Hardware (9 page)

“Sam told me to keep you off the graveyard shift.”

“Since when—”

“Listen up, Carlotta. I just got a call here, anonymous, saying eight twenty-one's in trouble, somewhere in Franklin Park.”

“Eight twenty-one probably broke down. You send your own brother out in that clunker?” I wondered whose tag Marvin was hacking on. Probably one of his brothers', both of whom have failed to score in the courts, for undefined reasons. God knows, it's not that they haven't done anything illegal.

“I mean real trouble,” Gloria insisted.

“Get the cops.”

“Last call I sent Marvin on was Franklin Hills,” she said, naming a Dorchester housing project I wouldn't go near on a bet.

“Pay phone or apartment?” I asked.

“Corner.”

“Great.”

“Marvin can handle himself.”

“Sure he can. Call the cops.”

“They'll shut me down, Carlotta, using an ex-con for a jockey. I'm hiring you instead. As of right now.”

“To do exactly what?”

“Check out Franklin Park.”

“It's one hell of a big place.”

“Find Marvin.”

“Did Mr. Anonymous sound familiar? Friend of Marvin's?”

“No.”

“Would Marvin try to scam you?”

“Carlotta, please. Get over here.”

“Go trolling through Franklin Park at four in the morning. That's what you want me to do.” Sam will be ecstatic, I thought, and the idea of his anger made the job more attractive. The nerve, ordering Gloria to keep me safe.

“I wouldn't ask except for my brother,” she said. “You bring your gun, hear?”

I hung up and got dressed. No jeans when I drive; there's a dress code. I stepped into loose elastic-waist sweats, a matching long-tailed shirt. If it doesn't need ironing and it's cheap, I can put up with anything the fashion industry dishes out.

I sped downstairs, unlocked the lower left-hand drawer of my desk, unwound my Smith & Wesson .38 from its undershirt wrapping, and loaded it with slugs kept in separate quarters. I shoved it into the waist of my slacks, icy against my back. When I threw on my wool car coat, the gun became unreachable, so I relocated it deep in my right-hand pocket. I ponytailed my hair with my hands and managed to subdue it under a black watch cap. Headed out the door.

In the weeks since the drive-by, Gloria had never once mentioned sending a cab to J.P. in the middle of the night to collect me and Sam and the computer equipment. I'd have thought that would pique her curiosity, and once Gloria's curiosity is piqued, you're better off just telling her what she wants to know.

Maybe she'd tackled Sam about it; maybe he'd manufactured a successful lie. It must have been a good one; Gloria keeps her ear to the ground.

If she thought the Hackney Bureau would close her down for using an ex-con driver, the Hackney Bureau would do just that.

I made it from my house to the bumpy street fronting the Mass. Pike in seventeen minutes, which is damn good time.

Gloria's wheelchair loomed in G&W's doorway. She was holding out keys, shaking them like Christmas bells. “Take the Ford in the shop. Seven sixteen.”

“Location?”

“Got the police scanner going and a couple good drivers out lookin'. Guy's who'll keep their mouths shut. I'll send specifics soon as I can.”

“Sure you don't want cops?”

“This stays in the company, Carlotta.”

If the music jams the bugs, I thought.

I said, “See you.”

“Be careful.”

Go find a convicted felon in a missing cab somewhere in Franklin Park in the wee hours. Take your gun.

And be careful.

ELEVEN

I snapped on the radio as soon as I slammed the cab's door, before Gloria could possibly have wheeled into position behind the phone console. I set it on full-band, then backed off to two-way. If Gloria wanted to risk sharing our conversation with others, that would be her call.

“Carlotta?”

“Heading up Harvard Ave., squeezing the yellows. Almost to Comm.” While I drove I wrestled with my coat buttons. There's a period of adjustment to getting long-haul comfy in a cab. I punched buttons and moved levers; if I remembered correctly, 716 didn't offer much in the way of heat.

“Good girl. Keep it movin',” Gloria said. I could hear the music over the box. I wondered what the cabbies thought about Gloria's sudden conversion to rap and rock.

“Look,” I said, “you call any of the places Marvin might've stopped?”

“Carlotta, my brother is not pumping iron at Gold's Gym. He didn't stop for a nightcap. I have dialed every bar he hangs his sorry ass in, and those bartenders know that if they want any cabs picking up their drunks, they'd better tell me the truth.”

