Robert B. Parker's Old Black Magic (Spenser) Page 7

  I sipped some of the broth. The bartender brought me a fresh beer.

  “What can I say,” Locke said. “There is no fool like an old fool. I’d been set up. Thankfully, I had not brought the money as instructed. It was a group from Marseille and they were convinced I had the authority to make a call and transfer the funds.”

  “What happened?”

  “Didn’t you wonder what happened to my eye?”

  “I figured it had something to do with your illness.”

  Locke shook his head, taking a few more bites of food. The bright lights of Boston shone down onto the harbor in slick green, yellow, and red. “It was a very long night in the Saint-Germain.”

  I nodded. I picked up the beer and swirled what was left in the bottom of the glass.

  “Be careful,” he said. “Trust no one. And underestimate no one. Can you be sure that Marston doesn’t follow you tomorrow?” he said. “He has a knack for really screwing the pooch.”

  “I will take many precautions,” I said.

  “Good.

  “Spenser,” he said. “I may be unreachable in the coming weeks. I wanted to let you know I will be entering a special program with Boston General.”

  I told him I was very sorry. He shrugged and drummed his fingers on the table. “Well,” he said. “So there is that.”

  “I’ll find the painting,” I said. “And return it to the Winthrop.”

  “Even when Large Marj, Topper, and the lot of ’em turn against you?”

  “Especially then.”

  Locke laughed and softly banged on the table with the flat of his hand. He smiled broadly. We finished dinner with another cocktail and I helped him out onto the brick turnaround at the Long Wharf. He needed to balance on my arm as we made our way out.

  A black car pulled up and a man in a black suit opened the door for Locke. I took a deep breath and shook his hand. His hand felt as hollow as a bird’s.

  “Well, then,” he said. “Good luck.”

  I helped him into the car and waved as he left. The black car turned onto Atlantic and drove slowly away, streetlights flickering all the way.

  15

  I WALKED THE COMMON at daybreak, a faint bluish-gray sky overhead, performing some early reconnaissance work with Pearl. In four hours, Marjorie Phillips would arrive at the garage under the park prepared to transfer half a million dollars. She did not want to involve the cops, the Feds, or any friends I might have. If Hawk were in town, I could’ve asked him to watch my backside while I watched Marjorie’s. But since Hawk was somewhere in Brazil performing the samba with a comely brunette, I was on my own.

  I might’ve asked Vinnie. But given our tenuous relationship, it didn’t quite merit his involvement. Not yet. Instead, I scouted the edge of the Frog Pond. A big fountain spewed up water from the center as light came alive in the clubhouse. In a few hours, children would be frolicking and splashing.

  Several paths led away from the pond to Beacon, Tremont, or Boylston. A car could be waiting for someone on Charles Street, which split the Common from the Public Garden. Or they might try and run back down into the garage. The world’s a city of straying streets.

  Perhaps I should change into faster shoes.

  “I have a bad feeling about this,” I said to Pearl. Pearl wasn’t listening. She was fixated on an obese squirrel helping itself to a bounty of spilled popcorn.

  She tugged at the leash, paws scraping at the asphalt. The Common spread out wide in green, undulating hills.

  I ushered her to the path heading toward Park Street. A homeless man occupied one bench, snoozing in a green sleeping bag, an empty bottle of Aristocrat vodka below him. A man in modern black workout gear zoomed past us, an iPhone in his left hand, looking to break a personal record. A gaggle of bicyclists soon followed, sending me and Pearl to the grass. We continued on.

  I didn’t spot any art thieves. Not that I would know what an art thief would look like. We wouldn’t know even if the person showed and took a seat next to Marjorie. Marjorie said she would inspect the sketch and could tell whether or not it was a fake. If the person double-crossed her, I would stop them. If they ran, I would chase. If they put up a fight, I would subdue them. What could be easier.

  Unless the art enthusiast brought friends. Or was armed. Or had sent an intermediary who did not have the Picasso. I would just have to do what I did best. Improvise.

  “If you were trying to escape,” I said, looking down at Pearl. “Which way would you go?”

  Pearl looked up at me, tongue hanging loose from her mouth. She didn’t seem the least bit concerned. I bent down and scratched her head. A lot of new gray was forming around her eyes and muzzle. Given the gray at my temples, I wasn’t one to judge.

  We continued to walk toward Park and then doubled back on the opposite side of the Frog Pond. The café was open now, and I walked in and bought a cup of coffee. I had walked these steps thousands of times, but I wanted to see it fresh, refamiliarize the routes out of the Common. My speed wasn’t what it used to be. But like any good defensive back, I knew how to work angles.

  I was nearly back at the entrance to the parking garage when my cell rang.

  “What the fuck did you do?” Marjorie Ward Phillips said.

  “Good morning, Miss Phillips,” I said. “What a lovely day.”

  “Did you meet with Paul Marston without my consent?”

  “I did not.”

  “That’s not what I heard,” she said. “Topper called me this morning.”

  “Then you heard wrong,” I said. “He followed me to a bar yesterday.”

  “Drinking on the job?”

  “Yes,” I said. “But it was Pabst Blue Ribbon. I didn’t really enjoy it.”

