Robert B. Parker's Lullaby Read online

  “I’m sure I can reason with him.”

  “Red’s the brains,” she said. “Whatever he has left. Moon just does what he says.”

  I asked her about more people from the Four Green Fields drinking crew. She gave me some names. I handed her my card. The one with just my name and phone number. I had decided against the magnifying-glass or skull-and-crossbones logos.

  “Private eye,” she said. “For real?”

  “Yep.”

  “You really think Mickey is innocent?”

  I looked over to Mattie. She caught my eye, listening to every syllable, and then looked back at a magazine advertising Hawaiian Dream Deals. Golden Shores. Memories to Last a Lifetime.

  “To be honest, I really don’t know,” I said. “I’m pretty sure he didn’t get a fair shake in court.”

  “I would like to think that wasn’t him,” she said. “I mean, we were together for a while. What would that make me? If you’re with someone who does something like that, the way he killed her, that shit infects you. Men take off once they hear I used to be with Mickey. No one in Southie has forgotten.”

  I nodded.

  “You think Julie’s kid would want a manicure? I’ll do it free.”

  “You sell black nail polish?” I asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Then probably not.”

  I walked outside into the cold, ankle-deep in slush. Mattie followed, and we stood on the street for a moment, our breath fogging in the cold as we looked north to south. Light sliced across the far-off Boston buildings and then faded across the triple-deckers and old brick buildings of Southie. Mattie jammed her hands into her coat pockets.

  Three teen girls toting backpacks crossed our path. Each girl took special care not to glance at Mattie. But Mattie eyed them until they crossed Dorchester Avenue. As they walked, one girl turned to the others and whispered. The girls all looked back and laughed, barely covering their mouths.

  “You know those girls?”

  “Bitches.”

  “How about I walk you home?” I asked.

  “What about the pub?”

  “What about it?”

  “You said we’d go back and talk to the bartender at Four Green Fields,” she said. “Shirley? It’s Monday like that douchebag with the tattoos said.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “I saw you looking at that woman’s ass in there.”

  “I am a keen observer.”

  “What did you learn?”

  “She has a thing for butterflies.”

  “Come on,” Mattie said. “It’s happy hour. Do I have to do all the thinking here? Jesus.”

  13

  The Celtics were playing Miami, and the pregame show blared from a flat-screen television that seemed out of place with the faded beer posters and dusty neon signs of Four Green Fields. Behind the old bar, Shirley held court, peering up at the television while drinking a cup of coffee from a mug that read GRANDMA KNOWS.

  “Good evening,” I said. “Lovely night.”

  She cut her eyes at me, nodded, and went back to watching the game. Shirley was a big white-haired woman with thick arms and skin as fine as parchment paper. She wore a boxy flower-print top and a massive gold cross around her neck. A well-worn Louisville Slugger took the place of honor next to her ashtray, the grip wrapped in silver duct tape.

  “Use that much?” I asked, nodding in the bat’s direction.

  “When I need to.”

  “I bet it might upset you if I asked for a Grey Goose martini. Up with a lemon twist.”

  “We got what’s on the shelf, beer, and soda.”

  I did not see Grey Goose on the shelf. I ordered a Sam Adams with a shot of Bushmills, and a soda for Mattie.

  Shirley nodded, making a great show of getting off the barstool behind the counter and reaching into the cooler for the beer. She poured the shot and then sprayed some Coke into a tall glass of ice for Mattie. Mattie leaned onto the bar with her elbows. We exchanged glances. She bit her lip and nodded for me to get on with it.

  I laid down a ten and the picture of Julie Sullivan with the slick-haired man.

  “You know these people?”

  Shirley shook her head. She went back to her barstool. With great effort, she sat back down with her coffee and listened to Mike Gorman and Tom Heinsohn discuss the Celtics’ rebounding troubles.

  “That’s your technique?” Mattie said, whispering.

  “Terrific, isn’t it?”

  “It sucks.”

