Shotgun Lullaby (A Conway Sax Mystery) (9 page)

“Biletnikov came in as a white knight. Handpicked a new CEO, made sure the board pulled my stock options and threw me out on my ass. For his trouble, he helped Thunder Junction to eighty percent of the company.”

“You seem like a man who knows how to fight dirty,” I said. “Think about any tricks? Maybe the media play? The race card?”

“Peter ain't stupid. He made a preemptive strike there. Went to a
Globe
business columnist he knows, put his own spin on things. Said he'd invested in
me
. In my dreams. Sure, he should've checked my background better, but I'd told him a moving story.”

“So he was the hero who invested in the black community. You were the con man who let him down.”

I tore open a Wet-Nap. Donald picked his teeth.

I said, “I hope you at least squeezed some severance out of them.”

“Chump change, bus fare, an insult. Pissed me off. Professionally, I admired Biletnikov's moves.” He did a perfect English accent: “Well played, old chap.”

I smiled.

“But throw me a few bucks,” Donald said in his own voice. “Send me back home with a smile on my face.”

He leaned toward me. As he spoke, he tapped the table hard enough to make ribs jump. “Biletnikov tried to
crush
me,
destroy
me,
humiliate
me. He made a mistake there, boy.”

“Okay, so you want to take down Biletnikov, hurt him, get back a piece of what's yours. But why now? And what's the Rinn connection?”

“Recent events done painted a bull's-eye on Peter Biletnikov's back,” Donald said. “I'm here to squeeze him the way he squeezed me. It's professional, but if I get a little pleasure from a job well done, we'll call that a bonus.”

“Recent events,” I said. “Tell me more.”

He smiled and said nothing.

“This got anything to do with Gus Biletnikov, addict?” I got fired up as I said it, felt like I was headed in the right direction, pressed harder. “Were you leaning on uptight Peter Biletnikov over the fact his kid was a dealer who landed in a halfway house?”

“That all you know about the Biletnikovs? That your big secret stash of dirt? Man, you don't know shit.”

I sighed. “Then frigging educate me, Donald.”

With a con man's timing, he made me wait while he tucked the toothpick back in his pocket, folded his arms, looked both ways. “Emma,” he finally said. “Rinn's baby girl.”

“Yeah?”

“Who's her daddy?”

“Aha.”

“Bet your sweet ass aha.”

*   *   *

We split up not long after that. Donald Crump, having eaten everything on his plate and half of what was on mine, somehow climbed into his pearl-white Escalade without a stepladder. He fired it up, lowered his window. “It may sound funny,” he said, “but I come to get my money back.”

“I believe you will.”

He looked at me maybe ten seconds. “You a serious man, Sax.”

I said nothing.

“‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend.' Ever heard that one?”

“No.”

“Think on it,” Crump said, and backed out and drove away.

I got myself pointed at the shop and listened to messages as I drove. One of those messages—from Floriano—turned out to be lucky. He'd found an auto-parts place down in Medfield that had in stock an oddball part we usually have to order: a fender liner for a Mazda3. Could I swing down there and pick it up?

I guessed I could. Slammed a quick right into a menswear store lot to turn around.

That was the lucky part.

Because that was when I spotted the Impala tailing me.

 

CHAPTER TEN

It was silver. The driver called attention to himself by squalling into the lot so sharply that his bumper cover graunched as it bottomed out.

I didn't put it together just then, though. Dumb drivers aren't a rarity in Massachusetts. Just took a quick look in my mirror, shook my head at the dimwit, spun around, and headed for Medfield.

But a few miles later, a glance in the mirror told me the Impala was still there.

Huh.

I slowed, used the mirror some more. There were at least two people in the car. Guys.

I tried saying “I've picked up a tail” out loud. Felt paranoid, ridiculous.

But just for the hell of it, I pulled into a Mobil and gassed up, even though I had a half tank left.

The Impala did not drive past.

When I got back on the road, the silver car floated out of a strip-mall lot. Confirmed: two guys inside. Big guys.

Click.

Teddy Pundo.

Holy shit.

