“Fuck you, Spenser,” he said. “I took this meet out of respect for Vinnie. If you don’t want to do business, I got to get back to watching a bunch of blacks kill each other over shootin’ hoops.”
“You help me with this thing and I’ll let the DA know,” I said. “It’s up to them what they do with you.”
“I got people doing that for me already.”
“I’m sure you’re reforming every day here,” I said. “Maybe you’ll walk out of Walpole a clean and righteous man.”
“I don’t need this,” Tommy said. He was about to hang up the phone. “I don’t need to waste my time with the crap. Come back if you got a deal.”
“How many visitors have you had lately?” I said. “It took a lot of effort to get a meet.”
Tommy dropped the phone in a loose hand. He stared at me and thumbed his nose. He stared for a bit. I stared back. He was ugly and it wasn’t easy.
“I help and you put in a good word?”
“The world is round,” I said.
“How do I know I can trust you?”
“Because Vinnie said so,” I said. “And because I’m not making you any promises.”
Tommy took in a long breath. He looked worn out and beat. He rubbed his scruffy face and sat up straight in the hard plastic chair. “Let me see what I can do and I’ll be in touch.”
“You know how to find me?”
“I got your number.”
“No promises.”
“How about we quit talking,” Tommy Torch said, “before I change my fucking mind.”
16
By early afternoon, I returned to Boston only to find two ugly guys blocking my apartment building’s doorway.
I might have walked around them. But one was John Grady and he was very fat. He also looked pissed-off. On the upside, he seemed to be sober and clean-shaven, his thick hair washed and styled. Grady had on a green T-shirt that read IT’S OUR FUCKIN’ CITY. His friend was younger and in better shape. He was balding, with the rest shaved down to nearly nothing, wearing a black Gold’s Gym tank and workout shorts. He was a bodybuilder with bloated muscles and puffy veins. His pinprick black eyes radiated as much intelligence as a lab rat’s.
“You boys soliciting for the Jimmy Fund?” I said.
“You were down in the South End for the service,” Grady said. “Trying to make trouble on a big day.”
“How’d I make trouble?”
“Poking around,” he said. “Asking questions. Talking shit with the commissioner.”
Grady looked to the Michelin Man. Michelin Man staggered his stance. He stared at me with little eyes. He had a scar on one massive shoulder where he’d had a shoulder repaired. Lots of juicers had that problem. He looked to me and said, “Mmm.”
“No one needs this shit,” Grady said. “I don’t need you bothering me at the pub. And no firefighters need you poking around on a sacred day.”
“When should I poke around?”
“You got no business.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” I said. “Trouble is my business.”
“Like I told you,” he said. “People are waiting in line to stomp your ass.”
Michelin Man said “Mmm” again. His repertoire was dazzling. I waited for him to launch into the soliloquy from Hamlet.
“That line is long and winding,” I said. “Past efforts have proven futile.”
“What?”
“Futile,” I said. “It means it’s not worth attempting to threaten me or fight me. I’m tired and have planned a late breakfast. You boys don’t look like you could make it to the Public Garden without a lot of sweat and sucking wind.”
“Wanna bet?”
“I’m trying to help,” I said.
“I’ll toss you right in the garbage,” the young guy said.
I shrugged. He took a fast step toward me, grabbing my arm. I pivoted off my right foot and landed a hard left in his soft gut. He made an oof sound and attempted to tackle me around the waist. I rammed his bald head into a brick wall and he slumped to the ground.
“John,” I said, “unless you have some secrets, I’m working for you, too. Now, you can attempt to accost me and we could dance around Marlborough. The neighborhood watch might complain, as this type of behavior is frowned upon in the Back Bay. But I’d grow bored and tired. I have linens to change.”
“Pfft,” he said. Grady spit on the sidewalk. Michelin Man was on his ass.
“Or,” I said, “I’ll buy you brunch. There’s a nice place down the street. They even let you chain your pets outside.”
Grady looked to his friend, sucking air. His bald head had started to bleed. I leveled my eyes at him and crossed my arms over my chest. If he didn’t move, I might just start singing “If You Knew Susie, Like I Know Susie.” I started to hum.
“‘Oh, what a girl,’” I said, under my breath.
“What?” Grady said.
“Your call, John.”
He seemed to think about it for a moment and then nodded to the Michelin Man. Michelin Man called me a few choice words and shuffled back to his car. We watched him go and then drive off in a beat-up Chevy sedan.