Mary was Connie Stuart’s twin sister. Andy had grown close to her during the murder investigation, and he’d married the younger woman three years after Diggs was sent to prison.
It was Mary, Mulligan remembered, who had discovered her sister’s body.
28
Mulligan was on his way back to Providence when the theme from The Godfather, his ring tone for Zerilli, started playing in his shirt pocket.
“Mulligan.”
“Get your ass over here right fuckin’ now.”
“Is there a problem?”
“There sure in hell is.”
“Okay. I’ll be right over.”
Twenty minutes later, he pushed through the door and found the bookie, scowling and arms crossed, standing by the candy counter.
“I give you the finest fuckin’ cigars in the world, no charge, and this is the thanks I get?”
“What are you talking about, Whoosh?”
“What am I talking about? What this goddam buzzard’s talkin’ about is the problem.”
Right on cue, Larry Bird said it. “Theeeeee Yankees win!”
“Oh, that.”
“Forgot to mention this when you pawned the shitbag off on me, did you?”
“Guess I did.”
“You got any fuckin’ idea how many customers I lost the last week because of you? Just this afternoon Marty Kelley and his wife came in, heard the bird squawk his bullshit, turned around, and walked right the hell out.”
“I’m sorry, Whoosh.”
“Sorry? That’s all you got to say?”
“I’m very, very sorry.”
“Goddammit, Mulligan. Get this muthafucking Yankees lover out of my store right now.”
“Okay, okay… But first, can I collect what I won on the Bruins?”
Zerilli grimaced, pulled a thick wad from his pocket, and peeled off three fifty-dollar bills.
“And before you go, you can clean up the bird shit he kicked all over the fuckin’ counter.”
29
Mason pushed through the front door of Ward’s Public House on Post Road in Warwick and scanned the room. The bar stools were empty. Five booths were occupied by families, the fathers dining on burgers, the women picking at salads, and the kids wolfing something that looked like chicken nuggets. A guy with Twisted Sister hair sat alone in another booth, a black guitar case by his side and a bottle of Heineken in his fist.
None of them looked as though they could be Tyrone Robinson, so Mason took a seat at the bar. He ordered a Red Stripe, which he was developing a taste for, and settled down to wait. After the beer was delivered, he slid his notebook from his jacket pocket and flipped through his notes, not that there was anything worthwhile in them. So far, he’d talked to nine former prison guards and gotten nothing useful. Reviewing the notes was just something to do.
“Hey, man,” someone called out. “You the reporter dude?”
Mason turned and saw Twisted Sister waving at him. He grabbed his beer, walked over, and slid into the booth.
“Tyrone Robinson, I presume.”
“Presumed otherwise when you came in.”
“That’s true.”
“I get that a lot.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Tyrone’s a family name,” he said. “My grandma was a big fan of some old-timey movie dude.”
“Tyrone Power?”
“Yeah, him. She slapped the name on my old man, and he passed it down to me. I don’t use it, though. I go by ‘Ty.’”
“Ready for another beer?” Mason asked.
“You buyin’?”
“Sure.”
“Hey, Donnie,” Ty called out. “Bring us another round.”
“So,” Mason said, “what can you tell me about Kwame Diggs?”
“He’s a righteous brother,” Ty said.
“How so?”
“Never makes trouble. Keeps to himself. Mostly just sits in his cell and reads books.”
“Really? According to court records, he assaulted two guards.”
Before Ty could answer, his cell phone rang. He dug it out of his shirt pocket, checked the number on the screen, and said: “Hey, Chuckie. Thanks for calling me back… Yeah, yeah. I’ll be on time for the gig if you tell me where the hell it is… But what’s the name of the place, dude?… I know it’s your brother’s pub. You said that ten times already… Ohhhhh,” he said, and then he chuckled. “See you at eight thirty sharp.”
He clicked off and shoved the phone back in his pocket.
“Turns out the name of the place is My Brother’s Pub,” he told Mason. “For a while there, I thought I was in that Three Stooges routine. You know. ‘Who’s on First’?”
“Abbott and Costello,” Mason said.
“Huh?”
“It wasn’t Three Stooges. It was Abbott and Costello.”
“Whatever, dude.”
“So is this how you’re making a living now? As a musician?”
“Yeah. Our band’s got a regular Thursday night gig at Lupo’s Heartbreak Hotel in Providence, and we get booked all over on weekends. Westerly. Pawtucket. Newport. Fall River. Even opened for Roomful of Blues in Boston a couple of times. I play lead guitar. The bass player’s a former Supermax guard, too, so we call ourselves the Screws.”
“Catchy,” Mason said. “What kind of music do you play?”
“Heavy metal. You dig it?”
“I prefer classical music,” Mason said.
“Awesome. The Stones. Led Zeppelin. Steppenwolf. Love that retro shit, man.”
Mason started to laugh, then swallowed it when he realized Ty wasn’t joking. “So,” he said, “can we get back to Diggs now?”
“Shoot.”
“Tell me about the assaults.”
“Never happened,” Ty said.
“No?”
“No way.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s an open secret. Everybody knows they’re just fuckin’ with the dude.”
“Can you prove it?”
“How do you prove a negative, man?”
Mason had been wondering the same thing.
“According to court records,” he said, “Diggs assaulted a guard named Robert Araujo on March twelve, 2005. What do you know about that?”
“The asshole made it up.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Because the warden asked him to.”
“You know this how?”
“Heard Araujo talkin’ about it in the break room one time.”
“What did he say?”
“That the warden wanted to make sure Diggs stayed locked up. Araujo said he faked the assault charge to help out.”
“Do you remember his exact words?”
“Hell, no. It was seven years ago, dude.”
“Who else was there?”
Ty thought about it a moment.
“I don’t remember, but I do remember they were acting like Araujo was a big fuckin’ hero. High-fiving him, patting him on the back, and shit.”
“Close your eyes,” Mason said. “It will help your recall.”
“You’re shittin’ me, right?”
“Just try it. Close your eyes and visualize the break room. Araujo is there, bragging about what he’d done. Others are patting him on the back. Who are they?”
“Chuckie Shaad,” Ty said. “Oh, and Frank Horrocks.”
“Anybody else?”
“Yeah, but I don’t remember who.”
“Look around the room,” Mason said. “Who do you see?”
“Uh. The new guy, John Pugliese, is playing cards at a table by the vending machines. I can’t see who with, though.”
“Now look at Araujo. Does he have any sort of visible injury?”
“No.”
“Okay,” Mason said, and Ty opened his eyes.
“Damn,” he said. “That actually works, huh?”
“Sometimes,” Mason said.
“Think it would help me remember the words to ‘Symphony of Destruction’?”
“What’s that?”
“Only Megadeth’s biggest hit ever, dude.”
“You’d probably be better off writing them on your wrist,” Mason said. “Diggs was also charged with assaulting a guard named Joseph Galloway last fall. What can you tell me about that?”