Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn (9 page)

A
n apartment was never lonely with a hot pizza, cold beer, and a lovely companion. The rain continued to patter against my bow window over Marlborough as Susan took the pizza box from my hands. I’d stopped by Pizzeria Regina in the North End on my way home. Pearl tracked the pepperoni while Susan walked to the kitchen counter.

“Hots only on my half,” I said.

“The ruin of a perfectly good pizza.”

“Have you ever even tried the hots?”

“And never will,” she said. “I’ve never tried anchovies, either.”

“And to think your people eat cold salmon for breakfast.”

Susan shrugged and set out two plates from my good china. Actually, it was my only china.

“A captain in the Arson unit finally agreed to meet with me
today,” I said. “He showed me a security video of someone, or something, leaving the scene of the fire.”

“What exactly did you see?”

“A very-fast-moving shadow,” I said. “I think it was a man. But that’s about all I know.”

“There were three fires over the weekend,” Susan said. “Several families lost everything. The ones I saw on the news were Vietnamese and didn’t speak English. Do they think it’s the same person?”

“Arson admitted they had a problem,” I said. “But when I tried to link the church fire and the recent spate, my persistence annoyed him.”

“You do have a gift.”

“Of persistence?”

“Of annoyance.”

“Ah.”

I walked to the refrigerator and fetched a cold Lagunitas. I cracked open the top and sat back at the table. Susan crossed her long, shapely legs and worked on the pizza. She had on her after-work lounging-around clothes: a soft, thin V-neck T-shirt that cost more than my shoes and khaki shorts. I appreciated the muscularity of her legs as she walked over to the couch.

“So what can you do now?” Susan said. “Hang the bad guys by their ankles?”

“Always effective,” I said. “Or find a snitch who needs a favor.”

“Why you were at Walpole.”

“And it’s such a lovely drive,” I said.

I smiled and reached for more pizza. The hots really added
the proper punch to the pie. Susan Silverman had great taste in many things, but not in pizza toppings.

“Well, did your snitch do some snitching?” she said.

“I have something,” I said. “A name.”

“Anyone we know?”

“I hope not,” I said. “This guy is a paid killer.”

“What else do you know about him?”

“That in his spare time from committing murder, he enjoys setting fires,” I said. “My snitch referred to him as a ‘yellow prick.’”

“Illustrative.”

“Coming from this guy, it was a compliment.”

From my bow window, I had a decent view of the Public Garden and people walking in the rain. I broke a piece of crust from my pizza and tossed it to Pearl. She caught it in midair.

“Do you think this upstanding individual will speak to you?”

“Not a chance.”

“Do you think you’ll observe him in the commission of lighting a fire?”

“Nope.”

“So what’s the plan?” Susan said.

“When in doubt, bug the crap out of someone until they trip up,” I said. “Spenser’s investigation technique number eleven.”

Susan nodded. “Maybe you should write a textbook?” she said.

“I thought about it,” I said. “But I don’t want to give up my trade secrets so easily.”

“You’ve given them up to Z,” she said.

“That’s different,” I said. I worked on the back half of the pizza slice. “He’s my apprentice.”

“Or is he Hawk’s?”

“Aha,” I said. “Yet to be determined.”

“Have you ever considered the fact that Sixkill may be both?” Susan said. “Taking parts of each of you that will be helpful.”

“That’s worrisome.”

“For whom?”

I thought as I chewed. I drank some beer and swallowed. “Most of the West Coast.”

Susan sighed while I reached for a second slice. “I don’t think it’s stopped raining all day.”

“Nope,” I said.

“Good night to stay in.”

I smiled. “If only we could think of something to do.”

K
ing’s Auto Repair was on Route 1-A, a stone’s throw from the Chelsea Bridge. It was in a neighborhood of breathtaking real estate, if you liked jumbo oil tanks and car impound lots. At daybreak, I parked across the street at a twenty-four-hour gym. I’d brought a couple corn muffins and coffee. I made slow work of both for the next three hours as I watched Tyler and his old man move cars from an overflow lot into four bay doors.

I assumed it was his old man. He had long gray hair and was stoop-shouldered, and was wearing blue coveralls.

Tyler didn’t wear a uniform, only baggy jeans and a dirty white T-shirt. He had on a green, flat-crowned Sox cap over his greasy hair. He was rangy, with a pockmarked face and a tattoo of some sort on the back of his neck. Even with the Canon zoom, it was hard to tell what the tattoo said. Perhaps it was a
smiley face reading
HAVE A NICE DAY
. Or
GIVE PEACE A CHANCE
.