  “What do you expect for a bag full of donuts?”

  “You haven’t even earned the holes.”

  I shrugged. I drank half of the shot and chased it with the beer. I had always liked Bushmills. I kept a bottle in my office for cold, rainy days. Medicinal purposes.

  “Shirley?”

  She cut her eyes back at me.

  “How about another beer?”

  “You aren’t finished with the first one.”

  “I like to plan ahead.” I winked at her.

  She groaned, got off the barstool, and reached into the cooler for another beer. She managed to do all this while keeping her eyes on the pregame.

  “Julie Sullivan was a regular,” I said. “Four years ago, she was killed.”

  Shirley’s eyes turned back to me. She studied Mattie. She turned back to me.

  “So?”

  “I’d like to find some of her friends,” I said. “This is her daughter. I work for her.”

  “You a lawyer or somethin’?” Shirley asked. “’Cause I fucking hate lawyers.”

  “It’s your lucky day,” I said. “I couldn’t pass the bar. I’m just a detective.”

  Shirley nodded. “I don’t know what to tell you. I remember that name, that girl that was run down. But lots of people drink here. How am I gonna know what was going on four years ago? I’ve been tending bar here for thirty years.”

  “You must love your work,” I said.

  “Yeah, it’s a pleasure to meet so many smart-asses.”

  I smiled and shrugged.

  “You want more soda, sweetie?” Shirley asked.

  Mattie nodded. Shirley added ice to the glass and sprayed in more Coke. The bar seemed like a cave, light and sound flashing in spurts whenever the battered front door opened, the cold, bright wind cutting through the stale heat, body odor, and cigarette smoke.

  “How about Red Cahill?” I asked.

  She looked at me. She didn’t answer.

  “Moon Murphy?”

  “I just serve drinks, doll.”

  She wandered back down the bar. But she did not take a seat on her throne again. She hovered there for a few minutes, watching the television and burning down a long, thin cigarette. She served two beers to a bald-headed man who retreated to a back corner. She looked over to me and then at the television set. After a few more minutes, she picked up the phone.

  The phone call was short. She returned to her throne.

  A sign above her read NO DOPE SMOKING, NO BAGGY PANTS, AND NO FUCKING CUSSING. MISS MANNERS.

  “Do you mind waiting outside for me?” I asked.

  “Why?” Mattie asked.

  “I believe things are heating up.”

  “I don’t need a babysitter.”

  “Wait in the car,” I said.

  “I’ll wait right here.”

  I finished the Bushmills, not wanting her to see what came next but figuring she’d be safer right here anyway. Tom Heinsohn was on to why the Celtics need to play more cohesive ball in the face of LeBron James. Injuries had thinned the ranks. Ray Allen was questionable with a bruised knee.

  “Maybe Heinsohn should suit up,” I said. “Come out of retirement.”

  Shirley didn’t respond. She kept her eyes on the flat screen with a dull stare. Mattie drank her Coke and watched the game. I watched the game, too, keeping an eye on the old metal door.

  Fifteen minutes later, the door opened. A very large man walked inside Four Green Fields. He had on a black
leather jacket that could serve as a circus tent. He had a thick, doughy face with black stubble and small, dumb eyes. He didn’t close the door behind him, and a lot of cold air rushed into the place. Another man followed, skinnier and smaller, who pulled the door shut. He had thinning hair shaved tight to his head and a pockmarked face.

  They approached the bar.

  “Now,” I said to Mattie.

  I must’ve said it with a little force behind it. Mattie’s face burned with color.

  “That’s him,” she said. “Fucking fat ass is Moon.”

  “I’d arrived at the same conclusion using deductive reasoning,” I said. “Now go.”

  Mattie got up and backed away. I took a sip of the beer. Moon Murphy took one side, and the skinny guy took the other. The bar had one other patron. The drunk in the shadows.

  The men crowded me.

  I began to whistle “Moonlight in Vermont.”

