Jamaica Plain (9780738736396) (15 page)

Somebody laughed. One of the heavies around the walls stepped forward but didn't intervene. This hadn't turned into trouble yet. Just overexuberance. Clint Eastwood continued.
“Well, to tell you the truth, I forgot myself in all this excitement.”

The dancer prepared herself. Grant saw a businessman slide into one of the booths beyond the bar. The staff were all but bowing and scraping. This was a very important person.

“But being as this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and would blow your head clean off, you've got to ask yourself one question: Do I feel lucky?”

Grant did feel lucky. Whoever it was over there obviously carried a lot of clout. If anyone could answer his questions, that was the man. He doubted he'd answer them in here, though, so he watched and waited. Clint Eastwood finished.
“Well, do ya, punk?”

Drums rolled and a gentle refrain mingled with the beat, then the main theme from
Dirty Harry
filled the room. The dancer strutted her stuff, firm breasts and shaved pussy looking to save a mouse. Grant watched the businessman and bided his time.

Three dancers later, Grant wasn't interested in saving any mice. He'd seen shaved pussy, Brazilian pussy, and bikini-waxed pussy. The only pussy he hadn't seen was Garfield. The movie themes veered from British gangster flick
Get Carter
back to spaghetti Westerns with
For a Few Dollars More
. Grant was whistling the less-famous Morricone theme when he followed the businessman out the back door.

The man was heavyset and greying, but Grant couldn't get a good look at his face in the darkness. Even when the rheostat raised the house lights, the club was still gloomy. When the show was on, all he could see was blue neon, red flashes, and the spill from the dancer's spot. Grant couldn't go over for a closer look without being obvious. The man had an aura about him that kept the heavies on their toes and the waitresses busy. They served him finger snacks and soft drinks. It looked like the boss was watching his alcohol intake. Maybe he didn't drink on duty.

Then business was concluded, and he slid out of the booth and walked behind the bar. Nobody moved. The bouncers kept station against the walls. The waitresses stood to attention until he'd gone. He wasn't going out the front. Grant stood quickly and went around the other side of the bar.

The back door had a sign stating Staff Only. It was swinging shut as Grant came around the corner. He could just make out the reflected light from a dozen cars in the parking lot and the glitter of moonlight on the lake. Calling it a pond was like calling your bathtub a washbasin. Grant reached the door before it clicked shut and wedged his foot in the gap. He opened it slowly and peeked outside.

The man was disappearing around the side of the building. Grant stepped outside and followed him. At best he'd get a shot at asking a few questions. At worst he'd get the plates of the car he drove away in. It was a win-win situation.

Wrong.

Gravel crunched underfoot as Grant rounded the corner. The parking lot didn't need a fresh coat of tarmac, it needed the gravel tarmacking altogether. The dull grey he'd seen coming in was just fine pebbles and aggregate. It was noisy. He couldn't follow the departing businessman without signaling his approach. The noise was also a distraction.

Grant didn't hear the men coming up behind him until it was too late. Not bouncers from the club. The two big guys from Flanagan's the other night. A car door slammed as Grant came around the front of the building. An expensive black car built like a tank. Grant stopped to read the plates. That's when he heard the footsteps in the gravel, and he spun around.

The big guy from the alley beside CVS Pharmacy stood facing him. The other guy took up position to one side. Two bouncers came around from the front. Grant glanced both ways, and the big guy saw it. He smiled. “Ah, ah, I know what you're thinking.”

Grant nodded and smiled.

twenty-one

The great thing
about
being relaxed
is that you think clearly and act fast. The dumb thing about witty one-liners is delivering them before you've beaten your opponent. Grant wasn't thinking witty.

The black car spat gravel as it sped out of the parking lot. That kind of noise was hard to ignore. The four heavies couldn't ignore it. They all threw a split-second glance towards their departing boss. A split second was all Grant needed.

