Chapter 11.

The morning was clean and cold and bright. I bought a corn m.u.f.fin and a large black coffee at the Dunkin' Donut shop on Boylston Street and stood out front, on the corner of Exeter Street, and had breakfast. It was early. People with clean shaves and fresh perfume were going by on the way to work. They all walked with hurried purpose, as if they were all late for work. I dropped my empty cup into the trash and strolled down Boylston. I turned up Berkeley past my office building toward Police Headquarters. It was just after eight when I went into Martin Quirk's little cubicle off the homicide squad room.

Quirk looked like he'd been there for hours. His sleeves were rolled up, his tie loose. There was a half-empty container of coffee on the desk. When I came in Quirk nodded.

I said, "Good morning, Martin."

Even with his tie loose and his sleeves rolled, Quirk looked, as he always did, brand new. As if he'd just come from the Mint. His coa.r.s.e black hair was short and freshly cut. His face was clean shaven. His shirt was gleaming white and crisp with starch. His gray slacks were creased. The blue blazer that hung on a hanger from a hook on the back of his door was unwrinkled.

He said, "You want any coffee?"

I said yes and he went into the squad room and brought me a cup and a refill for himself.

"How's Susan?" he said when he was back behind his desk.

"She's away," I said.

He nodded.

I said, "I'd like to take a look at your intelligence file on Joe Broz."

"That's the Organized Crime Unit," Quirk said. He drank more coffee. His hands were very thick and the fingers were long and blunt-ended.

"I know," I said. "But I don't have any friends over there."

"And you think you have friends over here?" Quirk said.

"Everything's relative," I said. "At least you know who I am."

"Whoopee," Quirk said. "Why do you want to see it?"

"I think he owns a politician."

Quirk grinned. "Everyone else does," he said. "Why shouldn't Joe?"

"I want some evidence."

"Don't we all. Explain things to me. If it sounds good, I'll get you the file and you can sit here and read it."

I leaned back a little, put one foot up on the edge of Quirk's desk, and told him. He listened without interrupting, his hands locked behind his head, his face blank.

When I finished he said, "I can get the names of the two stiffs you rousted in Springfield."

"And?"

"And?" Quirk frowned. "Christ, are you getting senile? And maybe they'll lead you somewhere. Maybe they got sent around to remind Alexander that whoever was blackmailing him was serious. A message."

I nodded.

"Yeah," I said. " 'Don't think I'm kidding, see what I can do if I wish.' That kind of message."

Quirk smiled. "See, if you apply yourself, you can do it."

"Okay, get the names. Might be worth talking with them again. How about the file? Give me something to do while you're talking to Springfield."

I spent three hours looking at the file that OCU kept on Joe Broz. I was looking for intersections between Browne and Broz. I found none. The only intersection I found was between Alexander and Broz. Broz's eldest son went to Georgetown University. When Congress was in session, Alexander lived in Georgetown. It didn't look like a clue.

When I left, Quirk said, "How come you haven't told me to keep all this to myself?"

"I didn't think I needed to," I said.

Quirk handed me a piece of paper with two names and addresses written on it. "The two stiffs in Springfield," he said. "I told the Springfield cops you were cooperating with me, unofficially, on an investigation."

"Well, it's sort of true," I said.

"Sure it is," Quirk said. "While I was out of the office you didn't steal my jacket. If that's not cooperation, what is?"

"Thanks for the use of the file," I said.

"Let me know how things go down," Quirk said.

"Sure," I said.

When I got back out on the street it was nearly time for lunch. After I ate it, there'd be only five or six hours to kill before supper. No wonder I. hadn't thought about the Springfield stiffs, busy as I was. Even now there were decisions to make before I could drive out to Springfield. Should I eat before I left? Or stop at a Hojo on the Ma.s.s Pike?

I stopped in Cambridge and bought a brisket, pastrami, and Swiss cheese sandwich on a roll at Elsie's to eat on the way. The art of compromise-maybe I was political after all.

Chapter 12.

The two Springfield sluggers were named Pat Ricci and Sal Pelletier. I decided to go alphabetically. Pelletier lived in a brick apartment building on Sumner Avenue near Forest Park. He didn't answer my ring, so I went back out and sat in the car and debated whether to call on Ricci or wait for Sal. While I was debating, Sal showed up, walking briskly along the sidewalk with a paper sack of groceries in his arms. He was the one with the tattoos.

I got out of the car and walked toward him. He didn't recognize me. I said, "Remember me?"

His eyes widened. He said, "Hey."

I said, "We need to talk. Shall we go to your place?"

"What do you want to talk about?" Sal said. He moved away from me as he talked.

