Brothers and Bones (11 page)

Bones was staring at me, a little confused, it seemed, then he blinked and I saw recognition light his eyes.

“Bones,” I said. “You have a first name?”

He looked for a moment like he wasn’t certain, then said, “Yeah.” He offered nothing more.

“Okay.” I smiled. “Bones it is, then.”

He frowned suddenly, though, and shook his head. “Name’s Bonzetti. People call me Bones. It’s not my name, though. I don’t think I want to be Bones anymore.”

“All right, what should I call you then?”

He thought about it for a moment. “I was Bonz when I was a kid. Other kids called me that. That was okay.”

“Like the Fonz?”

He looked up, irritated. Either he didn’t know who the Fonz was or he thought I was an idiot. There was only a subtle pronunciation difference between “Bones” and “Bonz,” but it seemed that the weight of the baggage each pronunciation carried differed greatly to the man. I smiled again.

“So I’ll call you Bonz, then, okay?” He shrugged and stared down into his black coffee. “Listen,” I said, “I should thank you for saving me from those guys in Chinatown. That was you, right?” He sniffed loudly, then wiped his nose on his sleeve. His eyes were blank, like the eyes of a child’s doll. A mean-looking doll. “Well, if it was you, and I think it was, you probably saved my life. So thank you.” Nothing. I added, quietly, “It’s okay that my wallet was empty.”

His eyes met mine for a moment, then he looked back down at his food. “You like my new boots?”

I leaned over and looked at his boots, which indeed looked brand-new.

“Very nice.” Though probably not worth the two hundred–odd dollars I remembered having on me when I was attacked by the gang. I wondered what he did with the rest of the money. “All right then, where should we begin?”

“Why were you looking for me?” he asked.

“I think you might have—no, you
do
have—some information I need.”

He seemed to chew on that for a moment, but I soon realized he was chewing on something he’d found stuck between two of his teeth. He ran it around his mouth for a few seconds before swallowing it. “I don’t know anything,” he said. “Thanks for the food.”

He started to rise. I shot my hand out and placed it on his arm, not aggressively, but firmly. “Wait, please.” He stopped, mid-rise, and stared down at me. His head twitched and he switched to a bad channel, his eyes red and angry. I had forgotten how imposing he could look. I hadn’t forgotten the lunatic ravings I’d witnessed in the past, or his spitting fits, or the way he’d so recently held my head in the crook of his arm, ready to snap my neck like an old, dry bone. His eyes dropped down to my hand, which still rested on his arm. He blinked and his face softened just a little. I withdrew my hand but he continued to stare at the spot where I’d grabbed him. He seemed unsure what to do. I wondered how long it had been since another human being had touched him, other than maybe out of anger. “Please,” I said again. Slowly, he sat back down.

“More coffee?” I asked.

“No. How come you think I know anything you want to know?”

“Why do you call me Wiley?”

“It’s your name.”

“No, it’s not.”

He blinked hard. “It is.”

“No,” I insisted softly. “My name’s Charlie. But you called me Wiley and I want to know why.”

He scratched at a scab on his forehead. “Thought it was your name. Guess I was wrong.” He squinted at me, though, like he thought he
wasn’t
wrong.

“Why did you think that?” I asked. “Did someone tell you my name is Wiley?”

He stared at me hard then, for a long time, dragging his gaze over my face, my nose, my chin, my eyes. He shook his head but didn’t change channels. Several times I thought he was going to say something, but he just kept staring at me. He shifted in his seat, looking again like he was going to leave.

“Please,” I pleaded. “It’s very important to me.”

He hesitated, then said, almost in a whisper, “I don’t have a good memory.” It looked like it pained him to say this, not emotionally, but physically. He clenched his jaw and I feared that was all he was going to say, but more came. “Sometimes I lose it all. My fucking memory. I don’t know where it goes, but it’s not with me. It’s gone and I got nothing.” He took a few very deep breaths, in through his nose and out through his mouth. He was struggling with this. “I hate it. It’s hard to be…like that. To not know yourself.”

I nodded. I wanted to say something encouraging but I didn’t want to break whatever spell was compelling him to speak, so I kept quiet.

“Sometimes I get bits of memory. Like dreams. Little bits of dreams. More like fucking nightmares, though, I guess.”