The great thing about being relaxed is that you think clearly and act fast. Grant acted fast. He stepped inside the big guy's fighting arc and stamped down hard on the outside of his leg at knee height. The leg collapsed. Before the witty one-liner guy had hit the floor, Grant spun on his heel, jerked his arm out straight, and hit the other guy in the windpipe while he was still watching his friend go down. He grabbed his throat and turned red in the face. Grant kept the forward momentum and drove his knee up into the guy's balls. The guy dropped to his knees, confusion on his face over what to clutch, his throat or his wedding tackle.

Two down.

Two to go.

The other two were barroom brawlers, thickset with short necks and slow movements. Ideal for enclosed spaces. Not so good for out in the open. Lots of room to maneuver. Grant stepped over the fallen windpipe guy and skipped to one side, away from the ugly twins. The nearest one made a lunge for the orange windcheater but missed, opening a gap between the two bouncers. Grant swiveled on one leg and darted into the gap.

The first bouncer was confused and tried to correct his aim. That meant trying to turn faster than he was capable of turning, leaving him off-balance. As Grant moved between them, he tucked his arm in and whipped the elbow in a short arc at the guy's face. Punching was for boxers and pub fights. There are too many bones in the hand that can break if you thump somebody in the face and hit the forehead. The elbow is all bone and muscle weight. It smashed the nose and shut one eye before the bouncer knew what hit him. He didn't go down, but he was blinded with pain.

Three down.

One left.

Except it wasn't one anymore. It was four. Three more heavies came pouring around the corner and split to cover all angles. Grant was back where he started but without the element of surprise. He stepped back, keeping the wall close behind him. The four were all in front and to either side, but nobody could get to his back. A siren sounded in the distance. Somebody had called it in. Time for delaying tactics until the cavalry arrived. “You four want to share a cell, or you okay being separated?”

Nobody spoke. One grunted as he lunged and retreated. When he stepped backwards, the one on the other side lunged forward and swung a haymaker fist. Grant slapped the arm down on the follow-through, grabbed the wrist, and twisted it full circle. Downwards and back the way it came. Balance was shot. The guy's full weight followed his arm or the wrist would break. He flipped over like a gymnast and crashed to the floor on his back. The sirens grew louder. “You hear that? That's room service. One cell each.”

No matter how loose Grant stayed, the three remaining heavies outweighed him. It had taken them a while, but they'd finally realized that the Musketeers tactic was the way to go. All for one. At the same time. They surged forward from all sides and caught Grant in the middle. A fist the size of a Yorkshire ham smashed into his stomach, driving the breath out of him. A knee came up as Grant doubled over, and he managed to turn his head just in time to avoid a broken nose. The blow sent him reeling. A two-handed hammer blow came down on the back of his neck and he hit the gravel face first. The sharp grey stones drew blood.

The distinctive snap of a switchblade focused Grant's attention. A flash of silver caught his eye and pain flared down the side of his face. Warm blood flushed his right eye. Somebody laughed. Even the laughter had an Irish accent. A shadow fell over him, and he looked up at the big guy from Flanagan's. He was smiling through the pain in his balls. He leaned forward and tucked a five-dollar bill down Grant's T-shirt. “Get something for the swelling. There's a pharmacy just up the street.”

The five-dollar guy reached down and snatched the money back. “Nah, you won't need a doctor. You'll need an embalmer.”

He pulled a small black gun from the back of his trousers and wracked the slide. The noise was sharper than the switchblade. It focused Grant's attention and forced a deep breath out of his lungs. Out through his nose. To relax. The big guy was all talk. He leaned close to give Grant a good look at the end of his life. The gun swung into view. Closer still.

Big mistake.

Grant moved like a rattlesnake. He flashed one arm up and over in a short arc, meeting the gun hand forearm to forearm. The gun swung up and over in the same arc. Grant spun on his hip, stamping his foot upwards into the big guy's knee. From the front. The knee buckled in the wrong direction, breaking the joint with a vicious snap. The howl of pain forced the other three back a pace.

