Little White Lies Page 3

  “How’s our baby getting acclimated to the Town?”

  “She’s found a place on the new couch,” I said. “And she’s claiming new places to mark her territory along the waterfront.”

  “You know, you didn’t have to move out,” Susan said. “We could have made it work.”

  “It’d be foolish to mess with success.”

  “Not to mention the pent-up lust caused by distance.”

  “Never gets any easier, Suze.” I smiled.

  She smiled devilishly and gripped my thigh under the bar. “Would you love me as much if I made it a cakewalk?”

  “We tried living together once and it didn’t work.”

  “I don’t think you and I thrive on convention.”

  “But we know each other fully,” I said. “No surprises. No secrets.”

  “We can even read each other’s thoughts.”

  I nodded. “And what am I thinking now?”

  Susan tilted her head and touched foreheads with mine. She closed her eyes in intense thought. “Hmm,” she said. “You need a refill on your beer.”

  “Actually, I was hoping you’d move that hand a couple inches higher.”

  Susan removed her hand and reached for the gimlet. “Here’s mud in your eye.”

  5

  Early the next morning, I met Hawk at the Harbor Health Club.

  “Johnny Gredoni?” Hawk said. “Yeah, I know him.”

  “You like him?”

  “Haw.”

  “You trust him?”

  Hawk didn’t answer. He finished his fiftieth rep of Russian twists on the decline bench and tossed the medicine ball at my chest. I caught it in midair and exchanged places with him. I began twisting in fine Soviet fashion and I could see Hawk counting each rep under his breath.

  “Who is he?” I said. “Besides the emperor of Gun World?”

  “Used to sell shit out of his trunk,” Hawk said. “He’d sell to Winter Hill, boys in the North End, Joe Broz. Didn’t matter. I’ll say this, his guns were good and clean.”

  “What else?”

  “He hired himself out,” Hawk said. “Ran into him on some jobs overseas. Never a competitor. But I never wanted his ass on my team.”

  “Why?”

  “Mouth bigger than his talents,” Hawk said. “All into the high-tech gear. His execution was subpar.”

  I kept twisting until the fiftieth rep. I stopped twisting.

  “Four more,” Hawk said. “Don’t cheat yourself, white boy.”

  I knocked out four more, unhooked my feet from the bench, and tossed him the ball. Hawk beamed a large smile. His black skin was hairless, flawless, and shining bright with sweat. He wore a sleeveless Adidas workout shirt with matching black shorts. He moved into our third and final set. I did not count his reps. I was a man of faith.

  As I caught my breath, Henry Cimoli wandered up and stood as tall as possible next to my right shoulder. All white satin warm-ups and blinding white shoes, he didn’t say a word until Hawk finished.

  “Don’t forget to wipe down the equipment. Do I need to remind you this is now a class joint?”

  Hawk and I had been training at the Harbor Health Club long before the Big Dig, posh hotels, and upscale restaurants had invaded the waterfront. Back then, I couldn’t leave the gym without smelling like yesterday’s cod and fishermen’s cigarettes.

  “Are we ever late on our dues?” I said.

  “When have you two clowns ever paid dues?”

  “Every day, babe,” Hawk said. “Every day.”

  Henry shook his head and wandered off to where a dozen yuppies waited to learn the fistic arts from a Boston legend. Hawk and I moved onto the squat rack and loaded down the bar with four large plates. I completed twelve reps and racked the weight. Hawk didn’t waste a second to follow.

  “Grow or die,” Hawk said.

  After the weights, we ran to the Seaport for a four-mile loop. I then showered, shaved, and dressed, and soon Hawk and I were drinking coffee outside the Boston Harbor Hotel. Hawk blew the swirling steam off the top of the cup. He’d changed into a crisp white linen shirt with army-green linen pants, dark brown Oxfords, and gold Chanel sunglasses. Seagulls swooped down to inspect if we had baked goods. Sadly, we were empty-handed except for the coffee.

  “You want me to ride shotgun to Lynn?”

