Jackpot (Frank Renzi mystery series) (11 page)

_____

Frank finished his chicken marsala dinner and signaled the waitress for another beer, his third. He’d considered eating at Doyle’s in Jamaica Plain, but too many cops hung out there. He didn’t want to run into anyone he knew. Besides, Nanina’s in Dorchester served great Italian food.

The waitress brought him another Heineken draft and removed his plate. He was the lone person at the bar, a Formica-topped slab opposite the entrance with six barstools. Customers sat here to wait for take-out orders or a table in the dining room, but no one was waiting now. It was almost eleven.

He glanced at the TV in the corner above the bar. Golf. Boring.

He wished he could talk to Gina, but Ryan might be home. Last night he and Gina had met at a restaurant ten miles north of Boston, both of them down in the dumps but putting on a cheerful front, avoiding serious topics, like where he’d live after he moved out of his house on Sunday.

Two days from now.

Maybe he’d call Jack Warner. Jack worked homicide, too. Jack would probably put him up in his spare bedroom. But then he’d have to explain why Evelyn threw him out. Jack had been utterly devoted to his wife of thirty years until she died last year. He wouldn’t understand.

But Rafe would, and Rafe owned a three decker. Maybe he’d call Rafe and ask if he had a vacant apartment.
Yo, Rafe, can you spare a bed for a philandering husband thrown out by his ultra-Catholic wife?

Imagining Rafe’s cackling laugh and his wise-ass reply:
Best not to get caught if you screw around
.

But he didn’t feel like talking to Rafe either, didn’t feel like explaining the crap he’d put up with for twenty years. When it came right down to it, he was a loner at heart. That’s what his mother had said right before she died. “Frank, you’re a loner like your father.”

His father. What would Judge Salvatore Renzi say when he found out Evelyn had filed for divorce? Nothing good, that’s for sure. A flame of embarrassment shot up his neck onto his cheeks.

What would he say? How could he explain? Tension gripped his gut in a vise, a tight sensation that wouldn’t quit, a constant companion since Evelyn dropped the divorce bomb.

His father, an appellate court judge, had deep-rooted beliefs about marriage. Judge Salvatore Renzi believed that marriage was for life, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, till death us do part.

At the divorce hearing, Evelyn’s lawyer would say Frank was having an affair. How would he explain
that
to his father? He slugged down half of his beer, unable to imagine it, much less figure out what he’d say.

A news jingle sounded on the television set and the vivid graphics of a newscast flashed on the screen. The lead story involved a hit and run in Cambridge. The second story gave him chills. Wednesday night’s Megabucks drawing had produced one winner. The prize? Twelve million dollars.

Did the Jackpot Killer know, Frank wondered. If not, he soon would.

A prize that big would spawn a feeding frenzy, flashbulbs and cameras galore, every reporter in town sticking a microphone in the winner’s face, asking what they planned to do with the money.

He drained his beer and set the mug on the bar. He hoped the winner wasn’t an elderly woman that lived alone.

If it was, she might never get to enjoy her winnings.

Sunday, May 7

When Frank pulled up to the basketball court at 11:00, Jamal was already there, even gave him a smile. Now it was almost noon, the kid still racing around the court. He watched him dribble toward the hoop, a fierce look of concentration on his face. He did a little stutter-step, took a shot with his left hand and missed.

Frank tried to remember if he’d had that much energy when he was ten. He should be home packing, but he couldn’t face it. Shooting hoop with Jamal was more fun. His house was no palace but it was home, comfortable and familiar. Tonight he had to move out.

When Jamal tossed him the ball, he said, “You’re wearing me out, Jamal. Let’s take a break. Where do you get all your energy?”

The kid shrugged and followed him to the cement slab on the sideline.

“You got big hands. Put it there.” He held up his right hand like he was going to do a high-five.

Jamal set his palm against his, the boy’s dark skin a stark contrast to his olive skin. “Your hand’s not as big as mine, but you got long fingers. That’s great for playing basketball. What hand do you write with?”

“My right hand. Sometimes.”

“And other times?”

“With my left.”

“Far out. You’re ambidextrous.” Jamal gave him a blank stare, so he said, “That’s when you can use either hand to do things.”

“My teacher don’t like it, though. She makes me use my right hand to write with.”

“Okay. But basketball’s different. Being able to shoot with both hands is an asset. You took a shot with your left and missed, but that’s okay. Keep practicing. You’ll get better.”

Jamal picked up the ball and bounced it with his left hand, ready to go play some more.

“And study hard at school. You know why?”

“So I learn stuff.”

“Right. You’re smart but you need to learn how to take tests so you can get into college. Some college scout sees you play on your high school team, pass and shoot with both hands, you might get a scholarship.”

Jamal stopped bouncing the ball, all attention now.

