Sixkill (24 page)
Authors: Robert B Parker
Last night's quartet was no longer in front of my house, and we saw nothing of them as we walked to the Taj, but as we ate near the window on Newbury Street, Stephano stood outside and looked at us through the window. I smiled and shot him with my forefinger. He showed no reaction, and after a time, he walked away.
Z stared at the empty window for a time. Then he looked at me.
"You know," he said, "this is kind of fun."
"Except if we get killed," I said.
"But if we didn't run that risk," Z said, "what would be the fun?"
"Christ," I said. "A philosopher."
"Well, it's true. I mean, how exciting would this be if the winner got to capture the fucking flag? You know?"
"You played capture the flag?"
"Indian school," he said. "When I was little."
" 'Death is the mother of beauty,'" I said.
"What the hell does that mean?" Z said.
"Pretty much what you're talking about," I said. "It's from a poem."
"Oh," Z said. "That's why there's the part about beauty."
"You sure you weren't an English major at Cal Wesleyan?"
"Football," Z said. "What's that about death and beauty?"
"If there were no death, how valuable would life be?"
"Yeah," Z said. "Like supply and demand."
"It is," I said. "You got a weapon?"
"Got the .357," Z said. "And a bowie knife."
"A bowie knife," I said.
"I am a Cree Indian," he said. "The blood of Cree warriors runs in my veins."
"I'd forgotten that," I said. "You planning to scalp Stephano?"
"Get a chance and I'll cut his throat," Z said. "I'm good with a knife."
I nodded.
"Time to plow," I said.
"Plow?" Z said.
"Just an expression, I heard."
We finished our coffee. I paid the bill for breakfast and we left. There was no sign of Stephano and friends on Newbury Street. I looked at Z; he looked happy.
Maybe he's getting in touch with his warrior heritage.
I lowered my voice on the assumption that all warriors had deep voices.
"It is a good day to die," I said.
He glanced at me.
"For who?" he said.
"Old Indian saying."
"Paleface see-um too many movies," Z said.
57
I HAD
a small idea.
a small idea.
It was late afternoon and raining hard when Z and I got in my car in the Public Alley behind my building, and pulled out onto Arlington Street. We circled the block and went down Berkeley Street to Storrow, into the tunnel under the city, southbound, and exited in time to cross Atlantic Ave and drive into South Boston. Stephano and his colleagues picked us up on Arlington Street and stayed close behind us, even bumping the rear of my car a little at the Boylston Street stoplight. I ignored them.
Jumbo's movie was shooting in the big alley between the Design Center and the Black Falcon Terminal in Southie. And when we parked near the set, Stephano and friends parked near us, and made a show of walking behind us onto the set.
So far, so good.
Jumbo was in his trailer, having lunch. Z and I went in without knocking. Don came to his feet, and put his hand inside his coat.
"Hey," he said. "You can't come in here."
"Can, too," I said.
I hit Don with a left hook and a right cross and knocked him over backward. It stunned him, and while he was recovering, Z bent over and took the gun from inside Don's coat and put it in the side pocket of his own raincoat.
"What the fuck is this," Jumbo said.
He was eating a sub sandwich and drinking champagne.
"Want to tell you some stuff, ask you some questions, and point something out," I said.
"What's that fucking Indian want?" Jumbo said.
He was trying to talk and eat his sub at the same time, and was making a mess of it. Don was sitting on the floor, recovering.
"Here's what I know," I said to Jumbo. "I know that Dawn Lopata was strangled to death on your bed, naked, with a scarf tied around her neck."
Jumbo looked at Z.
"The fucking Indian tell you that?" Jumbo said. "He's a lying sack of shit. Always has been."
"And that you had him dress her, and get rid of the scarf, before anyone called for help," I said.
"Fucking snitch," Jumbo said. "You think you can trust a fucking loser like Z?"
"Had you called for help right away," I said, "maybe she wouldn't have died."
"Bullshit," Jumbo said.
"And maybe you should go to jail for that," I said.
"Fuck you," Jumbo said, and drank some champagne.
"Good point," I said.
I walked to the window of the trailer. And leaned against the wall beside it.
I said, "How'd she die, Jumbo?"
"How the fuck do I know," he said, and stuffed more of his sandwich into his mouth. "I already told everybody what I know. I went to the bathroom, she was fine. I come out, and she was dead."
I nodded.
"You recognize Stephano DeLauria, if you saw him?" I said.
"Alice's husband," Jumbo said. "Yeah, a'course."
"That him?" I said, and nodded out the window.
Jumbo stared at me. Then he heaved himself up and came to the window. The rain blurred things a little. But Jumbo recognized Stephano.
"Jesus," he said.
Stephano and his posse were under an awning, leaning against the side of a Penske rental truck full of lighting gear. They were all four staring at Jumbo's trailer.
"Seem to be interested in you," I said to Jumbo.
Jumbo looked out the window at Stephano.
"What's he want?" Jumbo said.
"Maybe he's worried that if you get busted for the Dawn Lopata thing, you might start spilling your big gut about things involving Nicky Fellscroft and AABeau and all that," I said.
"I wouldn't say nothing about nothing," Jumbo said.
"You know that," I said. "And I know that. But does Stephano know that? Maybe more important, does Nicky Fellscroft know that?"
I stepped in front of the window and waved at Stephano. He extended his right arm, sighted down it, and pretended to shoot me with his first two fingers.