I nodded again, not having the slightest idea what he was talking about but hoping he’d make some sense soon. He went on in his rough whisper.

“Sometimes something comes to me. A puzzle piece. Not often, at least not usually. But then…”

He trailed off. I waited and watched as his eyes darted almost fearfully around the room. I wondered what he was afraid he’d see—or maybe what frightful vision he was seeing at that moment that was invisible to everyone else. Finally, he continued. “Then I saw you. And things started falling into place. No, not falling…
snapping
into place. Faster than I could understand them…faster than I wanted them to…memories flooding back and I remembered. I
remembered
so fucking much. So much more than I wanted to.” His whisper grew harsh and angry. “All because I saw you, Wiley. When I saw you it started happening. And I can’t stop it. I’ve tried. And I’m not done yet, either. I know that. Got a way to go still.” His words were tumbling out of him faster and faster. “There are gaps, holes, questions, but things are crashing together now, terrible things…and it all started happening when I saw your goddamn face. It’s your fault, Wiley.
Your fault!
”

He was breathing hard now, his mouth twisted in a grimace. He looked at me with hatred and it scared the hell out of me. But I had opened a door into darkness and I thought my answers were in the blackness just on the other side, so I had to risk Bonz’s wrath and ask the right questions, whatever they were, until I got what I needed.

“Bonz,” I said, “please tell me, did you know my brother, Jake? Jake Beckham?”

He paused, blinking. He frowned. Then his eyes snapped wide and his whole body jerked, like he’d been stabbed in the back with a fork. “You son of a bitch!” he screamed. “Jake? Beckham? Shit! Leave me the fuck alone or I swear to God I’ll kill you! Do you understand?! No more of this. No fucking more!” He looked around the diner again, as if the walls had eyes. “Not safe. Not anymore. And neither are you.”

And with that cheery statement he bolted suddenly from the booth, stumbling against a table, his lips twitching now, and it looked to me like he was silently mouthing the word
Wiley
over and over as he backed toward the door. The diner’s night manager hurried from around the counter to block Bonz’s apparent attempt to dine and ditch.

Ill-advisedly, the manager said, “Where the hell do you think—”

Bonz whirled, his reflexes spring-loaded, and grabbed the manager’s arm and wrenched it up behind the man’s back. His movements were a blur, like something out of a Bruce Lee movie. The manager squealed in pain and I feared Bonz would snap the guy’s arm. Instead, he shifted his hip and the manager flipped forward, grease-stained sneakers flying over his Porky Pig face, and landed on his back on a table, scattering menus and salt-and-pepper shakers. Bonz looked down into his face, snarled, then shot me one quick look before bolting through the door and into the night.

The place was quiet. No chatter of diners. No clatter of silverware. Everyone had stopped in midbite to watch the action. The waitress, who had returned from the kitchen, stood behind the cash register with her hand to her mouth. The manager, possibly unconscious but still breathing, I could see, lay on the table. All he needed was an apple in his mouth.

I was as shocked as the rest of them—with the possible exception of the manager—but gathered my wits quickly enough to realize that I needed to get out of there fast. Someone could call the cops any second and they’d ask me questions I couldn’t answer. I looked down at the table, covered with Bonz’s empty plates, and quickly figured I owed something in the area of sixty bucks, plus tip. I skipped the tip, seeing as we’d been served nearly as much attitude and disdain as we had food, and dropped three twenties on the table. I hurried past the manager and out of the diner.

I stood on the empty sidewalk. I had spooked Bonz bad, with my mention of Jake seeming to push him over the edge. Now he was gone. And he took with him any answers he had to the questions that had haunted me for so long. I could look for him, and I intended to, but I knew that if he didn’t want me to find him, I never would.

THIRTEEN

The Fairmont Copley Plaza, located downtown, is a big, fancy hotel walking just on the right side of the line between elegant and gaudy. There’s a lot of rich wood, various gilded surfaces, mirrors, polished marble, and shiny brass. More than one U.S. president has chosen to stay there when visiting Boston. All in all, it’s a snazzy place to hold a five-hundred-dollar-a-plate charity dinner.

