Vinnie with a gun, Vinnie who spoke for Joe Broz, or kille for Joe Broz, was for me the ordinary, the workaday. I felt as if my footing were unsure as if the earth were slippery.
"You were asking about Mickey Paultz, Vinnie said. He drank some coffee and put th cup down. His movements were careful an economical and precise. His nails were manicured.
"Yes."
"Tell me a little about why you want to know."
"I'm looking into a religious group called the Reorganized Church of the Redemption. I noticed it has made a number of large low interest loans to the Paultz Construction Company."
Vinnie was watching me carefully. He nodded.
"After I had asked the head of this religious group about the loans, about where they got money for the loans, a couple of meanies came around and told me to butt out, or else."
"Scared you right off, didn't they," Vinni said.
"They drove off in a car registered to Pault Construction."
"Don't mean Paultz is dirty," Vinnie said. "Maybe these guys were just a couple shovel operators on a slow day. Maybe Paultz is buddies with the church guy."
"These were hoods, Vinnie. And the thing is, the church shows no visible source of income. Where they get the money to lend Paultz?"
Vinnie cut into his steak. "The faithful?"
I shook my head. "No. They receive money from the church, not the other way around."
"Church pays them to be members?"
"A stipend, for work," I said. "So where's the money come from?"
Vinnie smiled his careful smile and chewed his steak. He ate in small bites, chewing thoroughly. He swallowed. "You have a theory," he said.
"I say Paultz is dirty, he's making dirt, money, and he's laundering it through the church."
Vinnie nodded. "Makes sense. He make money under the table, donates it anonymously to this church, they lend it back to him at a low rate. He invests it at a higher one, or uses it to build property and sells it at a profit and the money he gets is shiny clean. Maybe Joe will found a church."
Vinnie ate some more. I drank my coffee and ate half a piece of toast.
"Heroin," Vinnie said. I was quiet.
"Mickey Paultz processes most of the skag that gets sold in New England," Vinnie said.
"How nice for him," I said. "Where does he do the processing?"
"Warehouse on the construction lot."
"You folks do business with Mickey?"
"You want to do dope business, you do it with Mickey. We do, Tony Marcus does, Worcester, Providence."
"Would it break your heart if someone put Mickey away and left the business up for grabs?"
Vinnie smiled. "Nature hates a vacuum, buddy boy."
"And so does Joe Broz."
Vinnie patted his mouth with a napkin. "Joe says you need some help on this, we'll help, up to a point."
"Why don't you just waste Paultz," I said.
"And move in, sort of like a proxy fight?" Vinnie shrugged. "Mickey's connections are good," he said. "Joe don't want to do it that way."
"So he wants me to do it," I said.
"He wants it done. You called us, you know. We didn't call you."
"If I do this right, maybe I can get my own territory," I said. "Couple of junior high schools . . . "Hi, kids, I'm the candy man.' "
"I don't like it too much either, tell you the truth," Vinnie said, "but Joe don't always check with me on these things. Joe likes dope. And you and me both know if Mickey Paultz don't do it, and Joe don't do it, then somebody else will do it."
"So I take Paultz out, Joe moves in, and I look the other way."
Vinnie smiled and jabbed his right index finger at me. "Most definitely," he said. "We get what we want, you get what you want, and all the junkies get what they want. What could be better?"
I shook my head. "Hard to imagine," I said.
CHAPTER 22
Wearing a pair of chino pants and a shortsleeve white shirt I went to call on Mickey Paultz. I had bought the pants a couple of years ago in case someone gave me a pair of Top-Siders and invited me to Dover. The shirt I'd had to buy for this occasion, but it was a business expense-disguise. I was undercover as a deacon. Since deacons didn't go armed that I could see, and since I didn't go unarmed, I'd strapped on a .25 automatic in an ankle holster. A quick draw is not easy with an ankle holster, but it was better than nothing.
Paultz Construction Company was on the southern artery in Quincy, a big sprawling ugly lot full of heavy equipment surrounded by chain link fencing with barbed wire on top, with an office trailer near the front gate. Back in the lot was a big prefab corrugated steel warehouse. I pulled the Ford Escort wagon that I had rented into the lot outside the gate and went through the gate and into the office. If the two sluggers who called on me were there, I'd simply turn around and leave. But I figured they wouldn't be. They didn't belong out front where the customers would see them. I was right. There was a fat woman in black stretch pants and pink blouse manning the typewriter and answering a phone.
When she got through on the phone she looked at me and said, "What do you need?"
"Mr. Paultz," I said.
A long unfiltered cigarette was burning in an ashtray.
"He's busy," she said. The phone rang, she answered, talked, hung up.
"I'm from Mr. Winston," I said. "I have to see Mr. Paultz."
She took a drag on her cigarette, put it down. "I don't know any Winston," she said.
"Ask Mr. Paultz," I said. "He'll want to know."
She shrugged and got up and went through a door into the back half of the trailer. In a moment she came back and said, "Okay, go on in," then she sat down and picked up her cigarette. I went through the open door and closed it behind me.
Mickey Paultz sat in an overstuffed chair with a piece of paisley cloth thrown over it. He looked at me and said, "What's up?"
He was thin with short gray hair and rimless glasses. A kitchen table was next to the chair and on it were two phones and several manila folders.
"Mr. Winston has to see you," I said. "He can't call. He thinks the phones are tapped. There's real trouble he says and wants to meet you in City Hall Plaza near the subway as soon as you can make it."
Paultz's expression didn't change. "Okay," he said.
I waited a minute.
Paultz said, "You want something else?"
A man of few words, I said, "No," and turned and went out.
I drove straight to Boston and parked in front of the precinct station on Sudbury Street by a sign that said POLICE VEHICLES ONLY, grabbed a camera, and hotfooted it across the street to the Kennedy Building. Hawk was there near the funny-looking metal sculpture.
"Winston go for it?" I said.
"Unh-huh." Hawk pointed with his chin across the vast brick plaza in front of City Hall. By the subway kiosk on the corner, Bullard Winston stood glancing at his watch and shifting his weight lightly from one foot to the other as he waited. He was wearing a seersucker suit. I sighted my camera at him and focused through the telephoto lens.
"Paultz coming?" Hawk said.
"I'm not sure," I said. "I told him my story and he said okay and sent me away."
"If he don't come, we gotta think of something else," Hawk said. "Can't pull this gig twice."
"I know." Behind the funny-looking sculpture I kept the camera steady on Winston. That him?" Hawk said.
Paultz got out of a white Chevy sedan that double-parked on Cambridge Street with the motor running.
"Yes," I said. As Paultz came into my viewfinder I snapped pictures of him and Winston talking. They talked for maybe fifteen seconds before Paultz turned and glanced around the plaza. We stepped out from behind the funny-looking sculpture. I kept snapping pictures, Hawk put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. Both Winston and Paultz turned and stared. Hawk waved. I had cranked out maybe twenty pictures. I stopped and rewound the film. I took out the roll and slipped it into my pocket. I let the camera hang by its strap from my right hand and Hawk and I began to walk across the plaza toward Paultz and Winston.