by Ace Atkins
“Because she took the money,” Mattie said. “Don’t you see?”
“That doesn’t make what happened right.”
“What would you do?”
I leaned back in my office chair and kicked my Nikes up onto the side of the desk. I began to mentally run through the collection of creeps I’ve known over the years. My go-to action would have been physical or public humiliation. Perhaps tacking his manhood to the tallest tree in the Common.
“Does Chloe know this man’s name?”
“No.”
“Does she know anything about him?”
“Nothing,” she said. “I already asked.”
“If it were me, I’d go back to this club and tell them they can either turn over the backpack or else you’ll tell your story on Channel 7. Say you have Hank Phillippi Ryan on speed dial.”
“But I don’t.”
“But I do,” I said.
“And she’d show up with cameras?”
“In a heartbeat.”
“Okay,” Mattie said.
“I want you to have Chloe talk to someone in sex crimes,” I said. “I’ll call Quirk and arrange it.”
“She won’t,” Mattie said. “But I’ll try.”
Mattie let herself out, the anteroom door closing with a light click. I reached for my coffee and turned to stare out the window. I spent a lot of time staring out windows. Perhaps if I stared long enough, a sign would appear somewhere in the clouds. I peered into the sky, but there were no clouds today. So many creeps. So little time.
I turned back to my desk. Besides the sub and the newspaper, it was bare. I hadn’t had a decent case since returning from Los Angeles earlier that year. Maybe it might be time for me to dig into my 401k, if only I had a 401k.
I picked up the phone and dialed Quirk.
“That sounds like one sick fuck,” Quirk said.
“Kid’s fifteen.”
“Jesus Christ,” Quirk said. “I got two granddaughters that age. What’s the vic’s name again?”
“I’ll need to clear it with Mattie.”
“Mattie Sullivan?” Quirk said. “She’s a kid, too.”
“Not anymore,” I said. “She’s twenty-two.”
“She still wants to be like you?”
“Yep.”
“God help her.”
2
“That’s sexual battery,” Susan said.
“Along with a multitude of other charges.”
“Did he touch her?”
“Mattie says he didn’t,” I said.
“But he exposed himself?”
“Yes,” I said. “Seeking solo gratification.”
“Ick,” Susan said.
“My sentiments exactly.”
Inside my Navy Yard apartment, I continued to spoon the calamari salad I’d just picked up from Red’s onto an antique china plate. A collection of scallops as large as fists waited nearby in a mix of white wine and lemon juice. I’d premade a mixed green salad with fresh tomatoes and local peppers from the Public Market. A bottle of sauvignon blanc had been opened and sat chilled in an ice bucket for Susan. I nursed a Johnnie Walker Blue in a tall glass with lots of ice.
“But Mattie doesn’t want her friend Chloe to talk to the cops?”
“Mattie agrees she should talk to the cops,” I said. “First the laptop. And then the creep.”
“And one does not change Mattie Sullivan’s mind.”
“One does not,” I said. “Would you like more wine?”
“I’ve barely started this glass.”
Outside the floor-to-ceiling plate-glass window, the sun painted the shipyard, the Zakim Bridge, and downtown Boston in a lovely gold glow. The ship masts ticktocked in a slight summer wind. I refilled my glass with more ice and more Johnnie Walker. Ellington at Newport spun on the turntable.
As I shifted to a second plate, I dropped some squid onto the hardwood floor. A gangly creature with tall legs and droopy brown ears rushed into the kitchen to assist with the mess. The creature lapped up the squid and turned its brown eyes up to me for more, head tilted in a cheap ploy for sympathy.
I tossed down a bit more.
“You’re training her to know you’re a sucker,” Susan said.
“Pearl has always known my weakness.”
“And you still believe this Pearl and our Pearl are one and the same?”
I nodded, pouring out some olive oil into a hot copper skillet.
“Makes as much sense as anything,” Susan said.
“True.”
“And this system of yours, knowing when she’ll be born and where to find her, is secret.”
“Known only to me and Hawk.”
“And what does Hawk think?”
“Hawk believes all white people are crazy.”
“Hawk may have a point.”
Puppy Pearl scampered away, only to return a moment later with a rope toy larger than she is, and dropped it at Susan’s feet. Susan picked it up and tossed it across my apartment. The apartment was four times the size of my old place on Marlborough, and it took some time for Puppy Pearl to return. Old Pearl had passed away back in March, and the weeks after had in many ways been unbearable. Losing Pearl Two had been even tougher than losing the first.
“How about I just call her Puppy for now?” Susan said.
“Not ready for her to assume the throne yet?”
“Not yet,” she said. “Give me time.”
I sipped my scotch. Duke debated a tulip, a turnip, rosebud, rhubarb, fillet, or plain beef stew. The warm light across the hardwood floors and brick walls made for a pleasant early evening. I picked up the scallops and set them into a hot pan. The sizzling sound only added to the pleasantness.
“Do you know anything more about this man?”
“Mattie told me her client said he was middle-aged, handsome, and supposedly fabulously wealthy.”
