“And this broad was missing.”
“Woman,” Farrell said. “You straight guys wonder why you don’t get laid more.” He tapped his pen on the paper. Since the last time I’d seen him, he’d bulked up a little and shaved the blond mustache. He looked much younger and healthier.
“She said she was being pursued,” Belson said.
“That’s what she told me, too,” I said. “I met her at Copley Place and drove her back to my apartment.”
“Did you not believe her at first?”
“Nope,” I said. “Would you?”
Belson let out a long sigh and then leaned back in the slick office chair. He set a pair of scuffed brown loafers on the edge of the table and stared up at the ceiling. “What’d this Fraser woman tell you?”
“She was about to tell me something of importance before those two tried to throw her into their car.”
Belson nodded. He looked to Farrell. Farrell’s eyes looked over me, and he waited a beat. “Nobody has told you, then.”
“Told me what?” I said.
“Jimmy Carlucci is the dead one,” Farrell said. “We think he was working with his brother, Tommy. You don’t know the Carlucci brothers?”
“Sounds like a used-car dealership.”
“They were a couple of young hotshots,” Belson said. “Real up-and-comers in the life. You know?”
“Quirk always served me coffee before bringing bad news.”
“We’ve spoken to the DA,” Farrell said. “We don’t have to hold you, in light of the Carluccis’ record.”
“Okay,” I said. “So it’s you that knows these guys.”
“Yeah,” Belson said. “I’ve known these shitbirds since they were stealing ATMs out of bars in the South End. They used to run with this half-Irish, half-Cuban fuckup. Named Carlos or Carlito. Shit, I don’t remember. But their pal ended up in a little alley off Tremont. They wedged his body in a one-foot space and covered him up with garbage bags.”
“You make the case?”
Belson shook his head.
“Frank, you’re leaving out the best part,” Farrell said. He rubbed the wide place under his nose as if he still had the mustache. “You want to tell him, or do I?”
“No, wait,” I said. “I love the suspense.”
Belson stood up and stretched his legs. He felt for his shirt pocket and pulled out a wet cigar that looked like he’d extracted it from a cat box. He stuck the limp, brown mass in the side of his mouth. “You just aced Gino Fish’s nephew.”
“You’re gonna need some help,” Farrell said.
“I have someone.”
“Hawk?”
“My protégé.”
“Where’s Hawk?” Belson said. The cigar vice locked in his jaw.
“Miami.”
“You sure you want to bet your life on that Indian kid?” Belson said.
I didn’t answer. Z was not Hawk.
“Call him,” Farrell said. “Because I’ll lock you up myself if you try and leave here by yourself. Christ, it’s three a.m.”
“Where’s Jemma?”
“Next room,” Belson said.
“She’s coming with me.”
“Of course, why not make the target even bigger,” Belson said. He walked to the door. “Terrific. For someone who quotes poetry and shit all the time, I wonder about your common fucking sense.”
“You’re not alone.”
Belson made a sound that was somewhere between a grunt and indigestion. He shook his head and left the room, not bothering to close the door. His steps were soft and silent on the industrial carpet. Farrell turned back to me. “You doing okay?”
I shrugged.
“Was it bad?”
“I don’t ever like this part,” I said.
“On the bright side, you did not let them shoot you.”
“There is that.”
“It always makes me feel rotten, too,” Farrell said. “You realize, it’s okay for a man to feel that way.”
“Thanks, Lee,” I said. “And now I promise not to tell Susan about your outfit.”
42
“YOU WANT ME to come inside with you?” Z said.
I shook my head. I stood with him outside the steps to my apartment. A soft, warm wind shot down Marlborough Street. There was crime scene tape on the edge of the street. The super had replaced the broken glass on the door with plywood. It was still very dark. I had left Jemma upstairs with Pearl.
“I can sit on your place till morning.”
“Not necessary.”
“People will come for you,” Z said.
“Not until I get the talk,” I said. “I’ll wait to hear from Vinnie. He’ll set up a meet with Gino. Gino would want a polite sit-down first.”
“Before he kills you?”
“Being a good bad guy comes with a lot of etiquette.”
“On the rez, someone has problems, they just shoot you.”
“Simpler,” I said. “But less elegant.”
“I’m staying anyway,” Z said. Without another word, he walked toward his car and closed the door. Marlborough contained many dark pockets and long shadows out from the iron streetlamps. I went upstairs and found Jemma cross-legged on the floor. She was rubbing Pearl’s belly. Pearl didn’t seem to notice my entrance. Her tongue lolled from her mouth and her eyes had rolled up in her head.
“I’ll make up the bed with fresh sheets.”
“I can sleep out here,” she said. “On the couch.”
“Against the rules.”
“Whose rules?”
“My own.”
“I see,” she said. She stood and walked toward the kitchen. “May I have a drink first?”
I displayed the contents of my modest bar. I offered her an assortment of beer and a half-bottle of Riesling I had kept for Susan. She joined me in some Blanton’s, served neat. I drank half and started work on the sheets in the bedroom. I changed out the pillowcases and turned off the overhead light. An old brass lamp on an end table created a nice homey glow.
I looked out the window. Z’s Mustang was still parked on the street.
“There are plenty of towels and soap in the bathroom,” I said.
“I would very much like to shower,” she said. She helped herself to another bourbon. I continued to stand while she sat perched on a bar stool.
I got an extra pillow and an old quilt from my linen closet. I could hear the shower running as I turned on the television to see if the shooting made the replay of the late news. It was not easy sharing the couch with Pearl. She liked to stretch out. But her soft breathing and groans made me tired. The adrenaline finally began leaving my system. I turned off the television and then the light.
I heard the shower stop.
My eyes were closed, ears still ringing from gunshots, when she padded into the room. Being vigilant, I opened my eyes. She was in the kitchen, wrapped in only a navy blue towel as she poured out more bourbon. Her body was as taut and impressive as Z and I had surmised. Her wet hair had been combed straight down her back. She took a sip of booze, eyes closed and throat working. She noted my staring and inched toward me. She looked younger without the makeup. The soft, natural droop of her breasts was noticeable as she clutched her towel with one hand, the bourbon in the other.
“Spenser.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t have to sleep on the couch.”
“Thank you,” I said. “But Pearl might get lonely.”
“We can both sleep in the bed,” she said. She sat on my coffee table. “There is no harm in that. I promise not to bother you.”
“You might give in to my raw Irish magnetism,” I said. “Plus, I snore.”
She drank some more and wiped her mouth. She smelled of Susan’s good soap and shampoo. The little light in the room came from a crack by the bedroom door. Pearl turned and huffed in her sleep. Jemma was doing a very poor job holding on to the towel. Her chest and shoulders were very freckled. Her legs were muscular and smooth.
“I can’t stand to think of a man your size sleeping out here.”