At noon, I drove down 1-A toward Revere, parked along the beach, and did a hundred push-ups and sit-ups. After I got my blood flowing, I doubled back and parked one block from King’s at a convenience store. I sat there for another three hours. I listened to Ella Fitzgerald sing her way through the Johnny Mercer songbook, checked messages, and watched Tyler and his dear old dad change tires.

At one point, I mentally cataloged the great fighters from Massachusetts. I started with Marvin Hagler, Rocky Marciano, and worked my way back in time to John L. Sullivan. I had not forgotten Willie Pep. If I’d started with the best, I might’ve started with Pep.

At almost four, Tyler King got in a black Toyota Celica, wheeled out on 1-A, and U-turned south. I started the Explorer and followed. He veered off onto Bremen Street, past several triple-deckers with billboards on their roofs, gas stations, and more garages, and stopped off at a white-brick building surrounded by concertina wire. Planes buzzed the neighborhood, shaking my windows. A sign read
PAUL’S AIRPORT PARKING
.

It didn’t appear as though anyone but Paul had used it since the mid-1970s. Tall weeds grew from many cracks. After about five minutes, King got back into his car and headed south, rejoining 1-A.

Before we hit the tollbooth to the Sumner Tunnel, I spotted a black SUV make an inelegant turn off Porter Street and duck in two cars behind me. I kept the car in my rearview as we dipped into the tunnel. Tyler sped ahead as I hung back,
keeping the SUV in my rearview mirror. I dallied a bit and the SUV made no attempt to pass. Halfway through the tunnel, the driver was only a few car lengths back.

At the tunnel exit, traffic slowed and I caught up with Tyler and the Celica by Haymarket Station. He turned left onto Congress and again onto North Street, where he drove up into a parking garage near Faneuil Hall. I kept on driving into the North End. The black SUV followed.

I picked up my phone and called the Harbor Health Club. Within two minutes, I doubled back onto Hanover and was on the phone with Hawk. I rattled off a few details.

I was back on Union and then back on North, passing the parking deck where Tyler had disappeared. At Blackstone Street, the Greenway Market was in full force. I parked along the street and joined a jumble of shoppers carrying seafood and local produce. The stalls were filled with bins of fish and oysters on ice, spinach, and carrots.

As I checked on the price of haddock, I noted two thick-necked men tailing me. Bunches of asparagus were two for five bucks. The red peppers were huge and smelled the way peppers should smell. There were onions and zucchini and more
fruits de mer
.

Under a white tent, I stopped to ask about today’s scallops. The men kept walking my way.

On the Greenway, a carousel turned to calliope music. The two men approached me. They tried to act like they were shopping, but they were as unobtrusive as a couple of linebackers at a Céline Dion concert.

One of the men was built like a Bulgarian powerlifter. He
had an abnormally thick bald head and a closely trimmed black beard. He wore a navy pin-striped suit with a light blue silk shirt. The suit had to be tailored because off-the-rack would have been impossible. The other wore jeans and a white T-shirt with a mustache-goatee combo and two earrings in his left ear.

He had mean, sleepy eyes and wore a long black jacket on this particularly hot day. He looked at the powerlifter and nodded.

T
hey braced me as I attempted to turn down Blackstone.

“Forget about King,” Mean Eyes said. He spoke through gritted teeth. “Or we’ll fuck you up bad.”

I turned to him. “Is it possible to get fucked up good?”

I noted the powerlifter’s head was the exact same size as some of the round watermelons at the market. Although he looked like he could bench-press a Mercedes, his communication skills were lacking. He grunted an affirmation.

The carousel turned. Children played. The calliope piped.

I preferred not to make a scene in public. But now that Tyler King was on to me, I thought we might have a chat. The two men blocked the way back to the parking garage.

“How is it, working for Jackie?” I said. “Does he provide dental?”

The guy with mean, sleepy eyes smiled. Many teeth were yellow. The others were gold.

“Guess not.”

“Buzz off.”

“I’m sure Killer Kowalski can try to clean and jerk me over to the Navy Yard,” I said. “But here isn’t the place.”

Mean Eyes stepped to me and grabbed my arm. I punched him right in his bad dental work, causing his head to snap back, and he faltered a bit. Killer Kowalski stepped forward and wrapped my body in a bear hug. His strength was substantial. A short Hispanic man ran in front of his scallops and oysters in an effort to protect them.

Shoppers stepped back as Mean Eyes charged me. I leaned in to Kowalski and kicked Mean Eyes onto his backside. Kowalski hugged tighter, and it became difficult to breathe.

