Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn (Spenser, #44)(19)

Michelin Man said “Mmm” again. His repertoire was dazzling. I waited for him to launch into the soliloquy from Hamlet.

“That line is long and winding,” I said. “Past efforts have proven futile.”

“What?”

“Futile,” I said. “It means it’s not worth attempting to threaten me or fight me. I’m tired and have planned a late breakfast. You boys don’t look like you could make it to the Public Garden without a lot of sweat and sucking wind.”

“Wanna bet?”

“I’m trying to help,” I said.

“I’ll toss you right in the garbage,” the young guy said.

I shrugged. He took a fast step toward me, grabbing my arm. I pivoted off my right foot and landed a hard left in his soft gut. He made an oof sound and attempted to tackle me around the waist. I rammed his bald head into a brick wall and he slumped to the ground.

“John,” I said, “unless you have some secrets, I’m working for you, too. Now, you can attempt to accost me and we could dance around Marlborough. The neighborhood watch might complain, as this type of behavior is frowned upon in the Back Bay. But I’d grow bored and tired. I have linens to change.”

“Pfft,” he said. Grady spit on the sidewalk. Michelin Man was on his ass.

“Or,” I said, “I’ll buy you brunch. There’s a nice place down the street. They even let you chain your pets outside.”

Grady looked to his friend, sucking air. His bald head had started to bleed. I leveled my eyes at him and crossed my arms over my chest. If he didn’t move, I might just start singing “If You Knew Susie, Like I Know Susie.” I started to hum.

“‘Oh, what a girl,’” I said, under my breath.

“What?” Grady said.

“Your call, John.”

He seemed to think about it for a moment and then nodded to the Michelin Man. Michelin Man called me a few choice words and shuffled back to his car. We watched him go and then drive off in a beat-up Chevy sedan.

“Let’s walk,” I said.

We followed the Public Garden along Beacon and took a left on Charles to the Paramount. I bought Grady a stack of blueberry pancakes. I had the huevos rancheros with fresh-squeezed OJ and black coffee. Creature of habit. The afternoon was soft and warm. They’d opened up the windows fronting Charles.

“To recap,” I said. “What’s your problem with me?”

Grady hadn’t touched his food. “You got no business.”

“You said that,” I said. “But if that stopped me, I wouldn’t be very good at my job.”

“This is Arson’s case,” he said. “They don’t need you tracking shit through their house.”

“A good metaphor, but far from accurate,” I said. I reached for the coffee.

“A guy like you ain’t in it for no one but themself.”

“That’s why you agreed to break bread with me?”

“Maybe I was f*cking hungry.”

I raised my eyebrows. Hard to argue with bulletproof logic.

“I think you have some kind of beef with Jack McGee and this doesn’t have anything to do with you or me,” I said. “Or even Dougherty, Bonnelli, and Mulligan.”

“McGee is an *.”

“Doesn’t change what he believes.”

“We never got along,” Grady said. “We worked together six years ago. I never wanted to be on the same shift with him. He liked to piss me off. Always complaining and making trouble.”

“How’s he making trouble now?”

His mouth was full with a slab of blueberry pancake. I held up my hand to let him know he could finish chewing. I sipped on some coffee and added a half-packet of sugar.

“He didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“Come the f*ck on,” Grady said.

I shook my head. I waited. When in doubt, be quiet, let them talk. People like to fill the silence. I cut into the huevos rancheros. If there was any logic to the world, this breakfast would hang at the MFA.

“He didn’t say?” Grady said. “No shit?”

“None at all.”

“It’s my fault.”

I looked up. There was a lot of chatter and hum around us. People laughing and talking. Silverware clanging as small tables were cleared. New customers hustled for a seat once they got their food.

“How?” Oh, Spenser. Master interrogator.

“I killed them,” Grady said. His face had drained of color and his blue eyes had grown very large. He breathed in and out of his mouth. He’d had only a few bites of pancake, and as he reached down for the coffee, his hand produced a slight tremble. “Jack knew. Jesus. He didn’t say that? Isn’t that what this is all about?”

I shook my head.

“Laying the blame,” he said. “He wanted me to be exposed. I broke down that door, let in all that air. I wasn’t listening to the radio chatter. I just f*cking bust through that office. When that room opened up. All that f*cking oxygen. Whoosh. That fire came up hard and fast. I got knocked back. My ears were burned and back broke. But, shit, I got out. I was pulled out. But. Oh, holy hell. Jesus. Jack? Jack didn’t say?”

Grady was crying. I always had a hard time watching big men cry. I saw my father cry only twice. Both times scared the hell out of me.