Hawk hoisted his gym bag on his shoulder and left. I turned and kept looking out at the Boston Harbor, the light sailboats zipping to and fro without much effort. The sails full of wind and energy, speed, and power.
In an effort to double my strength, I reached into the box Hawk had left for a second donut. Always prepared.
14
Vinnie Morris ran the business from an old bowling alley right off the Concord Pike. When I walked in, a fat guy in a Hawaiian shirt was cleaning rental shoes and singing an old Bonnie Tyler song. “‘Turn around, bright eyes,’” he sang. And then he continued the chorus. He didn’t need to contemplate his day job.
He stopped singing, looked me over from head to toe, and then pointed up the staircase. The staircase was wide, metal, and mid-century mod. There were plastic plants and a painted mural of a ball hitting a strike. The pins exploding around it. The fat man kept on singing the same lines as I climbed the steps.
Upstairs, Vinnie sat at an empty bar, talking on a landline. Two cell phones sat near a spiral notebook. A cigarette twirling smoke up into a paddle fan.
He pointed to a nearby seat. I walked behind the bar and helped myself to a cup of coffee. Last time, he’d offered me grappa. I’d accepted and hence learned my lesson.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Okay. Okay. Fucking do it,” Vinnie said into the phone. He turned to me. “Hello, Spenser. Why don’t you just help yourself?”
“Service with a smile.”
He hung up the phone.
“Bar opens at five.”
“I never knew the bar to be open.”
“It’s a new thing,” he said. “I mean, what the hell. Why not?”
Vinnie was the most distinguished-looking thug I’d ever met. Salt-and-pepper hair. Clean-shaven lantern jaw. A medium-sized guy in middle age who kept himself trim. During a divorce, his wardrobe had devolved into track suits, but in the past couple years he was back to his old self. Today, he wore a tailored navy linen shirt, with linen pants the color of vanilla ice cream. An alligator had died to make his belt and shoes.
I sipped some coffee. Terrible, but coffee nonetheless.
“What do you know about Jackie DeMarco?” I said.
“We’ve been over this before,” he said. “Right before Hawk shot a couple of his guys down in Southie.”
“We had a misunderstanding.”
“My advice is to leave alone whatever you have in mind,” he said. “DeMarco walked away from the flaming pile of shit you started. He won’t do it again.”
“I know he’s into stolen property and drugs,” I said.
Vinnie shrugged.
“How about arson?”
Vinnie looked away and scratched the back of his neck. He pulled his notebook close, scribbled in some figures, and then turned back to me. He picked up his half-burned cigarette, took a puff, and squinted through the smoke.
“Maybe,” he said. “If money’s involved, he’d set his mother’s house on fire.”
“And who might do that work for him?”
“What, you got some kind of Symphony Road situation?” he said. “That was a long, long time ago. No one burns for insurance anymore. Property in this town is worth too much fucking money.”
“So I’ve been told,” I said. “This was about turf.”
“Someone pissed him off?”
I nodded. Vinnie raised his eyebrows.
“And that didn’t scare you in the least?”
I shrugged. Never being a fast learner, I drank some more coffee. It was late afternoon. I could use the fuel.
“Only one guy I know,” Vinnie said. “Worked for Broz back in the day. I hear he’s still called out of retirement from time to time. A real artist with burning shit.”
“A name?”
“Listen, why don’t you come see me sometime when you or Hawk don’t need me doing work for you,” he said. “We could bowl a few games. Have some beer. A few laughs.”
“You really want that?”
Vinnie lit a new cigarette. “Hell, no,” he said. “What I want is for you to know what you’re getting into. Learn something for me. I’ve moved from the field into management. I get up late, drink coffee, read the newspaper. I make some calls and I’m done. After all these years, I got out while the getting is good. Unnerstand?”
“Not many Thug Emeritus positions.”
“Check Harvard,” Vinnie said. “I wouldn’t put any crazy shit past them.”
I nodded. I waited. Either Vinnie would give me a name or he wouldn’t. He looked me over and said, “Ever hear of Tommy Torcelli? Aka Tommy Torch?”
“Sounds like he used to front a doo-wop group.”
“Ha, ha,” Vinnie said. “He used to work as a mechanic in Dorchester. Down by Fields Corner. He was the go-to guy for a long time. I heard he got busted for some kind of kiddie-porn thing. He’s a true sicko in every way.”
“Boy, I sure would love to meet him.”
“I think he’s still in the can,” Vinnie said. “But I know he did business with Jackie and his old man. If someone wanted something burned, Tommy Torch would be on his speed dial.”
I nodded.
“The guy can burn two city blocks and make it look like a firefly farted. You know?”
“A true genius.”