Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn (Spenser, #44)(18)

“Maybe,” he said. “I knew his old man a lot better. His old man was something. Used to run most of the city before Broz set him up. Drank espresso at a little table on Prince Street every morning. Funny how them things work. Everyone in this world is trying to cut you off at your knees. You know what? What I did was wrong. But I got popped for pissing off the wrong people. It was a setup. I got a sickness. People knew it. They used it as a f*cking tool.”

“I don’t care,” I said. “I want to know about the church fire.”

He sat back and rubbed his face. He tried futilely to assemble a bit of dignity. But Elvis had left that building long ago. Tommy had few options, and this was probably his best chance since he’d landed back at Walpole.

“I read about it,” he said. “In all the fires I set, I never had one fireman hurt. My fires burned right. They were places that needed to be torched, abandoned shit boxes for insurance cash-out. I just made it look like it was an accident. Electrical and all that. Sometimes I’d cover a rat with kerosene and let it loose in the walls.”

“Lovely,” I said. “But who would Jackie use?”

“Nobody is gonna admit torching a place that killed no firefighter.”

“Three,” I said.

“I never killed no firefighter.”

“You said that.”

“You catch that guy and he gets life,” he said. “If he’s lucky. If he’s unlucky, Boston Fire will find him first.”

“I need a name,” I said. “I’ll take care of the rest.”

“I don’t want no part of this,” he said. “I mean, I give you a name and then you go beat the crap out of someone. I mean, I got my own personal f*cking code.”

“Sure,” I said. “If not, we’re just a wild beast lost in this world.”

“Huh?”

“Or at least some guy with lollipops in his pants.”

“Fuck you, Spenser,” he said. “I took this meet out of respect for Vinnie. If you don’t want to do business, I got to get back to watching a bunch of blacks kill each other over shootin’ hoops.”

“You help me with this thing and I’ll let the DA know,” I said. “It’s up to them what they do with you.”

“I got people doing that for me already.”

“I’m sure you’re reforming every day here,” I said. “Maybe you’ll walk out of Walpole a clean and righteous man.”

“I don’t need this,” Tommy said. He was about to hang up the phone. “I don’t need to waste my time with the crap. Come back if you got a deal.”

“How many visitors have you had lately?” I said. “It took a lot of effort to get a meet.”

Tommy dropped the phone in a loose hand. He stared at me and thumbed his nose. He stared for a bit. I stared back. He was ugly and it wasn’t easy.

“I help and you put in a good word?”

“The world is round,” I said.

“How do I know I can trust you?”

“Because Vinnie said so,” I said. “And because I’m not making you any promises.”

Tommy took in a long breath. He looked worn out and beat. He rubbed his scruffy face and sat up straight in the hard plastic chair. “Let me see what I can do and I’ll be in touch.”

“You know how to find me?”

“I got your number.”

“No promises.”

“How about we quit talking,” Tommy Torch said, “before I change my f*cking mind.”





16


By early afternoon, I returned to Boston only to find two ugly guys blocking my apartment building’s doorway.

I might have walked around them. But one was John Grady and he was very fat. He also looked pissed-off. On the upside, he seemed to be sober and clean-shaven, his thick hair washed and styled. Grady had on a green T-shirt that read IT’S OUR FUCKIN’ CITY. His friend was younger and in better shape. He was balding, with the rest shaved down to nearly nothing, wearing a black Gold’s Gym tank and workout shorts. He was a bodybuilder with bloated muscles and puffy veins. His pinprick black eyes radiated as much intelligence as a lab rat’s.

“You boys soliciting for the Jimmy Fund?” I said.

“You were down in the South End for the service,” Grady said. “Trying to make trouble on a big day.”

“How’d I make trouble?”

“Poking around,” he said. “Asking questions. Talking shit with the commissioner.”

Grady looked to the Michelin Man. Michelin Man staggered his stance. He stared at me with little eyes. He had a scar on one massive shoulder where he’d had a shoulder repaired. Lots of juicers had that problem. He looked to me and said, “Mmm.”

“No one needs this shit,” Grady said. “I don’t need you bothering me at the pub. And no firefighters need you poking around on a sacred day.”

“When should I poke around?”

“You got no business.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” I said. “Trouble is my business.”

“Like I told you,” he said. “People are waiting in line to stomp your ass.”