"Guess he's waiting until Z and I leave," I said.
"God, Jesus," Jumbo said.
His voice was shaking. He looked at Don, who was now sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands.
"Fuck," Jumbo said. "Who's gonna help me?"
He looked at me.
"You," he said. "I'll give you as much as you want. You want the Indian, I'll hire him, too. Both of you. Say how much, you got it. Just keep Stephano away from me. Anything you want. Anything."
"The truth," I said. "You tell me what happened to Dawn Lopata, and maybe Z and I can help you out with Stephano."
"You know about him," Jumbo said. "What he does? What he's like?"
"I do," I said.
"I got nowhere else to go," Jumbo said. "You gotta help me."
"Tell me about Dawn," I said.
Jumbo took his champagne bottle from the ice bucket and drank about a third of it. He put the bottle down, belched hugely.
Then he said, "Fuck Dawn. These guys are gonna kill me, and you're worrying about some little slut from the fucking local boondocks?"
"Exactly," I said.
Jumbo guzzled some more champagne.
"I tell you what I know, you'll help me?"
"If I believe you," I said.
"How I gonna do that?" Jumbo said. "How can I make you believe me?"
"Can't," I said. "Gotta hope I do."
"That fucking sucks," Jumbo said.
"Does," I said. "Doesn't it."
Jumbo looked at his bodyguard.
"Lock the fucking door," Jumbo said. "Can you handle that?"
Don stood up and locked the door to the trailer.
"Useless fuck," Jumbo said.
"Hard to figure why you're having trouble finding help," I said.
58
OUTSIDE, THE RAIN
was pounding. Inside the trailer, the plan was working better than I had ever hoped.
was pounding. Inside the trailer, the plan was working better than I had ever hoped.
"Okay," Jumbo said. "I'm fucking her."
"Dawn," I said.
"Who the fuck else?" he said. "Little Bo Peep?"
"Or her sheep," Z murmured.
"Hey, man, you wanna hear or not?"
"Sure," Z said.
"I don't know what he tole you," Jumbo said to me. "But I'm speaking the God's-honest truth."
"Keep it up," I said.
"So we done pretty much everything I know how to do," Jumbo said, "which is a lot, and she wants me to try something new. So I'm game; she takes out this scarf from her purse, and ties it around the bedpost, then she loops it around her neck, but she keeps hold of one end, you know, so she can tighten it or loosen it. And then she tells me to do her again. That's what she said, 'Do me again.' So I'm game, and I do, and she tightens up the scarf and loosens it and tightens it, and it's like she passes out for a few seconds, and then loosens up and wakes up and, you know, really goes crazy. We been drinking some champagne and doing some dope most of the evening. I was kind of fucked up and starting to feel sick, so I tell her to hold on, and I go in the bathroom and . . . I'm sick for a while . . . and then I'm feeling better . . . and I clean up and come out, and she's hanging off the bed. She's got the scarf wrapped around her hand for some reason, and it didn't loosen."
"You think she passed out?" I said.
"Yeah," Jumbo said. "And--my luck--rolls off the bed and fucking chokes herself."
"Scarf was still around her wrist," Z said. "When I went in."
"And you had Z pretty everything up," I said.
Jumbo was looking out the window at the rain and the murky figures under the awning.
"Yeah, man," Jumbo said. "There is important money in this picture. I'm trying to save it, you know?"
"Heroic," I said.
"It's not my fault," Jumbo said.
"You know how she got to the hotel?" I said.
"Yeah," Jumbo said.
He continued to slug champagne from his bottle.
"Talk about a hoot, man," Jumbo said. "Her old man drove her in. He knew where she was coming, too. Even gave her a note to give me."
"The note say something about insurance?"
Jumbo raised his eyebrows.
"Yeah," he said. "It did. How you know all this shit?"
"I'm a trained investigator," I said.
"Whaddya gonna do about Stephano?" he said.
"Nothing yet," I said.
"But I told you the honest-to-God truth."
"Maybe," I said. "But the thing is, Stephano is not after you, at least at the moment. He's here to kill me."
Jumbo looked out the window again. There was nobody under the awning next to the truck. He looked back at me and started to speak, and stopped, and sat down suddenly.
He seemed smaller, as if he had imploded.
59
IT HAD GOTTEN DARK
earlier than usual because of the clouds and the rain. We drove back from South Boston along Atlantic Ave in heavy traffic made heavier by the rain. Stephano and company had been parked next to us at the set, and were now behind us as we inched along.
earlier than usual because of the clouds and the rain. We drove back from South Boston along Atlantic Ave in heavy traffic made heavier by the rain. Stephano and company had been parked next to us at the set, and were now behind us as we inched along.
"This is getting annoying," Z said. "Every time I see him, I think this is it. Is this when the balloon goes up?"
"The readiness is all," I said.
"Whatever," Z said. "It's working on me . . . which is why I suppose he's doing it."
"One reason," I said.
"There's another one?"
"It excites him," I said.
"And it gives him the chance to pick his spot," Z said.
"It does," I said. "But he won't act until the tension gets too big for him to hold off any longer."
"You mean like sex," Z said. "Foreplay, foreplay, then zoom."
"Something like that," I said.
We inched forward in the dense rush hour. The windshield wipers worked steadily. In the glistening rain, the traffic lights were jewel-like.
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