“That’s it,” I said. “How long will it take to put together a list of possibles?”
“It’ll take longer to get through to someone at the Registry of Motor Vehicles than it’ll take their computer to spit out the list. Call me back in a half an hour.”
“No, I meant it about the pizza and a couple of cold ones. You working the eight-to-four?”
“Yeah, supposedly.”
I glanced at my watch. It was almost five o’clock. “So why don’t you sign out as soon as the list comes through and bring it over to Nicolai’s.”
I could hear him tapping on the desk as he thought it over. “We talking Nicolai’s on Prince Street?”
“Yes,” I said, “and I’m buying.”
“Okay, but I need at least another hour here to wrap up a couple of things. See you there about seven.”
I was sipping a Sam Adams at the far end of the bar — one eye on the second inning of a Sox and Yankees night game at Fenway on the forty-two-inch plasma and one eye on the front door — when Lenihan walked in.
Despite sloping shoulders and a tendency to slouch, weighing in at two-fifty and topping six and a half feet, he’s a commanding presence anywhere short of an NFL locker room. His fashion presence, however, is something else again. Decked out tonight in a shapeless tweed sport coat with leather-patched elbows, faded blue jeans, and scuff-toed brown loafers, there wasn’t a chance he was going to make this year’s list of the ten best-dressed men in Boston. But all that aside, there was some little-boy-inside-a-grizzly-bear-suit thing about him I found disconcertingly arousing.
Without breaking stride, he gave the place that casual once-over that all but screams badge, shot me a quick smile that made his slate blue eyes crinkle at the outside edges, and ambled down along the bar in my direction.
He looked down at me and ran a huge hand through his iron gray hair. “How’s it goin’, Slim?”
“Hey, Lenihan.” I got up and gave him a quick peck on the cheek, and even with my height, I had to stand on tiptoe.
He reddened a little, covered by running a hand through his hair again while he slid out a barstool.
As we sat down, the two silk-suited wannabes who’d been eyeballing me from the other end of the bar developed a sudden interest in the ballgame on TV.
The bartender came over and Lenihan pointed to my Sam and said, “Another one for Slim here, and the same thing for me.”
“And a couple of menus,” I said.
Lenihan looked up at the TV. “How they doin’?”
“Four zip Yankees, and it’s only the second inning.”
The bartender, menus tucked under his arm, brought two bottles of Sam and a tall frosted pint glass for Lenihan.
“So, I said, “what’d RMV come up with when they ran the partial plate?”
Lenihan filled his glass. “Well, there’s good news and bad news.”
“That always means it’s mostly bad news,” I said as Lenihan held up his glass and I clinked it with mine, “but here’s to whatever good news you’ve got.”
“Well, the good news is, we know your electric blue Neon is registered to an outfit called Inter City Rental out of New York. They have rental fleets at most of the major East Coast airports. I got hold of one of their managers here in Boston, and he told me the ‘2’ on the plate means it’s a two-door compact. The ‘RT’ stands for rental, it’s on all their plates, and the ‘4’ means it’s a Dodge Neon. But without the last two digits, it could be any one of the twenty-seven Neons in their Boston fleet.”
“That was the good news?” I said. “Not sure I want to hear the bad news.”
He held up his hand. “Hold on a minute, I’m still on the good news. Out of the twenty-seven Neons, thirteen are that color blue. And out of those, only seven are currently rented.”
“Seven,” I said, “not bad. I was expecting something the size of the list of registered Democrats in Cambridge.”
Lenihan took a healthy hit on his beer and cleared his throat. “Now the bad news.”
“No list?” I said.
“No list. They said no way were they going to violate the privacy of seven of their customers without a court order.”
The bartender came down and asked if we were ready to order.
“What did you call that pizza?” Lenihan asked me, “with, what was it, caramelized onion and parmesan something-or-other?”
“Pizza bianco,” I said. “Caramelized onion, prosciutto, and parmesan cream.”
The bartender gave us an apologetic frown. “Sorry folks, we stop serving pizza at four.”
Lenihan twisted around on his stool to face me, which exposed the worn butt of the ancient.38 revolver he carries cross-draw on his left hip and the gold shield pinned to his belt. “No pizza,” he said, shaking his head. “Do you know what the penalty is for purposefully giving a police officer false information?”
I held both hands out to Lenihan, wrists touching. “I guess you’ll just have to arrest me.”
The bartender was looking down at the gun and the badge on Lenihan’s belt. “Maybe you’re in luck, though,” he said. “I think the guy that does the pizza is still here.” He gave Lenihan a wink. “If he hasn’t shut down the oven yet, I think we can make an exception, Chief.”
Lenihan told him it would be great if he could, and to make it two pizza biancos.
When the bartender left I said, “Okay, so what are the odds on getting a court order for Inter City’s paperwork on the seven electric blue Neons?”
“Pretty good. The probable cause threshold for stalking is a lot lower now than it used to be. We may not have to go that route, though. I got a buddy who’s a state cop, a sergeant over at the Logan International substation. I gave him a call. He says the Staties are forever bending the RESTRICTED AREA-NO PARKING rules at the airport for the rental companies. Says he’ll go have a talk with this guy, see what he can come up with. In the meantime, fill me in on the details, the whole thing, right from the top.”
I laid it all out for Lenihan, starting with the first phone call yesterday morning, and was describing the bag lady’s narrow escape when the bartender slid two steaming pizza biancos across the bar. And the sweet smell of caramelized onion reminded me I’d eaten nothing since my corn muffin and coffee that morning.
Three quick slices later, Lenihan came up for air, dabbed at his mouth with a napkin, signaled the barkeep for another pair of Sams, and said, “So you got no idea who it is doin’ this?”
“Not a clue. Earlier today, when I remembered I’d served Ezekiel Jones the first time at his father’s funeral, I thought maybe all that ‘haven’t seen you since the funeral’ stuff and the Neon following me around was Zeke trying to scare me off. Then I catch up with him this afternoon at Bottoms Up, tuck a subpoena down the front of his trousers, walk out the door, and there’s the electric blue Neon pulling out of the parking lot. So no way was it Zeke.”
Lenihan stopped with the glass halfway to his mouth. “Yeah, but who says it had to be Zeke? Coulda been someone he’s got helping him. Seems like a lot of hassle, though, doesn’t it? Just to keep from testifying.”
“Maybe,” I said, “maybe not. The lawyer who hired me to find Zeke says it was a drive-by, some gang thing that he witnessed. Says Zeke’s testimony will clear his client. If that is true, Zeke knows the shooter and his bunch, if they could find him, would give him a Dorchester facial just to keep him from testifying, and would whack him, his sister, his mother, and his dog if he did. But after getting a glimpse of the Neon leaving the lot at Bottoms Up when I knew Zeke was still inside in the men’s room, I’m beginning to wonder if he had anything at all to do with the phone calls.”
“Yeah,” Lenihan said around a mouthful of pizza, “and all that ‘spawn of evil must be punished’ crap sounds more like a twenty-four carat crazy than some Dorchester homie.”