She chuckled, and slid off the desk, and her tight skirt hiked halfway up her thighs. "Hard to imagine, a sweet-tempered soul like you, Mike ... making enemies."
And she hip-swayed out, taking her time pulling the dress down.
"With friends like you, baby," I told her, "who needs 'em?"
At Dorchester Medical College, I went looking for Billy Blue and was directed to Dr. Harrin's modest office, where I found the boy straightening and cleaning up in anticipation of the doctor's imminent return.
The kid, in a light blue T-shirt and jeans and white tennies, was in the process of pounding a nail into the wall, and didn't hear me come in.
"Mr. Hammer!" he said with a jump. "Good to see you."
"You seem pretty well recovered," I said. "So when's the doc get back?"
"Couple days," Billy said. He displayed a minor limp when he went over to rest the hammer on top of a file cabinet, then leaned down to pick up a framed plaque, propped against the wall—the Caveat emptor one—and hung it on the new nail.
"Dr. Harrin sure gets a kick out of these crazy plaques," Billy said as he went around making them hang straight. "What do a bunch of stupid slogans do for a smart guy like Dr. Harrin, you suppose?"
I helped myself to the chair behind the doctor's desk. "They just distill his philosophy, I guess, into little pills you can swallow. He said some of them remind him of past incidents in his life."
"Oh, sure. He told me about that 'Let 'em eat cake' deal, when he was in the war. Were you in that war, Mr. Hammer?"
"Yeah. Harrin was in Europe, though. I was in the Pacific theater."
"Really? Where?"
"The jungle. A crappy little island nobody's interested in anymore. We left enough blood behind on both sides to irrigate that godforsaken chunk of real estate, and yet it's still worthless."
Billy took a break and pulled up the chair opposite me. "I just got my draft card. A lot of guys I know are getting called up. Vietnam."
I studied his face and smiled. "You don't want to go, do you, son?"
"No. I won't burn my card or anything, or go to Canada, either. I'll go if I have to. But the doctor is helping me."
"Yeah?"
He beamed. "Dr. Harrin, he's a great guy. I mean, he's a great man, great doctor, but also a great guy. He's set up a college fund for me."
"So you'll get a deferment."
"I should. And then when I do go, I'll have a skill."
"You want to be a doctor, son?"
"No. I'm not that smart, Mr. Hammer. But I am interested in medicine. I want to go to nursing school."
I nodded. "Always a need for male nurses. And when you get called up, you'll be Medical Corps."
"That's what I'm hoping. I really don't think I'm up for the killing ... but if I could help guys in trouble, that would be different." The kid looked young for his age, but his voice had a weary quality that surprised me. "I hope I'm not taking advantage."
"Advantage?"
"Of Dr. Harrin." He shrugged, his expression glum. "Look, I know the score. I'm filling in for Davy. I'm a surrogate son, that's the term, right? So taking the doc's money for college, does that make me a leech?"
"No. You knew Davy? In school?"
"Yeah. He was ahead of me, though."
And that seemed to be all Billy had to say on the subject.
"Mr. Hammer, what brings you around? Were you looking for me?"
"Yeah, Billy. Couple of loose threads. Listen, I spoke to Junior Evello about you yesterday."
He frowned. "Really? About me?"
"Do you remember telling me you mailed a letter for him? You said you ran errands for Evello, when he was in the celebrity suite, and one of them was mailing a letter...?"
"Sure."
"What was that letter?"
He shrugged. "I dunno."
"You really don't?"
"No. Why? Is it important?"
"Billy, I need you to be straight with me. If you saw an address on that letter, it might be the reason you got jumped by—"
"Mr. Hammer, I mind my own business. I just mailed that letter for Mr. Evello that time. And as far as why I got jumped, you know why—because I wouldn't be a supplier for Brix and those creeps."
I nodded. "I believe you. And I believe you're right."
That was the thing about threads. Sometimes you pull them and you get a little piece of string and you toss it. Sometimes you pull them and half a sweater comes off.
Billy stood. "It's nice to see you, Mr. Hammer. But I've got the doctor's office pretty well spruced up. And I have some storeroom stuff to do, so—"
"One last thing, Bill."
"Sure."
I gestured to the desk. "Where are the family pictures?"
"Huh?"
"Dr. Harrin lost his son. He loved his son. The loss was devastating. And yet ... nowhere in this office is there any trace of the boy. Not a single picture. Not a framed sports letter or trophy the boy won, zip. Nothing on the wall, just those slogans. And on the desk ... nothing."
Billy was obviously uncomfortable. "Well ... I don't know why.... Maybe the doc's so upset, he doesn't want to be reminded."
"Of the son he adored? Bill, you said you knew Davy. What kind of kid was he?"
"He was ... a great athlete."
"Yeah, right. So I heard. What else?"
"He was ... real popular."
I leaned forward and put an edge in my voice. "Bill, goddamnit, level with me. What kind of boy was Davy Harrin?"
He swallowed. "Not perfect, okay? Look, there were things about Davy the doc wasn't happy with, all right? It's not my place to say, Mr. Hammer."
"Bill ... Billy..."
But he was at the door. "I have to get back to work, Mr. Hammer. Nice seeing you."
And Billy Blue, who wouldn't fink out another kid even if that kid was dead and buried, was gone.
***
Bud Tiller almost never wore ties.
If he had a court appearance, sure. If he was meeting the president of a major corporation, maybe. The broad-shouldered, blond bulldog had been in the FBI for so many years, where a tie was standard issue just like .38 revolvers, that when he quit to go into business for himself, he swore off neckties except in extreme circumstances.
What he almost always did wear was a selection from his extensive collection of Hawaiian aloha shirts, gaudy paint-factory explosions that could brighten a sunny day into something blinding. He could even brighten up a back booth at Marco's Bar and Grill.
"Tell me you don't go undercover in those things," I said, after a sip of Pabst.
He sipped his own glass of beer, then grinned at me with foam on his face. "I don't go undercover anymore. That's for the youngsters. And when I go out talking to people, I like to get their attention."
"No kidding. So what do you have for me?"
A jukebox was playing Sinatra singing "Luck Be a Lady," reminding me of my debt to the old girl.
He wiped the foam off with the back of a hand. "Mike, this is going to be vague."
"I ask for intel, and I get vague?"
His expression was grave. "It has to be. I'm lucky I got anybody to talk to me about this at all. Think about it. Killing somebody like Junior Evello or Jay Wren is one thing—hitting them with a vehicle and not killing them is a whole other deal."
"Somebody takes on that job," I said, "and if it ever catches up with them, more than a car would hit them."
"Exactly. These are insurance scammers, who are well outside mob circles. But they know the possible consequences, plying their talent on big-time criminals like the Snowbird and Junior."
"Which is why one driver was a gal in a car, and the other a guy in a truck."
"Right," Bud said, nodding vigorously. "Guys like Wren and Evello, they're going to look hard at any accident, to see if it really is an accident."