Traffic eased after the Purity Supreme. I raced through Coolidge Corner and Brookline Village, one eye peeled for traffic patrols.

A burst of static ushered in Gloria's voice: “I got something. Woodsy area past the old clubhouse. Man thinks he saw tire tracks leaving the road, possibly the shadow of a car, all topsy-turvy. Guy sounds like he might be drunk. Not sure if he should call the cops. Didn't even get out of his car. Just split, damn him.”

I didn't blame him. Why ask for trouble?

“I'm on it,” I sang out. As I spoke, I flipped off the radio, convincing myself I'd need total concentration on the upcoming stretch of road. The Jamaicaway's speed limit is thirty. Most drivers start having qualms at twenty, that's how bad the street is, curving like an imitation mountain trail around Jamaica Pond. The mush storm and subsequent freeze had opened fissures in the pavement the size of craters. I braked from fifty to forty-five, nursing the accelerator. No good bottoming out in a pothole and losing the back axle.

Road conditions were my excuse for radio silence. I didn't want to speculate on Marvin's fate, didn't want to hear what Gloria was fielding on her scanner. Car overturned in Franklin Park, close to the Franklin Hills Project. Gloria would blame herself forever if something awful happened to Marvin.

The road branched left, then straightened for a short run after the pond. I swung left at the rotary. No traffic, no cops, so I blasted over the bridge into the park.

No approaching sirens shrieked. The streetlamps in the park get vandalized so often they're no longer routinely replaced. No moonlight to aid my search. I flipped on my high beams along with the radio.

“Anything else?” I asked.

“Keep your radio on, dammit, girl. Nothin'. Guy took off before he could be sure what he saw was a cab.”

“Did he call it in?”

“Yeah.” Gloria did not sound comforted. “Finally did a nine one one, and cops are what I'm trying to avoid here. Good news is that Area B's swamped. Break-ins in progress, two assaults, a gang bust-up. A ‘maybe, maybe not' accident sighting's not gonna be any number one priority tonight.”

I passed the left turn leading to the zoo and slowed to a crawl. Tire tracks leaving the road on my right. The ground looked muddy enough to hold prints, layers of rotting leaf mulch keeping it warm. It would take good eyesight to catch tracks on a dark street. You had to wonder. Luck. Or possibly the perp himself had called it in. Maybe Marvin, if he was drunk and had totaled the cab.

“Hang on, Gloria. I'm gonna park and walk some, then come back, drive on, and try it by foot again. Too easy to miss something this way.”

“Okay. Leave the radio on.”

“Will do. Flashlight in the trunk?”

“New batteries.”

“Thanks.”

I pulled to the side of the road, killed the lights, locked the doors as I exited, keys in hand. Just my luck to run into a car thief.

I walked ten feet, decided the car's headlights would help, went back and flicked them on. Gloria was singing an unsteady hymn on the radio.

Fifty feet. Nothing. I went back for the car, drove it slowly along the verge.

“Hold it. I think I see something,” I said, squealing the brakes.

Gloria's singing stopped. Her voice turned cautious. “Babe, maybe you ought to wait for the cops.”

“I thought you didn't want them.”

“Should I send another cabbie? Two's better than one.”

“Who's on?”

She mentioned a couple names I didn't recognize. Unknown backup is worse than no backup, I decided.

“Gloria, I'm going to leave the radio on. You hear anything that sounds wrong—like gunshots, for instance—dial nine one one, and don't take no for an answer.” I cranked down the windows and abandoned the cab on the grass, its warning lights flashing. As an afterthought, I grabbed the chunk of lead pipe from under the seat. I like to have options other than my revolver.

On close inspection I could decipher twin tracks, clear, fresh, with textbook tread. The incline was far steeper than I'd estimated from a quick flashlit sweep. I started down too fast, following a muddy rut, and fell. Sat, cursing silently.

My next attempt was more cautious. Oblique. I hung close to a scraggly line of trees, trying to dig my heels into the mud. The undergrowth snared my feet. My boots kept slipping in the mire. The second time I fell, twisting my ankle sharply on a hidden root, I made a desperate grab for a sapling, missed, and slid the entire length of the grade. My forehead smacked hard against a thick branch, momentarily stunning me. My nose hit as well. I bit back a scream; a low moan escaped. I seemed to have landed in some sort of prickly shrub.

