Robert B. Parker's Bye Bye Baby, page 17
part #49 of Spenser Series
“Lots of people against these fine folks,” I said.
“And a lot of people with him, too,” Hawk said. “Boston wants to believe it’s progressive. But we ain’t. They just hiding. Waiting for their time.”
Bishop Graves stood in a throng of Minutemen wearing their prerequisite white polo shirts and khakis. They looked like servers at a beach wedding. Josh Dillon was among them, as well as Cole Buckley and an old Malden cop I’d identified by the name of Finley. Altogether, I counted two dozen men in white.
I pulled the camera off my shoulder and adjusted the long lens. I began to capture as many faces of the Minutemen as possible. If there was a run at Carolina tonight or at any time, we could have evidence of their membership in the Minutemen.
An assortment of Boston cops stood along the barricade. Cops of all colors, shapes, and sizes. They looked about as pleased to be there as Hawk and I were. Protecting free speech and a democracy was hell. I was pretty sure if people like Graves ever won, there would be much less interest in protecting the rights of all.
“Have pride, white people,” Graves said. The PA system weak and tinny. “Have pride in your race and your culture. Boston was founded by white Christians and should continue to be run by white Christians. This is the birthplace of our proud nation. Stand up and be counted.”
I looked to Hawk. “You taking notes?”
Hawk didn’t answer. A single drop of perspiration ran down his forehead and under his sunglasses. He didn’t speak. He didn’t move.
Graves held his right palm in the air, his long brown beard jutting from his chin. His hair slicked tight against his skull. “White blood has been shed,” he said. “And perhaps it’s time for it to be shed again.”
“I guess he never heard of Crispus Attucks,” I said.
“Crispus Attucks would think this guy’s a motherfucker.”
The counterprotesters began a chant that sounded a lot like “Fuck the Nazis.” As it grew louder, I was sure of it. Hawk and I scanned the crowd. I took several more close-up photos of the men standing nearest to Graves. He seemed to delight in the attention and the chanting. He smiled, facing the crowd and walking from corner to corner of the bandstand as if he were the captain of a ship. He pulled at his beard as he reveled in the hate.
“I say we kidnap Graves,” Hawk said. “I know this old warehouse in Quincy where we can beat on his ass like an African drum.”
“Why not a Celtic drum?”
“Be any drum you want,” Hawk said. “Bring Sixkill. Let him get some of that Indian drumming on his ass.”
“Native American.”
“Native American, African American, Irish American,” Hawk said. “Still an old-fashioned beatdown.”
I slung my camera back over my shoulder. It bumped against the Browning while I watched Graves try to continue with the speech, but he was now drowned out by the protesters. “Fuck the Nazis” soon became “Fuck the Fascists.” “Go Home Little Hitler” was another favorite.
“If we get down and dirty,” I said. “Aren’t we the same as them?”
“Nope.”
“Let me rephrase the question,” I said. “Isn’t it up to us to find a better and smarter way?”
“Can’t reason with man with a brain size of a lizard.”
“That’s insulting to lizards.”
“Me and you been around Boston too long,” Hawk said. “You know how this all gonna go. And how the song got to end.”
“They hardly seem like worthy opponents.”
“Same as cockroaches,” he said. “If you don’t get rid of one soon as you see it, they multiply.”
Hawk watched Graves leave the bandstand surrounded by the white-shirted boys as they walked down to their waiting vehicles along Park Street.
“They made the play,” Hawk said. “Actions have consequences.”
Hawk looked as if he was about to say more. But he stopped speaking. Something had caught his eye. Three men had moved into the rush of the white-shirted crowd, keeping a tight perimeter on the flow of the Minutemen. One looked like a Bulgarian weightlifter. The other smaller but thicker, with a bald head and a Sox hoodie. I could see the outline of a gun under his right arm up under the hoodie.
“Well, well, well,” Hawk said.
“See someone you know?”
“Hired muscle,” he said. “Big man’s name is Guzman.”
“Guzman?”
