Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn Page 20

  Johnny looked like a fat little troll in the moonlight, almost like the Heat Miser himself. Lights flashed red and green off the passing cargo ships. He lit a cigarette and craned his head to study Zucco’s face a little. “Hmm,” Johnny said. “Looks to me like he got caught in his own job. Cops think it’s Zucco. Now they’ll know it’s Zucco. He’s dead and they got nothing on us. He ate a gun and burned himself up.”

  “What did you do?” Kevin said. “Jesus. What the fuck’s the matter with you?”

  “Good night, Mr. Firebug,” Donovan said. He tossed the lit cigarette into the mess by Zucco and the blue flame started to spread and zip onto the tires and trash. The burn and the heat came on strong and fast. “Now get going upstairs and light it up. We need to get the fuck out of here. Now.”

  “No,” Kevin said. “No fucking way.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Donovan said. “You gone mental? Zucco sold us out.”

  57

  A little after midnight, Kevin Teehan had ridden up into Charlestown and parked outside an old warehouse by the Tobin Bridge. Belson parked at a safe distance where we watched Teehan meet up with Johnny Donovan. Then they both walked inside and disappeared from view. We waited.

  Captain Cahill was on his way. If caught in the act, Belson and Glass would charge them both for Featherstone’s murder and the deaths of Pat Dougherty, Jimmy Bonnelli, and Mike Mulligan.

  “I’m shocked I don’t see Ray Zucco,” Belson said. “What are the freakin’ chances?”

  “They’re gonna burn it up.”

  “And Cahill and his people will have a front-row seat,” Belson said. He reached for his radio and called in some patrol officers to watch the side streets in case they ran. “I can’t believe we lost Johnny Donovan the other day. He’s a tricky little bastard.”

  Twenty minutes later, Captain Cahill, Glass, and Cappelletti from Arson pulled in behind us. Belson and I got out of the car and explained how long Teehan and Donovan had been inside the old building marked TOYS & GAMES. Prophetic.

  “This reminds me of a building I worked when I was a firefighter,” Cahill said. “The building was in Southie right off the channel. We had to use the fireboats to attack the other side. They light this thing up and we’ll be fighting it for two days. Let’s get them before the show starts.”

  Belson looked to them and said, “Shall we, boys and girls?”

  Captain Glass nodded. They all walked ahead toward the gate of the old warehouse. I followed and no one tried to dissuade me. Belson reached for the radio and told the plainclothes officers to move toward the back of the building and watch the exits.

  As we got closer to the landing dock, there was a cracking sound and smoke started to pour thick and heavy from broken windows on the second floor. Belson reached for his gun and ran up toward the landing. “Son of a bitch,” he said.

  A large boom sounded and glass rained down from the windows just as we got under the deck. We heard two sharp cracks of gunfire.

  “Holy hell,” Cahill said. “Here we go.” He reached for his radio and called in the nearest fire company, saying they may need more soon. “We got gunshots. We got fucking shots fired.”

  Kevin reached for Zucco’s body, grabbed him up under the armpits, and began to pull him from the smoldering mess. Johnny yelled at him to stop as he strained and pulled Zucco backward toward the door. The air was thick with smoke, and for a moment Johnny disappeared, Kevin thinking maybe he’d run upstairs to touch off the last few fires.

  He pulled Zucco to the landing, where the air choked his lungs as he dragged the body halfway through the second floor. The entire space lit up in bright flame, the heat tremendous and white hot. Kevin coughed and gagged. He wouldn’t let Zucco burn up in this shithole. He’d pull him out and let Johnny answer for his killing and for everything he’d done.

  He never wanted to be a killer. He’d only wanted to help.

  How many now? Three firefighters, Featherstone, and now his own friend. If Donovan wasn’t caught, Kevin knew he damn sure would be next. There was a damn good chance that if he didn’t hurry, he’d never make it out.

