And who was the little thug? Was he the pyromaniac, or was he hired muscle delivering a message for someone else?
Either way, he was the key. If I didn’t stop snooping around, he’d be back. That’s what he’d promised. All I had to do to lay my hands on him was provoke him into coming for me again.
50
That evening, Veronica and I shared a pepperoni pizza at Casserta’s, and I told her my plan. She didn’t think it was as brilliant as I did.
“That’s crazy,” she said. “No story’s worth getting beaten up.”
“Some stories are.”
“I’ll bet Gloria doesn’t think so.”
I didn’t have a response to that.
“Please, baby,” she said, her voice thick with worry. “He might really hurt you this time.”
“He’s the one who’s going to get hurt.”
“Well, count me out,” she said. “I don’t plan on being there when he shows up. Sorry, cowboy, but you’ll be sleeping alone until this blows over.”
“I could come over to your place for a few hours, then go back to mine,” I said.
“I’d like that, but not tonight. I’m busy.”
Busy? I didn’t like the sound of that, but I decided not to make an issue of it. I paid the tab, leaned across the table for a kiss, and slid out of the booth.
“Be careful, baby,” she said. “Providence would be a lonely place without you.”
When I got home, I snapped on the TV to catch the Red Sox’ third game against the Tigers. Wakefield pitched Boston to a 4–2 lead after six, and Sox hitters mauled a trio of Tigers relief pitchers. Final score, 12–6. I grinned and shut the TV off.
I fidgeted with my cell, changing the ring tone to “Am I Losing You?” by the Cate Brothers, my favorite tune by that great Arkansas blues band. Then I took the shadow box down from the wall, pried the back open, and removed my grandfather’s Colt .45. I sat cross-legged on the floor and spent a half hour cleaning it and thinking about him.
“Bust ’em or dust ’em.” That’s what Grandpa used to say.
Wiping away the excess gun oil, I idly thought about buying some bullets. But the little thug was, well, little. What did I need with bullets?
51
Next morning I visited Gloria in the hospital. Her voice was stronger, but she still seemed defeated somehow. She kept whispering, “Thank you, Mulligan,” as if I’d done something besides let her wander Mount Hope’s streets alone.
An hour later I was wheeling Secretariat through the old neighborhood, with Jimmy Thackery’s “Blue Dog Prowl” growling from my CD player. It made me feel like prowling. I found Joseph DeLucca in front of his place, loading cardboard boxes onto the bed of a Bondo-patched Ford pickup.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey, Joseph. Can I give you a hand?”
“Nah. I’m about done. I borrowed the truck ’cause I thought there’d be more, but all that’s left is what’s in them fuckin’ boxes.”
It wasn’t much—silverware, a few pots and pans, some mismatched dishes, a few hand tools, a couple of framed photos, a dozen water-stained books in matching leather bindings that smelled of smoke.
Out of curiosity, I reached in and pulled out a volume. Bleak House by Charles Dickens.
“You oughta read that, you get a chance,” Joseph said. “This guy can fuckin’ write!”
Joseph reads Dickens? Joseph can read? Mark Twain and I had been wrong about him. It was his bright side that he never showed to anybody.
“When I talked to you last week, you said something about wishing you’d sold the place when you had the chance. Did you have it on the market?”
“Nah. But there was this girl who come knocking on our door, asking about buyin’ it.”
“Just knocked on the door and made an offer out of the blue?”
“Right out of the fuckin’ blue.”
“When was this?”
“January. No, February, ’cause all them Nigger History Month specials was screwing with my TV shows.”
I winced at his choice of words and asked, “Who was this girl?”
“Don’t remember her name, but she gave me her fuckin’ card.”
He pulled a warped leather wallet out of his hip pocket, extracted a dog-eared business card, and shoved it at me. Raised navy blue letters printed on good stock read “Cheryl Scibelli, Registered Agent, Little Rhody Realty Co.” Below it, a phone number but no address.
Little Rhody. One of the mystery real estate companies.
“Mind if I keep this?
“Knock yourself out.”
I stabled Secretariat in front of Joseph’s house and walked around the neighborhood knocking on the doors of single-family homes, the buildings most likely to be owner-occupied. That got me three slammed doors, four nobody-homes, two renters, and six homeowners. Turned out I knew them all—a former gym teacher, three old classmates from Hope High, Annie’s mom, and Jack Hart, the guy who took over Dad’s milk route when his eyesight failed. Five of the six said they’d been approached about selling. Two already had and were about to move out. Four of them still had business cards from Cheryl Scibelli of Little Rhody Realty.
I crossed Camp Street, leaving the fire-plagued southeast quadrant of the neighborhood behind, and knocked on more doors. That turned up five more home owners, none of whom had ever heard of Cheryl Scibelli or Little Rhody Realty.
On my way back to the Bronco, I cut up Catalpa Street and passed a crew from Dio Construction loading what was left of the rooming house into a dump truck. That’s when it hit me. Why was Johnny Dio’s company the only one I’d seen knocking down torched buildings in Mount Hope?
52
“Little Rhody Realty!” The voice was perky and eager to be helpful.
“May I speak with Mr. Dio, please?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but there is no one here by that name.”
“Well, may I speak to Mr. Giordano then?”
“I’m sorry”—the voice colder now—“but there is no one here by that name, either.”
“How about Charlie Radbourn or Barney Gilligan? Actually, any dead member of the Providence Grays will do.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“Is Cheryl Scibelli available?”
“I’m afraid she’s gone for the day, sir.”
“Do me a favor, then. Next time Johnny Dio or Vinnie Giordano come in, tell them Mulligan called looking for them.”
She told me again that she’d never heard of them, and maybe she hadn’t. I said good-bye and hung up.
If Little Rhody had anything to do with the fires …
And if Dio or Giordano had anything to do with Little Rhody …
And if the receptionist gave one of them my message …
And if the little thug worked for one of them …
Well, then maybe I’d be getting another visit from him soon.
53
That night I picked up Chinese takeout and drove to Veronica’s place in Fox Point. We ate chicken with garlic sauce and shrimp lo mein straight from the cartons as she talked about her day. The evening was a blur of food and chat until we got naked and tumbled into bed.
Again, Veronica guided my head to her chest, but not so I could relax. I took my time exploring, and by the time our bodies locked in rhythm, the woman had become a full-blown addiction.
When my breathing returned to normal I twisted away from her, snatched my jeans off the carpet, and fumbled for something in the side pocket.
“Here. I want you to have this.”
She sat up in bed, opened the little blue box, and lifted the necklace out on a finger. It wasn’t much, but it managed to glisten a little. A tiny sterling Underwood typewriter on a silver chain.