Hawk repeated the last name.
“Smaller guy is goddamn Bamm Bamm Bonzini.”
“Guzman and Bamm Bamm,” I said. “Sounds like a Hanna-Barbera production.”
“Used to run with your boy Jumpin’ Jack Flynn,” he said. “I don’t think they walk behind any crew now. Muscle for hire.”
“Cokey McMichael?”
“If you say so.”
“Can you make some calls?”
“Me being a disreputable thug and you being an upstanding investigator?”
“Yep,” I said. “Exactly like that.”
“Or maybe we just follow their ass.”
“In this traffic?”
Hawk pulled out his phone and dialed a number. He asked a few very direct questions. When he got the answers, he slipped the phone back into his pocket.
We followed the police barricades to Tremont and got within fifteen feet of Bishop Graves. Protesters were screaming at him. One young woman holding a baby offered her middle finger as he passed. He looked absolutely thrilled with all the attention. He was feeding off it. Graves waved to the crowd like a conquering hero.
Guzman and Bonzini held the door to a red Ford Expedition open. Graves gave a Nazi salute as he crawled inside. Guzman got behind the wheel and they were gone just as fast as they’d arrived. The small crowd started to disperse.
Police shouted directions and began to dismantle the barricades.
“Bring around the car, James,” Hawk said. “Susan ain’t gonna like where I’m taking your ass.”
43
Shenanigans Tap Room was in a stand-alone brick building in Chelsea with a lovely view of the Route 1 overpass. The sign outside boasted the holy trinity of food, cocktails, and entertainment. I was disappointed to learn that meant soggy chicken wings, shots of cheap liquor, and two women in bikinis trying not to fall off the stage.
I walked in first and found a spot at the bar. Christmas lights twinkled overhead. A DJ played some music I couldn’t recognize and hoped to never hear again. It sounded as if it had been arranged and performed by a computer. Hawk followed a few moments later and took a seat two stools down from mine.
Greenish light pulsed from LED rope lights wrapping the poles framing the bar. A bony and lethargic woman onstage bent over and flapped her nonexistent butt up and down. It was about as sexy as watching ice cream melt.
A white woman in a bikini top and a Russian fur hat worked the bar. I ordered a Sam Adams. Hawk asked for ice water.
There were two men playing pool in an open back room, an old man in brown coveralls holding a wad of cash by the stage, and two women in bikinis smoking cigarettes by the bathrooms. No sight of Guzman or Bamm Bamm. Maybe they were all hanging out at the Minutemen clubhouse in Medford.
The woman brought me the beer. It was lukewarm.
“Spasibuh,” I said.
She rolled her eyes and walked off.
I hoped Guzman would show soon. Not a bad place to hang out if you were fully up on your rabies shots.
“Are you sure this is Guzman’s place?” I said, glancing at Hawk. “Or did you just come for the chicken wings?”
“You think all brothers like chicken wings?”
“Everyone likes chicken wings.”
“I wouldn’t feed that shit to a rat.”
Hawk watched the performances onstage without a gesture or a comment. The woman in the Russian hat asked if I’d like another beer. I still had half left of the first. Restraint. I placed a five on the bar and, satisfied, she walked away.
“Don’t thugs ever hang out in nice places?” I said. “Like the MFA or the Four Seasons?”
“You and I hang out at the Four Seasons.”
“You and I are a different breed of thug.”
Hawk nodded and walked up to a tired dancer hanging upside down from a brass pole and tucked some cash into her garter. He did it with as much enthusiasm as someone stuffing the Salvation Army bucket.
He sat back down. “Momma working hard.”
Twenty minutes later, light spilled into the bar and a large man darkened the doorway. We watched as Guzman strolled into Shenanigans with Bamm Bamm Bonzini and a small, mean-looking guy with a shaved head. Bamm Bamm had on workout pants and one of those oversized cut-off sweatshirts they sell in bodybuilding magazines. His light brown hair had been sculpted in what appeared to be a shark’s fin on top of his head.
