Robert B. Parker's Cheap Shot Page 13

  “‘She walks in beauty, like the night,’” I said.

  Much to my disappointment, she fitted herself into an old navy terry-cloth robe. “Does Lord Byron stock ice cream?” she said.

  “I made that, too.”

  “Of course you did.”

  35

  My mental Rolodex of thugs had ebbed and flowed over my years of business. The old Italian and Irish crews I’d known seemed to have mostly disappeared or gone to that big house in the sky. Over the last decade, there seemed to be a lot of ethnic crime around Boston: Ukrainians and Albanians, Chinese, and lots of Vietnamese. Fast Eddie Lee had a stronger and stronger grip on the city. Gino Fish still did a nice bit of business about town, as Tony Marcus kept his eyes on much of the working ladies. I had removed Joe Broz from my Rolodex after his recent demise and had added his son’s name in light pencil.

  Gerry Broz had owned a pretty posh sports bar in Southie. Sports bars being a cultural obsession in Boston almost like the coffeehouses of Vienna. But Gerry’s bar, Playmates, had gone into bankruptcy, and he’d decided to start a tropical-fish distributorship in Coolidge Corner, down the street from the old movie house.

  It was still raining that morning as Z and I walked into the large brick warehouse.

  Gerry looked up from vacuuming out a fish tank as large as my apartment.

  He was wearing a custom T-shirt reading Broz Tropical Equipment and Supplies, old khaki pants, and knee-high rubber boots. His mouth hung open when he recognized me.

  “Fuck me,” he said. “Out. Get out.”

  “Gerry Broz, wow,” I said. “You work here?”

  Broz put down the vacuum and turned off the pump. He wiped his wet hands on his khakis and stared at us.

  “I’m in the market for two clown fish and some information on dirty deeds in Dorchester,” I said.

  “Good luck with that,” Broz said. “I’m out of the life.”

  “Sure you are,” Z said.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Gerry said. “Do I fucking know you, kid?”

  “Sorry, Gerry,” I said. “Gerry, this is Zebulon Sixkill. My associate. He’s named after Zebulon Pike. Of Pike’s Peak fame.”

  “I don’t give two shits,” Gerry said. “I’m out of the life. You come around and harass me and talk about dirty shit and I’ll call the cops. I pay fucking taxes.”

  “Fish,” I said. “Really?”

  “I always been into fish, Spenser,” he said.

  I tilted my head. He had me there.

  “All I need is some direction,” I said. “You know a guy named Kevin Murphy?”

  Gerry roamed his hand over his pudgy face. “Sure,” he said. “I’ll get right on it. Weren’t you the same guy who wanted to turn over my dad on his deathbed? Yeah, I’d love to help you.”

  “Did I?”

  “But you would have,” he said. “You forced me getting into a lot of shit that wasn’t my fucking business.”

  Z wandered off along a row of fish tanks stacked five high. The warehouse was dim, but the aquariums were brightly lit with all manner of colorful fish. I couldn’t name any of them if a marine biologist put a gun to my head.

  “What if I said I’ll owe you one?”

  Broz dumped the vacuum and the hose in a stainless-steel work sink. He rinsed out the sludge and looked to be thinking. Of course, it was very hard to tell if Gerry Broz was thinking, as he did it so infrequently.

  Z walked up the metal framework that balanced all the aquariums. He pushed at it lightly, as if testing its strength. Pushing with his arms and shoulders, leaning into it and stretching out his back. The metal and glass made the slightest cracking sounds.

  “Hey,” Gerry said. “Hey.”

  “A favor?” I said.

  Z let go. He smiled and placed his hands back into his leather jacket.

  “A favor,” I said. “Anytime. Within reason.”

  Gerry shot an unpleasant look at Z. Z grinned back at him.

  “Murphy,” I said. “Kevin.”

  “Yeah, I know him,” Gerry said. “What do you want to know?”

  “He used to be the main squeeze of a woman who is now married to my client,” I said. “I want to know if he’d be the kind of guy who might expand from making dirty pictures.”