  Just as he got to the second-floor landing, Johnny was on him. He punched him in the head and wrestled him to the ground. With his fat little hands around Kevin’s neck, he kept on yelling for him to think straight. “Get your mind straight,” he said. “Leave him. There’s cops outside.”

  Kevin stopped struggling, and when Johnny’s fingers let up the pressure on his neck, gasped for oxygen in the smoky air. He rolled to his knees, the fire cracking and catching in the big old space. He got to his feet and looked through a window at dozens of cop cars with their blue lights flashing. Now he heard the whoop-whoop of the fire engines coming.

  Donovan had a gun on him now. “Walk, Kevin,” he said. “Leave Big Ray and let’s get the hell out of here. Come on.”

  Kevin’s body flooded with adrenaline and his hands shook with fear as he reached for the automatic in Johnny’s hands. He tried to snatch it as they fell to the ground, rolling on the puddled floor now boiling with the heat.

  He kicked free of Johnny. The gun clattered to the floor.

  The men both went for it at the same time, just as the ceiling began to crack and fall in big, fiery pieces.

  58

  This is far as you get, Spenser,” Cahill said. He slid into his fire coat and helmet, with a breathing apparatus in hand. “You won’t see shit up there. You won’t be able to breathe.”

  We stood at the bottom of the first-floor stairwell. Firefighters wearing heavy coats and oxygen tanks brushed past us and raced up the steps. Cappelletti, Belson, and Glass had gone around the side of the warehouse, clearing the way for the firefighters and hoses being rushed into the building.

  The building swelled and buckled, making nasty cracking noises, with breaking glass tinkling down onto the parking lot. I could hear the firefighter’s boots thundering upstairs. Suddenly the flat hose sprang to life on the landing, a fat yellow snake bucking all the way to the second floor.

  In full gear, Jack McGee ran past me and caught my eye as he spoke into the radio. He nodded and kept on moving. I stepped back and let the pros work. I knew the limits of my crime-fighting skills. I may be occasionally impervious to bullets but didn’t stand a chance with fire.

  Cahill followed the crew.

  I walked away from the burning warehouse when I spotted three cops scaling a fire escape on the far side. Belson and Glass waited at ground level, looking as if they were about to follow the uniformed officers. Belson looked to me and said, “We got the crazy bastard on the roof. He says he’s gonna jump.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Who knows?” Belson shrugged. “It’s a free country.”

  “Which crazy bastard?”

  “We’re not sure,” he said. “A bad guy. Another bad guy is getting barbecued as we speak.”

  Belson was sucking wind from the climb by the time we reached the roof. Four officers and Glass had leveled their revolvers over a low brick wall, trading shots with Teehan or Donovan. Or both.

  Belson and I got down on our hands and knees and made our way over to the officers. Two more shots came from across the top of the building.

  The Tobin Bridge stretched out long and tranquil behind the shooter, lighting up the night. Smoke filtered up from both sides of the mammoth brick warehouse. More companies started to arrive, and their sirens whooped and wailed below us. I could hear people shouting and see more hoses being pushed into the building while ladder trucks craned to the higher floors.

  The shots stopped.

  Belson quickly took a peek around the edge of the wall. He motioned for the uniformed guys. The shooter was gone. He’d run back down the steps, and back into the burning building.

  “You want to follow him?” I said.

  “Whatta yo
u, nuts?” Belson said. “Screw him. Come on. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Glass nodded in agreement. We headed back to the fire escape well away from the worst of the fire.

  Out on the Mystic, the fire boats had shown up and started to hose down and cool the top floors and roof. The dark old warehouse was alive with energy and light. With great speed, we took several escape ladders down to the ground floor. As we walked away from the burning building, firefighters rushed in the opposite direction, toward the flame and the danger. Red, white, and blue lights spun from the fire engines and cop cars.

  Belson was out of breath and gagging on the smoke when we reached the lot choked with police and emergency vehicles.

  “Maybe this will cure your cigar obsession,” Glass said.