I rocked my head back into his face several times. His grip loosened and I slipped free. Mean Eyes reached into his coat and I kicked him in the stomach, scattering his gun across the sidewalk. A pile of aluminum tubes lay in a neat pile by the tent. I picked one up and held it like Big Papi, moving toward Killer Kowalski. The wittiest thing I could think of was “Okay, let’s go.”

He smiled and stepped forward. I swung and hit him in the neck. I swung again and connected with his head. The tube made a hollow musical sound as it connected with bone. Killer was unfazed. He had dark skin and black eyes. With the tailored suit and big gold watch, he had the appearance of a pro athlete. His muscles swelled in the tailored suit.

I stepped forward, fist raised.

To my amazement, he did the same, and we began to circle each other like a couple of stray dogs.

People were screaming now. Someone was yelling for the cops. Blood rushed into my ears and my vision narrowed. My body felt light and loose and I wanted to hit the man again and again. Mean Eyes jumped on my back and I turned backward and ran him into the big table of shellfish. The table broke; ice and shellfish scattered. The Hispanic owner yelled that he was calling the cops, too.

I got back on my feet.

People in the market scattered as we fought. I searched for the aluminum pole but could not find it. I tasted blood in my mouth as I stepped forward. He was a few inches taller than me and about the girth of an American brown bear. If I got close to his body, he’d get me to the ground. Never let a bear get the upper hand.

I stepped forward, throwing a right, and he ducked it. He came up with a right and connected. I saw stars popping and stepped back. My breathing was very good. My newly reconstructed knee worked great. He was no more to me than just a thick heavy bag. I stepped in with a combination on his body. My blows were fast and hard but seemed to show no effect on him. He countered with a barrage that brought tears to my eyes.

I stepped back, fists raised. I threw a right and a hook. The hook connected. He nodded in appreciation. His eye began to bleed. The man almost seemed to enjoy it.

It was only us. Wind rushed down Blackstone Street, fluttering the tents. I heard sirens way off. I landed a hard right. He landed two quick jabs in my ribs. They hurt a great deal.

Just as it was about to get interesting, Mean Eyes stepped in with a gun. Killer tried to wave him off. The man wanted more.

Hawk entered the alley. Both men looked to him. And then at each other. They turned, but not before Killer wiped the blood from his busted eye and nodded. I attempted to catch my breath as they turned and walked away with purpose.

“Who the hell was that?” I said.

“New blood,” Hawk said.

There were sirens coming close. The Hispanic man was calling me unpleasant names in Spanish. Hawk grabbed my elbow and turned me away from the market and out of the alley.

M
y hand was in a bucket of ice.

Tyler King was seated in a chair before me. I’d already assaulted two men in a very public place. Why not add kidnapping to the mix? Z had insisted Tyler join us after he’d made a drop of some kind at the Quincy Market. Z had a small bruise under one eye. King had several more. Hawk leaned against a concrete wall and waited by a metal door.

We were in a storage cellar around the corner from a bar where Z worked as a bouncer. Z wore jeans, work boots, and a black T-shirt with the sleeves cut out. It read
ROCKY BOY, MONTANA ALL-STARS
.

“Go fuck yourself,” Tyler said.

“Witty,” Hawk said.

“Who the hell are you?”

Hawk didn’t move. He stood in the shadow with shades on. “Hawk,” he said.

Tyler swallowed. He had dirty hands, grease under his stubby fingernails. He wore a green Sox cap like they pass out free on St. Paddy’s Day. I stepped in closer and got a good look at his neck tattoo. Mickey Mouse extending his middle finger.

“What the hell?” he said. “Why’re you busting my nuts? What’d I ever do to you?”

“We work for Disney,” I said. “I know a lawyer there. Did you realize you’re guilty of copyright infringement?”

I turned to Hawk. He started to whistle “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah.”

“Song of the South.”

“Yes, suh,” Hawk said.

Z smiled. Hawk and I had perfected our act long ago. We were the Martin and Lewis of beating the crap out of people. My hand hurt. My ribs hurt. Jackie DeMarco had definitely traded up in his hired help.

“Who sent you?” Tyler said. “Christ. You can’t stick a fucking gun in a guy’s back and knock him around until he talks. This ain’t some Arab country. Shit. We got rights here.”

“Sure,” I said. “But how about a little talk. Or else my associates here might take you out on a deep-sea fishing trip and use you as bait.”

“Bullshit,” Tyler said. “Hawk does shit for money. How much money do you want to let me go?”

Hawk shook his head. “This ain’t for pay.”

“How about you, Pancho Villa?” Tyler said, looking to Z. “I’ll give you a lot of pesos.”

