Robert B. Parker's Old Black Magic Read online

  “Twenty years is a long time,” I said. “Statutes of limitations run out. Parole board could be gracious to those who might offer assistance.”

  “Parole board, gracious to me?” he said. “Yeah, right. Last time we met, they wouldn’t even look me in the eye. Someone said ‘denied’ before my ass was even in the seat.”

  “Back when you ran with DeMarco’s crew,” I said, “you took care of the Top Hat lounge, among other businesses, for the Old Man.”

  “You heard wrong,” he said. “I run my own business. I don’t know no one named DeMarco. Who’s that?”

  “You help me, and I can help you,” I said. “What do you have to lose?”

  “I don’t know you,” he said. “I don’t know nothing about you. Guard said your name is Spenser.”

  I modestly explained my background. And the great work I’d done in the city of Boston.

  “Private cop?” he said. “Nope. No, thank you. A cop is a cop. All you guys get off on screwing guys just trying to make a living. Feed their damn kids. All I was doing was running a warehouse in Revere and got popped for someone else’s cargo. I’m safer behind these walls.”

  “We keep the wall between us as we go.”

  “No shit,” he said.

  “Actually, it’s to each the boulders that have fallen to each.”

  “Whattaya, nuts?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Stay away from me, Spenser,” he said. “I don’t need this crap. Not now. Not ever. I’m just doing my time, keeping my head down. Making sure my wife is still around by the time I get out and that my kids still know my face.”

  “Maybe you should duck more,” I said. “And keep your chin down.”

  He touched his lip, eye twitching. Ciccone looked over his shoulder and then back at me. He leaned in close to the glass, as if it afforded privacy. He leveled his eyes at me and shook his head. The guard behind him was intently studying his cell phone.

  “The Gentleman in Black,” I said. “Where’d he end up?”

  “Don’t ask me about that,” he said. “Ever again. That’s a long time ago. Too much blood.”

  “For whom?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “Enough,” he said. “Just because I’m doing time in Walpole doesn’t mean I’m untouchable. Those people are still around. I don’t want no trouble. Unnerstand? This is some old, toxic shit and you ain’t gonna trick me into playing no bullshit games.”

  Crazy Eddie slammed down the phone and motioned for the guard to return him to washing dirty linen. He mouthed the words “Fuck off.”

  Maybe he wasn’t so crazy after all. I didn’t like it, but Eddie wasn’t a man easily bent.

  23

  JUST WHAT WOULD YOU DO with five million dollars?” Susan said.

  “You mean what would we do?”

  “Of course,” she said. “I didn’t mean to be presumptuous.”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “I’d have to take it up with my mistress. The mistress, of course, comes after the snazzy sports car.”

  “I am your mistress,” Susan said. “Perhaps I would trade you in for a younger man.”

  “On my money?”

  “Share and share alike.”

  It was the next day and, as promised, we’d taken a nice run along the Cambridge side of the Charles. We followed the trail past the boathouses, MIT, and ultimately across the river to the science museum. On the way back, we slowed to a nice walk, catching our wind, our sweat drying in the midday sun. Charles Eliot’s sycamores stood tall and green, lined up in an endless row along Memorial Drive.

  “Maybe I’d quit being a snoop,” I said.

  “Impossible,” she said. “They’ll have to carry you out of your office feet first.”

  “True,” I said. “And you? You wouldn’t have to work. You could focus more on charity work. Fund-raising.”

  “And leave my patients?”

  “Yep.”

  “Never,” she said. “Shrinking is not unlike snooping. We are both naturally curious people.”

  Susan wore black yoga pants and a blue sports tank. That morning, she’d worn her hair up in a bun, and small black curls flitted down the nape of her neck. Her tan skin shone with sweat.

  “If I get the paintings back, the Winthrop may offer some reward,” I said. “But not all.”

  “You don’t trust them?”

  “Not as far as I could throw Large Marj.”

