Back Story s-30 Read online

  "So why tell him?"

  "Because otherwise, I'll be keeping a secret from him."

  Susan smiled. Pearl had recovered from the motorcycle and was stalking a trash barrel.

  "Only you," Susan said, "would worry about such a thing."

  "You wouldn't tell him?"

  "I would be perfectly comfortable doing what I thought was in his best interest."

  I nodded.

  "I'll think about it," I said.

  "I know you will," Susan said and bumped her head against my shoulder.

  We pulled Pearl away from the trash barrel and went on across Fairfield.

  "Did she think I wouldn't find out?" I said. "When she asked me for help?"

  "Maybe she thought you would," Susan said.

  18

  "How much does it mean to you that I find out who murdered Daryl's mother?" I said to Paul. We were up an alley off Broad Street, drinking Irish whisky in a saloon called Holly's where I had once, for a couple months in my early youth, between fights, been a bouncer. The place looked the same, and I still liked to go there even though no one I knew then worked in Holly's now.

  "What kind of question is that?" Paul said.

  "Are you being disrespectful?" I said.

  "I would say so, yes."

  "Good."

  "So why are you asking me about Daryl and her mother?" Paul said.

  "I talked to her aunt the other day."

  "The one she said you shouldn't talk to," Paul said.

  "Yes, that one."

  "And?"

  "And now I know why she didn't want me to talk with her."

  Paul sipped a little Irish whisky. He held the glass up a little and looked at the ice and whisky against the light from behind the bar.

  "Good stuff," he said.

  "Perfect for male-bonding moments," I said.

  "Are we having one?"

  "Absolutely."

  He nodded. The bar was long and narrow with a tin ceiling and wood paneling, which had darkened with age. The bottles arranged in front of the mirror behind the bar were a shimmer of color in the dim room.

  "What did Auntie tell you?" he said.

  "Daryl sort of reinvented her childhood," I said.

  "Wish I could," he said. "How'd she do it?"

  I told him.

  When I got through, Paul said, "Wow. She's even more fucked up than I thought she was."

  "My diagnosis," I said.

  "She's a good actress, though," Paul said. "And I like her."

  I nodded.

  "So, what's the downside," Paul said, "to you finding out who killed her mother."

  "Besides me working my ass off for no money?"

  "Besides that."

  "I can't trust what she tells me," I said.

  "Can you ever?"

  "Mostly no," I said. "I also might find out a lot more than Daryl wants me to."

  "You might," Paul said.

  We both finished our whisky. The bartender brought two more. Paul didn't touch his for the moment. He stared into it. The afternoon had moved on, and the after-work guys who got off at four were coming in.

  "When I first met you," Paul said after a time, "if you had done what I wanted you to do, where would I be now?"

  "You got a lotta stuff in you," I said. "You might have turned it around on your own."

  "You think that was likely?"

  "No."

  "Me either. This is going to fuck her up all her life," Paul said, "if it doesn't get cleaned up."

  "Ah cursed spite that I'm the one to set it right," I said.

  "Hamlet?" Paul said.

  "Sort of?"

  "I think so."

  We each rolled a small swallow of whisky down our throats and let the warm illusion spread through us.

  "You want me to chase this down," I said.

  "All the way to the end."

  "It's better to know than not know?"

  "Much," Paul said.

  19

  The man came into my office without knocking. I was working at my desk and didn't look up until I had finished snipping an "Arlo and Janis" from The Globe to post on Susan's refrigerator door. When I did look up, the man had closed the door behind him and was pointing a gun at my head.

  "Arlo and Janis is one of my favorites," I said.

  "You see the gun?" the man said.

  "I do," I said. "Right there at the end of your arm."

  "Boss wanted you to see the gun."

  On the left-hand wall of my office was a leather couch. At either end was a brass floor lamp with a small brass shade over the lightbulb. The man glanced at it and casually put a bullet through the shade nearest me. The explosion filled the office and made my ears hurt. If the man's ears hurt, he didn't show it.

