The Pariot GAme (6 page)

“Hey, Salvatore, all right?” Donald said. “How many chairmen I got? How many chairs are there inna Commonwealth? That’s how many chairmen I got. Every asshole that can get his asshole onto a chair, he’s a chairman and I am supposed to get him a parking space, inna lot. Where there is room enough for maybe two hundred fifty cars.” He gestured toward the lot. “If I pack ’em in the aisles and also put maybe two or three in my pocket and the rest onna street and tell the cop, leave them alone. All right? I am a nice guy.”

“You are a nice guy, Donald,” Lobianco said.

“Exactly,” the guard said.

“I know lots of guys who would say that,” Lobianco said.

“Shove it up your ass, all right?” the guard said. “I know you, you fat guinea son of a bitch. Just because I save your place every day and make a whole bunch of fat-ass committee chairmen park onna street and walk up the hill and get all sweaty, you think you can give me a lotta goddamned shit and make me believe it? You think I’m stupid, you dumb fuckin’ wop?”

Lobianco started laughing.

“Motherfucker,” Donald said. “Anyway, the cocksucker looks at me like I was pigeon shit and I look at him and I say: ‘Excuse me, Mister Chairman, but there isn’t anybody who’s got a space in this here yard. We take as many as we can. That’s all.’ And he starts to climb all over me. Called me a son of a bitch.”

“
No
,” Lobianco said. He did not bother to conceal his laughter.

“
Yes
,” Donald said. “Ways and Means Reardon, that filthy little fat fucker that never bought a goddamned beer for anybody in his whole life, calling
me
a son of a bitch.” He started laughing.

“Outrageous,” Seats said.

“It is,” Donald said, still laughing. “Here I am out here, sweating my ass off, and that miserable cocksucker comes around in his Murrkedees and starts giving me a whole lot of shit? It’s not right.”

“You’re right, Donald,” Seats said, “it is definitely not right.”

“No,” Donald said.

“What’d you do to him?” Seats said.

Donald recoiled on the stool. “Do? I am a public servant.”

“Sorry,” Seats said, “I forgot.”

“I exist to serve the elected officials of the public in the Great and General Court,” Donald said.

“Of course,” Seats said.

“The Chairman of the Ways and Means Committee gave me a direct order to park his car and get things off his mind So, I did. And I stole his magazine.”

“What else did you do, if I may ask,” Lobianco said.

“I didn’t do anything else,” Donald said. “I parked his car like he said.”

“How does it look?” Lobianco said.

“Hey,” Donald said, “this is a crowded lot.”

“Taillights, huh?” Seats said.

“There was some problem with them,” Donald said.

“Both of them?” Seats said.

“Hey,” Donald said, “it’s a crowded lot.”

“Yup,” Seats said. “Reardon got foglights on the Mercedes?”

“He did,” Donald said. He laughed very loudly.

“Donald,” Seats said, “I’m not sure I want to hear the answer, but how is my car?”

“The Electra?” Donald said. He stood up. “Very fine, sir. Right down in the usual spot. Shall I keep it open for you? Little lunch and so forth?”

“Yes,” Lobianco said.

“Fine,” Donald said. “Have the space waiting for you.”

“Appreciate it,” Lobianco said. “Hearing this after.”

“I know,” Donald said.

“Yup,” Lobianco said. “Two more judges. Just a snap.”

“Better you’n me,” Donald said.

“Nope,” Lobianco said. “Need some cash?”

“Tigers,” Donald said.

“Not Sunday,” Seats said. “Sunday’s tough.”

“Sunday,” Donald said.

“Oh, Jesus,” Seats said.

“Taillights?” Donald said.

“Sunday,” Lobianco said.

T
ICKER
G
REENAN
bummed a ride to Copley Square with Lorraine Bedell from the Suffolk Franklin Savings Bank branch in Roslindale Square. Lorraine was the branch manager. She was a capable woman of forty-three who had been widowed four years earlier when her husband, Eugene, reached the age of forty-six and discovered once and for all that the doctors were not kidding about hypertension. Lorraine wore silk blouses which had more buttons on the front than she thought necessary, tailored suits which consisted of no more material than was absolutely necessary, and shoes that showed off her legs. Lorraine had many friends and several firm opinions, among them the certitude that Mel Parnell was a great left-handed pitcher for the Red Sox only when the game did not mean much.

“No, Ticker,” she said when he called, “I do not happen to be driving in to the Colonnade Hotel today. I happen to be
riding
in to the Copley Plaza Hotel, where a friend of mine is taking me to lunch. He is sending his car for me. It’s a very nice car, Ticker. It’s a Lincoln Town Car, and it comes complete with a little man who wears a hat and sits up front and takes you where you want to go. Wonderful. He parks it, too. He does something with it, anyway. He goes away after he lets you off, and then he comes back when you have
finished what you are doing and you want to go somewhere else. Everyone should have one.

“Yes, Ticker,” she said, “as a matter of fact it is quite a large car. Very comfortable. It’s bigger’n my house, as a matter of fact. But it’s just a delightful way of going to the ballgame. I enjoy it.

“No, Ticker,” she said, “I will not have the driver drop you off at the Colonnade on the way to the ballpark. In the first place, I am not going directly to the ballpark. In the second place, if I were going directly to the ballpark, I wouldn’t be going anywhere near the Colonnade, you cheap bastard. I am going to the Copley Plaza. If you want to scrounge a ride with me, in exchange for a favor, I will drop you off at the hotel on my way to lunch. You’re on your own when it comes to getting home. You could thumb, maybe.

“Now, Ticker,” she said as the rose-colored Lincoln pulled up at the Copley Plaza, “here is the bag.” Greenan looked miserable. He wore a Haspel double-knit glen plaid suit and a white shirt and a clip-on bow tie, red. “Filene’s Basement,” he said.