  “Careful,” Susan said. “You might hurt your back.”

  The path we followed was straight and well worn. We passed by young couples with fancy strollers made for jogging. Old people sat on benches. Closer to the river, some college-age kids played with a dog. We didn’t bring Pearl on runs anymore. She’d gotten to the age that she just preferred a short afternoon stroll on Linnaean Street.

  “I may regret saying this,” I said. “But in a way, I trust Alan Garner.”

  “Because you trusted Gino?”

  “I didn’t trust Gino,” I said. “But I do trust Vinnie. And according to Vinnie, these paintings were never in Gino’s possession.”

  “And then there were two.”

  “Both Quirk and Crazy Eddie hinted people were killed for them.”

  “Would that surprise you?”

  “Not in the least,” I said. “I’ve known people killed over spilled beer.”

  “Won’t Quirk tell you?” she said. “Or Belson?”

  “Quirk wants me to find out for myself,” I said. “It’s a fun little game he plays. I’d never ask. But if I did, he’d say he wants to keep me sharp.”

  “And now you have to work both ends of time,” Susan said. “The original thieves. And those who might hold them now.”

  “The reward money makes it easier,” I said. “And tougher. With the story about the Picasso in The Globe, every nut in Boston will be digging through their uncle’s basement.”

  “Maybe they’ll find something.”

  “My bet’s on Garner,” I said. “I think we’ll strike a deal.”

  “And this guy following you?”

  “Chasing his tail,” I said. “If Crazy Eddie Ciccone won’t talk to me, he’s sure as hell not talking to a guy who pins fresh flowers on his suit jacket and smells like French nail varnish.”

  “Because you have a common touch.”

  “If Ciccone decides to deal, he’ll check me out,” I said. “I do have a reputation in certain circles. People know I’ll do what I say, and I’ve spent a large part of my career enforcing that. Both good and bad. Even Jackie DeMarco would have to vouch for that.”

  Susan pointed down the concrete path toward the Harvard Bridge. The river was choked with canoes and small sailboats. Geese fluttered their wings along the banks down by the boathouse.

  “How about a race?” she said. “The winner buys lunch at the Russell House Tavern.”

  “Deviled eggs and Bloody Marys?”

  “What else.”

  “And the winner perhaps also can decide on post-meal activities?”

  “Like lying down and taking a long nap.”

  “We have gotten sweaty this morning,” I said. “We both could use a shower.”

  “At what point do you think your libido will catch up with your age?”

  “I hope never,” I said. “Any complaints?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “The race is from here to the Weeks Bridge?” I said.

  Susan gave me a grin worthy of the devil himself. “Do you think you can handle it?”

  “Just watch me,” I said.

  And without a warning, I started the long dash down the footpath. I didn’t look back once.

  24

  TWO DAYS LATER, a well-dressed older gent rappe
d on my office door. The door was slightly open, and I invited him in. I’d spent the last few hours reviewing Locke’s files and needed a break. The man introduced himself as Dominic J. Nuccio, attorney at law.

  Nuccio wore a slightly rumpled blue suit, a red tie, and a white dress shirt with gold cuff links. His face was gaunt, and he had a lot of stiff salt-and-pepper hair that seemed to be a wig. A gold watch on his wrist seemed only slightly smaller than a dinner plate. His hands were worn and liver-spotted. I knew his name and reputation. Most called him The Shark.

  “What can I do for you?” I said.

  “Do you mind if we shut the door?”

  “No one’s listening,” I said. “There’s a girl in the furniture showroom, but she’s usually listening to punk bands on her headphones. And for some reason, completely inattentive to my business.”

  “Still,” he said.

  I got up, stretched, and closed the door. It was a bright and beautiful summer day downtown. The a/c rumbled from the window. I had been hoping to get a phone call from Garner. If I didn’t by three, I planned to walk down Newbury and visit his gallery. Try and put a bit of a shadow on the high end.

