"What for?" the man said. The pit bull was motionless, his expressionless yellow eyes staring at us. There was a barely audible rumble in his throat.
The man had a forefinger hooked less firmly than I would have liked through the ring on the choke collar. On the back of his wrist, in blue script, was tattooed the name Marty.
"We need to ask him a couple of questions about some people," Paul said.
"I do hot top, you know. I put a nice driveway in your yard, put a nice sealer on it. Charge you a fair price. That's what I do. I don't go around answering questions about nobody. Gets you in trouble."
"Sure," Paul said. "I understand that, but I'm looking for my mother, and your sister said you might know something."
"My sister?"
"Caitlin," Paul said. "She said you might be able to help us."
The pit bull kept up his very low rumbling growl.
"What makes you think I got a sister named Caitlin?"
"Well," Paul said, "you've got Marty tattooed on your left wrist. I took a sort of guess based on that."
"Smart guy," Marty said.
"Smart enough not to tattoo his name on his arm if he doesn't want people to know it," I said.
"Lot of guys named Marty," he said.
Paul didn't say anything. Neither did I. The dog kept growling. Marty looked at me.
"You a cop?"
"Sort of," I said.
"What the hell is sort of a cop?"
"Private detective," I said.
Marty shook his head. "Caitlin," he said. "The queen of the yuppies. What the fuck kind of name is that for an Italian broad, Caitlin?"
Paul started to speak. I shook my head. We waited.
"I don't know nothing about nobody's mother," Marty said.
"Patty Giacomin," Paul said.
"That your old lady?"
"Yes."
"Hey, that's a good paisano name."
Paul nodded. "Her boyfriend is Rich Beaumont."
Marty grinned. "Hey," he said. "Richie."
"You know him?"
"Sure. Richie's my main man."
"We think he and my mother have gone off together," Paul said, "and we're trying to find them."
"Hey, if she went off with Richie, she's having a good time. Why not leave them be?"
"We just want to know that she's okay," Paul said.
"She's with Richie, kid, she's okay. Hell, she probably…"
"Probably what?"
"Nothing. I forgot for a minute she's your mother, you know?"
"You know where they might be?" I said.
Marty shrugged. To do so, he had to let go of the dog. I shrugged my left shoulder slightly to feel the pleasant weight of the Browning under my arm.
The dog maintained the steady sound. Maybe he was bored. Maybe he was humming to himself.
"Hell, no."
"You know where Beaumont lives?"
"Sure. Lives on the beach in Revere. One of them new condos."
"Address?"
"Richie won't like it, me giving you his address."
"We won't like it if you don't," I said.
"You getting tough with me, buddy, you like to wrestle with Buster here?"
"Buster's overmatched," I said, "unless he's carrying."
"What's that dog you got, a Doberman?"
I grinned. "Not quite," I said. "What's Rich Beaumont's address?"
Marty hesitated.
"You got all the proper licenses here?" I said. "I don't see any on that hound, for instance. You got the proper permits for everything? Asphalt storage? Vehicle's been inspected lately? That Quonset built to code?"
"Hey," Marty said. "Hey. What the fuck?"
"It'll save us a little time if you give us the address," Paul said. "We can find it anyway. Just take a little longer. You save us some time, we'd be very grateful. We won't tell him where we got it."
Marty looked down at the dog, looked at me, and looked back at Paul.
"Sure," he said. "You seem like; nice kid." He gave Paul an address on
Revere Beach Boulevard. Then he looked at me. "You catch more flies with honey," he said, "than you do with vinegar. You know?"
"I've heard that," I said. "I've not found it to be true."
CHAPTER 10
Richie Beaumont wasn't home. He had a condominium on the top floor of a twelve-story concrete building full of condominia that faced the Atlantic, across Revere Beach. From his living room you could probably see the oil tankers easing into Chelsea Creek. Rich wasn't the only one that wasn't home. Still and clean and smelling strongly of recently cured concrete, the place echoed with emptiness.
"They must have built this place as the condo boom was peaking," Paul said.
"Or slightly after," I said.
Pearl skittered down the empty corridor ahead of us, her claws sliding on the new vinyl. At the elevator she pressed her nose at the crack where the closed doors met and snuffled loudly.
"I thought she only pointed birds," Paul said.
The elevator arrived, the doors opened, and we got in. When we got to the lobby there were two guys in it. One of them was a stocky guy with a highblack pompadour. He had on a black, thigh-length leather coat and black pegged pants. His black boots were badly worn at the heels and had sharp toes. The other guy was a slugger. Maybe three hundred pounds, his chin sunk into the folds of fat around his neck. Pearl went directly to them, her tail wagging, her ears pricked, her tongue lolling happily. The slugger backed up involuntarily.
"Watch it," he said to the guy with the hairdo. "That's a Doberman, it'll take your hand off."
The guy with the pompadour barely glanced at him. He put one hand down absently and scratched Pearl behind the ear.
"You the guys looking for Richie Beaumont?" he said.
I looked at Paul. "Now you say, `Who wants to know?'"
"Who wants to know?" Paul said.
"Good," I said. "Now you." I pointed at Pompadour.
"What are you, a comedian?" he said.
"Breaking the kid in," I said. "I'd appreciate if you answered right. Say,
1 want to know."
The fat slugger was looking nervously at Pearl. She turned her head toward him and he flinched a little, and put his hand inside his Members Only windbreaker.
"Listen, asshole. Vinnie Morris is outside and he wants to talk with you.
Now."
"We can do this easy or hard," Sluggo said.
"Careful I don't sic my Doberman on you," I said. "It ain't a fucking Doberman," Pompadour said,"it's a fucking pointer. Tiny don't know shit from dogs."
"Among other things," I said. "We'll talk with Vinnie."
I put Pearl's leash on and we went out through the wide glass doors and down the empty capacious steps. The light had the brightness of nearby ocean in it, and there was traffic moving on the boulevard. In the turnaround in front of the near empty condominium complex a white Lincoln
Town Car was parked. When we reached it, the rear window went down, and there was Vinnie. He still had the thick black mustache, but his hair was shorter now. He still dressed like a GQ cover boy.
"What the hell is that on the end of the leash?" he said. "You finally get married?"
"That's Pearl," I said. "This is Paul Giacomin. Vinnie Morris. You still with Joe, Vinnie?"
"You been trying to find Richie Beaumont," Vinnie said.
"Actually we've been trying to find Patty Giacomin," I said. "Beaumont is her boyfriend."
"Why you want her?"
"She's my mother," Paul said.
Vinnie nodded. "She sort of took off on you, huh? And didn't tell you where she was going."
"Yes," Paul said. "Or not. I don't know where she is."
"And you're looking for Richie because he's her boyfriend and you figure he'll know?"
Paul nodded.
"You know Richie Beaumont?" Vinnie said.
"No."
Vinnie nodded again and sucked on his upper lip a little.
"And if you knew where he was you wouldn't be here looking for him."
Neither Paul nor I said anything. Vinnie nodded again, to himself. At the end of the nod he jerked his head at the two soldiers. The guy with the pompadour started around the car toward the driver's side. The slugger made a circle around Pearl as he got in his side.