  "Boss wanted you to see me shoot," he said.

  The bullet had torn the small brass shade apart, and it hung in twisted shards around the shattered lightbulb.

  "Don't feel bad," I said. "That's the way I shot while I was learning."

  The man let the gun hang by his right side. He was tall and languid, with longish blond hair, a deep tan, pale blue eyes, and a diamond stud in his left ear. He wore tan slacks, a double-breasted blue blazer, and a white shirt with a big collar that spilled out over his lapels. He had on light tan woven leather loafers and no socks. He smiled. It made his mouth thin and oddly turned the corners of his mouth down slightly. It was the kind of smile a shark would smile, if sharks smiled.

  "I asked around about you," he said. "Everyone told me you were a funny guy."

  I ducked my head modestly.

  "What I want to know is how funny you'll be when you got a gut full of lead."

  "A gut full of lead?" I said. "That's pathetic. Nobody talks like that anymore. A gut full of lead?"

  "I don't think you're a funny guy," the man said. "And my boss don't think so. You need to stay away from the Emily Gordon case."

  "You're not with the government, are you?" I said.

  He paid no attention to me. The man really didn't think I was funny. He didn't think I was anything. The gun at his side was a 9mm Browning. I owned one just like it. He brought it up slowly and held it at arm's length, pointing it at my forehead. The hammer was back from the previous shot. He wasn't smiling, but there was still something shark-like in his face.

  "You unnerstand what I tole you," he said.

  "I think so," I said. "Who's your boss?"

  He didn't say anything. The black bottomless barrel of the gun stared unwaveringly at my forehead.

  "Okay," I said. "Be that way."

  "I could do it now," he said.

  His breathing seemed shallow and fast.

  "You could, but you won't."

  I focused on his trigger finger. If it showed any sign of movement I would roll to my right behind my desk and go for my gun. Except I wouldn't get behind my desk. He'd blow my head open while I was still in my chair. We both knew that. But I focused anyway. It was better than wondering if there was an afterlife.

  "Why won't I?"

  "You're supposed to scare me," I said.

  "You scared?"

  "Sure," I said. "But a lot of people know I'm working on Emily Gordon. You kill me and it will make the case hot again. Your boss knows that."

  "Don't mean I won't kill you," he said.

  His eyes seemed wider and a little unfocused.

  "No, it don't," I said. "But it means you won't kill me now."

  "You keep pushing on the Gordon thing," the man said, "and we won't have no reason to wait."

  "Of course I might kill you," I said.

  He licked his lips and there were faint smudges of color over his cheekbones.

  "Pal," he said, "if there's a next time, you'll be dead before you see me."

  "Does it hurt when they pierce your ears?" I said.

  He stared at me over the gun.

  "You know, when they put that cute diamond in your ear, was it painful?"

  He stared at me some more.

  Then he said, "Fuck you, pal," and walked out, still holding the gun.

  20

  I sat with Hawk and Vinnie Morris on a bench in Quincy Market, where we could keep track of the young female tourists. We had coffee in big paper cups. Vinnie had a jelly donut. Hawk shook his head slowly.

  "Don't know anybody sounds like your man," he said. "Like the diamond earring, though. You sure he's white?"

  "Whiter than Christmas," I said. "Vinnie?" Vinnie leaned forward a little so he wouldn't get jelly on his shirt.

  "Vinnie," I said, "jelly donuts are the single uncoolest thing a man can eat."

  "I like them," Vinnie said.

  "Honkie soul food," Hawk said.

  "You know anybody sounds like the guy I described?" I said to Vinnie.

  "Yeah."

  "So why didn't you say so?"

  "I'm eating my donut," Vinnie said.

  I looked at Hawk. Hawk grinned.

  "Vinnie got a lotta focus," Hawk said.

  Vinnie finished his donut and drank some coffee. There was no sense of hurry, but all his movements were very quick. And exact. He patted his mouth with a paper napkin.

  "Sounds to me like a guy named Harvey," he said.

  "First name or last?"

