Foursome (27 page)

I fired three rounds from the Chiefs Special into the driver’s side windshield.

The convertible swerved right in an arc, never reaching Beacon but instead smashing into a station wagon parked across Fairfield from the Pontiac. I’d taken one step toward Blanca’s car when the sparks from the hub or the final collision found some gasoline from the leaking tank. There was a fuse line of fire that raced toward the rear of the convertible, then a tremendous whoosh and boom that threw me back onto the pavement.

The backdraft from the flaming car made the stench from the dumpster behind my office seem like expensive perfume. I took out a handkerchief, soaked it in some spilled gasoline on my side of Fairfield, and held it to my nose and mouth.

I
SAID, “
H
OW’S THE
Asian family?”

Ilario Cosentino said, “The what?”

“There was an Asian family in a white rental that clipped Quintana on Beacon as she was coming for me. Do you know if they’re okay?”

From behind me, Robert Murphy said, “They’re fine. I tried to talk to them, but they’re Chinese, not much English. One of the kids just got a little conk on the head.”

“How about the car?”

“We’re gonna call the rental company, get the family off the hook.”

I nodded. I was sitting on the steps of the condo building, my hands still shaking a little too much from the adrenaline to hold the mug of tea one of my neighbors in misguided kindness brought down to me. Caffeine doesn’t counter adrenaline very well, but I would have liked to fake drinking it for her sake.

Cosentino was standing, his rump against one of the wrought iron railings leading to the front door of the building. Murphy was sitting on the stoop two steps higher than me, a piece of newspaper under him so that the pants to his suit wouldn’t get dirty. My weapons rested in separate evidence baggies between Murphy’s shoes. I’d already gone through the sequence twice for them.

On the sidewalk, plainclothes cops were scribbling statements from apparent witnesses. A couple of uniforms were fending off broadcast reporters with mikes in their hands and print reporters with tape recorders in theirs who tried to shout questions at the three of us in general and me in particular. At the intersection, there were still three pieces of fire apparatus, red lights revolving, called in for the burning convertible. EMTs from several ambulances were just marking time, waiting for another call once they realized there was nobody left for them from this one. In the middle of Fairfield, a white panel truck was parked the wrong way near two Boston Police cruisers. The blue lettering on the truck spelled OFFICE OF THE CHIEF MEDICAL EXAMINER. If I turned my head to the right, I could just see the yellow tape with POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS triangulating the body of the Intratec girl, so I didn’t turn my head that way.

Murphy’s voice got softer. “How you doing, Cuddy?”

“Not great.”

Cosentino said, “We told you, they use their guns like they was dusting crops. You did good to walk out of this here.”

I said, “Where’s your partner?”

“Yollie? She’s with the rest of the unit, trying to round up as many Las Hermanas as they can. You’re sure it was Blanca behind the wheel?”

I’d already told them twice, but I tried to picture the convertible as I saw it first instead of as I saw it last. “Positive.”

“Definitely not Lidia with her?”

I didn’t say anything. I’d already answered that one twice, too.

The plastic baggies between Murphy’s feet made a crinkling noise. “We have to take in both your guns, you know.”

“I know.”

His voice got smaller this time. “You got any backups?”

“They’re it.”

Murphy stopped, maybe looking to Cosentino. “Cuddy, a shoot like this, procedure says I should pull your Permit to Carry.”

“Couldn’t blame you.”

“Only thing is, without it, you carry and get caught, it’s a year in the slam.”

“I know that, too.”

Cosentino blew some air out his lips. “Year in, week in, wouldn’t matter. Lidia’d cut a deal with somebody, say a prison gang like the Latin Kings, put your lights out.”

Murphy laid his hand on my shoulder, the first time I could ever remember him touching me in any way. “What I’m saying here, Cuddy, you might want to disappear for a while, till Larry and Yollie figure a way to gut Las Hermanas.”

Cosentino said, “No promises on that one, either.”

I said, “Kind of tough to disappear in my line of work.”

Murphy said, “This thing you’re working on, got you messed up with these girls. That’s in Maine, right?”

“Right.”

“Might be you could spend a few days up there, let things run their course some down here.”