The gun dropped to the floor. Grant grabbed it and spun onto his back, keeping his legs facing the attackers. The switchblade magically disappeared. Red and blue lights were flashing into the junction of Pond Street and Arborway. The sirens were deafening. The last three ran around the back of the club. Grant's hand moved in a blur. Within seconds the gun was in pieces on the parking lot. Magazine. Slide. Barrel. Pistol grip. Assorted springs and bullets. Nobody saw him do it. Grant stared at the pieces for a second, then kicked them away. He tried to stand up but felt dizzy and collapsed against the wall.

He couldn't think of a witty one-liner. He was bleeding too much. Three squad cars skidded into the lot, spitting gravel as they braked. Officers dashed around the back of the club. Somebody came over to Grant. There was no gallows humor from him either, just an urgent request for an ambulance into his radio.

Cameras flashed
as they
wheeled Grant into the hospital. The MGH was awash with them. A bright light shone out of the darkness, and Grant could just make out the earnest tones of a newsreader mentioning the Resurrection Man. He felt like kicking the camera, but he was strapped tight to the gurney. A helicopter hovered overhead but too high to see inside the city limits.

Then everything was cut off as the gurney went through the sliding doors. One hardy photographer tried to follow but was held back by the police. Everything was hazy and indistinct. Grant's head was spinning from the pain medication and the constant movement of the gurney. He felt sick. He was sick. Down the front of his T-shirt. He thought about John Cornejo and his vomit-stained clothing. His lack of shoelaces and a belt. He tried to check his jeans but couldn't move his arms. He could see his K-Swiss tennis shoes, though, laces intact, and felt at least he wasn't on suicide watch.

The hospital corridor kept turning on its axis. The overhead lights swam in and out of focus. He was sick again. Nauseous through loss of blood. Then he was being unstrapped and transferred to an examination table. The world tilted. It didn't right itself until he woke up in a curtained cubicle smelling of vomit and antiseptic. The two people at the foot of the bed didn't seem glad to see him.

“Don't think
this is
what Kincaid meant when he said you should ask around.”
Miller had lost the smile but not his enthusiasm. “Good job that Canadian called when he saw the bouncers follow you out.”

Grant was awake, but his mouth wasn't working yet. He flexed his lips, but his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. He tried to salivate, but no moisture would form. Miller passed him a paper cup of water. Grant drank it in one swallow. Miller went out to the water cooler and refilled it. Grant drank half and nodded his thanks. The nod felt like it unleashed a ton of rocks inside his head. He made a mental note not to nod or shake his head again. “You get 'em all?”

“Only the ones who couldn't run. Variety of injuries. Some are down here.”

“Good for them.”

Grant noticed the grey plastic MGH bag and suddenly realized he wasn't wearing his clothes. The hospital gown was clean but rough against his skin. His eyes widened when he saw the foot-tapping nurse standing in the doorway. He mimed a pair of scissors with two fingers of one hand. “You didn't—?”

“Your favorite jacket? No. Your jeans neither. Not sure you want to keep the T-shirt. It's in a separate bag.”

The third-generation nurse from York folded her arms across her chest and began tapping her foot. The look on her face said more than her words. She was pissed at him. “Usually, somebody signs themselves out, they don't get a second chance. But the Mass General's PR consultant didn't want us turning the Resurrection Man away on national TV.”

Grant looked sheepish. “I didn't come up with that.”

“I know. You'd have probably called yourself the Shit-Deflector Man.”

Grant looked from the nurse to Miller. Miller shrugged and smiled. “I had some time to kill. What else was there to talk about?”

The nurse almost smiled, but all it did was lessen her frown slightly. “Don't worry. You're covered by the doctor/patient privilege.”

Grant snorted a laugh and nodded. He'd forgotten the mental note. His head felt like a ton of loose rocks was banging around inside. The headache was massive. He grimaced and felt fresh pain up the side of his face. The nurse gave her professional opinion. “Don't smile.”