“Wrong, Ticker,” she said. “My gentleman friends don’t give me marked-down crap from Eff-Bee. This is intimate apparel from Lord and Taylor, and it’s on your way to the hotel. All you have to do is drop it off and get a merchandise credit for me. You can give it to me the next time you need a ride someplace.”

“I wish you wouldn’t make me do this,” he said.

“Ticker,” she said, “it’s good for you. This is your constituent service that you’re always bragging about. You’re too cheap to keep a car and too weak to do without one, so you can take my see-through nighties back to Lord and Taylor and congratulate yourself on saving all that lovely money. Who’re you beating out of lunch at the Colonnade, Ticker? Some poor bastard that doesn’t know you?”

“No,” he said, “Charlie Lobianco. Seats. And he’s beating me.”

“My God,” she said, “no wonder you look so down in the mouth. You poor old skinflint, you. You must want something big, you’re buying lunch.”

“I guess I do,” he said. “Seats seems to think so.”

S
UPERINTENDENT
K
ENNETH
W
ALKER
was in his early fifties. He had gray hair cut very short over an angular face that was pallid. He wore a dark blue suit and a blue tie with white stripes on a light blue shirt. He had the beginnings of a gut, but he had been working on keeping firm. He sat at the head of a long oak table that needed varnish. There was one file folder in front of him. He did not get up when Riordan entered the office. He did not change his expression. He said: “Peter.”

“Ken,” Riordan said. Walker cocked his right eyebrow as the two men seated at his left and right stood up and faced Riordan, extending their right hands. Riordan responded the same way. “You know Oscar, here,” Walker said nodding to his right. Riordan took Dietz’s hand and shook it. “Oscar,” Riordan said, “nice to see you again.” Dietz was about thirty-five, wearing a blue-and-white cord suit, half-frame glasses, an open-collared blue shirt and a serious expression. He was smoking a bulldog briar pipe, which he removed from his mouth when he spoke.

“Peter,” Dietz said. He looked at Riordan critically. “You’re still abusing your health, I see.”

“That’s a common belief,” Riordan said. “I’ve heard it
from many people who’re going to need the embalmer before I do.”

Walker grinned. “And this,” he said, “is Fred Mayes.”

“Fred,” Riordan said, extending his right hand over the table. Mayes was about thirty-two. He was stocky. He had a short brown beard. His hairline was receding at the forehead. He wore a blue madras sports coat over a blue-and-white-striped button-down shirt, with a green-and-blue-striped tie. He did not smile. “You may call me
Doctor
,” he said.

“Oh?” Riordan said. “What of? Medicine?”

“Psychology,” Mayes said.

“Fine,” Riordan said. “And you,
Doctor
, may call me
Doctor
.”

Mayes said: “What of?”

“Philosophy,” Riordan said.

“I obtained my doctorate from the University of California at Berkeley,” Mayes said. “I have published in many of the leading journals.”

“I obtained my doctorate from Brown University in Providence, Rhode Island,” Riordan said. “I haven’t published in any of the leading journals, or even the second-rate journals, because I’ve been out chasing thugs and learning about the real world. Now, Doctor Mayes, are we gonna fuck around here or are we gonna talk business, huh?”

Dietz had an expression of dismay on his face. Mayes was turning red. Walker was grinning behind their backs. “I didn’t mean any insult, Peter,” Mayes said.

“Doctor Riordan, to you,” Riordan said. “I’ve got a question pending.”

“I don’t see any need to use foul language,” Mayes said.

“I don’t see any need to put up with your fucking airs and graces, Doctor,” Riordan said. “I asked you a goddamned question. I came here to talk about a guy. I didn’t come here to swap résumés with you, you pompous asshole. We gonna talk business or what?”

“This man Magro is an inmate of this institution,” Mayes said.

“Right,” Riordan said, “and they got lions and tigers in the goddamned circus. What other news you got for me today? You think I came waltzing out here for the exercise? I came out here because Magro is an inmate of this institution. Magro is an inmate because he was convicted of killing a guy. Somebody is getting set to let him out. I have got it on good authority that when he gets out, he is going to go and kill another guy. That concerns me, Doctor.”

Walker stopped grinning. “Gentlemen,” he said, “shall we sit down and have our conference?”

“Sure,” Riordan said. He took the chair at the other end of the table. Dietz and Mayes sat down. Riordan pulled the Luckies out of his pocket and removed one cigarette from the pack. He commenced tapping it down. He looked around the office. He said: “Ken, is there any chance of getting Ruthie to bring an ashtray in here? I haven’t got any cuffs on these pants, and besides, it makes my legs hot when the coals catch fire.” Walker reached around behind him and punched the intercom button. Riordan lit the cigarette. Mayes’s face was still red.

“Would you mind not smoking, please?” Mayes said.

“Yes,” Riordan said, “very much so.”

“The smoke irritates my sinuses,” Mayes said.

“Good,” Riordan said. “But enough about your sinuses, Doctor. Leave us chat about Mikie-mike Magro.”

The buzzer sounded on the intercom, Walker reached back and pushed the button. “Ruthie,” he said, “would you bring in an ashtray for this roughneck visiting us?” Her laugh was audible over the intercom. “Thank you,” Walker said. He turned back to face the people at the table. “Pete,” he said, “…  oh … do I have to call you Doctor?”

“Nah,” Riordan said. “We’ve known each other a long time, Ken. Call me Pete, like always.”

“Thank you,” Walker said. He opened the folder in front of him. “Tell you the truth, Pete, I know about as much about Magro as I do about seven hundred other guys in this little resort.”