  “Into what?”

  “Kidnapping,” I said. “Maybe murder. All kinds of good stuff.”

  “Murphy is a fucking punk,” Gerry said. He scratched his neck and patted his pockets for a cigarette. He fished one out and lit it. “Man, I don’t know. He’s got a pretty decent deal going on, thinks he’s the Bob Guccione of the Internet. These young guys kill me with their macho bullshit.”

  “Where?” I said.

  “Why don’t you ask your cop pals?”

  “I did.”

  “And?”

  “Couldn’t help.”

  “Me, either,” he said. “Don’t know.”

  “But can you find out?”

  “That’s it?” he said.

  “That’s it.”

  “A favor?”

  “To be named later,” I said.

  Gerry squinted at us as he smoked. He stared hard at Z, to whom he had taken an instant dislike, and let out a long stream of smoke. “What are you? You sure ain’t from around here.”

  “Cree Indian from Montana,” Z said.

  “He’s running with you and Hawk?”

  I nodded. There was a lot of noise from the pumps in the large, enclosed space. Gerry nodded and took another drag. “You putting together one of those Village People tribute bands? You guys would be great.”

  “Keep thinking, Gerry,” I said. “That’s what you’re good at.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Where can I get you?”

  I told him my number. Twice.

  36

  Kevin Murphy made art above a corner store just south of Adams and just north of an elevated train trestle in Fields Corner. The convenience store windows were covered in posters for Keno and Mega Millions tickets, while the neighboring storefronts were covered over in plywood. Z and I sat across the street eating Chinese takeout from what may have been the very best Chinese restaurant in all of Dorchester.

  There wasn’t much to do. Or see. In the last hour, we watched one guy, who was not Murphy, walk upstairs and turn on the lights above the store. I ate chicken fried rice direct from the carton. Elegant. After we finished, Z took the trash, tossed it into a barrel down the way, and wandered back to the car with his hands in his pockets.

  “Fine meal,” I said.

  “Maybe we should’ve eaten the carton?”

  “Probably,” I said.

  “More nutrition,” he said.

  “Hot sauce,” I said. “Hot sauce makes everything palatable.”

  I leaned back into the seat of the Explorer and stretched out my legs. Z remained silent. He was nearly as chatty as Hawk.

  I turned on the radio and found Paulie & the Gooch. The guys were engaged in a heated debate about Kinjo Heywood. And if the call was real, which we have no reason to believe he is, should in fact Kinjo play in tomorrow’s game? Next caller.

  I turned up the volume. Z turned away from the window and listened.

  Hey, it’s Bobby from Dedham. You don’t think that guy’s real. Holy crap. That sounded like business to me. If I were Kinjo, I wouldn’t do crap until my kid was safe. But you know, I’m not Kinjo. He loves his teammates and the Pats and is doing the best he can. I think he’ll play his heart out every moment until his kid is safe. Like he said, he’s sick with worry and it helps. I think he’s a freakin’ hero.

  Paulie and the Gooch chewed on that for a bit and then teased the listeners by replaying the call-in from earlier. A muted voice announced he, or she, was the real kidnapper of the Heywood kid and they’d be announcing deman
ds during Sunday’s game. The veteran broadcasters did not discuss. They instead ran a commercial for penis-enlargement pills being shilled by the former head coach of the Cowboys.

  I turned down the volume.

  “During the game?” Z said.

  “Probably doesn’t want Kinjo at the drop.”

  “If there is a drop,” Z said. “Could be electronic.”

  “Could be,” I said. “Real money makes it easier on us.”

  Z nodded. “How long you want to stick with this Murphy guy?”

  “Long as it takes to see his routine,” I said.

  “And to annoy the shit out of him.”

  “Yes,” I said. “That is my most successful tactic.”

  A Hispanic man walked past us, carrying a grocery bag in one arm and a small boy in the other. He didn’t even glance at us as he balanced the load in his arm. He wore blue coveralls covered in dirt, the legs too long and frayed at the bottom. The ragged material dragged the ground over his work boots. I turned up the radio again.

