“I’ve slept in worse.”
She was quiet for a while. A few cars passed out on Marlborough. I heard a siren from far away and the laughter of people walking under my window. She touched my hand.
“I can’t stop thinking about tonight,” she said. “The way the man looked, bleeding out on the street.”
“Have another,” I said. “And you’ll stop thinking about everything.”
“I’m quite scared.”
I opened my eyes. “You could tell me what happened to Rick,” I said. “What don’t I know?”
She took a breath. Waited a beat. “It’s quite complicated.”
“I think I can handle it.”
She put down her glass and dropped her forehead into her right hand for support. Her towel dropped even more. I began to try to recall the roster of the ’69 Red Sox.
She reached out and squeezed my fingers.
“Rick double-crossed some very important people.”
“Okay.”
“He let me run so much, but then would keep me in the dark about so much else.”
I waited. I did not want to blurt out “Who’s getting the slush fund?” if she was about to point to the maid or Colonel Mustard in the kitchen.
“He had made friends at the State House,” she said. She stood up and padded back to the kitchen. She poured out more bourbon. After I scraped her off the floor in the morning, I would have to restock.
“This person, whoever it was, is how we got the gaming initiative passed,” she said. “And they were to work out details with the local Mob.”
“For a tribute?”
“More like a percentage.”
“Who would know the name of the politician?”
“Rick.”
I placed both hands behind my head. I looked up at the ceiling in contemplation. Jemma walked back and sat down. As she moved, one of her breasts was exposed. I do not think she noticed, or perhaps she did not care.
“What about personal papers, computer files, messages? What does Rachel know?”
She kept shaking her head. “Something of that importance was known only to Rick,” she said. She steadied her drinking elbow on her knee and took a sip. “Please come to bed.”
“Alas, my heart belongs to another.”
“I don’t want your heart.” Her accent had slipped a bit.
Carlton Fisk, Carl Yastrzemski, Sparky Lyle.
“You think he was killed because of this politician?” I said.
“Good God,” she said. “Can we discuss this later?”
I sat up from the couch and placed my bare feet on the floor. I massaged my temples. Pearl did not stir.
“Have you ever heard him say the name Gino Fish?”
“No,” she said. “I would definitely remember that name.”
“Can you help me find the politician?”
She shrugged. She looked at me for a long moment and smiled. Then she tucked her wet hair behind her ears and stood. She looked down at me with a sneer just in time to trip over a footstool. She thudded in a heap, naked and sprawled on an antique rag rug. I did my best covering her in the damp towel and dropped her in my bedroom. I turned off the table light and walked back to the couch.
Tony Conigliaro, Rico Petrocelli, Reggie Smith.
43
BRIGHT AND EARLY the next morning, Vinnie Morris walked into my office and took a seat in my client chair. Z was on the couch, with Pearl’s head resting in his lap. We were drinking coffee and discussing the night’s events. Although Vinnie had not called, the visit was not unexpected.
“Nice to see you,” I said.
“Congrats. You’re number one on Gino’s shit list.”
“With or without a bullet?”
“That’s up to you,” Vinnie said. “Reason I’m here.”
Vinnie was dressed, as was most often the case, like Ralph Lauren’s oft-neglected Italian cousin. He wore a trim-fitting blue blazer over a crisp yellow dress shirt and pink tie, with lightweight charcoal pants and buffed wingtips. His hair had been recently barbered and swept back with a light sheen. His nails were manicured. The pink tie was knotted with a single Windsor at his throat.
“I’m sorry about Gino’s nephew.”
“We’ll get to that in a second,” Vinnie said. “How the fuck did you get involved in this casino crap?”
“Would you believe sheer luck?”
Vinnie rubbed an invisible dirt spot off his wingtips. Z and I both wore sweaty workout clothes. I hadn’t been able to sleep, and I had run steps at Harvard Stadium while Z had walked the track. My thighs felt like Jell-O, but my breathing was calm. Relaxed. I folded my arms across my chest and leaned back in my chair. “Some sluggers were trying to push Henry Cimoli around.”
“That didn’t have shit to do with Gino.”
“Says who?”
“Says me,” Vinnie said.
I looked over Vinnie’s shoulder. Z lay back relaxed on the couch. He took a sip of coffee, listening but silent. Sunlight slanted across my wooden floor and over half of Vinnie’s face.
“Jimmy and Tommy were just trying to scare the broad,” Vinnie said. “Not kill her.”
“Attempted kidnapping.”
Vinnie shrugged.
“Why?” I said.
Vinnie kind of laughed, mainly just blew some air out of his nose. He sat erect in my client chair and leaned back to stare at the ceiling. I again glanced over at Z. Z patted Pearl’s head with one hand; the other hand put down the coffee and disappeared at his side. Z did not know Vinnie Morris.
“Gino wanted me to tell you to back off,” Vinnie said. “I told him that was a waste of breath. But he wanted to say it anyway. So there you go. I fucking said it.”
“What’s Gino say about Rick Weinberg being smoked?”
“The headless horseman?”
I nodded.
“Not our business,” Vinnie said. “Gino said you’d ask. And I said I’d tell you we were not involved.”
“You saying that or Gino?”
“Me.”
Vinnie widened his eyes. He shuffled in my client chair. He scratched his cheek.
“I’m sort of working for Rick Weinberg’s widow,” I said.
“What the fuck does ‘sort of’ mean?”
“I was asked to help, but now she’s being evasive.”
“Lot of that going around,” Vinnie said. “Big money makes people cautious.”
“Where has Gino put his money?”
Vinnie shrugged and yanked his head back. “That the big fucking Indian I keep hearing about?”
I nodded.
“A real-life fucking Indian,” Vinnie said.
“Say hello, Z.”
Z said: “How.”
“Fucking funny,” Vinnie said. “Is being a smartass part of the training?”
“Just a fortunate side effect,” I said.
“Are we clear now?”
“What about Gino’s nephew?” I said.
Vinnie stood and straightened the sleeves on his blazer. He found a bit of fuzz on his lapel and flicked it away with his finger. “He’s not taking this thing personally,” he said. “Between us, he never liked the numbnuts anyway. But on the business end, he says it was an unfortunate misunderstanding.”
“Why did Gino want Jemma Fraser?”
Vinnie shrugged. “Who shot first?” he said. “Just curious.”
“Not my gun,” I said.
Vinnie nodded.
“You know I won’t back off.”
“No fucking kidding,” Vinnie said.
“I need to see Gino.”
“Like I said, he doesn’t blame you for what happened, but he doesn’t want to talk to you, either. How the fuck would that look?”
“I am interested in why someone wanted to clip me.”
“He didn’t know you were involved.”
“Now he does,” I said. “Police think he may have aced Weinberg as a message.”
“You really think that’s his style?”
“To be honest, I’ve never really thought Gino had much of a style.”