Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn (Spenser, #44)(14)

“And what had you planned to do with a hundred-year-old church, Mr. Wu?” I said.

He rubbed the insignificant tuft of hair under his chin. “Hmm,” he said. “May I ask why you want to know? I don’t often air business in public with strangers.”

“Especially with strangers introduced by crooks?”

“Are you saying Fast Eddie Lee is not a legitimate businessman in Boston?” Wu said. He smiled. “I’m shocked.”

“Heavens, no.”

Herbie rested his elbows on his bare legs. I noticed he wasn’t wearing socks with his suede loafers. I didn’t pass judgment. I’m a no-socks man myself.

“Condos,” he said.

“You were going to turn an old church into a condo?”

“Well,” he said. “You couldn’t tear it down. It was going to be part of a much larger development. I had plans for an entire stretch of what we developers call mixed-use. I don’t know if you’ve seen the church, but it’s not in the hippest section of the South End.”

“And now?”

“I walked away,” he said. “I’ve gone on to other projects. In business you have to weigh your costs and benefits.”

“Too high a cost?”

“Way too high.”

“That had nothing to do with rebuilding after the fire?”

He shook his head. “To be honest, the fire would have helped me out,” Wu said. “Less red tape and meetings with the Planning Commission. Can you imagine how much flack I’d get from preservationists? We’d already been working on a plan to retain as much of the edifice as possible while working around it.”

“So why get out?” I said.

Across from the public library, a large bandstand was being erected. A group of tourists on bicycles cut through the park, all smartly wearing helmets. The guide stopped and pointed out some of the important sites around them. I thought about waving but decided to keep a low profile.

Herbie Wu shook his head. “It’s been nice meeting you, Mr. Spenser,” he said.

I didn’t move. “Just what did Mr. Lee tell you about me?”

“He said you’ve been a pain in his ass.”

“Did he say that in English or Chinese?”

“I only speak a little Chinese,” Wu said. “He said it in English.”

“And what else?”

“Be careful of what I say,” he said. “But you can be trusted.”

I nodded. The tourists on bicycles pedaled off toward Boylston Street. The accordion player had launched into a horrific version of “Squeeze Box” by The Who. I might’ve preferred “Lady of Spain.”

Wu stood, the wind ruffling his expertly barbered hair. He checked his smartphone, bored, and offered his hand. I stood and shook it.

“You weren’t wanted in the neighborhood?”

Wu didn’t answer.

“If it wasn’t money?”

“It was money,” Wu said. “Everything is money. But this isn’t Chinatown. I pay taxes. I don’t have to pay protection.”

“Who?”

He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“I promise you I’ll leave you far out of this,” I said. “I only need a name. I walk away and you’ll never hear from me again.”

“This wasn’t my first encounter with that bastard,” Wu said. “Or I suspect my last.”

I waited. I could tell he wasn’t a fan of whoever may have smoked him out of the South End.

“Doesn’t matter if you’re from Beijing or Bedford,” he said. “Business is the same everywhere. And right now, if you want to set up a lemonade stand in that part of the South End, you got to pay off Jackie DeMarco. It’s too close to Southie.”

I nodded.

“You’ve met him?”

“Quite recently,” I said. “And we did not part on good terms.”

“I have no proof,” Wu said. “But his people came to me two weeks before the fire. They knew of the impending sale. I told them I would not pay a nickel.”

“Bingo.”

“Excuse me.”

“I always say that when I move down the food chain.”

“Be careful, Mr. Spenser,” he said. “This is a man without boundaries or ethics.”

“Criminals rarely possess those traits.”

“The same might be said about developers.”

“Depends on what they develop.”

“You promise to leave my name out of this?”

I agreed. Wu nodded and walked away. I tipped the accordion player two bucks as I left.





It was June now, hot as hell, and Johnny had the crazy idea to hit an old mattress factory in Dorchester. The building was big and brick, with a billboard on a far wall showing a little girl snuggled up for bedtime. The girl’s blanket had little moons and stars, reminding Kevin of when he’d been a kid. He remembered how his mom used to come in at night, tuck him in, make him feel safe before he dozed off. Even now that he was a grown man, she looked out for him. Looking over him. Although she didn’t know everything, she’d believe what he was about to do was right.

“You brought it?” Kevin said.