“Aw, you’re no fun,” I said, and closed the window.
I checked the lock on the front door, set the security alarm, and went to bed with a gun on my bedside table. There have been nights when I’ve slept better.
56
When Z arrived in the morning, I was showered and shaved and dressed for work. I had the little .38 in an ankle holster, and my new .40 S&W semiautomatic on my right hip. I still had the Browning nine-millimeter, but I kept it locked in the hall closet, as a spare.
Last night’s quartet was no longer in front of my house, and we saw nothing of them as we walked to the Taj, but as we ate near the window on Newbury Street, Stephano stood outside and looked at us through the window. I smiled and shot him with my forefinger. He showed no reaction, and after a time, he walked away.
Z stared at the empty window for a time. Then he looked at me.
“You know,” he said, “this is kind of fun.”
“Except if we get killed,” I said.
“But if we didn’t run that risk,” Z said, “what would be the fun?”
“Christ,” I said. “A philosopher.”
“Well, it’s true. I mean, how exciting would this be if the winner got to capture the fucking flag? You know?”
“You played capture the flag?”
“Indian school,” he said. “When I was little.”
“ ‘Death is the mother of beauty,’” I said.
“What the hell does that mean?” Z said.
“Pretty much what you’re talking about,” I said. “It’s from a poem.”
“Oh,” Z said. “That’s why there’s the part about beauty.”
“You sure you weren’t an English major at Cal Wesleyan?”
“Football,” Z said. “What’s that about death and beauty?”
“If there were no death, how valuable would life be?”
“Yeah,” Z said. “Like supply and demand.”
“It is,” I said. “You got a weapon?”
“Got the .357,” Z said. “And a bowie knife.”
“A bowie knife,” I said.
“I am a Cree Indian,” he said. “The blood of Cree warriors runs in my veins.”
“I’d forgotten that,” I said. “You planning to scalp Stephano?”
“Get a chance and I’ll cut his throat,” Z said. “I’m good with a knife.”
I nodded.
“Time to plow,” I said.
“Plow?” Z said.
“Just an expression, I heard.”
We finished our coffee. I paid the bill for breakfast and we left. There was no sign of Stephano and friends on Newbury Street. I looked at Z; he looked happy.
Maybe he’s getting in touch with his warrior heritage.
I lowered my voice on the assumption that all warriors had deep voices.
“It is a good day to die,” I said.
He glanced at me.
“For who?” he said.
“Old Indian saying.”
“Paleface see-um too many movies,” Z said.
57
I had a small idea.
It was late afternoon and raining hard when Z and I got in my car in the Public Alley behind my building, and pulled out onto Arlington Street. We circled the block and went down Berkeley Street to Storrow, into the tunnel under the city, southbound, and exited in time to cross Atlantic Ave and drive into South Boston. Stephano and his colleagues picked us up on Arlington Street and stayed close behind us, even bumping the rear of my car a little at the Boylston Street stoplight. I ignored them.
Jumbo’s movie was shooting in the big alley between the Design Center and the Black Falcon Terminal in Southie. And when we parked near the set, Stephano and friends parked near us, and made a show of walking behind us onto the set.
So far, so good.
Jumbo was in his trailer, having lunch. Z and I went in without knocking. Don came to his feet, and put his hand inside his coat.
“Hey,” he said. “You can’t come in here.”
“Can, too,” I said.
I hit Don with a left hook and a right cross and knocked him over backward. It stunned him, and while he was recovering, Z bent over and took the gun from inside Don’s coat and put it in the side pocket of his own raincoat.
“What the fuck is this,” Jumbo said.
He was eating a sub sandwich and drinking champagne.
“Want to tell you some stuff, ask you some questions, and point something out,” I said.
“What’s that fucking Indian want?” Jumbo said.
He was trying to talk and eat his sub at the same time, and was making a mess of it. Don was sitting on the floor, recovering.
“Here’s what I know,” I said to Jumbo. “I know that Dawn Lopata was strangled to death on your bed, naked, with a scarf tied around her neck.”
Jumbo looked at Z.
“The fucking Indian tell you that?” Jumbo said. “He’s a lying sack of shit. Always has been.”
“And that you had him dress her, and get rid of the scarf, before anyone called for help,” I said.
“Fucking snitch,” Jumbo said. “You think you can trust a fucking loser like Z?”
“Had you called for help right away,” I said, “maybe she wouldn’t have died.”
“Bullshit,” Jumbo said.
“And maybe you should go to jail for that,” I said.
“Fuck you,” Jumbo said, and drank some champagne.
“Good point,” I said.
I walked to the window of the trailer. And leaned against the wall beside it.
I said, “How’d she die, Jumbo?”
“How the fuck do I know,” he said, and stuffed more of his sandwich into his mouth. “I already told everybody what I know. I went to the bathroom, she was fine. I come out, and she was dead.”
I nodded.
“You recognize Stephano DeLauria, if you saw him?” I said.
“Alice’s husband,” Jumbo said. “Yeah, a’course.”
“That him?” I said, and nodded out the window.
Jumbo stared at me. Then he heaved himself up and came to the window. The rain blurred things a little. But Jumbo recognized Stephano.
“Jesus,” he said.
Stephano and his posse were under an awning, leaning against the side of a Penske rental truck full of lighting gear. They were all four staring at Jumbo’s trailer.
“Seem to be interested in you,” I said to Jumbo.
Jumbo looked out the window at Stephano.
“What’s he want?” Jumbo said.
“Maybe he’s worried that if you get busted for the Dawn Lopata thing, you might start spilling your big gut about things involving Nicky Fellscroft and AABeau and all that,” I said.
“I wouldn’t say nothing about nothing,” Jumbo said.
“You know that,” I said. “And I know that. But does Stephano know that? Maybe more important, does Nicky Fellscroft know that?”
I stepped in front of the window and waved at Stephano. He extended his right arm, sighted down it, and pretended to shoot me with his first two fingers.
“Guess he’s waiting until Z and I leave,” I said.
“God, Jesus,” Jumbo said.
His voice was shaking. He looked at Don, who was now sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands.
“Fuck,” Jumbo said. “Who’s gonna help me?”
He looked at me.
“You,” he said. “I’ll give you as much as you want. You want the Indian, I’ll hire him, too. Both of you. Say how much, you got it. Just keep Stephano away from me. Anything you want. Anything.”
“The truth,” I said. “You tell me what happened to Dawn Lopata, and maybe Z and I can help you out with Stephano.”
“You know about him,” Jumbo said. “What he does? What he’s like?”
“I do,” I said.
“I got nowhere else to go,” Jumbo said. “You gotta help me.”
“Tell me about Dawn,” I said.