Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn (Spenser, #44)(28)

I turned to Hawk. He started to whistle “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah.”

“Song of the South.”

“Yes, suh,” Hawk said.

Z smiled. Hawk and I had perfected our act long ago. We were the Martin and Lewis of beating the crap out of people. My hand hurt. My ribs hurt. Jackie DeMarco had definitely traded up in his hired help.

“Who sent you?” Tyler said. “Christ. You can’t stick a f*cking gun in a guy’s back and knock him around until he talks. This ain’t some Arab country. Shit. We got rights here.”

“Sure,” I said. “But how about a little talk. Or else my associates here might take you out on a deep-sea fishing trip and use you as bait.”

“Bullshit,” Tyler said. “Hawk does shit for money. How much money do you want to let me go?”

Hawk shook his head. “This ain’t for pay.”

“How about you, Pancho Villa?” Tyler said, looking to Z. “I’ll give you a lot of pesos.”

“I’m full-blooded Cree,” Z said, muscular arms crossed over his chest. “We get paid in scalps.”

Tyler swallowed again and turned his eyes up to me. He looked at me and nodded and said, “What do you want?”

“I want to know why Jackie DeMarco had you burn that church in the South End.”

“What the f*ck?” Tyler said. He began to laugh. “I got no freakin’ idea what you’re talking about. He didn’t burn a goddamn church.”

Hawk stepped up out of the shadows and into a slice of light. Tyler looked up into the light and blinked. I held up a hand for him to wait. Hawk took a step back. There was a single bulb in the room shining on many boxes of liquor. A wino’s dream.

“Jackie wanted to send a message,” I said, “after he started cutting into Gino Fish’s territory.”

Tyler narrowed his eyes and shook his head. “Who the f*ck is a Gino Fish?”

I shook my head at his lack of understanding of local history. My hand rattled around in the ice. I pulled it out and examined it. My knuckles were fat and getting fatter. I stuck it back in the bucket. My ribs ached with each breath. I figured a couple might’ve been cracked.

“I can hit him,” Z said. “I’d like to hit him again.”

Tyler winced and turned his head. Z grinned, standing tall and still.

“Why’d you have me followed?” I said.

Tyler jacked his head up at me. He stared at me and yelled, “I got no f*cking idea what you’re talking about.”

“Two guys,” I said. “Black SUV picked me up before we went into the tunnel. You called ahead after you got tipped I was coming.”

Tyler snored. “Nobody tipped nobody.”

“Double negative,” Hawk said. “A terrible reflection of today’s education system.”

I held up my swelling hand and said, “We met,” I said. “They told me. One of them looked like he just escaped a traveling circus.”

“So f*cking what?” Tyler said. He smiled, pleased that his connection to DeMarco was now public knowledge.

Z looked to Hawk. Hawk stayed by the door. Outside, you could hear the late-afternoon bustle around Faneuil Hall and the market. People yelling and hooting. Ready to party on a Friday night. Two-for-one cocktails. Guinness on tap. Jell-O shooters for everyone.

“Go ahead and scream,” Z said. “Nobody gives a shit.”

I looked to Z and nodded. Z walked up to Tyler King and snatched up a good bit of his shirt. Z pulled back his arm, which when coiled resembled Secretariat’s hind leg.

“They were with me,” Tyler said. “But nobody tipped me. I saw you over at the Muscle Factory and then over at the packie. You got a blue Explorer. I know f*cking cars. It’s my goddamn job.”

“Nope,” I said. “You got tipped. You were waiting for me.”

“Believe what you want.”

“All we want to know is about the fire,” I said. “I know what you do for Jackie. And I know why you burned the church. You lit it in the cellar in two places and then hauled ass in that alley. I saw you on surveillance tape. You can either talk to me about it. Or I’d be more than fine calling the police.”

“Call ’em,” Tyler said. “And I’ll sue the f*cking Mex for assault and kidnapping.”

“Cree,” Z said. And then he punched him once but very effectively in the face.

“I don’t know nothing about no f*cking church fire,” Tyler said. He spit out some blood. “Mr. DeMarco wouldn’t ever touch a church. Are you nuts? He goes to Mass every Sunday with his wife and kids. That’s some crazy bad luck.”

“It wasn’t going to be a church anymore,” I said. “The archdiocese had sold it. It was sold to a man named Herbie Wu.”

“Am I not speaking English?” Tyler said. “I got no f*cking idea. How many ways can I say it?”

“Then tell DeMarco I want to talk,” I said. “You set the fire. But he called it.”

“Jesus Christ, man,” Tyler said. “You can beat the crap out of me. Toss me in the ocean. Do what you want. But that doesn’t change that we didn’t burn no f*cking church. Now either let’s get down to the beatin’ or let me f*cking go.”