  “I expect this to be a cordial visit,” I said.

  Hawk grinned. “And how does Johnny connect to your case?”

  “Friend of a huckster who took nearly three hundred grand off a nice woman.”

  “Sounds like Johnny’s kind of people.”

  “And who are Johnny’s people?”

  “Mercenaries, gun nuts, soldier-of-fortune wannabes, and career crooks.”

  “Can’t wait to meet him.”

  “Tread lightly, bwana,” Hawk said.

  “What is this, Killers of Kilimanjaro?”

  “You bigger than Robert Taylor.”

  “And you ain’t Anne Aubrey.”

  “Far from it.”

  “How’d he go from the trunk show to the big leagues with signs outside Fenway?” I said.

  “The old-fashioned way,” Hawk said. “He cheated.”

  “Aha.”

  “Made millions from our current war on terror,” Hawk said.

  “Can I call him Daddy Warbucks?”

  “Sure,” Hawk said. “Why not?”

  “He’s the only solid lead I have on a man who seems to have no home, no working business address or current driver’s license,” I said. “I hope to win him over.”

  Hawk raised his eyebrows.

  “I can be very charming when I want to.”

  “You about as charming as a pit bull.”

  “The man I’m looking for was into some kind of land deal in Concord,” I said. “He convinced my client to write him a check and then disappeared.”

  “Your client and him intimate?”

  “More than that,” I said. “She thought they were in love.”

  “Shall I quote Tina Turner?”

  “Long as you don’t quote Ike.”

  Hawk began to whistle “What’s Love Got to Do with It.” I shook my head and hoisted up the strap of my black gym bag. I switched the hot coffee into my left hand and offered my right.

  Hawk shook my hand and nodded.

  We parted ways and I headed up to Lynn.

  6

  Gredoni’s Gun World was a modest-size prefab metal building hidden among used-car dealers, fast-food restaurants, and pawn shops along Route 1. The building was one story and ran long in the back, where pistol shots and automatic gunfire sounded on the range. The front of the shop resembled a high-end jewelry store, with shiny handguns and assault rifles displayed on black velvet. If Holly Golightly ever wanted revenge, this was the place for her.

  An attractive young woman with long, bleached hair and large brown eyes met me at the counter. She wore a smallish black tank top with the Gun World logo: a blue planet with a continent in the shape of a .45. Clever. She laid her hands on the glass counter and smiled at me with straight white teeth. I noted a thin strap of a pink bra beneath the tank top and a pistol holster on her right hip. She had a deep, if unnatural, tan.

  “How can I help you?”

  “Is Mr. Gredoni in?”

  “Is he expecting you?”

  “No,” I said. “But he’ll want to see me.”

  “Name?”

  “Spenser,” I said. “With an S.”

  “Is that your first or last name?”

  “Just Spenser,” I said. I smiled back at her. The micro tank top rode up high on her stomach, showing off pronounced hip bones. Incongruous with the .45.

  She nodded, hit a button under the counter, and opened a door next to a large tw
o-way mirror. The sounds of gunfire were muffled from the back range. Ping, ping, ping. A resounding boom-boom-boom from a shotgun.

  As the symphony continued, I turned to admire the smorgasbord of weaponry. Most of the pistols were arranged by maker. The Glocks with the Glocks. The Smith & Wessons with their kind, et cetera. Shotguns were displayed in a long rack next to the assault rifles. Each gun tagged with a Day-Glo orange or yellow price tag. I checked out a few of the Winchester lever actions, with an eye toward replacing the one I’d lost in the fire.

  The saleswoman reappeared, not as friendly this time, and told me Mr. Gredoni would be with me in a moment.

  “Do I get a free T-shirt with a purchase?” I said.

  “It depends on what you purchase.”

  “I’m in the market for a Gatling gun.”

  Her smiled fluttered a bit. She cocked her head and studied me a bit. “We’re having a sale this month. Twenty percent off AR-15s.”

  “If I need an AR-15, I’ll call in an air strike.”