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss all the details,” he said.

  “But you represent an individual who might know the whereabouts of the Winthrop paintings?”

  He looked genuinely surprised. I leaned back in my chair and placed my hands behind my head. That morning I wasn’t dressed for court, in Levi’s and a faded Sox T-shirt. My holster and ball cap hung on a nearby coat rack. Nuccio’s toupee looked odd on his skeletal head, more hat than hair.

  “I knew your name,” he said. “And I had you checked out. People say you’re a straight shooter.”

  “Only to those I’ve shot.”

  The Shark smiled. I’d seen Nuccio’s face in the paper many times, representing many fine citizens against murder, racketeering, and drug charges. Sometime back, I recalled he’d self-published a book called Boston, the Mob & Me. For some reason, that wasn’t on his business card.

  “What’s Crazy Eddie want?”

  “I’m here for someone who knows about that painting,” he said. “And would very much like to reunite the work with the museum.”

  “That’s awfully nice of them,” I said. I looked at my watch. I placed my hands flat on my desk. “Come on. Let’s go. No time like the present.”

  Nuccio smiled at me. It looked like it pained him a great deal. “They do have some concerns,” he said. “And requests.”

  “Immunity,” I said. “The five-million reward.”

  “Of course,” he said. “They can’t gain possession of the works easily. They expect to be compensated for their time and genuine philanthropic effort.”

  “I don’t speak for the museum,” I said. “But I’m certainly listening.”

  “My client doesn’t trust the museum,” he said. “They know they’ll go straight to the authorities. Getting involved in some kind of federal sting would be very embarrassing to my client’s current business.”

  “In case you didn’t see the story,” I said. “The statute of limitations has run out.”

  “You and I both know how that goes,” he said. “They’ll punish my client for something else entirely. The Feds like to win any way possible. Most of the time by cheating the system.”

  “They may be a little angry,” I said. “Twenty years without a clue until a few days ago. Even that didn’t go as smoothly as some think.”

  “My client wasn’t involved with that Picasso,” he said. “The who and why of that piece doesn’t involve my client. This involves the one by the old Spanish master, that guy in black.”

  “The Gentleman in Black,” I said.

  Nuccio shuffled in his seat. I didn’t offer him coffee or whiskey. I wanted him to get to the point. Perhaps he’d been sent by Crazy Eddie or perhaps by Alan Garner, although Garner didn’t need a third party at this stage. He’d make arrangements and offer details on what he wanted. The Mob attorney in my office seemed to represent a true unknown entity. As he spoke, the sunlight caught the crystal face of his watch. He could probably land a spaceship with that thing.

  “What’s the deal?” I said.

  “A guarantee of the full reward,” he said. “And no prosecution. We will want that in writing. Handshake agreements don’t hold like ink.”

  “The reward was for the return of all three,” I said. “You’re only talking about one.”

  “The most valuable,” he said. “Yeah, I do read The Globe. Those other pieces are chicken scratch. Everyone wants the Big Guy. Am I right? Or am I right?”

  I wasn’t sure this wasn’t a trick question. Nuccio took off his glasses, blew his hot breath on the lenses, and cleaned them with a white handkerchief.

  “They won’t offer a dime,” I said. “Without proof of life.”

  “For a painting?” he said. “How’s that life? It’s not a living, breathing thing.”

  “I know, it doesn’t make much sense,” I said. “But that’s what they call it anyway. They need absolute evidence that they have the painting, and that the painting remains in good shape. That makes quite a bit of difference when it comes to the reward money. Nobody knows what it looks like now. Maybe it’s been stuffed in the trunk of an Oldsmobile Cutlass for twenty years. That would make a big difference.”

  “I assure you that the painting is in fine shape.”

  “I’m sure you’re good to your word,” I said. “But I’m naturally cautious.”

  Nuccio smiled. “Who’s this other guy?” he said. “The one with the picture in the paper. Whosis Marston? Is he your partner or something?”