“Mm-hm,” Hawk said. “Showtime.”
It was dark inside and the music was deafening. I’m pretty sure the song had changed since we’d walked in but couldn’t really tell any difference.
Guzman hopped onstage with one of the dancers, bent her over, and then made a roping motion like a cowboy. Bonzini and the little mean guy laughed and then headed to the back pool room, talking to the guys around the table.
Hawk intercepted Guzman when he hopped offstage. Guzman was dark-complected, with a round face and ham-sized arms. He had on a white tank top and a camo-colored flat-billed ball cap. His head looked like something Pete Weber could use to knock down a dozen pins.
Hawk whispered something in Guzman’s ear.
Guzman looked taken aback.
Hawk smiled. He looked to me and tilted his head.
The girl in the fuzzy hat walked back up my way. She leaned in to the bar, placing her chin into the palm of her hand.
“Is Guzman a good boss?” I said.
The woman looked at me as if I were crazy. “He’s an asshole.”
“Good,” I said. “Don’t be too quick to dial nine-one-one.”
She started to ask more, but I pushed myself off the bar just as Hawk punched Guzman once in the right ear and then two times fast in the stomach. Guzman rushed Hawk and drove him hard and fast back past me and into the bar, toppling the rest of my beer.
Hawk picked up the beer and broke the bottle over Guzman’s head.
The action got the attention of Bamm Bamm and his pal Pebbles, and they came running out of the pool room. Pebbles had a pool cue in his hand, holding it like a guy who was about to perform an overhead press. His face was pinched like a small feral animal looking up from his hole.
Bamm Bamm rushed toward Hawk, and I body-checked him hard into the stage, knocking the legs out from under a dancer. They fell into a tangled mess as the music continued to play, a song that kept repeating “I Feel Just Like a Rock Star.”
Pebbles rushed me, swinging the cue like Toshiro Mifune. I dipped my shoulder and took a hard blow across my back. I reached up and snatched the cue from his hands, getting a good grip and taking aim at his head.
There was a sharp crack against his skull before I took out his left knee with a swift kick. Pebbles was down and writhing on the floor, blood across his ear and chin.
The music stopped as Bamm Bamm leapt offstage and onto my back. I spun him off and he crashed into two tables. He toppled onto the floor but was back on his feet fast and raised his fists.
The stripper behind me yelled encouragement. “Kick his ass, Bamm Bamm.”
I looked back at her and placed a finger to my lips.
Hawk had Guzman down on his knees, his thick arm across Guzman’s throat. Guzman’s ball cap lay on the ground as he attempted to break free. Hawk seemed to be giving little effort as he leaned down and whispered something in Guzman’s ear.
Bamm Bamm was back on me, his hair still gelled up into a perfect fin on top of his head.
I led with a quick left, catching him in the arm, and followed with a cross to his ribs with my right. I hammered him twice in the ribs as he pushed off at me and swung with an overhead that connected with my ear. I heard the ocean and rocked back on my feet before rolling forward with a quick combo that finished with a right cross against his jaw. The fin on top of his head sunk. He wobbled. And then fell down.
One of the dancers came around and helped him into a chair. She called me a few unpleasant names while she clutched Bamm Bamm tight to her bosom. His pal Pebbles had pushed himself against a far wall, holding a hand to his bleeding ear.
I looked around the bar, which glowed with red and green light. Shenanigans was no worse a mess than it was when we’d entered.
I turned to Hawk. He’d let Guzman go. Guzman was on all fours now, struggling for breath but answering Hawk’s questions. Hawk patted his head. “Nice doggie.”
I walked up to Hawk.
“They with Cokey McMichael?” I said.
Hawk nodded and walked back up to the stage and showered the girls with a fistful of cash.
“Make it rain, Daddy,” I said. We both walked toward the entrance and the outdoor light and fresh air.
“Hard work,” he said. “Keeping time in a joint like this.”
44
I had Lou Pasquale meet me at the Wheelhouse Diner in Quincy.
