The Pariot GAme (9 page)

“Well,” Riordan said, “the cops packed up and left, and Digger was still sitting there at his table, big fat guy in a white shirt, sitting there in his own saloon at three in the morning with one light on, shaking his head. And for the next couple of weeks that neighborhood had more buzzing goin’ on’n you’ll generally get in a beehive. And
nothing came out of it.
Nothing. As far as anybody knew, Digger’d been Harrington’s only moonlight employer. Digger couldn’t find out who the hell’d knocked him off, and it was driving him nuts. The cops couldn’t find out who knocked him off, but it really wasn’t bothering them—they were having too much fun watching Digger go snuffling around like some big fat hog in a pen, trying to find some fresh swill, and getting more and more frustrated.

“Then after a while,” Riordan said, “Digger began to lose interest, and he pretty much gave up the investigation he was conducting on his own. The cops didn’t like that a bit—destroyed their entertainment. ‘So,’ Petrucelli said, ‘we kind of let it be known on the street that we were pretty close to cracking the Harrington thing. Got everybody all stirred up again, and after they stewed in their own juice for about a week, it was picture-taking time again. Run all the boys in, new mug shots front and side, case they changed their hairdressers or grew mustaches or something. Didn’t even question them or anything. Even let a couple guys go that had some small stuff in their cars when we stopped them. They’d ask us what we wanted, must’ve been about thirty of them, and all we’d tell them was we thought we might have a witness to something fairly big but the witness wasn’t sure about the pictures in the books so we thought we’d take some new ones.’

“ ‘And we did something else,’ Petrucelli said, ‘that was really mean. I must say, even I was impressed. We grabbed
Digger and brought him in, and Magro was standing right next to Doherty when we picked him up. But we didn’t pick up Magro. He was practically begging us to take him in, and we wouldn’t do it. So now all the boys know that we’ve got a witness who doesn’t recognize any of the boys on sight, which means that somebody who does recognize the boys must’ve tipped us to the witness, and who is the one guy that we don’t haul in? Magro.’ ”

“Ahh,” Walker said to Riordan, “that is cute. Old, but cute. Done it myself now and then, but you can’t pull it too often, they catch on.”

“Digger and his boys didn’t,” Riordan said. “So all of a sudden Magro is in the shit up to his earlobes and thinking seriously about dialing nine-eleven and asking for emergency police protection. And that is when the call came through to Magro from down south of the line there, that a fellow who was maybe in a little trouble with his buddies might think about doing a favor for the boss. Show his heart was in the right place, you know? So that’s why Magro knocked off Holby in a hurry and made a mess of it. He had to do it then, or somebody was going to do something to him. Guy was desperate.”

“Which leaves Harrington,” Walker said. “Who did that?”

“Ahh,” Riordan said, “we’ll never know. Some volunteer, probably. Goes out to do Digger a favor, come back and brag about it later, be a big man with a bigger man. Probably some tough young kid we never heard of, yet. Looking to make his bones. Then the shit hit the fan, and he was smart enough to keep quiet. Thing of it is, Magro’s in here doing a long bit, and he thinks it’s Digger’s fault. So I think I know what he’s going to do when he gets out, only this time he’ll plan a little better.”

“What do you care?” Walker said. “Nothing but another thug.”

“Kenneth,” Riordan said reproachfully, “I am a government
agent. I am sworn to uphold the Constitution and the laws of the United States. Jeremiah Doherty is an American citizen, and he cannot be deprived of his life or property without due process of law. I don’t think Magro’s going to be too keen on due process for the Digger, if he gets out.”

“What’s the real reason?” Walker said.

“You ever been in the Bright Red?” Riordan said.

“Can’t say as I have,” Walker said. “Little outside my regular rounds.”