  Moon Murphy jabbed his elbow into my side as if he were stretching. He turned and studied my profile, unblinking, watching me. I could hear the creaking of his leather jacket. His breath was something to behold.

  “Do you find me that attractive?” I asked.

  “Why don’t you go back to Beacon Hill, shithead.”

  “Don’t let my good looks fool you,” I said. “I only seem rich.”

  “That little girl gets hurt, and it’s your own fault.”

  I shook my head. “That little girl gets one scratch on her, and you’ll be wearing your ass for a hat.”

  He grabbed my biceps. I shook his hand loose and stepped back. Moon gave me a very mean look in return.

  I shot him a left jab in the temple. His buddy lunged at me, and I hammered a hard right cross to his eye. The skinny guy staggered back. Moon came for me, so I found some open space on the concrete floor. Moon was one of those guys who tried to pass off fat for muscle. Most of the time they didn’t have to fight, only look mean. He probably practiced a menacing look in the shower. I bobbed to the right and nailed him with a solid left hook in the gut. He lunged for me and punched me in the eye. It was sloppy and wild but hurt just the same. I sidestepped another punch and peppered him with a couple left jabs and a solid right cross. And another solid right. And another solid right. And a nice uppercut to his fat throat. Moon’s feet left him. He made a noise that sounded like “Eck.”

  Skinny jumped on my back, screaming.

  I bent at the waist and tossed him over my shoulders. He skidded a few feet on the concrete floor and fumbled for a gun. My .38 was already out and aimed dead center at his forehead.

  I held out my hand. He gave me the gun, a Glock. Very unoriginal.

  “You tell Red Cahill I want to meet.”

  I tossed a business card down at Moon. He was thumbing at his bleeding mouth and still trying to look tough. It was hard to look tough lying flat on your ass.

  “You son of a bitch piece of shit,” Mattie said. Her cheeks were flushed bright red. She rushed forward like she wanted to get a few kicks in.

  I grabbed her elbow. “Easy.”

  “You son of a bitch,” she said. “You killed her. I saw you.”

  I pulled her toward the door. She was stronger than she looked.

  I kept a hand on her upper arm, my .38 still loose in my other hand, as we walked to the car and crawled inside. She played with the ends of her hair under her pink cap. Her hands shook.

  I cranked up the heat. A line of cars parked along Dorchester were still covered in snow. I pulled out and drove back toward the McCormack Housing Projects. Mattie sat quietly beside me for a moment before she asked, “Why didn’t you ask him anything? Isn’t that what you do?”

  “Believe it or not, this is my own special strategy,” I said. “He wouldn’t have answered anyway. This was about making my presence known in Southie.”

  “I guess you did that.”

  “Yep.”

  “They’ll come for me, won’t they?”

  “Nope,” I said. “They’ll come for me. I’ll find someone to watch your family. Just in case.”

  “And how does that help us nail those bastards?” she said.

  “It’s easier when you can get the bad guys to come to you,” I said. “And I’m ready for them.”

  My right hand was swelling as it gripped the steering wheel. I felt a mouse forming under my eye. “I just keep circling, waiting for an opening.”

  “Jesus, I don’t want ’em to kill you, too.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “That would be nice.”

  14

  I stopped off at Broadway Market on Harvard Square, stocked up on some booze, and let myself into Susan’s Victorian on Linnaean Street. She still had a half hour of shrinking left, and I passed the time in Pearl’s company. I drank. Pearl the Wonder Dog worked on the head of a rubber chicken. It squeaked, which made Pearl very happy.

  I dropped some ice cubes into a glass, added some bitters, and then added a good measure of Wild Turkey. I hadn’t had much bourbon in a while, sticking with scotch. But somehow I thought the return appropriate.

  I dropped several more handfuls of ice in a champagne bucket and covered it in water. I took my bourbon and the ice bucket to the kitchen table, where I soaked my knuckles and drank. Pearl tilted her head, studying my bruised face. I thought I spotted concern in her amber eyes. We sat together for a long while, listening to the silence of the house, punctuated by the occasional creaks that would come through the old wood in the wind, and the brittle sound of sleet against the glass.