“No name?”
“No name.”
“Did Mattie call this girl her client?”
“Not that exact word,” I said. “But she believes the young woman is her client.”
“Does that worry you?”
“Why would it worry me?”
“The life you lead is very interesting and very satisfying for you,” Susan said. “But it doesn’t come easy or without many risks and sacrifices.”
“But if I hadn’t been in this line of work, how else would’ve I met a hot Jewish shrink with incredible sexual appetites?”
“Right now, my appetites are focused on those scallops.”
“But later?”
“Dessert,” she said. “What do you have for dessert?”
“Where is Susan Silverman, and what have you done with her?”
Susan stared at me with a devilish little grin. I felt my heart swell in my chest and a smile creep onto my lips.
“You will help Mattie,” Susan said.
“Of course.”
“Even if she doesn’t want help.”
“Do you really have any doubts?”
I flipped the scallops, the edges turning a lovely brown color in the butter and olive oil. We were nearly ready to sit down. Pearl rambled up to my feet and looked up panting, long tongue lolling out of her little mouth as all Pearls had done before.
“Family trait,” I said.
“I wonder if she’ll be able to stalk squirrels in the Public Garden,” she said. “Maybe track a lone french fry or candy wrapper.”
“Of course,” I said, reaching down to rub her long, droopy ears. “She was born to it.”
3
Two days later, Mattie called.
I’d just finished working out at the Harbor Health Club, taken a steam and a shower, and had emerged onto Atlantic Avenue as fresh as a dozen daisies. The cell phone rang in my
pocket as I opened the door to my well-worn Land Cruiser.
“I think I’m being followed,” Mattie said.
“Where are you?”
“The Common,” Mattie said. “Walking toward the office.”
“How many?”
“Two,” she said. “Late twenties. Early thirties. White dudes. One’s got on a Pats cap, and the other is bald.”
“Shouldn’t the bald guy be wearing a cap?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’ll ask ’em when they get closer.”
“Have they threatened you?”
“They got out of a car over on Tremont and followed me over to the Frog Pond.”
“Where are you now?”
“About to cross Charles and into the Public Garden.”
“I’ll be waiting at the George Washington statue,” I said. “Ten minutes. Mingle with the crowd.”
“I’m not scared,” Mattie said. “Take your time.”
“You think these guys are connected to your sleuthing?”
“I think these two fucknuts wanted to harass me after I left the Blackstone Club.”
“Did you get the backpack?”
“Nope,” she said. “Didn’t get past the first room. A guy with a gun and a blue blazer escorted me onto the street. And then I noticed these two creeps when I passed the T station.”
I drove as fast as the traffic allowed over to Park Street and then hugged the Common along Beacon, the copper dome of the State House shining with its usual early-morning luster. I parked in a loading zone by the Bull & Finch and walked across the street and into the Public Garden.
I waited in the shadow of George Washington, watching the crowds swell into a river over the Lagoon Bridge. Soon I caught sight of Mattie walking in my direction with great purpose. She had on her satin Sox pitcher jacket over a T-shirt with jeans and sneakers. Her long red hair was flying loose behind her as she spotted me.
I stood there, more still than Washington, wearing my Braves cap and Ray-Bans. I looked beyond Mattie, watching two men jostling through the crowd, half walking, half jogging, and coming up behind her. One had on a white cap with what looked to be a Pats symbol. I couldn’t really tell at this distance. But the other’s head was bald and shone brighter than the State House dome.
Mattie continued to walk toward me, milling in with the crowd, taking pictures of the bridge, the swimming ducks, and tulips poking up from the manicured grounds. When she got within five yards, I motioned toward Arlington Street with my head. She winked back and continued in the same steady gait.
The men weren’t far behind, walking past me, and the one in the hat elbowed the bald guy as Mattie exited through the iron gates. I turned and began to follow.
By the time I got to Arlington, Mattie was already across the street at the Old Ritz and then moving toward Marlborough where I used to live. Unfortunately, some years ago, an arsonist had decided to burn me out of my building, gutting the place and much of the two buildings on each side.
It was an unusually cool morning for June, and I wished I’d grabbed my windbreaker from my car. I watched as Mattie turned down Marlborough, Mutt and Jeff trailing, picking up the pace out of the Garden, not seeming to care if they were spotted.
My .38 dug into my hip as I began a slow jog.
As I turned the corner, the men had stopped Mattie in front of my old building. Her back pressed against the wrought-iron fence.
“How about you two go fuck yourselves,” Mattie said.
“What language,” I said. “If I were wearing pearls, I’d be clutching them.”
“Get lost, old man,” said the guy in the Pats cap.
I snatched the Pats cap off his head and tossed it into the middle of Marlborough Street. A speeding car soon appeared, smashing the hat into a pancake.
“Asshole,” the bald guy said. He shoved Mattie’s shoulder and turned his attention to me. “This ain’t none of your goddamn business.”
“Double negative?” I said. “And you two coming from the Blackstone Club?”
The men exchanged glances, for the first time registering the distinctive height and size advantage I had on both of them.
