Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn (Spenser, #44)(6)

“I knew it,” I said. “You have that twinkle in your eye.”

“I wish I knew more,” he said. “And I wish I’d been there with them. We got the dedication coming up. They’re going to unveil a plaque here at the house. It’s pretty much all I can think about. Media and all that stopping by. Folks bringing us more food than we can ever eat.”

“I’d like to speak to John Grady.”

“That might be tricky,” he said.

“He’s no longer with your company?”

“Nope.” Collins shook his head. “He’s on disability. Cracked a couple vertebrae that night. Off the record, I hear he’s been drinking a lot. He just never came back from it, physically or mentally.”

I asked where I might find him, and he gave me the name of a well-known bar in Dorchester. I nodded and offered my hand. Collins shook it and looked me in the eye.

“What do you think about this church being connected to these latest arsons?”

“Hard to say,” Collins said. “We haven’t had much rest since spring. Someone or several folks are burning up lots of old buildings. Dumpsters, trash piles. It’s keeping us on high alert.”

“Jack believes it’s all the same.”

“I’m not sure about that,” Collins said. “Seems to be a different kind of animal at work. Besides, you do know Jack McGee is crazy?”

“Sure,” I said. “Why do you think we’re friends?”





5


The Eire Pub was known as Boston’s Original Gentlemen’s Prestige Bar. Just to underscore the point, it was announced from a rooftop billboard on Adams, across from the Greenhills Irish Bakery and down the street from a run-down funeral home. Staying true to my heritage, I ordered a Guinness. The head was poured so thick and professionally, I could have used it to shave.

The Sox played on flat screens spaced about every two feet. After I sampled the beer, I ordered a corned-beef sandwich and watched another inning. Four potential barflies surrounded me at the largish bar. The walls were decorated with a lot of historic Boston photos. Several had been shot by my friend Bill Brett from The Globe. The middle of the bar was divided by an island of whiskey. Through the colorful bottles, I spotted a guy in his early to mid-forties with a lot of brown hair, sipping on a draft.

Two of the other men were too old. A guy seated three stools down wore a collared shirt and had soft hands.

I moved to the other side of the bar and found a stool next to the big guy.

“These f*cking bums are killing me,” the man said.

“That’s what the beer is for.”

“It’s like last season was some kind of dream.”

“You wouldn’t happen to be John Grady?”

“Depends on who’s asking,” he said. “You work for my ex-wife or the f*cking insurance company?”

“I work for myself,” I said. “I’m a friend of Jack McGee’s.”

“Pfft. Jack McGee,” he said. “You know he’s a genuine nutso?”

“That seems to be the consensus.”

“No, really,” he said. “I’m not kidding. He’s always been crazy. But lately. Holy Christ. He’s got these theories. He won’t let this fire go. Can’t quit running his mouth. Somehow his brains have gotten all scrambled. Can’t believe he made f*cking captain.”

“He lost a close friend.”

“What about me?” Grady said. “I lost three great friends and broke my freaking back. You don’t see me blaming bogeymen. Shit happens, you know? You think there’s order in this universe, but no one is driving the f*cking bus.”

“Baseball, beer, and existentialism,” I said.

“You trying to get smart?”

“Too early in the day.” I sipped the second half of my Guinness. Ortiz hit a ball far and a little too high.

Grady slapped the bar and said, “Come on. Come on. Come on. How much is that f*cking guy making?”

An outfielder for the Blue Jays snagged it and threw it hard and fast whence it came. Grady shook his head and took a sip of beer. He signaled the bartender for another. He did not seem the least bit drunk or tipsy. It might take a keg or two, as he appeared to be pushing about two-fifty.

“You never did say,” he said.

“Say what?”

“Why McGee sent you.”

“Jack didn’t send me,” I said. “I just heard you’d been in that church before the flashback. Before your friends were trapped.”

He nodded. But the look on his face was not pleasant. It turned a bright shade of red as he swallowed hard. He shook his head several times to show his disappointment in me.

“I hoped you’d tell me what you saw down there,” I said. “I know Mike Mulligan radioed that the fire seemed to have started in two directions. What do you think about that?”

The bartender took away his pint glass and wiped down the moisture left behind. He laid down a fresh pint as John Grady studied my face. He wore his hair shaggy and long over his eyebrows and covering his ears. “Why? Why does it matter? Arson looked into it. I mean, Jesus Christ. Who the f*ck are you?”

I introduced myself.

“That name supposed to mean something?”