes he owned, muttering to himself as he went. Below us the spaniel finally had enough of the pool, swam to the side, and bounced up out of the pond. His owner took a quick step back out of harm's way just before the spaniel shook himself spasmodically. Then he bent down and attached a leash to the spaniels' collar and said something to him, and they went off toward Beacon Street together.
"You fooled me," Susan said suddenly.
"Which time," I said.
"When I met you. I thought you were rough and dangerous."
"And I'm not?"
"No you are. But I thought that's all you were."
I turned and looked at her. She was staring straight ahead.
"You've been talking to someone," I said.
"I called Dr. Hilliard."
"'The San Francisco shrink," I said.
"Yes."
I nodded, although she couldn't see me, since she was staring intently at the middle distance. She didn't say anything. I had nothing to say. We were quiet. The swan boat came under the bridge with its attendant ducks. The first three rows of benches were occupied by a group of Japanese tourists. Most of them had cameras. I always assumed that somebody in their passport office told them that if you travel in a foreign land, and you are Japanese, you are expected to carry a camera.
"She reminded me of some of the issues we had to resolve when I went away from you before," Susan said.
"Um hmm," I said.
"My attraction to inappropriate men, for instance."
Her voice had a musing sound to it, as if she weren't exactly talking to me.
"Um hmm."
"And I said to her, `Remind me again, if I had this need how did I end up with Spenser?' "
"You thought I was inappropriate," I said.
She turned her gaze away from the middle distance and onto me. She seemed startled.
"Yes," she said.
"And now you don't," I said.
"You are the best man I've ever known. If anything, I may not deserve you."
I didn't know what to do with that, but the conversation was going my way and I didn't want it to stop.
"Because the way your father was," I said.
"And the way my mother made me feel about it."
"Your first love was an inappropriate man."
"And my mother convinced me that I didn't deserve him."
"You only deserve men like Brad, or Russell Costigan."
"Yes."
"But when you get them, you can't stay with them because they aren't up to you."
Susan smiled tiredly.
"Something like that, though I wonder, sometimes, if there's anyone who wouldn't be up to me."
She said it in a way that put quotation marks around "up to me" and boldfaced "me."
"This is about why you asked me to help Brad Sterling." I said.
"I guess it is."
"So why did you?"
"Some sort of guilt, I guess. I married him for his failings and when they persisted, I left him."
"Doesn't seem fair, does it?"
In view from every place on the little bridge were flowers in spring luxuriance. On the Arlington Street side were beds of tulips which would dazzle you if you were a flower kind of guy. The ornamental trees were in lacy blossom as well, their flowers much less assertive than the tulips. There were a lot of other flowers as well, but I didn't know what they were. I wasn't a flower kind of guy.
"Brad's only fault," Susan said in a voice that seemed to come from somewhere far off, "was to continue to be what I married him for being."
I waited. Susan sounded like she might be through, but I didn't want to say anything to keep her from going on. We were quiet. The small wind moved through the flowering trees and shook some of the blossoms loose and scattered them on the surface of the pond. A brown duck with a bottle green head went rapidly over to investigate, found it not to his liking, and veered away. Susan remained still looking at the pond. She was through.
"A number of other people have left him," I said. "Including his own sister."
"I know," she said and started looking at the distance again. "Poor guy, he's lost so much in his life. Maybe…"
She shook her head and stopped talking again. "Maybe if you'd stayed, he would have turned into something else?" I said. "That's some power you've got there, toots."
"I know, I know. But… he very much didn't want the divorce."
"Of course he didn't. But you can't stay with someone because they want you to."
"I know," Susan said.
She knew it was true, but she didn't believe it. I took in some air and let it out.
"You made a mistake marrying Brad," I said. "And you corrected it. You took up with me for the wrong reasons and then found out they were wrong and made a mistake with Russell Costigan and corrected that. It may have been bad for them, but it was good for me and, I think, for you. There's no reason for guilt."
"And now I've got you involved in a big mess," she said.
That seemed a separate issue to me, but I thought it wise not to be picky.