  “You can have them personalized,” she said. “Many customers like to have their favorite sports team logo engraved on the lower receiver.”

  “Could you add a smiley face?” I said. “Maybe say, ‘Have a nice day.’”

  “Anything you want.”

  “Hot damn.”

  I smiled at her. She gave a half-smile, not sure of what to make of me, as a very short, thick-bodied man in military dress came out a side door. He looked to be in his mid-fifties, with jet-black hair and a mustache/goatee combo. His chest and belly tugged at a brown hunting shirt with double breast pockets and epaulets. His pants looked to be SWAT issue, black, with blousy cargo pockets. He wore a black hat that read Remington and had half of a fat cigar plugged in the side of his mouth. He reminded me of a fat, miniature version of Rambo.

  “Spenser?” he said, offering his hand. “I’m John Gredoni.”

  I shook his hand.

  “How can I help you?”

  “I understand you’re pals with M. Brooks Welles.”

  The salesman smile faded. He plucked the cigar from his thin lips and stared at me. He didn’t blink or nod. He just stared up at me and removed a stray bit of tobacco from his tongue. The woman in the tight-fitting shirt excused herself and left the room.

  “I tried his office, but he’d relocated.”

  “What’s your deal with Welles?”

  “He’s a difficult man to find.”

  “I haven’t seen him.”

  “But you know him.”

  He shrugged.

  “You do know him, or you’re not sure?”

  “I know I don’t run my mouth about one of my best clients,” he said, plugging the cigar back into his mouth. “Why are you looking for him?”

  “I’m the leader of a Boy Scout troop,” I said. “I wanted him to come and talk to the boys. You know, tell them what it’s like to be a real American hero. Maybe give them pointers about wrestling it out with the Sandinistas.”

  “No,” Gredoni said. “You’re not. You’re trying to make trouble. You got the look. Do you have any idea just who you’re messing with?”

  “Not really,” I said. “Perhaps you can enlighten me.”

  “Mr. Welles is an important man,” he said. “He’s done important things. We have a lot of celebrity clients. Athletes. Politicians. Movie stars.”

  “Wow,” I said. “How about Ben Affleck? I loved him in Gigli.”

  “They come here to learn about protection and find a place not to be hassled. I don’t appreciate you coming here to make trouble.”

  “Have you seen Mikey lately?” I said.

  “I’ll tell him you were here.”

  “Don’t you want to know why?”

  Gredoni didn’t answer. He just glowered at me, sucking on the cigar, the tip glowing red. I waved away the haze of smoke as he exhaled.

  “I’m a private investigator,” I said. “Mr. Welles stole three hundred grand from my client.”

  “Ha,” he said. “You mean Connie Kelly?”

  I nodded.

  He shook his head with pity. “That broad is a fucking flake,” he said.

  “I disagree, but appreciate the alliteration.”

  “She’s pissed because they had something hot and heavy and then he found out she was a head case.”

  “He took her money.”

  “No,” Gredoni said. “She begged to be part of a big investment that didn’t work out. She didn’t have a problem with it as long as he was giving her the old baloney pony. When he broke things off, she started to stalk him. She doesn’t understand that Mike has a lot of enemies. She sends guys like you around and pretty soon there will be a damn truckload of camel jockeys gunning for him.”

  “Wow,” I said. “That important.”

  “Don’t you watch the news?” Gredoni said. “Christ. He was a fucking Navy SEAL, top level at the CIA. He wasn’t some paper pusher. He was out there for our government, doing deals, saving lives. He’s still doing it. That’s why he’s gone back overseas.”

  “Where?”

  “You know I can’t tell you that.”

  “Because of the camel jockeys.”

  “Exactly.”

  “He might be the seventh son of Mata Hari, for all I know,” I said. “But it doesn’t change the fact that he owes Ms. Kelly a lot of money.”

  “Bullshit,” he said. “He’s an important man. Doing important things. Kelly is a jilted broad with a grudge.”

