“How about coming over tonight and giving me a look at those infamous Bruins boxers? I’ll cook for you.”
I hesitated. One glance in the mirror this morning told me that my lost weekend had done some damage.
“Can we make it Tuesday? I’ve got some things I need to do today.”
44
Tearing Jefferson’s Achilles had cost me more than heartache. I’d lost fifty bucks betting he’d make the team. Then again, my winning wager on Benton was worth two bills, so Whoosh owed me a hundred and fifty dollars. Leaving Joseph behind in the apartment, I skipped down the stairs and fetched Secretariat.
I’d just cranked the ignition when it occurred to me that Mario Zerilli and Marco Alfano were out there somewhere and probably still nursing a grudge. I went back upstairs for my nine mil, stuck it in my waistband, and headed out again. Ten minutes later, I pulled up to Zerilli’s Market and parked on the street a few car lengths in front of an unoccupied gray Honda Civic. Christ! The damned things were everywhere.
The store lights were burning; but the place was locked up tight, a “Closed” sign hanging on the front door. That was odd. I shaded my eyes with my right hand and peered through a gap in the beer and cigarette advertising posters plastered all over the front window.
At first, I saw only Doreen, the latest in a series of gum-chomping high-school dropouts Whoosh had hired to man the register. She was standing halfway down the center grocery aisle. She looked terrified. Then Whoosh appeared and beckoned her to follow him. They turned left at the end of the aisle, and I lost sight of them. I shifted to look through another gap in the window and spotted them climbing the short flight of stairs to Whoosh’s private office. A tall, scrawny guy in jeans and a black T-shirt followed them up. He had a silver pistol in his hand.
I pulled the cell phone from my pocket and called 911.
Unless a patrol car was in the area, it was going to take the Providence cops at least ten minutes to get there. I sprinted around the building to the back door and tried the knob. It wouldn’t turn, but the lockset looked cheap. I slid a credit card from my wallet, shoved it between the door and the frame, and felt the lock give. But if the dead bolt was thrown, I was sunk.
It wasn’t. I pulled my gun, pushed the door open, and stepped into a storage room piled high with cartons of cheap beer and boxes of Doritos, Ding Dongs, and cigarettes. I tiptoed through it, found another door, nudged it open, and emerged just a few feet from the stairs to the office. At the top, the steel door stood slightly ajar. Angry voices floated down, but I couldn’t make out the words. I put my foot on the first step and started up.
I was halfway there when I heard a grunt. Then, in quick succession, a thump, a growl, a shriek, and a single gunshot. A heartbeat later, a woman screamed. Leading with my gun, I burst through the door.
Doreen was standing beside the keyhole desk, her face contorted as if she were about to scream again. Whoosh was sprawled on the carpet, bleeding from a gash on his head. The man who’d held the gun was doubled over in pain, the weapon lying uselessly on the floor. Shortstop, his jaws locked on the man’s gun arm, dug his back paws into the carpet and dragged the creep down.
Mario Zerilli’s head made a cracking sound as it hit the thin carpet. I pointed my pistol at him and kicked him once in the ribs. Hard. When he didn’t react, I knew he was out cold, embarked on an exciting new career as a canine chew toy. I looked closer and saw that he was also bleeding from what appeared to be a bullet wound in his right foot.
I squatted, grabbed the silver pistol, and slipped it in my back pocket. Then I went to Whoosh, helped him up, and deposited him in his desk chair.
“Are you okay?”
“I don’t fuckin’ know.”
“Want to call off your dog?”
“Why the hell should I?”
“He’s gonna kill Mario if you don’t.”
Whoosh took a couple of seconds to decide whether he gave a shit.
“Shortstop! Come here, boy.”
The big mutt unlocked his jaws from Mario’s arm, loped over, and rested his bloody maw in his master’s lap.
My first words to the homicide twins: “Believe me now?”
“Believe what?” Wargart said.
“That Mario’s still alive.”
“Barely,” Freitas said. “He’s got a hairline skull fracture, a painful gunshot wound, and a dog bite that nicked an artery. The punk lost a lot of blood.”
“He gonna make it?”
“The docs at Rhode Island Hospital say yeah.”
We were drinking coffee in that same interrogation room. By now, I was a regular, so they knew how I took it.
“Start at the beginning,” Wargart said, “and tell us what happened.”
“I don’t know much,” I said. “By the time I got there, it was all over but the bleeding.”
It was midafternoon by the time they were done with me. A squad car gave me a lift back to my vehicle, which was still parked in front of Zerilli’s Market. Just down the street, Patrolman Bobby Santo, one of the few Providence cops I remained on good terms with, was pawing through the trunk of that gray Honda Civic.
“Hey, Bobby.”
“Oh, hi, Mulligan. Nice work in there today.”
“Not really,” I said. “All I did was call 911.”
“And maybe saved two lives.”
“Not me. Shortstop did that.”
“Who’s Shortstop?”
“Whoosh’s dog.”
“His dog took the shooter down? I hadn’t heard that. The dicks have been in and out of there all day, but they aren’t telling me shit.”
“The mutt woulda killed him if Whoosh hadn’t called him off.”
“Too bad he didn’t let the pooch finish the job.”
“This Mario’s car?”
“Not exactly. It was stolen from a Stop and Shop parking lot in Johnston last week.”
“Find anything interesting inside?”
“Dirty clothes, a dozen empty Pabst cans, and a bunch of fast food cartons. Judging by the stink, I think maybe he’s been living in it.”
“No bundles of hundred-dollar bills stuffed under the seats?” I asked. “No briefcase with two hundred grand in it concealed in the trunk?”
“Two hundred grand? If I’d found that, I’d already be on my way to Brazil.”
I thanked him, saddled up Secretariat, and pointed him toward Rhode Island Hospital. Turning onto Olney Street, I spotted another gray Honda Civic. It trailed me for a couple of miles, but when I crept through the congestion in downtown Providence, it dropped off and backed into a parking space.
I told the hospital receptionist I was Dominic Zerilli’s grandson, learned that he had been admitted, and rode the elevator to his room on the fourth floor. There, I peeked inside his door and saw him sitting up in bed, a fresh bandage covering the gash on his temple. His wife sat at his side, fingering her rosary beads.
“Stop being so stubborn,” she said. “Next time, you might get yourself killed. It ain’t worth it anymore, honey. We got all the money we need. Why don’t you just walk away?”
“I can’t, sweetheart. You know Arena ain’t gonna let me leave till I find somebody to take over.”
“Mulligan to the rescue,” I said as I stepped inside.
Whoosh looked up at me and managed a smile.
“That mean you’re gonna take the job?”
“Sort of,” I said. “Unless the governor’s bill passes and puts us out of business.”
“Sort of? What the hell’s that mean?”
“It means you two lovebirds can move to Florida,” I said. “We’ll hash out the details when you’re feeling better. How’s he doing, Maggie?”
“He’s got a mild concussion,” she said. “If he was younger, they woulda sent him home already, but they want to keep an eye on the old coot for a coupla days.”