Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn (Spenser, #44)(24)

“Jackie DeMarco.”

“For Christ sake.”

“They can hear you, but not me.”

“Yeah, him,” he said. “He may be using this guy from up in Lynn but works in Revere. He’s one of those young hotshots. A shooter. But I hear he’s been branching out into other lines of work.”

“Diversification.”

“Yeah,” Tommy said. “Right. He’s also real good at burning shit. Not as good as me. But gets the job done.”

“What makes you think he works for DeMarco?”

“You don’t need to concern yourself with that shit, Spenser,” he said. “I give you a name. If the name pans out, then you put in a good word. That’s how the world works, right?”

“True pals.”

“Sure,” he said. “Whatever you say.”

The connection from Walpole was very bad and the line buzzed in my ear. Between the rain outside my window and the mumble mouth of Tommy, it was difficult to hear. “And?”

“What?”

“The name?”

“Don’t f*ck me,” he said.

“You needn’t be concerned.”

“You know Teddy Cahill?” he said. “Works in Arson?”

“And his dog, too.”

“That f*cking dog once got me four years inside,” he said. “It’s still alive? Christ.”

“I’ll talk to Cahill,” I said. “I’ll let him know if you helped. What they do is up to them.”

“Okay,” he said. “What the hell?”

I waited. I almost started to work out a drumroll on my desk. Instead I started to whistle the theme to Jeopardy!

“Tyler King,” he said. Voice lowered. “A real scumbag. He’s the kind of guy who’d throw acid in his mother’s face. A goddamn yellow prick.”

“Coming from you, a true compliment.”

“Mainly does business out of his garage in Eastie,” he said. “Right by Logan. Planes right overhead and shit. He’s got a party store in Saugus, too. Deals drugs. But does the hard stuff that’s got to be done. He ain’t a nice man.”

“Neither are you, Tommy,” I said.

“I know what I am,” he said. “If I ever forget, I got guards to remind me. I just got to know, are we good with this?”

“I guess we’ll find out,” I said and hung up the phone.

I grabbed my Braves cap off the hat tree and locked up the door. I called Quirk as I drove south to police headquarters. I needed information and maybe a mug shot on Tyler King.

“Why they don’t make bubblegum cards for criminals?”

“Great idea,” Quirk said. “I’ll talk to the super. We’ll get right on it, Spenser.”





20


Why the hell are you asking about Tyler King?” Quirk said.

“Nice choice of locations,” I said. “Am I not welcome in the new office?”

We sat in Quirk’s car in the parking lot of a Burger King on Malcolm X Boulevard.

“People will start to talk,” he said. “With the new title comes a lot of politics. I don’t need that shit.”

“Fair enough.”

He handed me a legal-sized envelope that included two arrest reports and three booking photos. “We liked him for two murders last year,” Quirk said. “But we couldn’t make it stick. You know he’s the top guy for your buddy Jackie DeMarco?”

“So I’ve heard.”

“This shit never changes,” Quirk said. “People get older. People die. New thugs take their place.”

“What keeps us in business.”

“His mother was a head case,” Quirk said. “Dope addict. Broz had her killed and left her down in the Fort Point Channel. Funny how this all comes full circle.”

“What was the murder?”

“One of the Columbia Point Dawgs was making trouble for DeMarco’s growing business,” Quirk said. “We found him in the trunk of an old Buick LaSalle parked in a lot at the Franklin Park Zoo.”

“How old?”

“He’s twenty-four,” Quirk said. “When I was twenty-four, I was already married, had a kid and a mortgage. This kid’s probably already killed a half-dozen people and spends what he’s got on dope and broads.”

“The rest he spends foolishly.”

“Tyler King is no George Raft,” Quirk said. “Wears his pants hanging off his ass and ball cap with a flat brim. I hear he’s good with trucks. Works with his old man at a shop by Logan. He does some fleet work with trucks. Believe it or not, he’s got a high IQ. I got his juvie records.”

I read through the report of the gentleman who was a member of the Columbia Point Dawgs. I had read recently that entire organization was snatched up in a Federal raid and asked Quirk about it.

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “Boston is now free of crime. Yippee.”

“I bet you make one hell of a public speaker on career day.”

“Damn right I do,” Quirk said. “I tell the kids to stay off the streets or I’ll bust their ass.”

“I bet the teenyboppers adore you.”