Arakel did not say anything to that and went back to his office. There, he collapsed into his chair and reached into his jacket pocket for another small bottle of vodka.
Forty-one
The sun was getting lower in the sky by the time Jesse turned off the Concord Turnpike into the bowling alley’s parking lot. Vinnie Morris’s name appeared nowhere on the deed to the building that housed the bowling alley, nor on the incorporation papers for the firm that owned and ran it. In fact, Vinnie Morris’s name did not appear on a single document that in any way connected him to the bowling alley, but there wasn’t a soul who knew anything about the Boston underworld who doubted the place was Vinnie’s. Jesse had come to see Vinnie many times, and every time he did he was forced to dance the same dance with the person at the front desk. It didn’t matter who was behind the desk, man or woman, young or old, tall or short, thin or fat. They all played dumb.
“Tell Vinnie Jesse Stone is here to see him.”
This time it was a woman behind the desk, twentysomething, with a thick Irish accent. “Come again,” she said. “Vinnie, you say? No, sorry. I don’t tink there’s anyone by dat name here, sir.”
Jesse took out his chief’s shield. “Just call in back and tell him I’ll be at the bar.”
He didn’t bother to wait for her to parry with him, much as he enjoyed her brogue. He turned, walked straight to the bar, and sat down. He asked for a tall club soda with lime. The barman recognized Jesse from previous visits but was unaware that Jesse had given up the drink. He put a Johnny Walker Black on ice down in front of him. Jesse didn’t hesitate to push it away.
“No offense, but I don’t drink anymore,” Jesse said. “I’ll take that club soda.”
“For real?” the barman asked.
“For real.”
The barman took the blended scotch away and tossed it in the sink. He put the club soda up in front of Jesse. “Sorry.”
“No need.”
“So, you really did give it up?” Vinnie Morris had been watching and listening.
Jesse turned and shook Vinnie’s hand. “Cute Irish girl up front. Better than the usual fat losers you have manning the desk.”
Vinnie laughed. “She’s Jewish, from Sharon, an actress. She likes screwing around with the customers’ heads. Her dad’s one of my accountants.”
“She’s good. Had me fooled.”
“Hey, Jesse, you mind if I have a real drink?”
“Your place, Vinnie. Your rules. I’m fine, but thanks for asking.”
The barman didn’t wait and put a double pour of expensive bourbon in front of his boss. Jesse raised his glass. They both drank. Sat there quietly together for a minute, looking into the mirror behind the bar.
“What can I do for you, Jesse?”
“Not so long ago, you warned me that Boston’s crime would creep into Paradise. You were right. It’s arrived.”
“I like being right, but you didn’t drive down here to pat me on the back for being an oracle.”
“Opioids and fentanyl-laced heroin,” Jesse said.
“That stuff’s all over the place. You know you got an opioid problem in this country when there’s a drug just for opioid constipation that a pharmaceutical company pays millions of bucks to advertise on TV.”
“We had a seventeen-year-old girl OD in town last week, and I think the trail leads down here.”
“Not to me it don’t.”
“I mean Boston. Sorry, Vinnie. I know that’s not how you make your money. But you hear things.”
“I do. Word around is there’s a cartel out there that sells franchises like a fast-food chain.”
“Turks? Afghans? Russians? Mexicans? Bulgarians? Israelis? Colombians?”
“Everybody. That’s the scary thing. It’s not set up the traditional way. Word is the money comes out of China, and when it comes back to them it’s squeaky clean. Their hands are so far away from the product that most of the investors don’t know what their front money is for. You think the DEA is playing Wack-A-Mole with the Mexicans... this is worse.”
“Did anyone come to you to make the offer for you to buy in?”
When Vinnie didn’t answer immediately, Jesse had his answer.
“Yeah,” Vinnie said, seeing Jesse had already guessed at the answer. “They came to me, but it was through lawyers and nothing was ever stated that could blow back on them. It was a discussion about product and shit. All neutral words, but what was really being said and offered was understood by everyone in the room.”
“Was it a good deal?”
“I didn’t get to where I was by turning over control of my whole life to some nameless, faceless syndicate. And you know the way I feel about drugs like that. Could you make money? Yeah, a lot more than someone who is a silent partner in a bowling alley.”
Jesse asked about the lawyers, but Vinnie balked.
“Not crossing that line, Stone.”
Jesse didn’t push, but changed subjects. “Precious Pawn and Loan, you know them?”
Vinnie laughed. “I heard of them.”
“Next time I go see them, can I use your name?”
“Sure, I think they probably heard of me, too.”
“No doubt. What do I owe you?”
“Any intel you get on that drug franchise,” Vinnie said. “I don’t want them to get any ideas that they should expand into other areas.”
“Deal.” Jesse shook Vinnie’s hand.
“How’s things with your boy?”
Now it was Jesse’s turn to laugh. “He’s in the next class at the State Police Academy.”
“Jeez! Like father like son. I hope he’s not as good a cop. I’d hate to have to deal with the both of you.” Vinnie stood, finishing his drink in a single swallow. “Watch yourself with these drug guys, Jesse. They don’t fuck around.”
When Jesse headed back to Paradise, a white cargo van followed.
Forty-two
Jesse drove from the bowling alley to the Back Bay. It hadn’t been a disappointing day, but there hadn’t been any revelations, either. He felt he wasn’t much closer to finding the person who employed Chris Grimm than he had been when he’d driven away from the high school that morning. Sure, he knew more about how the scam with the pawn shop worked. He had his suspicions concerning Arakel Sarkassian and his story about Chris Grimm bringing Oriental rugs to him for an estimate.
It had been good to see Bill again and, he had to confess, it had also been good to see Vinnie Morris. Jesse and Vinnie would be bound together forever by how things had played out in the immediate wake of Diana’s murder. And it wasn’t only that. Jesse had to acknowledge it was more than respect and gratitude he felt for Vinnie Morris. There was an undeniable kinship between them. For now, though, Vinnie and the other events of the day were in his rearview mirror. He had a sense that this last get-together had more potential to get him closer to the drug scene in Paradise than those that had come before it.
The last thing Jesse wanted or needed was more caffeine, but he met Django Carpenter at a coffeehouse a few blocks from the Berklee College of Music campus. Django was a classic blending of his mother and father. Dark-skinned, with a radiating warmth like his mom and as stunningly handsome as his father, Django had yet to fill out the promise of his long limbs and broad shoulders. He bumped fists with Jesse as he approached. Jesse had known the kid since birth, so there was no feeling-out nonsense.
“Yo, Jesse,” he said, seemingly at ease in these surroundings.
“How are you doing, Django?”
“It is what it is.”
“School?”
“All good. Love my folks, but nice to be out of their orbit... if you know what I mean.”
“Can’t be easy wanting to be a musician and having a famous father for a musician. And then to hang Django on you...”