As Jessica and I walked arm in arm toward the ballroom, I caught repeated glimpses of us in the long series of mirrors running the length of the hall. She looked absolutely stunning in her simple black evening dress. As for me, I looked sharp in my rented Armani tux with black tie and cummerbund, white pocket hanky, and smashed face. I looked at my reflection and winked my blood-filled eye. Quite a dashing figure I cut.

I felt bad. I wasn’t being the bright, sparkly companion Jess deserved. She chalked it up, I’m sure, to my having been mugged the night before. The truth was, I couldn’t get Bonz out of my head. I
should
be here tonight for Lippincott’s “impromptu remarks,” I
had
to be here tonight for Jessica, but where I
wanted
was to be out looking for Bonz. Somewhere in his addled mind he knew something that I needed to know. I had to find him but had no idea how to do that. He knew the streets of this city better than I ever could. He could probably disappear like smoke on a breeze if he wanted to. I shook my head. For Jessica’s sake, I’d try to forget about him, and about Jake, at least for one evening.

We reached the ballroom, where Jessica swept through one of two metal detectors. I slipped into her jet stream and followed her in.

The Grand Ballroom certainly earned its adjective. It was a great big rectangle, with gilded archways lining the balcony level, which ran around the entire perimeter of the room, and glowing chandeliers and wall sconces providing just the right level of warm illumination. The room was about three-quarters of the way to capacity, nearly filled with people in tuxedos and evening gowns—men preferring the former and women the latter. Everyone looked great, I must say. Well, except for me. I still had a face full of bruises and an eye full of blood. As Jessica glided around the room, I tried to keep my face slightly downcast, but still managed to draw an uncomfortable number of stares. Most people looked discreetly away once I caught them looking at me, but one guy kept staring, so I flashed him a puffy-lipped, lopsided grin that must have been truly repulsive because he turned away in very short order. As Jessica made her way around the room, smiling and shaking hands, I did my best to keep up, but I felt Bonz pulling relentlessly at my thoughts again, like an insistent terrier tugging on my pant leg. Where was he?
Who
was he?

And now and then, in the brief moments when Bonz wasn’t hijacking my thoughts, my mind drifted to the Redekov trial and all the things I should have been doing to prepare myself for court the next morning. I simply could not allow myself to drop the ball on that, but with everything else going on right now, the damned thing seemed extraordinarily heavy and slathered with grease, just ripe for fumbling. I had to remind myself that I’d been preparing for months, and that all I really needed to do was get a little rest tonight and follow the detailed trial strategy I’d laid out weeks ago.

Before long the room was full of some of the most important people in New England—politicians, captains of industry, renowned philanthropists, and the most respected individuals in dozens of professional fields. Jessica and I made our way over to where her father was standing with First AUSA Michael Kidder, a few senior AUSAs from our office, a congressman, and the current guest conductor of the Boston Symphony Orchestra. I watched each of their eyes widen just for a moment as they took in my bashed face. As they stared, I defused what could have been an awkward moment for all of us with my extraordinarily clever quip, “You should see the other five guys.”

Lippincott’s gaze shifted to his daughter and his eyes lit up bright. He kissed Jessica on the cheek and nodded to me, saying, “Jessica told me what happened and I’m glad you’re all right. I’ve been concerned about you.” And he did look concerned about me, but I wondered if he was equally concerned, if not more so, about how my Technicolor face would play to the jury on day two of the Redekov trial in the morning.

I turned to Kidder and was in the middle of being treated to another dead fish of a handshake when his grip became uncharacteristically firm. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “He’s got some balls coming here tonight.”

I withdrew my hand, surreptitiously wiped my palm on my pant leg, and followed Kidder’s gaze, and that of nearly everyone in our group, over to the main doors of the ballroom. Four men in beautiful suits had just entered. Three of the men were large in the muscular sense; the fourth, walking at the front and center of the group, was large in the rotund sense. Probably weighed in at two hundred sixty pounds, which was far too heavy for his five-and-a-half-foot frame. He had a pleasant smile on his fleshy, fiftysomething face.

The symphony conductor seemed to have no idea who he was looking at. Neither did Jessica. The congressman squinted, as if trying to recall where he’d seen the heavy man’s face. The other AUSAs stared with undisguised surprise. Lippincott’s eyes narrowed and his mouth became a hard slash before his facial features returned a moment later to their normal states.