I counted to twenty twice, blinking teary eyes, panting. The fallen flashlight shone in my face like a search beacon. I moved, scraping skin against brambles. I inhaled deeply, slowly. No sudden pain. Probably no broken ribs. Good.

I touched my forehead, winced. Lowered my hand to inspect my nose, probing the soft cartilage with practiced fingers. My nose has been broken three times.

Not again, I thought. Dammit, not again!

It hurt like hell, but retained its familiar shape, a lone bump and a slight bend below the bridge. I tasted blood. And me with no handkerchief in my pocket, just a gun.

I rolled and crawled out of the prickly stuff, inching along, disoriented. When I realized I'd have to stick my arm back into the thorns to grab the flashlight, I almost wept.

Once in possession of the flashlight, I sucked in a quick breath, snatched a handful of soggy leaves from a branch, and smeared blood off my face.

Middle of the night, you'd never guess Franklin Park's the heart of a huge city. Designed by Frederick Law Olmsted as the crown jewel of his Emerald Necklace of Boston parks, its silence is so deep you can imagine yourself in the wilderness, in some far-off wolf-inhabited woods. When I lifted my face, trying to stanch the flow of blood with gravity's aid, I could see stars invisible in neon-lit Back Bay.

The cab rested on its side, passenger door up. No gasoline smell. Engine off. I used the lead pipe to swipe at branches obscuring my view, then stuck it under my arm and hopped to a nearby tree. My ankle wasn't functioning. I tested my weight on it, leaning against the trunk for support. The pain made me break into a sweat. I hopped and limped and lurched and held on to convenient tree limbs to get closer to the cab. The pipe was too damn short for a crutch. Useless.

I shined light in the cab's back window. Side window. Nothing. Aimed the flash full on the front visor. The plastic slot where the cabbie's ID card, mug shot and license, should have been, was empty.

I checked the colors, the logo, the medallion. G&W 821.

I didn't hear any noise that didn't belong to the woods. No breaking branches, no crunch and crackle of leaves. I strained for the whoosh of wheels on the road above, but either no one passed or the road was too distant. I was contemplating the ascent, whether I could hop it on one foot, whether I'd need to crawl, when a hand closed on my shoulder. I yelped, jumped a good six inches, forgetting my ankle, raising the pipe over my head.

“Don't yell!” Marvin ordered.

“It's me,” I said, at the same time. “Carlotta. Remember?”

“Carlotta,” he repeated.

“Marvin? Marvin. Shit. What happened? What did—”

“Get that light outta my eyes, goddammit, and don't be scared what you see. I been hurt worse.”

I bit down on my lower lip. He was breathing heavily, but then so was I. He was standing. If I'd found him prone, I'd have screamed. Blood must have gushed from his scalp to soak his torn and crumpled shirt so completely. His face bulged, the nose mashed to one side.

“Maybe you ought to lie down,” I said, holding out a hand. “You hit the windshield?” Amazing it hadn't spider-webbed, I thought.

Marvin stared at me, touched my cheek. “I remember you,” he said. “Gloria's friend. The ex-cop. They hit you too?”

“I fell.”

“They busted up my radio, or I'd be gone. Hell, if the car wasn't flipped, I'd drive outta here. I was gonna give myself another half hour to rest up, and walk it. How'd you find me so quick?”

“Gloria's half crazy. She started checking the police band.”

“Goddamn,” he whispered. “Cops comin'?”

“They'll get you to a hospital,” I said. “You could—”

“I don't want a hospital. I need to get away from here, so nobody knows I was driving.”

“Marvin, why don't you sit down?”

“Shit, if you were anybody else drivin' a G and W, I'd pound your head, grab your license, and steal your cab.”

“You ought to be in a hospital, Marvin, talking like that.” As I spoke, I limped back a few steps and got a better grip on the pipe. Marvin's the biggest of Gloria's brothers; he used to be a prizefighter.

“Goddammit, listen to me. This thing needs quiet handlin'. Cops have to report this shit to the Hackney Bureau. And you know what they'll do to Gloria? Using a jock with a record? I don't need no hospital. I need to get outta here. Don't give me no argument.”