First thought: I'd been right about Almost Home. Gus was the target all along. It was impossible now to see it any other way. By steaming into the Hi Hat, Randall and I had stirred up something serious.

Second thought: thanks to the stirring, Gus was in deeper trouble than ever. And I was in pretty deep myself.

I mirror-drove, ID'd the passenger as Charlie Pundo's muscle, the ex-boxer-looking dude who walked around with a Desert Eagle shoved in his pants.

I didn't like it one bit, especially now that we were moving south on Route 27 through high-end exurb. There was mucho dead space along this road. All Teddy Pundo needed was a little luck with traffic.

I thought. I planned.

I made my move.

First, I hightailed it to a busier road, looping clockwise back toward Framingham. Toward my shop.

Five minutes later, pointed more or less north, I called Floriano. “You know that F-350 out back?” I said when he picked up.

“The junker?”

“Yeah. Think you can get that truck started? In a hurry?”

“It's a Ford diesel, Connie. It start fine when you and me both dead.”

I told Floriano what I wanted him to do. When I said I'd picked up a tail, he laughed out loud.

But he never hesitated.

“I see you there in fifteen minutes, Magnum P.I.”

Good old Floriano.

I grabbed another right onto Route 126. Now I was headed straight for the shop.

The Impala had grown more aggressive. Fat Teddy knew I'd made him—my guess was the ex-boxer had told him so—and Teddy didn't give a shit. Teddy was coming.

That was good.

He slipped over the double-yellow line and passed a minivan. Now he was riding my bumper. The ex-boxer was looking at Teddy, maybe giving him an earful. But Fat Teddy was stupid or stubborn or both.

That was good, too.

I slowed, giving Floriano time.

Now we were two miles south of downtown Framingham. Two- and three-family houses to my right. To my left: scrub forest running down to a lake.

We cleared a gentle curve.

Up ahead was the small parking lot of an out-of-business dry cleaner. In the lot sat the rust-brown Ford F-350, its neglected diesel engine pumping exhaust smoke like a crop duster. I knew why: Floriano was doing a brake stand. Had his left foot hard on the brake, his right foot deep in the throttle. It was the only way to build enough revs to make the diesel accelerate.

When Floriano saw me, he snapped his foot from the brake. The truck took off harder than I thought it could. It bounced from the parking lot and shot past my door, two and a half tons of iron moving arrow-straight. Floriano never second-guessed, never lifted. Was probably going thirty, and still pulling hard, when he hit the front corner of the Impala—which was going thirty-five.

The sound was like a plane crash.

I braked, looked in the mirror. The Impala's nose was swayed. Its hood had buckled. Its radiator spewed steam.

Teddy and his passenger were on queer street. They sat motionless with unfocused eyes, bloody noses, white air-bag powder covering their faces. The pair of them looked like the final shot in a Laurel and Hardy scene.

I may have smiled.

The F-350 idled, half-buried in the corner of the Impala. Floriano hopped out, trotted over, climbed in my truck. We were rolling before the first looky-loo dialed 911.

I said, “You okay?”

He rubbed his neck. “
Mi pescoço.
Killing me. Get us the hell out of here, Magnum P.I.”

*   *   *

“We need a name for this dude,” Randall said, tearing off a chunk of bagel, when I wrapped my story. “We need to call him something.”

“Who?” I said. “The ex-boxer-looking guy?”

“Bingo. I christen him Boxer.”

“Suit yourself.” I sipped.

We were in a Dunkin' Donuts that sat next to a Red Roof Inn and fifty yards from a Mass Pike on-ramp. Randall had chosen the meeting site. I wanted his help puzzling everything through. Truth be told, though, I wasn't getting his best effort. From the way he kept looking at his watch, he seemed all fired up to hop on the pike and go somewhere.

“So our sniffing around Springfield has smoked out Teddy Pundo,” Randall said. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“Both. Good because it gives us a solid target. Bad because Fat Teddy doesn't seem too bright, and he might make a panicky move on Gus.”

“Whom you've warned, I assume?”

I nodded. “Told him to lay low. He ought to be safe in that apartment.”

We sipped.