“I’m full-blooded Cree,” Z said, muscular arms crossed over his chest. “We get paid in scalps.”

Tyler swallowed again and turned his eyes up to me. He looked at me and nodded and said, “What do you want?”

“I want to know why Jackie DeMarco had you burn that church in the South End.”

“What the fuck?” Tyler said. He began to laugh. “I got no freakin’ idea what you’re talking about. He didn’t burn a goddamn church.”

Hawk stepped up out of the shadows and into a slice of light. Tyler looked up into the light and blinked. I held up a hand for him to wait. Hawk took a step back. There was a single bulb in the room shining on many boxes of liquor. A wino’s dream.

“Jackie wanted to send a message,” I said, “after he started cutting into Gino Fish’s territory.”

Tyler narrowed his eyes and shook his head. “Who the fuck is a Gino Fish?”

I shook my head at his lack of understanding of local history. My hand rattled around in the ice. I pulled it out and examined it. My knuckles were fat and getting fatter. I stuck it back in the bucket. My ribs ached with each breath. I figured a couple might’ve been cracked.

“I can hit him,” Z said. “I’d like to hit him again.”

Tyler winced and turned his head. Z grinned, standing tall and still.

“Why’d you have me followed?” I said.

Tyler jacked his head up at me. He stared at me and yelled, “I got no fucking idea what you’re talking about.”

“Two guys,” I said. “Black SUV picked me up before we went into the tunnel. You called ahead after you got tipped I was coming.”

Tyler snored. “Nobody tipped nobody.”

“Double negative,” Hawk said. “A terrible reflection of today’s education system.”

I held up my swelling hand and said, “We met,” I said. “They told me. One of them looked like he just escaped a traveling circus.”

“So fucking what?” Tyler said. He smiled, pleased that his connection to DeMarco was now public knowledge.

Z looked to Hawk. Hawk stayed by the door. Outside, you could hear the late-afternoon bustle around Faneuil Hall and the market. People yelling and hooting. Ready to party on a Friday night. Two-for-one cocktails. Guinness on tap. Jell-O shooters for everyone.

“Go ahead and scream,” Z said. “Nobody gives a shit.”

I looked to Z and nodded. Z walked up to Tyler King and snatched up a good bit of his shirt. Z pulled back his arm, which when coiled resembled Secretariat’s hind leg.

“They were with me,” Tyler said. “But nobody tipped me. I saw you over at the Muscle Factory and then over at the packie. You got a blue Explorer. I know fucking cars. It’s my goddamn job.”

“Nope,” I said. “You got tipped. You were waiting for me.”

“Believe what you want.”

“All we want to know is about the fire,” I said. “I know what you do for Jackie. And I know why you burned the church. You lit it in the cellar in two places and then hauled ass in that alley.
I saw you on surveillance tape. You can either talk to me about it. Or I’d be more than fine calling the police.”

“Call ’em,” Tyler said. “And I’ll sue the fucking Mex for assault and kidnapping.”

“Cree,” Z said. And then he punched him once but very effectively in the face.

“I don’t know nothing about no fucking church fire,” Tyler said. He spit out some blood. “Mr. DeMarco wouldn’t ever touch a church. Are you nuts? He goes to Mass every Sunday with his wife and kids. That’s some crazy bad luck.”

“It wasn’t going to be a church anymore,” I said. “The archdiocese had sold it. It was sold to a man named Herbie Wu.”

“Am I not speaking English?” Tyler said. “I got no fucking idea. How many ways can I say it?”

“Then tell DeMarco I want to talk,” I said. “You set the fire. But he called it.”

“Jesus Christ, man,” Tyler said. “You can beat the crap out of me. Toss me in the ocean. Do what you want. But that doesn’t change that we didn’t burn no fucking church. Now either let’s get down to the beatin’ or let me fucking go.”

No one spoke for a good thirty seconds. My hand swelled with each breath. The storage room was small and tight. I felt empty and hollow after the adrenaline surge of the fight. I looked down to Tyler and his small, hard eyes.

“Let him go.”

Z didn’t seem pleased. But Hawk held open the door. Light poured into the dark room and Tyler stumbled to his feet.

“Jackie won’t like this,” Tyler said. “Jackie ain’t gonna forget this one goddamn bit.”

After he left, Hawk closed the door. We gathered like bugs under the single warehouse light. Hawk shook his head. “Mmm.”

“You believe him,” I said. “Don’t you?”

Hawk nodded.

I looked up to Z. He shrugged in agreement. “Now what?”

“Wait for the best-laid plans to unravel.”

“Or Jackie DeMarco to shoot your ass,” Hawk said.

“Yes,” I said. “Or that.”