Shallow Graves - Jeremiah Healy (37 page)

"Just a moment." The receptionist lifted a
receiver, tapped a button, and paraphrased my words to someone else.

A minute later, another woman about the same age came
down the hall. "I'm afraid Mr. Winningham's schedule is full for
the day." She sounded like the voice I'd heard when I telephoned
Winningham's office the prior week. "Perhaps if you — "

Zuppone said, "Thanks, we can find him,"
and set off up the corridor she'd come down.

The second woman said, "Wait! What are you
doing?"

I told her, "Believe me, this won't take long,"
and followed Primo as the women spoke urgently to each other behind
us. When I caught up to Zuppone in a branching suite, he was standing
outside a door with Winningham's nameplate next to it.

I said, "We have maybe three minutes before some
kind of security gets here."

Primo knocked once and went in.

Winningham looked up from behind a desk with neat
stacks of opened mail on it and a couple of visitor's chairs in front
of it. My first impression of him was that not much had changed since
I'd seen him last. But then, a nice tan can fool you. When he opened
his mouth, I notice the bottom front teeth were a little cruddy, the
lines around his mouth digging deeper into the cheeks and toward the
ears. He still had a great preppy haircut, though, most of the
strands more brown than gray.

"What the — Cuddy?"

"Your secretary gave us the impression you were
flat out, so why don't we just get to it."

Winningham stood up, shooting his cuffs even though
he wasn't wearing a suit jacket, trying to seize control. "John
Francis Cuddy. The 'John F. Danucci' message. Hilarious."

Hilarious. Four syllables. Some things never change.
Winningham turned to Zuppone. "And who might you be?"

Primo moved forward comfortably, taking a chair and
making a ritual out of fitting a toothpick into his mouth. "Let's
just say I'm a guy who don't need no introduction."

Zuppone let that go around the room a bit before
adding, "The Danucci family, they ain't crazy about you fucking
around here, Bradley."

The tan faded, the flesh beneath it a tad doughy.
"What ...Whatdoyou...?"

I said, "We want to have a little talk with you,
Brad. Without benefit of tape-recording or other memorialization."
At that point, Winningham's secretary and two guys in rent-a-cop
outfits and sidearms came into the room behind us.

She said, "Mr. Winningham, these men just barged
past me — "

"I know, Louise."

"Do you want them removed?" `

It was still Louise who spoke. The guards, after a
quick study of Primo and me, didn't seem all that keen. Winningham
looked like a man having trouble toting up the score.

Zuppone said, "We could always talk later,
Bradley."

Primo didn't make any attempt to move, and there was
no doubt that Winningham had a bad feeling about what "later"
might mean.

"No. Er, Louise, that will be all."

The rent-a-cops exhaled, but the secretary didn't
seem so sure. "Mr. Winnining — "

"No, really, Louise. It's all right."

She showed her disapproval but left with the
uniforms, closing the door behind her.

Winningham tried a recovery. "Very well, Cuddy,
why don't you take a seat so we can — "

Zuppone said, "Sit down, Bradley."

Winningham wiped his hands on his thighs and sat. I
took the chair next to Primo.

Zuppone said, "Cuddy?"

I waited until Wimiingham looked over at me. "Brad,
I think you really stepped in it this time."

"What — "

I held up my hand. "You get a claim. You
recognize the changed name. You think, ‘Hey, be jolly fun, Cuddy
chasing his tail, thinking he was doing a favor for old Harry Mullen.
Maybe Cuddy gets his tit in the wringer with a mob family.' That
would really — what did you call it, Brad? 'Effectuate
reparations'?"

Primo said, "That what you called it, Bradley?"

Winningham shook a little.

"Well," I said, "we have a problem,
Brad. The family is less than amused by your sense of humor. They
think the death of one of their children is kind of a sore subject
for practical jokes."

Primo said, "Listen to the man, Bradley."

Every time Zuppone spoke, it took a few words of mine
before Winningham could look from Primo back to me.

"Brad, the time with that casualty claim, just
before you edged me out of a job? That's nothing compared to this.
When that happened, I thought about maybe putting on a sandwich board
and standing out on the sidewalk with a cowbell, letting the passing
public know what you'd pulled. But then it was just between you and
me, Brad. Now, the oil's aboiling."

Zuppone said, "You ever see anything boiled in
oil, Bradley?"

Winningham's Adam's apple bobbed for the knot in his
tie. Time to throw the lifesaver. "So, here's what we're going
to do, Brad. Brad?"

Winningham came back to me.

"First, we're going to sign off on the death
claim on Mau Tim Dani. Paid in full after concluding investigation."

He said, "I can do that. Tomorrow, there's — "

Primo said, "Today, Bradley."

Winningham nodded.

I said, "Second, we're going to maintain Harry
Mullen as Head of Claims Investigation/Boston for — "

Winningham's eyes bugged. "I can't restore — "

Zuppone said, "Bradley, Bradley. You interrupt,
you might miss something important."

Winningham just stared at him.

I said, "You've got the chips to do it, Brad.
Over the course of a career, a man like you squirrels away a lot of
chips. Haul them out and play them, Brad. See to it that everybody
who matters agrees that closing the investigation office in Boston
would be a real mistake. See to it that Harry is taken care of with
the job he's got for as long as he wants it."

"You don't understand. There's no way I — "

Primo made a sizzling sound through his teeth. The
sound of something being cooked.

Winningham looked at him and then to me. Then he
nodded again.

I stood up. "That ought to do it, Brad. I'll
send my bill through Harry. See ya 'round the quad, huh?"

Out on Fifth, Zuppone flicked the toothpick into the
gutter at the curb. The traffic was flowing pretty smoothly, lots of
taxis just cruising.

I said, "Want to head back?"

Primo reached into a pocket. "Little while now,
I'm gonna be pretty hungry."

"
There'll be a café car on the train."

Zuppone made a face, then stuck a fresh toothpick in
it. "Tell you what, I know a good restaurant." He pointed
downtown.

"On Mott Street by Hester."

"Stay over, you mean?"

"Yeah. We go to a hotel for the night, or we can
crash with some friends of mine, we need to."

"I like the hotel better."

"Sure, sure."

"Primo?"

"Yeah?"

"What kind of restaurant is this?"

The toothpick moved from one corner to the other.
"What kind."

Zuppone turned from me with the half-laugh and raised
his hand to hail a cab.