“I have,” Riordan said. “I have been in there once. I got made within forty minutes. I was sitting at the bar, having a dog, onions, mustard, Labatt’s ale, some chips, and I was watching the ballgame. And every so often I would sort of glance around and see all these little white fund-raising canisters. The kind you drop quarters in? For Little League and the softball team and poor Flynnie the fireman that fell off the ladder practicing on a three-decker up in Savin Hill? Now Ken, I am used to seeing quarters go into those things. Sometimes two quarters at a time, if Flynnie was a real good guy and him and Frances had about three hundred kids and she can’t work on account of that mastoid thing she’s got. I am used to that. But there are bills, American currency, going into those canisters, and this is not a wealthy crowd. In addition to which, there are no labels on those canisters. Not even any Magic Marker writing. So if you look at them, you don’t know where your hard-earned dollars’re going.”

“Unless, of course,” Walker said, “you do know where those hard-earned dollars’re going.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Riordan said. “That’s what I was thinking when all of a sudden I noticed a mean-looking guy across on the other side of the room and he was looking at me real hard. He said something to the guy who was having refreshments with him, and that guy said something to the next guy, and pretty soon the only voice in the saloon was the announcer on the ballgame. So I decided I was right, and I do
know where those hard-earned dollars are going. I got up and I paid my money and I left.”

“Gunrunning,” Walker said. “A little noisemaker or two for some people up in Ulster and Connaught who resent the British soldiers in their midst.”

“That is what I thought,” Riordan said. “And I also think that if I get time enough, sooner or later the Digger will show me where those party favors are. Unless the guys I am running around trying to find all over the damned country because my asshole boss in Washington decided I can catch unicorns if he decides that he wants unicorns, unless those guys come out of the bushes some night and knock me off. Which could happen.”

“So,” Walker said, “Mister Magro’s release could complicate your life.”

“Indeed,” Riordan said.

“Well,” Walker said, “I’m not sure this’ll do any good, but it’s all I can do. You can put me down as opposed to commutation or pardon, on the grounds of the seriousness of Magro’s offense.”

“How about Frick and Frack there,” Riordan said. “Any trouble with them?”

“Right now, yes,” Walker said. “Next week, no. Mayes wants me to let a nasty little bastard out for this weekend, even though I know the shifty little rat’s gonna run for the woods the minute he gets outside the gate. I was gonna fight it tooth and nail. Now I think I’ll just record my opposition, for the record, and cite Doctor Mayes’s confidence in the man’s rehabilitation. That should keep Doctor Mayes’s plate full for the next six months or so, when the papers get ahold of that one.”

Riordan stood up. “Always a pleasure to talk to you, Kenneth,” he said.

“Mine too, Peter,” Walker said, “mine too. Except generally, I’m the only one I do have to talk to.”

“S
O
,” S
EATS SAID
, as Greenan walked in with the Lord & Taylor bag, “here is Greenan, late as usual. And he is carrying a bag. This is probably a large amount of money that a guy gave him in a hotel room at the Sheraton and told him he was some fuckin’ A-rab or something, and Ticker would be rich if he did what the guy wanted, and the guy was from the Eff-bee-eye and somebody inna next room was probably takin’ pictures the whole thing. You wanna be careful, Ticker, is what I think. Sooner, later, you’re gonna find out the grand jury is mentioning your name a lot and you have got serious problems down Post Office Square there. Which is the next stop before Leavenworth.”

“It’s not money in this bag,” Greenan said sullenly. He gripped it tightly at his side and came to the table.

“There you go again, Greenan,” Seats said. “It’s probably drugs or some goddamned thing you started selling. You know what they’re gonna do in honor of you? They are gonna reopen Alcatraz and put you out there all by yourself with the fuckin’ gooney birds and all them other animals that shit all over everything. And you will probably feel right at home, you are such an asshole.”

“Quit goosing me, all right?” Greenan said.

Lobianco snatched the bag out of Greenan’s hand. “I got to see what’s in this, Ticker,” he said. “You keep a sharp eye on things here, Francis,” Seats said to the maitre d’. “Somebody comes in here with some indictments or something, I want support that I was merely doing my duty as a law-abiding citizen and everything.”

“You son of a bitch,” Greenan said, grabbing for the bag.