  “You are to report to me if anything like that arises,” she said. “How do you know he’s not going to follow us this morning?”

  “I will take precautions.”

  “Why didn’t you take precautions yesterday?”

  “I usually don’t work for a client who pits sleuth against sleuth.”

  “Perhaps you should be more careful.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “My nerves, Spenser,” she said. “God, I couldn’t sleep. I’m so jumpy.”

  “Deep breaths,” I said. “And a cold compress.”

  “You have told no one?” she said. “If you have told someone, I will make sure you never work in this town again.”

  “I doubt it,” I said. “But no. I didn’t tell anyone.”

  “And our plan is the same.”

  “I think our plan stinks,” I said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “We have no idea who we are dealing with,” I said. “Or how they intend to rip you off. I still have friends with the Boston Police. They can have plainclothes officers watching the entire park.”

  “I won’t have it,” she said. “The deal was offered. You agreed to it.”

  “I was wrong,” I said. “Let me make a call.”

  “You do and I’ll have your balls roasted over a spit.”

  I took a breath and shook my head. “Lady,” I said. “I have made a promise to a very good and honorable man. I have been warned about you. But hadn’t known your full potential until now. If you want to play it this way, then fine. But when it all turns to goose crap, don’t jab your little finger in my chest. I don’t like any of it.”

  “We stick to the plan.”

  “I watch,” I said. “You give me the signal and I’ll stop them.”

  “Good.”

  I waited for an apology. None came. Marjorie Ward Phillips didn’t seem to be the type to say she’s sorry. “Well, you better be goddamn ready,” she said. And hung up.

  I sat down and finished my coffee, watching several people setting up yoga mats on a flat spot of lawn near the ball fields. The instructo
r spoke of being present on this wonderful day. I reached down with my free hand and patted Pearl’s head.

  “Gratitude is the fairest blossom which springs from the soul,” I said to Pearl.

  Pearl lifted her head and licked my hand.

  16

  YOU’LL BE FINE,” I said. “Remember the signal.”

  “I touch my left ear,” Marjorie said.

  “That’s right,” I said. “And the cavalry comes charging.”

  “You said it would only be you.”

  “My strength is the strength of ten.”

  “Oh, yes,” Marjorie said. “Of course. You’ve said that. And where will you be?”

  “Just across the wading pool,” I said. “At the café. We get out of the car, walk up to the Common, and both take our places. If you are satisfied with the goods, make the transfer. If you have trouble, give me the signal.”

  “Please don’t call a Picasso ‘the goods,’” Marjorie said. “It cheapens the work a great deal.”

  “How about ‘the stuff that dreams are made of’?”

  “You do an absolutely terrible Bogart,” she said. “And I’m in no mood for joking.”

  “This may be a setup.”

  “It may very well be,” she said. “Or it could be the first steps. The Picasso could be the proof we need. We get the sketch and the Goya and The Gentleman will follow.”

  We left her Mercedes in the underground garage and walked separately, me twenty paces behind her, up to the Common. Marjorie was easy to tail. She was a very large woman in an ill-advised tight red dress and with a bright green scarf around her neck. I could’ve tailed her from Newton.

  I bought a bottled water at the café and sat under an umbrella.

  The Common was leafy and green, boundless and restless, unseasonably warm that morning. Kids frolicked and played in the spray pool, splashing and laughing. I remembered taking Susan here to ice-skate many moons ago. During the winter, they froze the pond over and rented skates and sold hot chocolate from the café.

  That morning, I’d nearly sweated through my black T-shirt. I’d worn a lightweight windbreaker covering the .40-caliber Smith & Wesson in a shoulder holster with an extra magazine in the pocket. I carried about thirty rounds. If those didn’t work, I’d grab a water pistol from one of the kids.

  At ten minutes past the hour, I didn’t think anyone would show. I didn’t trust a thief who wasn’t punctual. As I stood, tossing the bottle in the trash, I spotted a young man in a black hat and sunglasses. He had on a black Adidas T-shirt and pegged workout pants. He was tallish and walked with purpose and carried a large leather satchel. I noted that his tennis shoes appeared to be new and gleaming white.

  Across the pond, Marjorie sat on the bench clutching her purse in her lap. The way she held herself reminded me of Jonathan Winters doing Maude Frickert. If she had on some metal specs and a little doily collar, she’d be a ringer. Her makeup had started to run outside the perfect temperature of the Winthrop.

  The man in the Adidas tee seemed to take no notice of me. Or his surroundings. When he passed Marjorie, he stopped and asked her a question. Perhaps just a friendly tourist seeking direction to Old Burying Grounds? Marjorie nodded and stood. He pointed over at the café where I waited. She looked confused for a moment but nodded. They both headed my way.

  I returned to my seat and took out my phone to look occupied. I made sure the windbreaker covered the holster.

  Marjorie and the mystery man took a seat under a large umbrella. The young guy sat close and opened up the satchel. He pulled out what appeared to be 8×10 photographs. Marjorie wasn’t pleased, throwing up her hands in disgust. Her large face turned a bright red.