“What I'm wondering about Teddy,” I said, “is what he had in mind before Floriano totaled him. Why follow me?”

“Maybe he thought you'd lead him to Gus.”

“And I might have, if he hadn't been the world's worst tail artist.”

“He probably thought he could scare you off with a burst of dese-dem-dose talk,” Randall said. “Remember, Fat Teddy is gangster born and gangster bred. Those guys get most of what they want just by scaring the whiz out of people.”

“No argument,” I said. “But the shooter … Boxer, I guess we're calling him now … that's a serious dude. You don't need that dude along just to scare somebody.”

“So you think Fat Teddy had something heavier in mind?”

“Yeah, but that's not the interesting part.”

He looked the question at me.

“Here's the interesting part,” I said. “In Springfield, Boxer vibed as
Charlie
Pundo's man all the way. Top lieutenant, personal security, that kind of thing.”

“And?”

“And we know Charlie's ripshit at Teddy for dealing. That was obvious from the way he called him on the carpet yesterday.”

Randall nodded, getting it. “Boxer's loyalty is to Charlie. Consigliere, faithful servant, and advisor.”

“And if he's like most guys in that position, he thinks the boss's kid is a complete pud.”

“Especially if the kid
is
a complete pud.”

“Especially then, yeah.”

“I'll buy it. But where does it take us?”

“Boxer could be end-running the boss by serving as Teddy's muscle,” I said. “More likely, though, Charlie put him on babysitting duty. ‘Keep an eye on Teddy, make sure he doesn't get hurt.'”

“And if that's the case, Boxer the hard-core pro is holding his nose while following orders.”

“And not happy about it. At all.”

He finger-drummed the table. “So if you want to learn more about Pundos
père et fils
, Boxer may be your pry bar.”

“Pry bar,” I said, “or shooter.”

“You're thinking a man as comfortable with a Desert Eagle as Boxer is a man who could walk into a halfway house with a shotgun.”

“Couldn't he?”

“At whose behest, though? Charlie's, to protect Teddy? Or Teddy's, to establish a tough-as-nails reputation?”

“Good question.”

“So tell the state cop, what's his name. Lima. You said he's meeting you here, right?”

“He is. Any minute now. And maybe I will.”

“Or maybe you won't. Maybe you'll keep after the Pundos on your own.”

I said nothing.

Randall sighed and stood.

I sipped coffee and looked him in the eye. “Behest,” I said.

He smiled some and left.

 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Lima parked his unmarked Crown Vic, gray, three minutes later. Entered Dunkin' Donuts, nodded at me, flirted in Portuguese with the gal at the counter, came over with a small black and a muffin.

We sipped coffee. Lima peeled the wrapper from his muffin. His thumbnail was longer than I would've guessed. Shiny, too. A state cop with plastic braces and a manicure. Go figure.

He said, “Thanks for meeting.”

“I was here anyway.”

“With Luther Swale's kid. What's his name again?”

“Randall.” Man, this Lima didn't miss much. Must've passed Randall in the parking lot.

“Randall. That's right. War hero.” He blew on his coffee. “That's a nice place you found for Gus Biletnikov. Shitty neighborhood, but a nice place. I had a hard time communicating with the Vietnamese lady downstairs, but I guess she's a friend of yours?”

I said nothing.

“What's Biletnikov to you, Sax?”

“Sponsee.”

“Is that even a word?”

I shrugged. “In AA it is.”

“Spare me the AA. What's Biletnikov to you?”

“He needed a place.”

“Why
that
place, though? It's almost like you stashed him away.”

But you found him,
I thought.
That's impressive
. I said, “Whoever lit up Almost Home likely went there to kill Gus.”

“Says who?”

“I checked. Nobody'd want to kill Weller.”

“Maybe so, Eliot Goddamn Ness. Then the question is, why would anybody want to kill Gus Biletnikov, lightweight druggie?”

I shrugged. “You got me. I'm just watching out for him.”

“Why?”

I wiped a clump of sugar from my Styrofoam rim. Lima was trying to push me in a direction, and I was damned if I could figure out what it was.
So keep tap-dancing
. “Because the Barnburners asked me to.”