  “Wanna bet?” he said. He pulled a cigar from his coat and plugged it into his mouth as he walked toward a collection of cop cars.

  “Jesus, Frank,” Glass said.

  “God love him,” I said.

  “I guess someone has to.”

  Kevin had shot Johnny. Big Ray was dead, too.

  Kevin walked into the flames as the water shot through the broken windows and fell down from the rafters. Firefighters aimed hoses in steady looping arcs, concentrating on the heaviest flames and the roof, where the fire had started to spread. Even after all of it, this was exactly where he wanted to be. He would’ve given anything to wear that jacket and helmet and be part of a Boston Fire company.

  Maybe he could explain to them that he’d been trying to stop Johnny. Let everyone know that he’d been working on the inside to make sure that Zucco and Donovan were stopped before anyone else was hurt. Sure, he’d helped out on a few fires, but that had only been to gain their trust and respect, he’d say. He hadn’t known anything about Holy Innocents. And when those firefighters were hurt on Marlborough, he knew these guys had to be stopped.

  Donovan was crazy, not a genius like he’d once thought when he held court back at the pastry shop. That was just talk. It was theory. This was real. Kevin could feel the heat burning his face and hands and smell the hair on his head and his arms starting to curl and smoke. This wasn’t like walking into an oven, this was like standing in the middle of a furnace. The coals burning bright and red, even the water raining down on your head was boiling. More than anything, Kevin wanted to be a part of it.

  He looked to the firefighters and one of them turned a hose on him, knocking Kevin off his feet and sending the gun scattering. This wasn’t the way. He got to his knees but lost sight of them in the smoke. The firefighters returned to his view, his eyes watering and stinging, but then everything was just smoke.

  He knew he’d die here. But maybe he’d be a hero when it all came out. They’d know who killed Johnny.

  Mr. Firebug was dead. That meant something.

  He crawled toward the heat and the flame. A big piece of wood, a crossbeam, dropped from the ceiling and pinned his legs. He heard the crack and knew one was broken. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe or feel anything, everything black smoke and gagging. He closed his eyes. He would die here. He would just lay down and fucking die.

  But then he heard a groan and a pop and his legs still hurt like a bastard but were free. He turned onto his stomach, feeling weighty, strong hands around him. Someone was pulling him out of the bubbling hot water and the deep fire. Before he fell from consciousness, he saw the full, reddened face from behind a mask.

  The name on his battered old Boston Fire helmet read J. MCGEE. CAPTAIN. “Come on,” the man said. “You dumb son of a bitch.”

  59

  I would have let him die,” Z said. “The guy helped kill McGee’s friends. He shot at cops. He burned your apartment.”

  “A few character flaws never deter a true hero.”

  “Did you ever charge McGee for the case?”

  “Nope,” I said. “He’s helping me find a new place to live.”

  We were sparring. It would be our last time for a while. Z was leaving Boston for Los Angeles in a week. His three years under my tutelage had flown by. As if to underscore the point, he worked a tricky combination: jab, cross, lead uppercut, and another cross. His cross was always substantial.

  “You won’t go back to Marlborough Street after they rebuild?”

  “Nope,” I said. “I understand the tenants’ association has a few complaints.”

  “That’s not your fault.”

  “Maybe not directly,” I said. “But after the trial, they’ll know who Mr. Firebug was out to get.”

  We danced around the ring at the Harbor Health Club. Henry leaned against the ropes calling out criticisms and even more complaints. According to Henry, his mother used to hit much harder than both of us put together.

  “And how’s Teehan’s case going?”

  “He blames Holy Innocents all on Donovan.”

  “You believe that crap?”

  “I do,” I said. “I don’t think Teehan has anything to hide anymore. He’s broken. He’s lost his captain.”

  “Captain Whacko.”

  We worked another couple of rounds and then went on to a little heavy bag work. We changed into running shoes to finish it off with some road work. We ran down Atlantic and crossed the old bridge into the Seaport. We weren’t far from the Boston Fire Museum where I’d first met Rob Featherstone. There still was a black ribbon on its front door.