  “That wasn’t the deal,” she said. Her voice rose to the occasion. And carried.

  The man replied something. He pointed to her phone.

  “I certainly will not,” she said. “Where is it?”

  He mouthed the word, close. I stood up. She looked up at me but did not make the signal. The young guy glanced back to me and then to Marjorie. He knew something was up and looked poised to move. Feet don’t fail me now.

  “I will not be fucked with,” she said. “And you will not get a penny.”

  He leaned in and tapped at the photographs. Marjorie picked them up and tossed them in his face. I waited for her to touch her ear. But she only turned to me and stared, openmouthed with anger and confusion, her body deflated like a large balloon.

  Of course, he spotted me. Everyone at the Lily Pad Café could see we were together.

  The man snatched the photos, tucked them into his satchel, and began to walk away. Marjorie stood and reached for his arm, but he jerked free and ran toward Park Street.

  “Well,” she said. Her voice boomed. “What the hell are we paying you for?”

  I ran after him, parting a sea of suburban moms holding goggles and sunscreen. I passed slow joggers and nearly toppled a street performer playing an electric guitar and a kazoo. The guy nearly made it to Park but then broke quick at the Brewer Fountain, running toward the T station.

  The guy darted into the doors of the T station. I was right behind him, running down the steps, seeing him turn toward the outbound Green Line. Lucky for me, the outbound train hadn’t arrived. He tried to mill about in a gathering on the platform, but I spotted him. He spotted me and took off again for the exit.

  The station was big and cavernous, with a lot of old tile work. Tall fans rotated over the platform to keep the air moving. The young guy disappeared again into a stairwell. I turned and ran up the steps. He was halfway up to Park Street when I caught him by the back of his T-shirt and yanked him down to the steps.

  The satchel fell to the floor. His hat fell off as he covered his face with his hands.

  “It’s just a job, man,” he said. “Just a job. Cool out.”

  I reached for the satchel, unlatched it, and pulled out a large manila envelope. When opened, it was completely empty.

  “Who sent you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why’d you run?”

  “I don’t want trouble,” he said. “No job is worth this.”

  “Where’s the sketch?”

  He shook his head, reached into his jacket, and tossed me a small ticket. I scooped it up off the ground. A claim ticket to a hotel baggage check. “I don’t want trouble,” he said. “I met this guy in a club. He paid me fifty bucks. Here. Take it. Fucking take it.”

  I grabbed the ticket and placed it in my pocket as two MBTA cops ran down the steps and told me to raise my hands and step back.

  “I’m a licensed investigator,” I said. “You’ll find my license and permit in my back pocket.”

  “Goody for you,” one of the cops said. “That’s your fucking problem, Mannix. Mine is keeping order down here. Now put up your fucking hands and step back, sir.”

  17

  ASSAULT AND BATTERY,” Rita Fiore said. “Attempted robbery. Wow. I didn’t know times had gotten so tough, Spenser. I’ll make sure the business office speeds along the check.”

  “Trying to cover my bases,” I said. “Make a few bucks.”

  “Always happy to find an excuse to escape afternoon meetings at Cone, Oaks,” she said. “Would you like to hear about a class-action lawsuit against a Fortune 500 company? It involves an exciting accusation of employee misclassification.”

  “I’m good,” I said. “Perhaps later.”

  Rita and I followed a guard down to out processing. My bond had been paid. Now it was time to collect my running shoes and other personal belongings. They took my shoes so I wouldn’t hang myself with the laces. I stood there in stocking feet to get them returned. I asked about the other man who was brought in with me.

  The woman didn’t reply. She stood over a long table and shuffled out my watch, wallet, and keys. I placed the wallet and
keys in my pockets and slipped on the watch. The lights were bright and fluorescent, the floors scuffed linoleum. The jail had the lovely scent of urine and Lysol. “Where’s my gun?”

  The guard shook her head. “Your weapon was impounded,” she said. “You can discuss it at your court appearance.”

  “Can they do that?”

  “Unfortunately,” Rita said. “Yes. But I’ll get your pistol back for you. In the meantime, get that slingshot out of your desk.”

  I shook my head and found a chair. I slipped on my Asics. It felt civil again to be wearing footwear. There was little dignity standing around in your athletic socks.

  “Come on,” Rita said. “I’ll give you a ride home.”

  “Service with a smile?”

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll bill you.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  “No,” Rita said. “I probably won’t. I just can’t wait to hear the whole story.”

  We walked out through a variety of locked doors, being passed from guard to guard, until we were in the main lobby of the Suffolk County Jail. We walked out together into the fading light on Nashua Street. I could see the Charles River, smell the brackish water under the early-evening sky. In the distance, I spotted the weird suspension of the Zakim Bridge. If I wanted to, I could’ve walked back to the Navy Yard.

  “How about I buy you a drink?” I said.

  “What would Susan say?”

  “Susan knows you’ve moved on,” I said. “You only have eyes for Sixkill.”

  There was a lot of wind off the harbor, blowing Rita’s wild, very red hair across her eyes. She smiled and tucked the hair behind her ears.

  “What can I say,” Rita said. “He’s younger. I need more stamina.”