“To play pro ball, you gotta go to college. You’re not Kevin Garnett you know, big guy with big hands and great defensive skills, gets drafted right out of high school.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Gotta go to college like . . . ?” Waiting for him to say, Magic Johnson.

“Like Shaq.” The kid surprising him again.

Frank wondered who put him onto Shaq. His cousin Tyreke? Maybe not. Jamal probably listened to Shaq’s rap music albums, might even have seen him in
Kazaam.
When the movie came out in 1996, the critics panned it, but back then Jamal was six years old. See Shaq up there on the big screen? Instant adoration.

He rose from the cement slab. “You hungry? Want to go get a burger?”

“Yeah, but . . .” Jamal scuffled his sneaker in the dirt.

“But what?”

“My gramma said I hadda be home by 12:30 so I can get cleaned up. We going to her mama’s house for dinner.”

“Okay. I don’t want to make you and Gramma late for dinner. What’s her mama’s name?” Plot out the family tree, maybe he’d locate Tyreke in another branch of the family.

“Gramma Robinson.”

“We better get going then. Want to stop for a shake so you can drink it on the way?” Bribing the kid now, Jamal skipping along beside him, bouncing the ball left-handed.

He stopped at Friendly’s, bought a chocolate shake for Jamal, a black coffee for himself, and got back in the car. He caught a red light at the corner of Melnea Cass Boulevard and Mass Ave, a major choke-point on weekdays, not bad on a Sunday. He glanced at Jamal, happily drinking his milkshake.

His cell rang. He checked the ID. Maureen. This could be bad news.

He punched on and said, “Hi, that you, Mo?”

“Yes, and I’m very upset.”

Worse than bad. The light changed and he swung left onto Mass Ave.

“I talked to Mom and she said you’re getting a divorce!”

“Let me call you back. I’m in traffic right now.”
And a ten-year-old kid is listening to every word I say.

“She said you’ve got a girlfriend. Is that true?”

“Mo, I know you’re upset, but I can’t talk while I’m in traffic. Let me call you back.”

“Okay, fine.” His daughter ended the call.

He glanced at Jamal, drinking his chocolate shake, not looking at him.

How did his life get so complicated? Problems swarming at him like angry hornets.

_____

Vicky curled up on the loveseat in her living room with a chocolate donut and the
Boston Phoenix
. An article about Nigel in the Arts Section had a picture of him conducting a Pops rehearsal. Nigel would be pleased. Ten minutes ago he’d called from the airport to say he’d be here soon. Absorbed in the article, she nibbled on the donut. The telephone on the end table rang.

When she answered, her father’s voice boomed in her ear. But they’d barely begun to talk when her door buzzer sounded.

“Hold on a second, Dad. Someone’s at the door.”

She went to the kitchen, pressed a button on the intercom beside the door. “That you, Nigel?”

“Right-o, luv.”

She buzzed him in, opened the door and heard the downstairs door slam. By the time she got back to the phone, Nigel had entered the living room, smiling broadly. She motioned him to be quiet and picked up the telephone: “Gotta go, Dad. I’ve got company. I’ll call you back later.” To his inevitable question, she replied: “Just a friend.”

Nigel raised an eyebrow. “Problem with your father?”

“No, Dad calls me almost every Sunday. He’s my biggest fan.”

“Count your blessings. All mine ever did was tell me to practice more.”

“Sounds like my mother. She keeps telling me I should get married like my sister.”

“House in the suburbs and six kids?” Nigel said, giving her a bear hug.

“Wow! I guess you’re happy to see me.”

“You have no idea!” He gave her a long lingering kiss. “Missed you.”

“I missed you, too. How’d
Music Man
go?”

“Bloody awful! The lead singer couldn’t carry a tune in a steamer trunk. How was your week?”

“Great, actually. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

He perched on a stool at the breakfast bar and lit a cigarette. His eyes were bloodshot. He looked tired, she thought, but ever so sexy in his blue Oxford shirt. The sleeves were rolled up and ginger-brown hair curled over his forearms. “Hungry?” she said. “I’ve got leftover chicken.”

“No time, luv. Got to check into the hotel before I go to the hall. Could do with a coffee though.”

She poured two mugs of coffee, brought them to the breakfast bar and sat beside him.

“What’s
your
surprise?” Nigel said.

“I went condo shopping and found a gorgeous unit on Gainsboro Street near Symphony Hall. Actually I found two, but the other one had a major drawback.”

“What’s that?” He blew on his steaming coffee and took a careful sip.

“A woman got murdered there.”

“Bloody hell, you don’t say!” He put down the mug and stared at her.

“Back in the sixties the Boston Strangler was killing women all over town. One of them lived in the condo on Symphony Road. I don’t think I’d want to live there.”

“Can’t blame you for that. What’s the other one like?”