  “Far from it.”

  “Then what’s his deal?”

  “I’m an independent contractor,” I said. “I can promise to independently make your case to the museum board. But I won’t even pick up the phone unless I can vouch for what your client can offer.”

  Nuccio raised his eyebrows and straightened his tie. “My client wants proper credit where credit is due,” he said. “There’s a lot of flies buzzing around the goodies. He’s the only one who deserves to make everything right here. And be compensated for his effort.”

  “I heard there was a lot of blood,” I said. “To control these paintings. Is that how your client ended up with the Big Guy?”

  Nuccio’s mouth twitched, eyes roving over me from behind the glasses.

  “I don’t know anything of how or where the painting changed hands,” he said. “All I know is that my client can get it and wants to do the right thing.”

  “He must be quite a guy,” I said. “Pillar of society.”

  “Five mil for a work worth more than ten times that?” he said. “Yeah, I’d say my client is definitely stepping up and doing the right thing.”

  “Proof of life,” I said.

  He nodded. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said. “All that stuff.”

  “And I’ll see what I can do about a guarantee.”

  “It’s quite magnificent.”

  “Have you seen it lately?”

  “No,” he said. “But I remember seeing it as a kid. It always scared the bejeezus out of me. That guy looked as if he could see and knew all.”

  “And now?”

  “Let me see what I can do,” he said. “Everyone’s nervous. Don’t call me. I’ll call you.”

  Nuccio shook my hand and walked out. He left my door wide open, and when I walked over to close it, the girl Lila from down the hall poked her head out.

  “You think he’s lying?” she said. Her hair was a bright blue today.

  “Only when his mouth was moving.”

  25

  I DIDN’T MIND BEING PARANOID. As I liked staying alive, paranoia could be a great friend.

  When I left my office and crossed Berkeley Street, I immediately c
hecked around for Paul Marston or anyone else who might want to do me harm, either on foot or in a nearby car. It was still light outside, but the city had thinned of commuters, who had been replaced with the night crowd. The well-heeled and the well-dressed headed out for dinner and drinks. Several cafés had their doors open, with standing fans blowing across their patios. Wine bottles were uncorked; cocktails clinked.

  I had big plans to order a pizza and stay in with Susan tonight. As I walked, an uneasy feeling creeped across my upper back. I slowed my pace and pretended to peer into the window of the big Nike store on Boylston. Hot damn. Twenty percent off basketball shoes.

  I glanced behind me. I didn’t see Marston, but I did notice an older guy in a dark ball cap and a navy windbreaker. He had on mirrored sunglasses and walked with a steady gait, not slowing a bit as he passed by my back. I dismissed him and continued walking toward my SUV.

  I retrieved my trusty Land Cruiser from the garage and headed back onto Boylston toward the Common.

  At a stoplight at Arlington, I glanced back and spotted the same scruffy guy in a dark sedan. Or at least I thought it was the same guy. The setting sun made it tough to see the figure behind the wheel. But I noted the same dark ball cap and mirrored sunglasses.

  This scruffy guy wasn’t too bad. As the traffic pushed off, he followed close but not too close. I followed the Common and turned north on Tremont. He turned north on Tremont, too. But as downtown was that way, lots of people turned in that direction. I cut up onto Congress toward Government Center. The sedan was close behind me. Given the look of the car, the man could very well be a cop. Or a federal agent. Or a meat inspector for the USDA wanting the secrets of how I tenderized my chicken.

  I always said it took a tough man to make a tender chicken.

  Instead of heading north on Washington to the Charlestown Bridge and home, I turned south on New Chardon, passing Haymarket Square, Hanover Street, and Rowes Wharf, speeding along the Greenway. I had to hand it to the guy following me, he did it with skill and precision. Little effort, no jerky movements. If I hadn’t been at a high level of paranoid, I might not have even seen him slide in and out of traffic, slow down, and pick up as I braked and sped up.