I wasn’t thinking too clearly, but he made sense. “Sounds like that’d be a good thing to try.”

Cosentino said, “I was you, I’d try it tonight. Be on the road soon’s you can.”

Murphy didn’t ask me if I was up to a long drive right away, but if I were him, I’d have been thinking it.

I said, “I never checked my car. Did it catch any strays?”

Cosentino said, “Sit tight. I’ll cut through the jackals, let you know.”

He went down the steps slowly and just kept shaking his head as the reporters swamped him, staying with him to the corner.

Murphy waited a minute, then said, “You know, I never did tell anybody about the shotgun thing you did on that guy last year.”

“I didn’t figure you ever would.”

“Something I’d like to know, though.”

“Ask.”

“That guy, you set him up, smoked him, account of you knew he was poison. These girls, though, they come after you.”

“That’s right.”

“But doing him, that didn’t get to you like this here.”

I nodded.

Murphy’s voice got both smaller and softer. “How come?”

It had been playing around the edges since I’d held the gassed hankie to my face, me subconsciously trying to put this situation in the right pigeonhole among the other lives I’d taken. “In Saigon, I opened up on a shadow in a doorway during the Tet Offensive. I’d just lost two men to a shooter in the doorway before it. All of us were wound tight, it was the right thing to do. Reflex.”

Murphy said, “But?”

“But it turned out to be somebody just hiding, probably terrified. A child, Lieutenant, maybe eight or nine.”

“Not much younger than these here.”

“Same feeling, anyway.”

“Yeah, well, might be the same feeling, but it’s not the same situation. These girls, Cuddy, don’t matter how old they are, they haven’t been children for some time now.”

I heard the newspaper rustle as he stood behind me.

Murphy said, “Got to check in.” As he came past my step, he rested the hand that wasn’t carrying the baggies on my shoulder again. “I hear up in Maine, the gun laws, they’re not so strict. A man might want to buy a backup piece, he has the time.”

Murphy reached the bottom step. To his back, I said, “What about my Permit to Carry down here?”

“Forgot to ask you for it. Commissioner’ll ream my ass, me fucking up like that.”

I watched him walk toward the corner, holding his free hand up to ward off reporters, the photographers giving ground as they clicked away at the baggies in his other hand.

“ADA Meagher.”

“It’s me, Nance.”

“Jesus Mary, John, I caught the case just as I was—”

“It’s okay. A bad situation, but I’m not hurt.”

A sound over the line that came from her throat but wasn’t quite a word. Then, quieter, “You’re calling to tell me you can’t see me for a while.”

“You know enough about gangs to know that’s a good idea.”

A heartbeat. “It’s wise. That doesn’t mean I think it’s a good idea.”

“I’ll accept the friendly amendment.”

“Where will you be?”

“In Maine. I’ll call you, probably tomorrow.”

“How about tonight?”

“I’m driving up there tonight.”

“I meant, how about calling me tonight, let me know you made it all right.”

“I’d like to.”

“Does that mean you will?”

“Ever the lawyer.”

“Ever yours.”

“Does that mean I can call collect?”

“Ever the jerk, too,” said ADA Meagher, and hung up.

Roses for me twice in a row?

“Mrs. Feeney mixed you a bunch. Three different varieties, she said.”

What’s the occasion?

I looked down her hillside toward the harbor. A boat that appeared handmade, the cabin too far forward to be proportional, edged its way through the chop, the sun dwindling in the west.

John?

I came back to her headstone. Seeing Nancy at her house three blocks away was a risk, given the methods Las Hermanas had shown me so far. Seeing Beth here was not.

“I had a bad day, kid.”

How bad?

I told her.

Oh God, John. I’m sorry.

Nodding, I watched the boat clear the Castle Island point.

But Murphy’s right, you know.

I nodded again.

He is, John. You didn’t make those girls join that gang and decide to eliminate you as an … inconvenience to them.

I got tired of nodding. “I know.”

You’re heading somewhere, aren’t you?

“Good instinct about now.”

Where?

“Back up to Maine, try to pick up a few threads, tie them together.”

A pause.
Do you have a gun?

“No, but I packed some ammunition and a couple hundred in cash to maybe get one up there.”

When are you going?