  And then footsteps.

  “You want a steak for that eye?” Susan asked. She removed her diamond earrings and placed them on the kitchen counter.

  “That seems like a terrible waste of a steak.”

  “How about an ice pack?”

  “Aren’t you going to say, ‘Tough day at the office?’” I said.

  “You want to talk about it?”

  “Don’t you get tired of listening to problems?”

  “I am handsomely paid for my professional services.”

  “I’m a nonpaying client.”

  “There may be ways to bring your account into good standing.”

  “Hot damn.”

  She was still dressed in her professional duds, a black wool crepe wrap dress, tied at the waist, and black tights. She wore a strand of small pearls and a thin gold chain. She kicked off her black leather pumps, knocking her down a few inches.

  She patted Pearl’s head. And then she patted mine.

  “You might say, ‘That must have hurt,’ and then I’d say, ‘You should see the other fella.’”

  “How’s the other fella?” Susan asked.

  “Pissed off.”

  “And that’s bad?”

  “That’s bad.”

  “You want to order a pizza?”

  “Read my mind.”

  “You don’t look to be in a cooking mood.”

  “I’m in a drinking mood.”

  Susan freshened my drink, then let her black hair down from the chignon at her neck. I loved to watch her hair spill over her shoulders. I studied the construction of the wrap dress.

  “So one tug on that little sash?” I asked.

  “And the dress comes off, palooka.”

  “Yippee.”

  She found an open bottle of white in the fridge and joined me at the kitchen table. Pearl rested her head in Susan’s lap.

  “How’s the kid?” she asked.

  “Tough but scared,” I said. “Someone ran her off the road this morning. I tried to stick around. But she wanted to be back with her sisters and didn’t care for me to be a houseguest.”

  “Can you call someone?”

  “I know a patrolman in Southie who’s going to check up on the family,” I said. “It’s not much. But it’s something.”

  “What about Hawk?”

  “Hawk in Southie?”

  “He may stand out.”

  “Hawk stands out everywhere,” I said. “Besides, I may need him.”
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  “What happened?” she asked.

  I told her.

  “Your charm failed with Shirley.”

  “And with Moon.”

  “So now they know you’re onto them.”

  “They knew anyway,” I said. “The kid had been asking around. She’s got a hard head.”

  “Which you respect.”

  “Nice trait to have,” I said. “But I wish she’d tone it down a bit. She could get hurt.”

  “I don’t think Mattie has a choice,” Susan said. “Didn’t you say her mother was largely absent before her death?”

  “Depends on what period of her life,” I said. “She would go through periods of sobriety and then hit rock bottom.”

  “And Mattie has two sisters and a grandmother?”

  I nodded again. “The grandmother is there because she’s the only family available but not exactly a role model. She’s a lush. When I tried to talk to her, she was passed out.”

  “Father?”

  “When I asked, Mattie laughed like it was a stupid question.”

  “And it’s ridiculous to ask why the system has failed her?”

  “If the system worked, I’d be out of a job.”

  “You’re working for the classic parental child,” Susan said. “Probably thought she could assume her mother’s role when her mother was out drunk or high. And when her mother was killed, she believes she failed. Now she has to make it right.”

  “Like a do-over.”

  “Exactly like a do-over. She would see her mother as a failure, in life and death,” Susan said. “Of course, I’m only making a guess based on what you’ve told me. But an educated guess. The most important thing to her right now is righting the past and keeping her family together.”

  I nodded.

  “It has a lot to do with self-esteem.” Susan shook her head. “So now you think Red and Moon will come for you instead.”

  “Yep.”

  I drank some bourbon. I heard it fortified courage and resourcefulness.

  “You think they’ll try to kill you?”

  “I think they’ll try to discourage me.”