  I think Heywood is a liability to the Pats. I think he needs to quit being selfish and sit out until this thing with his kid is over. It’s a distraction for everyone in the organization. He’s a great player and I feel sorry about his kid. But are you telling me this don’t have something to do with his off-field stuff? You know? You wait and see, this whole mess has something to do with the way the man lives his life.

  “Wisdom of the masses,” I said.

  “Fickle,” Z said. “College alumni are worse. Pro teams have fans. Alumni who give money think they own you.”

  “And know more about the sport than you,” I said.

  Z craned his neck and stared up at the lights burning over the corner store. “Probably same in the porn business,” Z said. “Murphy makes the movies and sometimes stars in them, too.”

  “Performance pressure,” I said.

  “His whole business is online. You get a membership to watch girls get interviewed by Murphy and then do the deed.”

  “So the casting couch is his show?”

  “Murphy goes by the name Mr. X. He never shows his face but is very proud of his equipment,” Z said. “It all takes place on his couch. Sometimes on his desk.”

  “Few sets.”

  “Most of the girls don’t look eighteen,” Z said. “Reminded me of when I was in L.A. Girls looked stoned. Need the money for food.”

  “Hmm,” I said.

  “He likes to make the girls hurt,” Z said. “He likes to demean them.”

  The mindless chatter of Paulie & the Gooch filled the car. Wind blew grit and loose flyers across the road. Rain tapped absently on the windshield.

  “If I see him, perhaps he should hurt, too.”

  “So many shitbags,” I said. “So little time.”

  Z nodded.

  “You see any girls who might have been Cristal?” I said.

  “No,” he said. “But he had maybe four hundred, five hundred films.”

  Our prayers are with the entire Heywood family and with the brave men and women of law enforcement looking for Akira. The Gooch and I both have spent a lot of time with the Heywood family, including Akira, and I promise our listeners that there is no more devoted father than Kinjo Heywood. If anyone out there knows anything about these kidnappers or where they might have this child, you can call a special hotline we’ve set up through the Sports Monstah network.

  “No prayers for us?” Z said.

  I shook my head.

  “Damn.”

  The lights continued to burn on the second floor above the corner store. A half-hour later, Hawk called. We spoke all of ten seconds and then I hung up.

  “I’m needed,” I said.

  “Trouble?”

  “Nicole is trying to force Cristal to talk,” I said. “I’ll drop you at your car.”

  “And I’ll circle back here.”

  “Murphy may not even be up there,” I said. “May be a waste of time.”

  “It’s such a lovely night in Dorchester,” Z said. “I’ll wait and see.”

  37

  Hawk had been keeping Nicole and Cristal Heywood company in the women’s bathroom of a Cheesecake Factory off Route 9. A short line had started at the bathroom door and the restaurant manager said she was about to call the cops. I smiled at her, all but saying the cops had arrived. I knocked and Hawk let me in. He leaned against the dimly lit sinks and tilted his head toward a nearby stall.

  “Won’t leave till she gets the answer she wants,” Hawk said.

  “And won’t leave with you?” I said.

  Hawk shook his head. “Woman got a gun,” he said. “She says she know how to use it.”

  “Persuasive,” I said.

  I heard muffled crying from inside the stall. I knocked on the door and announced my arrival.

  There was no answer.

  “Nicole,” I said.

  Hawk shrugged.

  “What stopped you from just ripping the door off the hinges and snatching away the gun?” I said.

  “Kind of interested to see what Cristal has to say,” Hawk said.

  “Can’t wait much longer,” I said. “I don’t think the Cheesecake Factory likes to have armed patrons.”

  Hawk nodded. I knocked again.

  “Someone called in to Paulie and the Gooch tonight,” I said. “They said they’d announce their demands on Sunday.”

  I heard a sniffle and a cough. There was a low wailing sound coming from the stall. “This won’t wait until Sunday,” Nicole said. “This bitch knows what happened to my son.”