"Big Mess is my middle name," I said.
She paid no attention, or if she did she was not amused.
"What kind of person acts like that?" she said.
I thought about looking at the distance for a while. But that didn't seem productive. I took in more air and let it out again, even more slowly than last time.
"A person like you or me, an imperfect person, hence human, like you or me. I have nearly all my life tended to solve problems by whacking someone in the mouth. I contain that tendency better than I used to, but it hasn't gone away. I have killed people and may again. I haven't taken pleasure in it, but in most cases it hasn't bothered me all that much either. Mostly it seemed like the thing to do at the time. But the capacity to kill someone and not feel too bad is not one that is universally admired."
"Your point?"
"You said I was the finest man you ever knew. Probably am. Most of humanity isn't all that goddamned fine to begin with. I am flawed. You are flawed. But we are not flawed beyond the allowable limit. And our affection for each other is not flawed at all."
She had stopped looking at the distance and was looking, for the first time, at me.
"And every day I have loved you," I said, "has been a privilege."
She kept looking at me and then soundlessly and without warning she turned from the bridge railing and pressed her face against my chest. She didn't make a sound. Her hands hung by her side. I put my arms around her carefully. She didn't move. We stood that way for a time as the pedestrians on the bridge moved spectrally past us. After a while, Susan put her arms around my waist and tightened them. And we stood that way for a time. Finally she spoke into my chest, her voice muffled.
"Thank you," she said.
"You're welcome."
And we stood some more and didn't say anything else.
chapter thirty-five
QUIRK CALLED ME and asked me to come in for a talk. The thing that was unusual about it was that he asked. My office was a two-block walk up Berkeley Street from Police Headquarters and I was there in Quirk's office at the back of the homicide squad room in about five minutes. "Close the door," he said.
I did.
"Civil Streets is a dead end," Quirk said when I sat down. "We went up there last week with the Stoneham cops and tossed the office. There's nothing there. No books. No computer. No paper. Nothing at all."
"So they cleaned it out," I said.
"Maybe," Quirk said. "Or maybe there never was anything there. We talked to the building owner. He said it was rented for a year by Carla Quagliozzi, paid on time every month with her personal check. I think it was just an address."
"That's what it looked like the day I went there," I said.
"So we figured we better talk to the president, and day before yesterday Lee Farrell called Carla Quagliozzi and aske
d her to come down with her attorney," Quirk said. "She was due here at ten in the morning. She didn't show. Farrell called. No answer. He called couple more times. Nothing. This morning we called Somerville and asked them to send a cruiser by. The cruiser guy found the front door ajar. He yelled. Nobody answered, so he opened it and looked in. She was in the living room. Somebody had shot her in the head, and cut her tongue out."
"Jesus Christ."
"Medical examiner says it was probably done in that order."
"I hope so."
"ME was pretty sure," Quirk said. "No evidence that any of the kitchen knives were used, assumption is that he brought his knife with him."
"Hasn't this gotten ugly real quick," I said.
"It has."
"Did you, ah, find the tongue."
"No."
"So he took it with him," I said.
"That's our assumption," Quirk said. "He had to carry the tongue away in something. It would be kind of messy to stick it in your pocket. There's no sign that he got a Baggie or Saran Wrap or whatever from the kitchen, though it's possible. Assumption is he came prepared."
"He knew ahead of time he was going to cut out her tongue and take it away," I said.
"That's our guess."
"I hate talking about this," I said.
Quirk said, "I know."
"So, why would he take the tongue with him?" I said.
"Got a guess?"
"He was going to show it to somebody."
Quirk nodded. "As a warning," he said.
"Which is probably why she was killed."
"To shut her up," Quirk said.
"And to shut other people up," I said. "No need to cut her tongue out to keep her quiet."
"And they left the door open," Quirk said.
"Because they wanted her to be found soon."
"Before we got to anyone else," Quirk said.
We thought about it for a minute.
"But you'd figure the tongue"-Quirk made a face-"would work pretty well as a warning."
"If they could show it to everyone they wanted to shut up," I said.
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