  “I heard police made a few arrests in Southie,” Z said.

  “Good for them.”

  “They must have gotten some good leads off the cameras,” he said. “But they still can’t get DeMarco.”

  “Despite his appearance,” I said, “Jackie isn’t that stupid.”

  “He’s the reason why Hawk has taken a vacation.”

  “Hawk’s handled far worse than DeMarco,” I said. “He’s working in France. Supporting himself in the lifestyle to which he’s become accustomed.”

  “What’s he doing there?”

  “I never ask.”

  Z smiled. “Jackie’s gonna come after Hawk. And you.”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  We ran past the new Federal Courthouse, where Teehan would have to answer to his arson charges, and deeper into the new Seaport, where the old run-down printing warehouses had become locavore restaurants and boutique hotels. Despite the hip appearance, it still smelled like rotting fish to me.

  “I can stay,” Z said. “Until this thing with DeMarco blows over.”

  “Nope,” I said. “It’s time. This thing with DeMarco has been simmering for a while. It’s not going away anytime soon.”

  “If it does,” Z said. “I’ll come back.”

  “I know.”

  “And you’ll come to L.A. if I need you?”

  “Why not,” I said. “It’s been a while since I had margaritas at Lucy’s El Adobe.”

  Z was full of strength, health, and purpose as we graduated from a jog into a run and made our way back over the channel toward the Harbor Health Club. Again, I let him win.

  We showered and changed into street clothes, following the steps down to the parking lot. Z looked as if he had something to ask me but didn’t quite know how to phrase it.

  “Dinner,” I said. “We’ll have a nice sendoff at Rialto.”

  When Z packed up and left a week later, it was the only time I’d ever seen Henry Cimoli cry. Just one tear, but for Henry, it was as good as a gusher. When he noticed me staring, he wiped his eyes and said, “Oh, shut the fuck up, Spenser.”

  60

  It was the first week of September and the first cool evening in a long while. Susan and I walked from the Russell House Tavern, where we’d had a big meal of many small plates, to stroll about Harvard Square. Susan had a vodka gimlet while I invested heavily in a special batch from Ipswich Brewing Company. While we strolled, I noted the tree
s’ many branches and mentioned this fact to Susan.

  “Are you drunk, sir?”

  “Never,” I said. “Simply content.”

  “Is that your hand on my backside?”

  “A pat,” I said. “Of love.”

  I reached out and took her slim hand as we turned on Brattle Street and stopped in for a nightcap at Harvest. She sat at the bar with a glass of white wine, seeming to enjoy each delicate sip, while I had a bourbon with one large cube of ice. We watched the students and teachers mingle and spoke for a while with the bartender.

  On the way back, I offered Susan my sport coat, and to my surprise, she accepted it. It had taken some time, but I was slowly rebuilding my wardrobe. A new place might take more effort and thought.

  “Have you thought more about us moving in together?” Susan said. “I know there was that one time. But the circumstances have changed a great deal.”

  “What do you tell your patients?”

  “Tell me more about your mother.” Susan said it as she imagined Sigmund Freud might have. Her German accent was about as good as my Bogart.

  “No,” I said. My hand in hers. “Don’t screw up a good thing.”

  “Ah,” she said. “You know, I don’t think I ever said that.”

  “Maybe not in so many words,” I said. “How about ‘Stick to what works’?”

  “Better,” she said. “And this works for us?”

  “Maybe our living apart builds up the animal lust you have for me,” I said.

  “I thought you said it was primal.”

  With one hand, I beat my chest like Tarzan. I refrained from the jungle call.

  “You can stay as long as you like,” she said. “But please pick up your underwear.”

  “That’s how it starts.”

  She smiled. We kept walking. The crisp air felt good to breathe, and there was a rowdy excitement about the square of kids returning to Harvard. A sort of rekindled energy from the slow summer months.