  "Don't know. He's from Miami," Vinnie said. "Comes up here sometimes, does gun work for Sonny Karnofsky."

  "You know him?"

  "I met him."

  "How?"

  Vinnie looked at me.

  "I mean 'how?' in general," I said.

  "I'm still with Gino," Vinnie said. "Him and Sonny was doing something. Harvey was walking behind Sonny."

  "He any good?" I said.

  "Yes."

  "Better than you?" Hawk said.

  "No
," Vinnie said.

  "As good as you?" I said.

  "No."

  Hawk grinned.

  "Anybody good as you?" he said.

  "Maybe that Mex from L.A."

  "Chollo," I said.

  "He's pretty good," Vinnie said.

  Hawk looked at me. "Sonny took over what Joe Broz left behind," Hawk said.

  "Which is pretty much everything," I said.

  "Except for Gino," Vinnie said.

  "And Tony Marcus," Hawk said.

  "Talk to me a little more about Harvey," I said.

  Vinnie watched a youngish woman walk by in shorts and a cropped tank top. "Fucking broads got no shame," Vinnie said.

  "It's one of the many things I like about them," Hawk said.

  "Talk about Harvey," I said.

  "He's good, but he's got no soul," Vinnie said. "He'll shoot anything."

  "He like it?" I said.

  "Yeah."

  "Could he be working for anybody else?" I said.

  "Up here? No. You work here for Sonny, you don't work for anybody else."

  "You ever work for Sonny?" I said to Hawk.

  "I don't like him," Hawk said.

  "Is that a no?"

  "It is."

  "So why is Sonny Karnofsky worried about a counterculture murder that went down twenty-eight years ago?" I said.

  "We criminals," Hawk said. "We don't know stuff like that."

  "I don't either," I said. "I guess I'll have to talk with Sonny."

  "That would suggest to him that you ain't leaving the case alone."

  "It would," I said.

  Hawk nodded. "I'll come along," he said.

  "When we going to do it," Vinnie said.

  "No reason to wait," I said.

  21

  Sonny Karnofsky practiced his profession out of the Pulaski Social Club, near the Charlestown line, a couple blocks into Somerville from Sullivan Square. It was a narrow three-decker with clapboard siding, faced on the first floor with rust-colored artificial stone. There was a large plate glass window to the right of the narrow entry door. Across the window, PULASKI SOCIAL CLUB was lettered in black. An unlaundered curtain hung across the inside of the window so you couldn't see in.

  Vinnie waited in the car at the curb. Hawk got out with me and leaned against the car while I got out and walked to the club. There were a couple guys hanging outside the doorway, smoking cigarettes and drinking beer from the bottle and looking dangerous in the way only bottom-rung wiseguys were able to look while they waited for someone to tell them to do something. I started in the door, and a fat guy with a lot of tattoos put his arm out. "You going somewhere?"

  "Am I going somewhere," I said. "I never think of saying stuff like that until it's too late. That's great: Are you going somewhere. Hot dog!"

  "What are you, a wiseguy?" the fat guy said.

  "I am," I said. "And I'm looking for Sonny Karnofsky."

  "Yeah?"

  "I'm here to talk with him about Harvey."

  The fat guy was getting a little careful. Maybe I was important.

  "He know you're coming?"

  "Tell him I'm here," I said.

  The fat guy hesitated. He looked at Hawk leaning on the car. He looked at the other guy, much smaller, wearing a dirty tank top hanging outside pink Bermuda shorts, and black sandals.

  "Find out if Sonny wants to see this guy," the fat guy said.

  The guy in the sandals went inside. The fat man had dropped his arm, but stood with his body shielding the entrance. If I wasn't supposed to go in and he let me, Sonny would have his ass. If I was supposed to go in and he didn't let me, Sonny would have his ass. We waited. Hawk seemed to be enjoying it. Vinnie didn't seem to know it was happening. The other guy came back out.

  "Okay," he said to the fat guy.

  The fat guy turned to me.

  "Okay," he said.

  "I love a chain of command," I said.