“It’s gorgeous, a big bay window in the living room, two bedrooms, an updated kitchen and a bathroom with a shower.” She sighed. “It’s expensive, though. I’m not sure I can afford it.”

Nigel started to laugh. She looked at him, puzzled. “What’s funny?”

“I’ve got a surprise for you, too.” He pulled a dog-eared
USA Today
out of his suit bag and set it on the counter. Then he took a lottery slip out of his wallet and set it beside the newspaper
.
“No need to fret about paying for a condo, Vicky. Our money worries are over. I hit the lottery! Check it out.”

She did. All six numbers matched. Her heart began to race.

“Nigel! Is this
real
?”

“Bloody hard to believe, isn’t it?”

“Wow! The Megabucks?”

“Twelve million dollars,” he said, his face wreathed in a huge smile.

“But I thought you weren’t gambling anymore. Nigel, you promised.”

“I only bought one ticket. What’s the harm? Now we’ve got plenty of money!”

She stared at him. “We?
You’ve
got plenty of money.”

He took her face in his hands and kissed her. “Us, Vicky. You and me. But I’ve got a favor to ask.” He puffed his cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke. “I need you to claim the prize. Then we’ll split it, fifty-fifty.”

“Me? No way! Face all those cameras and reporters? Why do you need me to do it?”

His expression changed, eyes serious, no more smile. “If I claim the prize, it will be all over the news. When Joanna finds out I won twelve million bucks, she’ll have her lawyer haul me into court and take me for every cent she can get. Lord only knows how much. And Hale will take a chunk, too.”

“Why should they? You’re not married to Joanna anymore, and Hale isn’t your relative, he’s your agent. It doesn’t seem fair. You’re the one who bought the winning ticket.”

“Might not be fair, but they’ll both want a big chunk of the money, no doubt about it. And then there’s the Pops gig. The publicity would be a bloody disaster, might kill my chances.”

She shook her head dubiously. “I don’t know, Nigel. This is crazy. I need to think about it.”

Crestfallen, he put out his cigarette. “I shouldn’t have brought it up before the concert. Got to keep our heads straight for the Gershwin. I’d best be going.” He put the ticket in his wallet.

“Wait. There’s a great article about you in the
Phoenix.
Don’t you want to see it?”

“Not now. After the concert. I’ve got
another
surprise for you.”

“Oh yeah?” She nuzzled his neck. “Is it a
big
surprise?”

He smiled broadly. “
Very
big.”

She laughed. “Wow. I can’t believe it, Nigel. Winning the Megabucks?”

“Our secret, luv. We’ll do a bang-up concert, champagne afterwards to celebrate and . . . you’ll see.”

_____

Frank finished packing his clothes in the large suitcase he used when he went on long trips. No telling how long
this
trip would be, maybe a week, maybe forever. He tossed in a few of his favorite CDs, zipped it shut and looked at the orange glow of the setting sun outside the bedroom window.

His bedroom, damn it. Hell if he knew where he’d sleep tonight, but it wouldn’t be here. Evelyn was downstairs, waiting for him to leave. Maybe he could talk her out of it. The other day he’d seen anger in her eyes, but pain and uncertainty, too. But he didn’t want to argue with her.

He cared for Evelyn, but he cared more about Gina. When he talked to Gina, he didn’t feel like rats were chewing his stomach.

He went to the closet, pulled a rolled-up sleeping bag off the top shelf and slung it over his shoulder. Worse came to worse he’d sleep on the floor of his office. He towed the suitcase to the stairs and muscled it down to the living room. Every lamp was on and the curtains were drawn. He shut off one lamp, heard Evelyn call from the kitchen, “Don’t turn off the lights, Frank. It’s getting dark.”

And after dark the scary bogeymen come out.

Seated at the kitchen table, she ignored him, pages of the
Boston Sunday Globe
Living Section spread over the table. When he dropped the sleeping bag on the floor, she looked up. “What’s that?”

“My sleeping bag. Maybe I’ll sleep under the Expressway with the rest of the homeless people.”

She said nothing, gazing at him, her eyes full of resentment. He knew that look.

Fueled by the head of steam he’d worked up while he was packing, he said, “I can’t afford an apartment. I’m paying the mortgage and the utility bills on this house, making payments on the car I bought for you.”

Evelyn shot him an angry look, got up and leaned against the counter, arms folded over her chest.

“Why did you tell Maureen I had a girlfriend?” he said, still devastated by the phone conversation they’d had after he dropped off Jamal. Maureen in tears, saying “How could you, Dad?” Breaking his heart.

“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?”

“You want truth? You’re the one who filed for divorce, Evelyn. There’s no need to go into the details with our daughter, telling her things she doesn’t need to know.”

“You should have thought about that before.”

“DON’T LECTURE ME!”