“Did he say that in English or Chinese?”
“I only speak a little Chinese,” Wu said. “He said it in English.”
“And what else?”
“Be careful of what I say,” he said. “But you can be trusted.”
I nodded. The tourists on bicycles pedaled off toward Boylston Street. The accordion player had launched into a horrific version of “Squeeze Box” by The Who. I might’ve preferred “Lady of Spain.”
Wu stood, the wind ruffling his expertly barbered hair. He checked his smartphone, bored, and offered his hand. I stood and shook it.
“You weren’t wanted in the neighborhood?”
Wu didn’t answer.
“If it wasn’t money?”
“It was money,” Wu said. “Everything is money. But this isn’t Chinatown. I pay taxes. I don’t have to pay protection.”
“Who?”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“I promise you I’ll leave you far out of this,” I said. “I only need a name. I walk away and you’ll never hear from me again.”
“This wasn’t my first encounter with that bastard,” Wu said. “Or I suspect my last.”
I waited. I could tell he wasn’t a fan of whoever may have smoked him out of the South End.
“Doesn’t matter if you’re from Beijing or Bedford,” he said. “Business is the same everywhere. And right now, if you want to set up a lemonade stand in that part of the South End, you got to pay off Jackie DeMarco. It’s too close to Southie.”
I nodded.
“You’ve met him?”
“Quite recently,” I said. “And we did not part on good terms.”
“I have no proof,” Wu said. “But his people came to me two weeks before the fire. They knew of the impending sale. I told them I would not pay a nickel.”
“Bingo.”
“Excuse me.”
“I always say that when I move down the food chain.”
“Be careful, Mr. Spenser,” he said. “This is a man without boundaries or ethics.”
“Criminals rarely possess those traits.”
“The same might be said about developers.”
“Depends on what they develop.”
“You promise to leave my name out of this?”
I agreed. Wu nodded and walked away. I tipped the accordion player two bucks as I left.
It was June now, hot as hell, and Johnny had the crazy idea to hit an old mattress factory in Dorchester. The building was big and brick, with a billboard on a far wall showing a little girl snuggled up for bedtime. The girl’s blanket had little moons and stars, reminding Kevin of when he’d been a kid. He remembered how his mom used to come in at night, tuck him in, make him feel safe before he dozed off. Even now that he was a grown man, she looked out for him. Looking over him. Although she didn’t know everything, she’d believe what he was about to do was right.
“You brought it?” Kevin said.
Johnny looked at him like he was a freakin’ idiot. “No. I forgot it. Hell, yes, I got it. It’s in the trunk. I made six of them. I figured with three of us working, we could spread them around.”
“What about a security guard?” Kevin said.
“Not tonight,” Johnny said. “Off on Friday night. Besides, they don’t make them here anymore. They ship ’em in from China or somewhere. It’s just a fucking warehouse now. Ready to burn.”
“How do we get in?” Kevin said.
“Back loading dock,” he said, holding up his crowbar. “A cheap deadbolt on a clasp. Snap, crackle, pop.”
A whoop-whoop siren came from deep down the alley and the men turned. A patrol car rolled by slowly with its lights on, a spot flicking back and forth over the road and up onto the brick warehouse, finally falling on their faces, burning their eyes. “Christ,” Johnny said.
The patrol car stopped, and in the blinding light, a door opened and a shadow of a cop got out. “Show me your hands, fucknuts.”
“Screw you, Ray,” Johnny said. “You about gave me a fucking heart attack.”
“You’d have to have a heart first,” Ray said, snorting. “And a dick.”
Ray turned off the spotlight and followed them over to Johnny’s car. Johnny popped the trunk to show six brown paper bags set neat in a row, as if ready for lunchtime. Each of the men grabbed two bags. Johnny ran down the layout of the place where they were most likely to get more bang for the buck. The third floor was pretty much empty, but there was a room with a lot of scraps and trash in it. The fourth floor was gold, with old mattresses stacked ten feet high and ready to burn.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Ray said.
“Yes, Officer,” Johnny said, flicking at his badge. “But do you?”