Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn (Spenser, #44)(55)

When he arrived, he was thirty minutes late. And had brought two men, my friends from the Greenway market. Davey Stefanakos and his wild-eyed pal waited at an entrance to the stadium while Jackie walked up to me two steps at a time. Stefanakos looked as if he was prepped to tangle with a matador. His eye was still swollen.

“We were supposed to be alone,” I said.

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “I forgot. Where’s my f*cking money?”

“And guns,” I said. “I took some nice pieces off your guys.”

DeMarco was a little shorter than me, with a barrel-shaped torso and stubby legs. He had a big head with a lot of black hair and a dominant nose. He wore track pants and a black T-shirt that read DEMARCO TOWING. Probably put his company on his shirts so he could remember one of his legit jobs. Keep his story straight.

“You really want to f*ck around?” he said. “Now? I had to feed Davey a sedative before we drove over here. He wants to tear your freakin’ head off.”

“Might try a chain and choke collar,” I said. “It creates a bond between beast and master.”

“You ain’t getting outta here in once piece,” he said. “You know that. This meet. Coming here was dumb.”

“But you would have come to me.”

“Sure,” he said. “Only you seem to got no place to live. You got a lot of enemies, Spenser. Never heard anything like it.”

“And a few friends.”

I motioned to the opposite side of the stadium where a muscular guy in workout gear stood. I saluted him with my coffee. Z waved back. Hawk was around, too. But one does not see Hawk.

“Doesn’t matter.”

I shrugged. “We’ll see,” I said. “We can all fight later. If Davey has a problem with me, I’m happy to settle it. But in the meantime, I wish to appeal to your better nature. If such a thing actually exists.”

“If you’re talking about me giving up my security tapes, you are seriously f*cked in the head,” DeMarco said. “I know what kind of arrangement you had with the old man, Fish. You’d stroke him a little under the table and he’d let you do what you want. Or Tony Marcus and all those blacks. But let me deliver some bad news to you. Those f*ckers are old. They’re as outta date as my dad’s Sunday ties. You f*cked with me in business that was none of your concern. You f*cked with me again about that church fire. And just to top it off, you ambush my guys and take my money. How’s it gonna look to people if I don’t just shoot you right now?”

“A few witnesses,” I said. “And besides, my friends would shoot you first and then shoot your men. It’d be a pretty messy package. And you wouldn’t have a chance to march in the Columbus Day Parade this year.”

“Eat shit.”

“You bring the discs?”

“They’re not discs,” he said. “It’s a whole f*cking server. I can’t just yank it out and walk around with it. I don’t know what you’re looking for or where to find it.”

“You know about the fire?”

Jackie nodded. As his head bobbed, a thick gold rope chain around his neck bounced up and down.

“Three Boston firefighters got killed by these guys, Jackie,” I said. “And this week two more nearly died by your so-called flower shop. Surely you would like to see justice done. These guys are authentic psychos.”

“That sucks,” he said. “But I don’t want to end up in Walpole like my old man. How do you even know my camera caught a f*cking thing that night?”

“I don’t.”

“And I’m supposed to just hand it over and let you sort it out?”

“That’s the plan.”

I patted two large shopping bags I’d borrowed from Susan. Classics from Filene’s Basement. I was surprised how well they supported the weight of the guns. No pride left in newfangled shopping bags. Probably made in China.

“Suck it, Spenser,” DeMarco said. He reached over in an attempt to take back his money.

I pushed him hard in the chest. He fell heavy against the concrete steps. His boys came running. Z tried to head them off. Hawk walked out of a tunnel, hoisting a 12-gauge, moving fast and fluid down the steps.

Jackie DeMarco began to laugh as he righted himself on the steps and stood. He shook his head. “Know what?” he said. “I changed my mind. Keep it. Keep the money. Keep the guns. You know why?”

“I’m guessing because I won’t live to spend it.”

“Goddamn right.”

“Too clever, Jackie.”

Davey Stefanakos came running up, breathing hard but easy. He had on a white silk T-shirt and gray pants. He gave me a hard, flat look, breathing in and out of his nose. It felt a little like being at a weigh-in. I tried to think of something really offensive to say about his mother.

But before I could, Stefanakos reached behind his back. He stopped in mid-motion.

“Hands up, Zorba,” Hawk said. “Or you’ll be picking buckshot out your *.”

Stefanakos showed his skillet-sized hands. As did the other man, who Z had met on the field.

I had yet to move from my seat. It had a terrific view of the field and the stadium. “Sorry about the trade, Jackie,” I said. “You know the night I’m looking for. I need an ID.”