“Soon as I leave you.”

Another pause.
I never thought I’d say this to you, John, but in that case, please leave now.

I looked down at her. “Why?”

Because the way you seem, I’d rather not think of you driving the whole way at night.

I felt a smile, one I’d used with her when we were first married. “Because I’m distracted.”

And distraction leads to mistakes, John. Don’t do anything stupid, okay?

“For your sake.”

For Nancy’s sake.

I found I wasn’t quite as tired of nodding as I’d thought.

T
HE
F
RIDAY AFTERNOON TRAFFIC
on the Central Artery was thick and balky, not improving much even though I decided to use Route 93 north instead of Route 1. A nice day weatherwise, the promise of a better weekend up-country filled the lanes with the cars of people not used to commuter driving. I was one of them.

Sudden noises made me jumpy. The sound of a diesel truck venting its stack, the blare of a rap song over somebody’s radio, the skittering of a muffler and tail pipe not quite held up by wire twisted around a bumper. I tried to concentrate on my driving, to hum familiar tunes, but then I drew even with an old Chrysler in the breakdown lane, chuffing along with a blown front tire, an elderly man stoic behind the wheel. That grinding noise was a little too close to recent reality.

I let the Chrysler get ahead of me, to the sound of horns from behind me, then edged onto the shoulder and sat for a while, taking deep breaths. It didn’t help, so I made a break in the traffic and continued on.

At Route 128, I headed north, the traffic at first worse and then suddenly better. I got on Interstate 95, the pavement widening, the scenery improving a little toward the green side. Then good time until the New Hampshire tollbooth, and better time as I crossed over the bridge to Kittery and saw the billboard with WELCOME TO MAINE—THE WAY LIFE SHOULD BE.

I felt the next deep breath take hold, as though my whole chest were moving independently inside my rib cage, the organs reordering themselves into a more natural alignment. As the miles went by, I realized the jumpiness was dissipating, too, my hands resting steady on the wheel instead of being clamped to it. The next hundred miles of the trip wore less than the first ten.

Just before Augusta, I debated about where to stay, since I hadn’t called ahead to the Marseilles Inn. Ralph and Ramona might have a room, and then again they might not. In any case, I wasn’t about to impose on them for dinner, and I didn’t relish driving in the dark toward them after eating somewhere closer.

I took the Augusta exit and found a nondescript motel that advertised ESPN on cable. The proprietor, a gruff gent in a green and black lumberjack’s shirt, allowed as how the Kentucky Fried Chicken might be my best bet for dinner. I thanked him, paid in advance for my room, and walked by the ice machine to get to it. Plastic paneling, two double beds, a bathroom with just a shower and a washbasin, no tub and no vanity. However, the TV worked, ESPN coming in loud and clear and promising a baseball doubleheader, the second game at ten-thirty from the West Coast. I showered, put on some casual clothes from the suitcase, and went back out to the Prelude.

It was just getting dark, and I considered stopping in a bar first for some reliable relaxant. I drove past several in downtown along the river and one on the strip with my motel. None seemed inviting, and there were at least three vehicles outside each that looked enough like the high-wheeled pickup Owen Briss drove that I wasn’t dead sure none of them was his. I thought back to the advice about not doing something stupid, and I couldn’t remember whether Nancy or Beth had been the source. That did it.

I found a state liquor store in a shopping center and paid seven bucks for a pint of vodka. There was a payphone in sight, so I went over to it and called Nancy. I told her I’d arrived safely and about my plans for the night without asking if she’d inspired them. Then I found a gas station cum convenience store and bought a half gallon of orange juice, a bag of potato chips, and a box of pretzel logs. I stopped at the Colonel’s for a bucket of chicken parts, some original recipe, the rest extra crispy.

Driving sedately back to my motel, I put the vodka and the orange juice in the bathroom sink. Then I covered both bottles with ice from the machine outside my door. I tuned in the television, settled into bed, and watched a long inning of baseball over dinner and drinks. I had one screwdriver every inning thereafter until I noticed that the chips and pretzels were gone and that I wasn’t sure which team was ahead. That’s when I turned off the set, turned out the lights, and turned in for the night, missing the late game with little regret.