“John,” Carbone said, “Mickey knows that and I know that. But we’ve also got a pretty good line on Dannaher. He’s not very bright. He’s not bright enough to make up a trip in the woods with Proctor if he didn’t actually make a trip to the woods. And if he did go into the woods, he’s not smart enough to say nothing about it. So our guess is that Proctor took him into the woods and it was probably not for a picnic.
“Now,” Carbone said, “we’ve got a pretty good line on these guys. We don’t know everything they’re planning to do, and we don’t know when they’re planning to do it. But we’re pretty sure they’re going to do it at Fein’s joint, because as far as we know that’s the only thing they’ve got going right now and those two assholes need money. Maybe they went to the woods to pick up kindling. We just don’t know, because Dannaher, when he got through pissing and moaning about going in the woods, shut up.”
“Or passed out,” Roscommon said.
“Or passed out,” Carbone said. “Now, what we also got is, we got Proctor. And Proctor is down at the Londonderry a lot, which I know because I went to school with Danny, who is the barkeep and he will tell me something from time to time as long as I don’t go in there. And what he tells me is that Proctor is in there, night after night, and he’s alone. He gets no calls, he eats there, he drinks himself bloated and then he goes home. He is not cheerful. Danny assumes he goes home. He doesn’t really know.
“So,” Carbone said, “it is at least possible that this thing with Fein’s little marshmallow roast is not going to go up the chimney anymore. At this point.”
“Nuts,” Roscommon said.
“Malatesta,” Carbone said, flipping the pages of the notebook. “Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday nights, Malatesta goes to Club 1812.”
“That place,” Roscommon said. “Algerian whorehouse. If I could prove what they did to get the license for that thing, I’d have six guys in jail and two more worried.”
“Very expensive type of place for a guy that doesn’t have a lot of money,” Carbone said.
“Or else very cheap,” Roscommon said.
“Or else very cheap,” Carbone said.
“Particularly for a guy that was working Middlesex fires when Dennis Murray’s Hideaway restaurant went up in a sheet of blue flame, and the guy who investigated decided it was the U-joints on the gas-pipe fittings and they weren’t installed right so they leaked and the pilot lights in the stoves did the rest,” Roscommon said.
“Dennis is not a nice guy,” Carbone said.
“Actually,” Roscommon said, “Dennis is sort of a nice guy. If I had a daughter and she brought him home to meet me, I might not be jumping with joy, but Dennis is not a bad fellow. He just got a little pressed for cash. Could happen to anybody. You’ll never get anything out of him, if you’re trying to get something out of him, but if you just sit down and talk to him, he will tell you a few things. Saw him few weeks after the Wayland fire, gave him my condolences of course, we said the Sorrowful Mysteries together. Then he starts to talk about the insurance companies. Should’ve heard him.
“’To them it’s just another crap game,’ he says. ‘They don’t care. They lose one percent off profit on the spread this year, more guys had fires’n they expected, they put three percent on the spread next year. They make an extra point next year, not as many guys had fires, they claim they had a lot of unexpected costs and they put another three points on the spread. They say the bankers make ‘em do it, account of everything else costs more to replace, and the bankers say the insurance companies’ve got them over barrels because the collateral is mortgaged and it’s got to be insured. It’s a beautiful dodge they got working.’
“Told him,” Roscommon said, “told him he shouldn’t take it so hard. Told me he wasn’t taking anything hard, just repeating some things friends of his said, friends that’d had some bad luck. Not a bad fellow.”
“Never had the pleasure,” Carbone said. “Did have the pleasure of meeting one of his employees once. Fellow did some time. Quite a bit of time. Would’ve done a lot more if he hadn’t met me.
“This guy,” Carbone said, “has got to be the biggest donkey and the most well-informed guy I know. Works in the club and he says Malatesta comes in there three nights a week and drinks Scotch and meets the broad.
“Now,” Carbone said, “don’t know whether you ever heard of Marion down the Registry. Marion Scanlon?”
“Never heard of her,” Roscommon said. “None of the German soldiers ever heard of Lili Marlene, either.”
“Well,” Carbone said, “she is Billy’s bimbo, and she is mad at him because he did not meet her in there one night last week, when he was supposed to, and the next night when he came in she was half in the bag and she described him to everybody else in the joint. No money, stupid, all the rest of it.
“Tuesday night,” Carbone said, “I drive past the joint and there is Billy’s cruiser, which shows you how bright he must be, and the next day I talk to my guy and I ask him what Billy had to say. And he tells me that him and Billy had a long chat and the bimbo was poutin’ in the powder room, and when she finally came out, she was still mad and Billy hugged her and gave her kissy-face and my guy heard Billy tell her, he was serving her drinks, it’d all be okay in a little while because pretty soon he was getting some money.”
“Which puts us,” Roscommon said, “right back in the woods with Dannaher and Proctor.”
“Exactly, Lieutenant,” Carbone said.
13
At 2:35 in the morning, Leo Proctor took a right on Dorchester Avenue and drove the van south for about half a mile. He took a right and then another right, driving very carefully between the cars parked on both sides of the streets, and found a place in front of his yellow three-decker, the one with the white trim, at 41 Windsor Street. He did not hit anything when he parked the van, although he did stumble on the curb after he had locked it. He moved slowly up the front walk, swaying very slightly, unlocked the door on the left side of the front porch with only moonlight to assist him, replaced the keys in his left pants pocket carefully, opened the door, felt for the light, turned it on, entered, closed and snap-locked the door behind him and pushed the bolt shut above the snap lock.
“Son of a bitch,” he said softly.
Grasping the banisters tightly, Proctor went up the stairs silently, never putting the heels of his shoes on the treads. The stairs hooked sharply to the right, three steps from the top, and the banister ended on the right-hand side. Proctor held the left banister tightly and fished in his pockets for the keys with his right hand. Swaying again, he reached across his belly, patted his left pocket, said, “Shit,” and managed to get the keys out with his right hand. “Bitch probably bolted this one,” he said.
Proctor shook them loose, found the correct one, inserted it in the snap lock, turned it, leaned his right shoulder against the door and turned the knob. The door opened. “Bitch didn’t bolt it,” he said. “Son of a bitch. Must’ve gone to bed early. Nothing stupid on TV tonight.”
He went into the apartment as quietly as he could, using his left hand on the inside doorknob and his right hand about a foot above it to close the door soundlessly. He did not release the snap lock with one twist, but turned it into place with his right hand. Then he slid home the bolt above it and the bolt below. He turned off the light in the stairwell with the inside switch.
It was hot and it was dark in the apartment. The only light came from the moon, and there was not much of that. The front room had three windows arranged in a bay that fronted on the porch, but the room to his right had only one window on the south, where the moon was descending, and the two southern windows of the kitchen ahead of him were blocked from the moon by the bulk of the three-decker next door. He did not switch on the light in the hallway, but crouched and ran his left hand along the waist-high moulding while groping before him with his right hand at about knee height. “That bitch blocked that fuckin’ doorway with another chair again,” he whispered, “gonna go in there and kill the bitch. Won’t even wake her up first.”