“Amateurs,” Mattie said. “Fucking amateurs.”
They were both white, pale, and pockmarked. The Pats fan had narrow black eyes, big floppy ears, and a little scruff of a goatee. His pal had a sloped face, like a shovel, with wide-set eyes and the thinnest trace of a beard. They smelled like cigarettes and BO.
“Listen, Shaggy,” I said. “I’ll give you two Scooby Snacks if you guys tell me why you’re following this young lady.”
“None of your fucking business,” he said. “Now get lost if you don’t want to go and get yourself shot.”
The man opened his jacket to show an automatic tucked into his jeans. I reached out, snatched the gun, and slapped the man across the face.
“What the hell?” he said.
I looked to his buddy. “You have a gun, too?”
“No,” he said, backing away. “I don’t.”
I slipped the gun into my right front pocket, opened the bald guy’s jacket, and patted him down. He was telling the truth. Mattie eyed both of them and shook her head. “Christ,” she said. “What a shitshow.”
“Who sent you?” I said.
“Guy from the club,” Shaggy said.
“Why?”
“They wanted to scare the girl,” Baldy said.
I looked to Mattie. “You scared?”
“Fucking frightened,” Mattie said. “My knees won’t quit knocking.”
“You work at the club?” I said.
They shook their heads.
“Know anything about a man who likes to get massages from kids?”
“No,” the bald guy said. “That’s sick.”
“’Tis.”
“Why’d they want you to scare this young lady?”
They both shrugged, looking convincingly stupid and ignorant of the situation.
“My brother knows Luther who works the door for that place,” Baldy said. “Sometimes they get trouble with someone getting drunk and smart. People pound on that door, piss all over that back alley. You know. We rough ’em up and get paid. That’s it. That’s all. I don’t know jack about this girl. Okay? Can we go? Can I please have my gun back?”
“Don’t tell the club what happened here.”
Both men shook their heads.
“Tell them you chased this girl through the Public Garden and lost her.”
They nodded. I pulled out the man’s gun, a cheap little .32-cal, and ejected the magazine. I thumbed out the bullets and handed it back.
“We don’t want no trouble,” Shaggy said.
“Follow this girl again . . .” I said.
“And I’ll kick your fucking teeth in,” Mattie said.
The bald guy started to answer. But I pursed my mouth and shook my head. He shut up and turned back toward Arlington. We watched the two men go and disappear around the corner.
“Morons,” Mattie said again, shaking her head. “You really think they’ll keep quiet?”
“Nope.”
“How are we gonna get that backpack?”
“Let me make some calls,” I said. “And perhaps change my clothes.”
“You going back there?”
I shrugged. “Okay by you, boss?”
Mattie thought about it for a moment. She then nodded back and said, “Sure. Okay. But don’t expect a big cut of the reward.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
4
“Mr. Spenser, we are delighted to have you at the Blackstone Club,” T. W. Shaw said, sweeping his hand into a wood-paneled lounge the size of an airplane hangar with lots of dark brown leather furniture and floor-to-ceiling shelves stuffed with old books. “You were
highly recommended by two of our top members.”
“I got a smoking jacket for Christmas,” I said. “And no place to wear it.”
A thin smile crossed his lips “Well, we do have a large smoking room with a walk-in humidor. Two saunas, a dining room, and an exercise facility.”
“And the club is men only?”
“But of course.”
“No women at all?”
“Except for staff,” he said. “We are quite old-fashioned in our membership.”
“Mother will be so pleased,” I said.
Shaw looked perplexed for a moment before placing his right hand against an onyx side table that looked as if it might weigh as much as a mastodon. He was a smallish round guy with slick black hair and a thin mustache. The hair and mustache were as dark as shoe polish. His suit was navy single-breasted with a baby-blue bow tie. Few men could carry off a bow tie. Shaw wasn’t one of them.
“And what is the annual membership?” I said.
He told me.
I let out a low whistle.
Shaw gave me a look as if whistling was unseemly. He then smiled at me for a moment. If he tried any harder to put a twinkle into his eye, the bow tie might start to unravel.
“Would you like to sit down?” he said. “Perhaps have an early cocktail?”
“I always like a cocktail,” I said. “But perhaps you’re the one who should sit down.”
“Excuse me?”
“Sit down, T.W.,” I said. “I want to talk to you about two lackeys you sent to pester a young woman who stopped by earlier today.”
His face and the tips of his ears turned a variety of different colors. He licked his lips and pulled the hankie out from his breast pocket.
“Please don’t tell me you’re getting the vapors,” I said.
“Who are you?”
“Two of your top members already told you.”
“But you don’t wish to join the club.”
I shook my head. T.W. sat, forearms across his fat little thighs and hands clasped together. He looked like a child who had just been caught placing thumbtacks on his teacher’s chair.
“Last week, a young woman came here under the auspices of giving a man a massage,” I said. “She was paid five hundred dollars. But while she was massaging the man’s feet, he stood up and performed a string rendition of ‘Camp Town Ladies’ on himself.”
