Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn (Spenser, #44)(17)

“Someone pissed him off?”

I nodded. Vinnie raised his eyebrows.

“And that didn’t scare you in the least?”

I shrugged. Never being a fast learner, I drank some more coffee. It was late afternoon. I could use the fuel.

“Only one guy I know,” Vinnie said. “Worked for Broz back in the day. I hear he’s still called out of retirement from time to time. A real artist with burning shit.”

“A name?”

“Listen, why don’t you come see me sometime when you or Hawk don’t need me doing work for you,” he said. “We could bowl a few games. Have some beer. A few laughs.”

“You really want that?”

Vinnie lit a new cigarette. “Hell, no,” he said. “What I want is for you to know what you’re getting into. Learn something for me. I’ve moved from the field into management. I get up late, drink coffee, read the newspaper. I make some calls and I’m done. After all these years, I got out while the getting is good. Unnerstand?”

“Not many Thug Emeritus positions.”

“Check Harvard,” Vinnie said. “I wouldn’t put any crazy shit past them.”

I nodded. I waited. Either Vinnie would give me a name or he wouldn’t. He looked me over and said, “Ever hear of Tommy Torcelli? Aka Tommy Torch?”

“Sounds like he used to front a doo-wop group.”

“Ha, ha,” Vinnie said. “He used to work as a mechanic in Dorchester. Down by Fields Corner. He was the go-to guy for a long time. I heard he got busted for some kind of kiddie-porn thing. He’s a true sicko in every way.”

“Boy, I sure would love to meet him.”

“I think he’s still in the can,” Vinnie said. “But I know he did business with Jackie and his old man. If someone wanted something burned, Tommy Torch would be on his speed dial.”

I nodded.

“The guy can burn two city blocks and make it look like a firefly farted. You know?”

“A true genius.”

“Yeah,” Vinnie said. His cigarette bopped in his lips. “What got burned?”

“A Catholic church in the South End.”

“The one where those firefighters died?”

I nodded.

“Jesus Christ.”

“Exactly.”

“What’s the world coming to?” Vinnie said. “Joe Broz did a lot of bad things. Killed a lot of people. But he’d never have burned a church. Or hurt a Boston firefighter.”

“The new generation,” I said. “Thugs without ethics.”

Vinnie made a couple calls. I finished the coffee while watching the afternoon traffic jam up on the pike. After ten minutes, he’d arranged for a meet with Tommy Torcelli at Walpole. Vinnie said he and Tommy Torch went way back.

“How far?” I said.

“Far.”

“Does he have ethics?”

“The man can’t even spell ethics.”

“Can he be trusted?”

“Nope.”

“Good to know.” I gave him a soft salute with two fingers and descended the stairs.





15


MCI Cedar Junction at Walpole was a quick yet not scenic drive from Boston on Route 128 South. The next morning, I made it in a little over an hour. The security process took a bit longer. Morning visitation was nearly done before I met Tommy Torch face-to-face through the glass. We had about twenty minutes to exchange pleasantries.

“I know you.”

“Yeah?” I said.

“You’re the guy that killed Fran Doerr,” he said.

“Aw, shucks.”

“He was an *,” Tommy said. “Never liked the f*cking guy. I like Vinnie. When Vinnie walked behind Broz, you knew where you stood.”

“True.”

“And Vinnie likes you.”

“Vinnie and I have a mutual respect.”

“He don’t work with that queer Gino no more,” he said. Tommy nodded for effect. “Runs his own affairs.”

The guy gave me the creeps. His thin white skin was dotted with age spots. His face was small, skeletal, with bright blue eyes, his white and wispy hair pasted flat in long, useless strands. But no one looks good in an orange jumpsuit. It was very hard to pull off with style.

“So what can you do for me?” he said. “You wanna know something? Right?”

“I don’t think we’d get along socially.”

“I want a reduced sentence. This thing they got me for is junk. It wasn’t even my computer. Someone set me up.”

“I thought they caught you in the act?” I said. “With your pants around your ankles in Moakley Park?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Well. I did that. Sure. But the other stuff. The added charges that keep me in here. That’s not true.”

If only the world’s smallest violin were handy. Even with the Plexiglas separating us, our words exchanged only through a phone line, I felt the direct need to take a shower.

“I heard Jackie DeMarco had a church in the South End torched last year,” I said. “You know anything about it?”

“I’ve been in jail for two years.”

“I know,” I said. “But I heard you’d been Jackie’s go-to guy before you got popped.”