  The fat guy jerked his head toward the door, and the guy in the sandals opened it for me and I went in. There was a big shabby open room with a table and an old refrigerator against the wall to my right. Four guys were playing cards. Two other guys were at another table, drinking beer and watching The Young and the Restless on television. A big poster of the New England Patriots Super Bowl team was taped to the wall to my left. And straight ahead, to the left of a half-open door, was a large calendar with the days crossed off.

  "Through that door in the back," the guy in the sandals told me.

  As I walked through the room, the men stared at me. Probably sick with envy. Through the open door was the quintessential back room: dirty brown walls, brown linoleum floor, dirty window covered with wire mesh that looked out at the back of the next building. Old oak desk, old oak file cabinet, old cane-back oak swivel chair behind the desk, big old sagging armchair covered in shabby brown corduroy. In the armchair, crossways, with his legs swung over one of the chair arms, sat my recent acquaintance Harvey, wearing a white linen suit. In the old swivel chair like an imposing toad, wearing a red-and-blue Hawaiian shirt that gapped between the buttons over his stomach, was Sonny Karnofsky.

  Sonny looked at me without expression. Harvey swung his leg sort of indolently and smirked a little. Sonny waited.

  "You know me?" I said.

  "Yeah."

  "Why'd you send this fop around to scare me to death."

  "What's a fop?" Sonny said.

  I pointed at Harvey. With his white suit, he was wearing a pale blue shirt and a white tie. Flawless.

  "What makes you think I sent him to do anything?"

  "Oh come on, Sonny," I said. "You think he felt like threatening somebody, and he picked me out of the phone book? What I want to know is why you care about the murder of some woman from California, happened twenty-eight years ago?"

  "Corkie says you got some people waiting for you outside," Sonny said.

  There was maybe the hint of an Eastern European accent in his speech, but it was so faint that maybe it wasn't there.

  "I do."

  Sonny nodded slowly. "Good idea," he said. His voice was thick, as if his pipes were clogged.

  "Were you a counterculture radical in 1974?" I said. He raised a hand and pointed at me with a forefinger so fat it made the skin taut.

  "Anybody knows me will tell you, you fuck with me and you're dead."

  "I've heard that," I said.

  "And they'll tell you, fuck with my family and you'll wish you fucked with me."

  "Family?"

  Sonny was so used to being king of the hill these days that he probably didn't watch what he said as much as he used to. His face was expressionless, but his mouth clamped hard shut. We looked at each other for a moment. Without taking his eyes off me, he spoke to Harvey.

  "Not here. But as quick as you can someplace else," Sonny said. "Kill him."

  Harvey looked like a guy with a low-grade fever.

  "Be my pleasure," Harvey said.

  That pretty well said it all, so I turned and marched out. I hate to be in a place where I'm not wanted.

  22

  Sitting in my office, Daryl was sort of hunched with her hands in her lap. "I never really think of it as lying," she said. I nodded. Nondirective.

  "It's. " she looked at Paul, who sat quietly next to her, even more nondirective, if possible, than I was. "It's more, like, how it should have been. You know? How it could have been, if my parents. " "Sure," I said. Paul and I looked supportively at Daryl. Daryl looked at her hands.

  "They embarrassed me," she said.

  "Your parents."

  "Yes."

  "Because?"

  "Because? Because they were fucking hippies, for God's sake. Were your parents hippies?"

  I thought of my father and my two uncles.

  "No," I said. "They weren't."

  "Most people's weren't. And even if they were, they got over it."

  "They were different times," I said, just to say something.

  "I'm lucky they didn't name me Moonflower."

  "You are," I said.

  Paul smiled. It was as if Daryl didn't hear me.

  "We didn't come here to visit my aunt," Daryl said. "We came here with some man my mother was fucking."

  Paul and I looked at each other. We were thinking of Paul's mother.

  I had swiveled my chair a little so I could see out my window. Although it was early afternoon, the sky outside my office was dark and getting darker. Rain was coming. Daryl sat without saying anything.