The building looked like a large breadbox and had traditional counter service and a single open griddle inside. It smelled like coffee and bacon and I hadn’t eaten all day. I ordered a club sandwich, fries, and a Coke. I didn’t think Lou would mind. I wasn’t sure how long it would take him to get here or if he’d get cold feet and not show up.
Hawk was back at the campaign offices with Sixkill. I’d promised to give Sixkill a proper welcome to Boston later at the Russell House Tavern with Susan.
I sat in a back booth facing one of two exits. There was a chalkboard over the grill listing the specials and assorted homey bric-a-brac on the walls. A captain’s wheel clock. A large wooden fork. The diner was empty except for the cook and the waitress. A middle-aged guy in a hoodie and a ball cap worked on a cheeseburger while he flipped through his cell phone.
I’d finished three-quarters of my club and half my fries when Lou entered the opposite end of the diner. His face and head were clean-shaven and he wore a blue Pats T-shirt over his large stomach and a pair of khaki pants. He looked clean, fresh, and possibly sober as he slid into the booth.
“How’s King?”
“Kidneys acting up,” he said. “On some new medication. Won’t be long. I just don’t want to do it too soon. Or too late.”
“I’ve been there.”
“It’s the worst,” Lou said.
I nodded. I glanced up at the chalkboard. “Hungry?”
“Nah,” he said. “I’d just ate when you called. This place wasn’t far.”
I drank a little Coke and smiled at him. I let the silence hang between us. He looked at my face and pointed at me. “What the hell happened to you?”
“I had a disagreement with Bamm Bamm Bonzini.”
“Never heard of him,” Lou said. “But he clipped your ear good. Better put some ice on it.”
I nodded.
“Jeez,” he said. “And there’s blood on your shirt, too.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “It’s not mine.”
The waitress reappeared. She was a middle-aged woman who looked as if she had never had any other job than waitress. Bleached blond curly hair, smoker’s lines around her mouth, and an affable way of making you feel welcome at the Wheelhouse.
Lou ordered some coffee with cream and sugar.
“These guys,” I said. “The ones I got into a disagreement with. They work for your pal Cokey McMichael.”
Lou leveled his eyes at me. He swallowed. The waitress brought some coffee along with some creamer in a little dish with ice. Lou added a lot of creamer and a lot of sugar. I used to like coffee like that, too, but then learned I could live without it.
“Bamm Bamm Bonzini?”
“Get the fuck out of here.”
“Nope,” I said. “Worked with another guy named Guzman. They pull tight security jobs. Off-the-books bodyguard work.”
“Don’t know ’em.”
“But you know Cokey.”
“I only know Cokey to pay Cokey,” Lou said. “Farrell and people didn’t want any shit tracked to their back door. Cokey broke into Carolina’s office to scare her and make her drop out.”
“What about the hard drives and computers?”
“I guess it didn’t hurt nothing to learn a thing or two,” Lou said. “It was all fucked-up. That’s why I quit.”
“I thought you quit because I was checking up on you?”
“I quit because I thought you were checking up on me because you knew I worked for Farrell and Flaherty. Christ. I’ve known Frankie Farrell forever. We went to high school together. There wasn’t much to it. To start with.”
“Did you start working for Carolina because of Farrell?”
Pasquale slurped at his coffee while simultaneously holding up the flat of his hand and shaking his head. “No,” he said. “No way. It was an honest job and honest work. Frankie came to me. He wanted to know some things about Carolina. And her schedule. They just wanted some inside information to start with.”
“Were you paid?”
“Yeah,” he said. Pasquale dropped his head. “I was paid. I gotta be honest. I don’t give two shits about politics. Flaherty or Carolina may talk different and act different, but there’s not much space between them. If I can make a little money on the side . . . Oh, well. Arrest me.”
“You really could get arrested for that.”
Pasquale nodded. He craned his head behind him to look at the guy at the counter and then back at me. He leaned in to the table between us to make sure that no one was listening.