“I'm not smiling.”

The nurse unfolded her arms. “Medical matters: you've got three bruised ribs and a grazed cheekbone where they kicked you in the head. X-rays show no other broken bones. Wounds have been cleaned. You're going to need stitches in the knife wound. Don't smile until they're done.”

“Don't think I'll smile much after.”

“Your choice. Probably a good decision.”

She turned on her heel and went out to get a suture kit. Miller stepped closer. “There was no sign of the knife. Do you remember which one cut you?”

“No.”

“Doesn't matter. Joint venture. They all cop a charge for it.”

“You want another statement?”

“Later. The witness gave enough for now.”

Miller glanced over his shoulder to make sure the nurse wasn't back yet. “This your idea of deflecting shit?”

“More like learning shit. I was going to ask the owner about some stuff. Seems that Sullivan was importing foreign girls. I guess his boys didn't want me talking to him. I thought you were day shift.”

“I'm dedicated. We got 'em for assault. Can't tune it up to officer on duty.”

Grant couldn't argue with that since he was most definitely off-duty. His body ached. His face was sore. The bruising hadn't gone down from the explosion yet, never mind the new bumps from tonight.

He felt tired.

Miller fixed him with a firm stare. “Funny thing is, we found a gun at the scene. Dismantled and scattered across the parking lot. Every moving part. In bits.”

There was no reason not to tell Miller about the gun. Grant wasn't sure why he didn't. Some memories were best kept hidden. He'd been a typist. That was all anyone needed to know. He shrugged but didn't shake his head. He was learning. The curtain swished open and the nurse came in holding a tray.

“
A Stitch in Time
.” Grant looked at the suture kit on the tray. “Norman Wisdom. Pinewood Studios. 1963.”

“
Nurse Jackie
. Now.”

Miller stepped back. “Well, boys and girls, I'll leave you to it.” He nodded to Grant. “Call in to the station tomorrow. I'll take your statement.”

The nurse waved him away with her free hand. “Assuming he's been released by then. He's staying until we say otherwise tonight. Even if I have to call security.”

Grant interjected. “You won't need security.”

“Good.”

She set the tray down beside the bed and opened the suture kit. Miller left and closed the curtain behind him. The nurse, whose name Grant still hadn't learned, held a curved needle up for inspection. “This is going to hurt you a lot more than it will me, I'm happy to say.”

“
Zulu
. Diamond Films. 1964. Surgeon Reynolds to Private Hook.”

“You watch too many movies. See what this reminds you of.”

She put the curved needle down and picked up a syringe for the local anaesthetic. Grant watched it approach the open wound in the side of his face, eyes wide. His breathing was coming in rapid, shallow breaths. The relaxation technique wasn't working. He didn't like needles. He felt faint. Then pain skewered the side of his face before blessed numbness took over.

It was after two
in the morning before they agreed to let him go. Nurse Jackie gave him the good news and helped him into his clothes. She was right about the T-shirt. He threw it in the bin and zipped the orange windcheater up to his neck. There were a couple of nicks in the left sleeve and a tear in one knee. The K-Swiss were scuffed across the toes. Another plastic nametag hung loose from his wrist.

The smell of evacuated bowels and disinfectant gave way to the scent of Nurse Jackie's perfume. Grant wondered if she chose it for strength or beauty. Like most cops, he used to carry a pack of mints for evacuated bowel moments like sudden deaths and postmortems. Nestle Polos. Working in an environment like the ER, it made sense to deflect the shitty smells with a little perfume. A kind of shit deflector for the nasal passages.

Grant looked up from the nametag and smiled. His face didn't hurt so much anymore. It was probably the tablets she'd given him before he got dressed. He kept the smile brief. The dumb thing about witty one-liners was delivering them before you'd beaten your opponent. The good thing about them was they made good parting shots. “Well. Don't forget to write.”