  “I don’t think Welles is overseas,” I said. “And I don’t think he’s a Navy SEAL. Or even as smart as a trained seal at the Franklin Park Zoo. I think he’s a phony. And I’d be glad to look more into you, Welles, and those contracts you got with the Department of Defense.”

  “You threatening me?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Why the hell not?”

  “You know this is the official gun range for the Lynn Police Department?”

  “Congratulations.”

  “I got friends,” Gredoni said. “A lot of them under that shiny dome on Beacon Hill. Go ahead and keep making trouble and you’ll get your license pulled. But let me give you some advice. Mike Welles isn’t someone I’d want against me. He’s been in the armpits of this earth, fighting his way out. He’s made banana-smoking third world leaders disappear in the wind. You think he’d be worried about a two-bit gumshoe like you?”

  I nodded and handed him a business card.

  “Tell him to call anytime,” I said. “We never sleep.”

  “Do yourself a favor, Spenser,” he said. “Stay outta this one. It’s a lovers’ spat.”

  “What was the land for?”

  “Jesus.”

  “If it’s legit,” I said, “there’s no reason not to tell me.”

  “Old gun range,” he said. “From back in World War Two. We were going to try and take it over for training. We paid for the land, but the liberal locos up in Concord gave the city council hell. You realize Welles trains a lot of top guys. I’m talking Delta Force, Spec Ops.”

  “Gee,” I said. “What about Secret Squirrel?”

  “Get the fuck out of here,” he said. “I don’t have time for this shit. But I sure as hell wouldn’t want to be you.”

  “Are you sure?” I said. “You might like being taller.”

  Gredoni stuck the cigar back into the side of his mouth and simmered a bit. “Takes a real pair to walk into a place like this and be a smart-ass. What makes you so goddamn tough?”

  “My strength is as the strength of ten,” I said. “Because my heart is pure.”

  I turned and left. Sir Galahad. Always stuns them on the way out.

  7

  Being a career cynic, I decided to drive out to the property in question and see things for myself. On the way, I picked up Pearl in C
ambridge and headed north on Route 2 to several miles above Walden Pond. There was no reason I couldn’t be a super sleuth and a responsible dog owner at the same time. Pearl seemed to appreciate the gesture, jumping from the Land Cruiser when we arrived, heading straight for a small trail leading to the property. A For Sale sign and one for the Strawberry Hill Gun Club had been tacked up on a large tree. The land was New England writ large, with stone outcroppings and dense forest of pine, birch, and maple. Pearl romped through the dead leaves and brush, circling wider and wider.

  I followed the wood line along a gravel road to a small lake and some type of log-cabin lodge. A brisk wind cut through the trees and I could smell wood smoke.

  The lodge had been painted a dark brown and had a shingled roof. Smoke rose from a stone chimney that looked to have been constructed decades ago. The property seemed far from abandoned, with a half-dozen wood picnic tables and two stone fire pits. Signs warned guests about gun safety and to unload all weapons in the recreation area. I didn’t expect trouble, but I kept my .38 loaded and firmly placed on my right hip.

  Pearl circled the entire log house and came running back, tongue lolling out of her mouth. She seemed to say, “Look at this wonderful place I’ve found.” If only I could scare up a covey of quail or some ducks. But I was sure there were laws against hunting ducks out of season with a .38 Chief’s Special.

  As we approached the lodge, a thin man with black-framed retro glasses and an unkempt black-and-white beard walked from the side of the building. He carried a section of garden hose coiled around his shoulder like a snake. He wasn’t that old, but was rangy and wild-looking, with longish hair in the spirit of Jeremiah Johnson and Kurt Cobain.

  “Hello,” I said, brilliant with the small talk.

  The man nodded back and set down the hose. Pearl met him with tail wagging and presented him with a hickory stick. I told him I’d come to check out the property. He said his name was Ray Angelo, manager of the Strawberry Hill Gun Club. We shook hands and talked about the change in the weather. And then the club.

  “I thought the property had already been sold,” I said.

  “Who told you that?”

  “John Gredoni.”