“Uh-uh,” Lobianco said, holding the bag away from Greenan’s grasp. “You got this here bag with the Lord and Taylor thing on it, and I wanna know what’s in it, before I let you sit down at my table and end up getting the next room at Alcatraz. Mans got to look out for himself in this world, and that is all I am doing.” He opened the bag. He removed a beige shorty nightgown, decorated with lace at the bodice. He held it up by the straps and admired it. “This is very
nice
, Ticker,” he said. “I think it’ll be quite attractive on you.” He tossed the nightgown to Greenan, whose face was red. “Here you go, Ticker,” Lobianco said, “why’ncha model it for us? Jesus, all these years I known you, I didn’t know you liked to dress up. Lemme see what else we got in this here Lord and Taylor bag. Cripes, you shop the fancy stores, huh?” Lobianco rummaged in the bag. Greenan rolled up the nightgown and put it in his jacket pocket. “
Panties
,” Lobianco said. He held up the beige panties with the decorative lace. “Bikini panties, for Christ sake, Ticker. Oh, you’re gonna be a knockout in these, huh?” Lobianco waved the panties around. The other patrons looked up from their lunches and grinned. He held them up to the light from the windows. He squinted at them. “Although come to think of it, Ticker, I would think these might be a little snug on you. You ain’t fat, exactly, but you’re carrying a little more baggage inna trunk than you used to. You sure you can get these on and feel comfy and everything?”

Greenan grabbed the panties away from Lobianco and
stuffed them in his jacket pocket with the nightgown. “They’re not mine,” he said.

“Oh ho,” Lobianco said, tossing him the paper bag, “you got something going on the side, huh, Ticker? Wait till Mrs. Ticker finds out about this, you got a honey. Whaddaya think? Think she’ll be mad?”

Greenan sat down. He put the empty Lord & Taylor bag on the floor. He took a pink napkin off the table and spread it over his lap. Francesco returned and stood over him. “A cocktail, sir?”

Greenan looked up as though he had not expected to encounter a waiter in a restaurant. “I …” he said.

“Of course, Francesco,” Lobianco said. “Mister Greenan always has a cocktail before lunch when he’s not buying. Naturally he will want one today, when he is paying. I’ll have another one myself. A bloody for me and … what’re you drinking these days, Ticker? Is it pink squirrels, or orange blossoms, or grasshoppers? I forgot. See, Francesco, the last time we had lunch, me and Ticker, I was buying, and he drank about thirty-five things that looked like ice cream sundaes that my grandchildren’re always pestering me to buy them. Except there isn’t any booze in the sundaes, I don’t think. They don’t act as funny afterward as Ticker does, anyway.”

“Cuba libre,” Greenan said.

“Pardon?” Francesco said.

“It’s not a fuckin’ battle cry, Francesco,” Lobianco said. “What he wants is a rum and Coke.”

“Yes,” Greenan said, “rum and Coke.”

“Rum and Coke,” Francesco said. He left the table.

Seats leaned toward Greenan, who sat farther back in his chair. “Ticker,” he said, “rum and Coke. You
must
have something serious on your mind. Here you are, buying lunch and actually starting off with a drink that you can almost taste the hard liquor in. What is on your mind?”

“Well,” Greenan said, “first thing is: I don’t think you should make fun of me like you do.”

“Why not?” Lobianco said. “I make fun of everybody else. Everybody else makes fun of me and takes advantage of me all the time, and I grin and bear it. Why the hell shouldn’t I have a few laughs at you? What makes you different?”

“I’m not used to it,” Greenan said.

“Ticker, Ticker,” Lobianco said. “You grew up in Roslindale, Ward Nineteen. You stayed in Roslindale, Ward Nineteen. You run for Mayor twice and got your ass blown off three times, twice running for Mayor and once when you first tried, get back inna Reps, because everybody was still laughing at you for running for Mayor them two times. The only reason they put you back in was that they got sick of laughing at you and decided they were ready for somebody else to have a laugh at and they hadda give you something to occupy your time so you wouldn’t be around so much, making everybody laugh. You should be grateful, people’re always going around and laughing at you. It gives them something to do instead of getting up a posse and going out to lynch you. Getting laughed at’s your biggest strength in politics. You’d be out a fuckin’ job, people decided all of a sudden Ticker Greenan isn’t funny anymore.”