  “I don’t, I swear to God, I swear to God. Please.”

  “If you don’t walk out with me in five seconds,” I said, “you’ll be arrested. That call tonight may be legit. Let’s not have anything to muddle plans.”

  “She lost him,” Nicole said. “She’s trash. She knows.”

  I looked to Hawk. He turned his neck from side to side, relaxing his muscles. He checked his watch. “Tick, tock,” he said.

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “I’m not leaving until she tells me what she knows,” Nicole said.

  “I don’t know anything. I swear to God. Spenser, please help me. She’s crazy. She has a gun. She says she’s going to kill me.”

  There was more crying coming from the stall. This time it sounded like both women. One of them was even more feral and harsh. I tried the door. It was locked. I knocked softly. Hawk stared straight ahead and waited.

  “You’ll want to hear the call, Nicole. We need your help. We need you.”

  “What about her?” Nicole said. “She’s lying. I know it.”

  “We’ve been checking her out. Just like you said.”

  “And she’s a part of this,” Nicole said. “Right?”

  “Don’t know,” I said. “But I need you to allow me to do my job.”

  More crying. More wailing. The door lock snicked open. Cristal rushed out. Nicole lay in a fetal position by the toilet. A small automatic poked out from her purse. She was crying very loudly now. Hawk walked out of the restroom with Cristal. I helped Nicole to her feet.

  “Not like this,” I said, whispering.

  “She knows,” Nicole said. “The bitch knows.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But we won’t find out like this.”

  Nicole cried hard. I held her close. With my free hand, I reached for the purse and extracted the gun, placing it in my hip pocket. We walked together out of the bathroom with as much dignity as was allowed at a Cheesecake Factory. People stared. Employees glared.

  In the parking lot, Hawk stood by his Jaguar. “Nicole followed Cristal,” he said. “Didn’t know I was following her.”

  “I just wanted a fucking drink,” Cristal said. “We were out of booze at the house. I just want
ed a fucking drink.”

  I nodded to Hawk. Hawk helped Nicole toward the passenger side of the Jaguar. She had a deferential air toward him as they walked side by side.

  “I’ll get you a drink,” I said. “And drive you back to your house.”

  “I can’t take it there anymore,” Cristal said. “It’s like being in some kind of crypt. God. No one talking. Everyone crying and whispering.”

  Hawk’s Jag started up and motored fast out of the parking lot. Lights refracted off his windshield and obscured their faces as they passed.

  “She would have killed me,” Cristal said, watching them go. Her face was a mess of makeup. I found a handkerchief in my glove box and handed it to her. “She’s gone absolutely crazy. She hates me. She really thinks I took her son.”

  I had nothing to say.

  “Did they really call?” she said. “Or did you just say that so she’d leave me alone?”

  “There was a caller,” I said. “Tomorrow. I guess we’ll find out.”

  38

  The Washington Square Tavern in Brookline stayed open late. They also served Harpoon Maple Wheat on draft and small plates of very good food. Although I felt bad for Z, I knew he wouldn’t want me to suffer.

  The bar was big and warm, low light, with dark wood and colorful liquor bottles around a large beveled mirror. I ordered the beer and a tequila with lime for Cristal. While the bartender poured, Cristal glanced at her reflection and quickly looked away. “Oh, God.”

  “Me or you?” I said.

  “Me,” she said.

  On the ride over, she’d dabbed on some makeup, smoky eye shadow and pink lips that went with her jewelry. She wore three necklaces and four rings. The wedding ring glowed pink and was roughly the size of a golf ball. She had on an aqua halter dress that showed off a wealth of cleavage and a lot of leg. Her legs were long and spray-tanned, impressive on a pair of high-heeled gold Roman sandals.

  The bartender set down her tequila. She drained half of it in one gulp.

  I sipped the Harpoon.

  “My nerves are shot,” she said.

  “If it’s any consolation,” I said, “I don’t think Nicole would have shot you.”