Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn (Spenser, #44)(53)

“Where do you keep your security tapes?” I said.

“Ain’t no tapes, old man,” the young black man said. “You a cop?”

“Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe I’m with FTD. You might very well lose your florist license.”

“Go f*ck yourself.”

Z walked over to the table and flicked through a laptop computer. “Where’s the hard drive?”

Binky looked to the muscular black man. The muscular black man shook his head. “No f*cking way,” he said. “You get us killed, man.”

“It’s late,” I said. “I’m getting tired.”

“That’s all somewhere else,” Binky said. “I don’t f*ck with any of it. It’s all wireless to the server. Anything older than a day feeds there.”

“Where and to whom?” I said.

“What does it matter?” Binky said.

“You know that fire two nights ago?”

Binky nodded. He was quick, bright. A real future in management.

“That’s why it matters,” I said.

Binky shook his head some more. He looked at me under his cute blue hat with dead eyes and shrugged. “Man, you don’t know the kind of shit you got yourself into.”

“How about we call the cops and let them sort out the details?”

“Suck it,” the white guy said. Leave it to the white guy to say something unclever.

“Where’d the video go?” I said.

I reached for my cell phone and started to punch up the cops. I wasn’t thrilled about explaining what we were up to, but it might be the only way.

“Okay,” Binky said. “Okay. You want that video? You got to see the man.”

“And who’s the man?” I said.

Binky looked over to his two pals. With hands over their heads, both of the men nodded. Binky looked at me. “Ever heard the name Jackie DeMarco?”

“Yep,” I said. “I’d often wondered why he was shaking down people in this neighborhood. Now I know. It’s all part of Jackieland.”

“Goddamn right it is,” Binky said. “And you is f*cked.”

“Well put,” I said.

I looked to the money on the table and told Z to scoop it all up with the guns. We exchanged looks. I nodded in appreciation.

“But,” I said. “I’d be willing to bet he’d make a trade first.”





46


The money and guns safely stashed, I returned to Susan’s at daybreak. I let myself in, let Pearl out, and made myself a poached egg and rye toast. As coffee started to brew, Susan came into the kitchen. I needed a shower and a change of clothes. I had a dash of blood on my T-shirt from our adventure in the South End.

“Poached egg?” I said.

“What time is it?”

“Don’t ask.”

I filled Pearl’s bowl with food and brought Susan a coffee. I added some milk to a small pitcher and brought it over with the sugar dish. She gave me a sleepy smile.

“It was a long if not fruitful night.”

I took a seat across from her at the kitchen table with my plate.

“We located an important piece of evidence for Jack McGee’s case.”

“That’s terrific.”

“It would be terrific if it were in my possession,” I said. “But it’s owned by a man who doesn’t like me very much right now.”

“Who?”

I told her about Z and me breaking into the drug house in the South End. And I told her about it being connected to Jackie DeMarco.

“Of all the drug houses and all the criminals in Boston,” she said.

“Jackie’s been a busy man,” I said. “He’s taken over a lot of territory in a short amount of time. I’d step on his toes with about anything in Charlestown or Southie. But this was special, only a few blocks from Holy Innocents. Now I know why he’d wanted to control that land and any development.”

Susan nodded and drank some coffee. It never ceased to amaze how a licensed therapist was open to discuss down-and-dirty criminal activity. Her dark eyes watched me in wonderment, listening to every word. A gold light covered the kitchen table and Susan’s hands on her coffee. Her nails were freshly painted a bright red.

Pearl snuffled up and waited for me to scratch her ears. “Am I wasting my time to ask you to tread carefully?” Susan said.

“I am impervious to bullets.”

“Did I tell you about one of my clients who believed he was George Reeves?”

“Shall we go down to your couch?”

“Do you think I didn’t notice the blood on your shirt?”

“Ketchup,” I said. “I should never eat and drive.”

“I think it’s a terrible idea to seek out a guy like Jackie DeMarco,” she said. “Why not just hand it over to your new friend in Arson?”

“Professional pride?”

“Might get you killed,” she said. “Just how far has this gone now?”

“Jackie has something I need,” I said. “And I have something he wants.”

“What does he want?”

“About two hundred thousand dollars and several guns.”