"I was hoping you'd show me your tattoos," I said.

"Take a walk," Sal said. "I got nothing to talk about with you."

I could see the top of a quart bottle of Miller High Life beer sticking out of the grocery bag. I took it out and dropped it on the sidewalk. It broke and the beer foamed around the broken gla.s.s.

"Hey, what the f.u.c.k are you doing?" Sal said.

"It could be you and not the bottle," I said. "I want to talk."

Sal dropped the bag and turned and ran. I jogged along after him. He didn't look in shape and I figured he wouldn't last long. He didn't. He turned into the park and 100 yards past the entrance he stopped, gasping. I jogged up and stopped beside him.

"Oughta take up running gradually," I said. "Starting all out like that is dangerous."

Sal was sweating in the cold November sunshine, and his face was red.

"Whyn't you leave me alone," he said. "I didn't hurt them kids."

"Sal," I said, "let us cease to play grab-a.s.s. I want to know some things from you, and you are going to tell me."

Sal's chest was still heaving.

"Remember how hard I can hit," I said.

Sal nodded.

"Who hired you to roust those two kids?" I said.

Sal opened his mouth, and closed it, and shook his head. I shrugged and hit Sal a modified version of the left hook I'd hit him with before. It sat him down.

"I can hit you with that left hook until evening," I said. "Who hired you to roust those kids?"

Sal's head sank forward. "Nolan," he said, "Louis Nolan."

"Who's he?"

"A guy around."

"He connected?"

Sal nodded.

"Who with?"

Sal shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "He's just connected, you know? He's one of those guys that's in touch with the big boys. You know that. Everybody knows that. He asks you to do something, you're glad to do it. Glad to do him a favor, you know?"

"So he told you to lean on these kids?"

"Not them kids especially. Just any Alexander person. Didn't matter who. Whoever was handy."

"Why did he want that done?" I said.

"Said he wanted to send Alexander a message."

"What message?"

Sal shook his head again. "He don't tell guys like me anything he don't have to. Just give us the deuce and said to get it done."

"Where do I find Louis Nolan?"

"You won't tell him you got it from me?"

"You don't tell him I'm coming," I said, "I won't tell him I saw you."

"Wheeler Avenue," Sal said. "Up Sumner past the X." He gestured the direction. "I don't know the number."

I said, "Thanks, Sal, see you around."

He was still sitting on the ground when I turned down Sumner Avenue toward my car.

I drove up Sumner Avenue. When I pa.s.sed the X-shaped intersection Sal had mentioned I started looking for Wheeler Avenue. I almost missed it. It wasn't much of an avenue. It had been overnamed. It was a short residential street that ran one block between Sumner and Allen Streets. I drove past it a little ways and stopped at a drugstore and looked up Louis Nolan in the phone book. The number was 48. I drove back and turned up Wheeler Avenue.

Forty-eight Wheeler Avenue was a modest white Cape with a one-car garage, at the Allen Street end of the block. I parked on Allen Street in sight of the house and looked at it. Nothing happened. I looked some more. Same result. No clue appeared.

I got out of the car and walked to the house and rang the front doorbell. Inside I could hear a vacuum cleaner. I rang the bell again. The door opened and a man in a suit and vest said, "Yes?"

His white hair was in a crew cut and his white mustache was trimmed close. He was middle-sized and blue-eyed and erect.

I said, "Mr. Nolan?"

He nodded. His face was pink and healthy-looking and his eyes were bright and opaque, like polished metal.

"Vinnie Morris sent me," I said.

He nodded again and gestured with his head into the house. I went in. He closed the door behind me. The living room was to my left, the dining room to my right. A plump woman about Nolan's age was vacuuming the living room. Nolan gestured me toward the dining room.

"Kitchen," he said. "Want some coffee?"

"No, thanks."

We walked through the dining room and into the kitchen. The house looked like it had been built in the thirties. The kitchen counters were still surfaced in black rubber tile. The yellow porcelain gas stove was on long, curved legs.

We sat at the kitchen table. The vacuum continued to hum in the living room. Nolan took a black leather cigar case from his inside coat pocket and offered me a cigar. I shook my head. He took one out and bit off the end, spitting the fragment into the sink without leaving the chair.

"Fruit or anything?" he said.

I shook my head again. Everything in the kitchen shone as if it were on display. Nolan lit his cigar with a fancy lighter, put the lighter into the pocket of his vest, let some cigar smoke out, and said, "Okay."

I said, "Vinnie's a little"-I shrugged and wobbled my hand-"about the two stiffs you hired to rough up Alexander's people."

"Which two stiffs?" Nolan said.