Killers (17 page)

I'd been girl-watching for about ten minutes when Katy arrived. Tight-fitting slacks, a low-cut blouse under a dark jacket, and her light-brown hair swept straight back under a Saks Fifth Avenue headband. I've never seen a Yankee dress as stylishly, or as provocatively, as she did, but as she would be sure to tell me, how many Yankees did I know anyway?

I smiled and stood up. She sat down and looked bored as she stared at the backs of the throngs of fans filing by on their way into Fenway.

“You never change, do you, Jack?” she said.

“I don't know what you mean,” I said.

“Sitting out here checking out the babes. You don't mind paying an exorbitant amount for a drink if you can see the scantily clad teenagers prancing by.”

She reads me like a book. “There'll be more scantily clad in another month or so. It's a little cool for May, don't you think? Still sweater weather at night.”

Katy gave the waiter her order and then took a deep breath.

“Okay, Ace, now tell me why you wanted me to bring my binoculars along?”

“We're gonna do some sneaky stuff. I remember when you used to like to do sneaky stuff. Now I'm not so sure. Sometimes I think you'd rather be seen at a time for Elizabeth Warren at her cheese shop in Harvard Square than take in the Olde Towne Team with your old—”

“My ex,” she said firmly, as my eyes wandered toward a twenty-something brunette wearing practically nothing, a harbinger of sweltering summer evenings to come. Suddenly I felt a sharp pain on the right side of my face. Katy had slugged me with her $400 Gucci purse, and I could already feel the throbbing welt that the buckle had left on my cheek.

“Don't you ever, ever look at another woman like that when you're with me.” My face stung. It wasn't the first time she'd slapped me for “lookism,” as they say at Smith College. But this one didn't sting like a slap from an ex, it felt like the way she used to hit me when we were in a fever hotter than a pepper sprout. For a second or two I was actually seeing stars. It hurt like she still cared.

“I thought you were the one who always said, ‘Fifteen'll get you twenty,'” she hissed. “Now finish your damn drink and let's get out of here, you damn perv.”

We had great seats, upstairs, in a box shared by two law firms that each used to have one of their own before the economic tailspin. The only person I knew was the waitress, Donna, and all I needed from her was a couple of Häagen-Dazs chocolate bars in the sixth inning. Katy and I got settled in the top row, right under the heater, so the dropping temperatures weren't a problem.

I had her binoculars out as soon as we got there and started scanning the seats along the first base line. No one showed up until the bottom of the first inning, a fashionable arrival time for the Beautiful People. Let's face it, unless it's the Yankees, who really cares who the Sox are playing? You're only there to watch the Sox, and be seen yourself, of course.

I scanned the two middle-aged guys making their way to the seats and smiled. I handed the binoculars to Katy and told her to scan five seats down from the home plate edge of the Sox dugout.

“Ted McGee,” she said. “So what?”

“You know whose seats those are?”

“I have a feeling you're about to tell me.”

“They belong to Senator Denis Donahue. Also known as ‘Donuts.' Are
Globe
columnists supposed to be taking two-hundred-dollar seats from crooked hacks?”

“Maybe he bought them.”

“And maybe my family came over on the
Mayflower
.”

“How do you know they're Donuts' seats?”

“A burning bush told me.”

She was still peering through the binoculars. “Who's the guy with him?”

Katy handed the binoculars to me. I put down my beer and trained them on the guy sitting next to the columnist. He looked familiar. It took me a second, but I finally made him—Drew Amato, the commissioner of probation. I told Katy and she frowned.

“He's supposed to be dirty, isn't he?” she said.

“His first name is ‘commissioner.' What do you think?”

“Wasn't one of the guys who got shot in Somerville an ex-probation officer?” she said, her interest growing.

“They've fired a few P.O.s, some others are suspended with pay.” I always love that. Suspended with pay—also known as a vacation. “At least that's what I read somewhere. Supposedly somebody was selling P.O. jobs.”

She took the binoculars back from me. “They're having quite the animated conversation.”

That they were. And I don't think it was about the Green Monster. Shit, I wished I were better at lip-reading. Times like this it was good to have a guy like Bench McCarthy around. They said he was a master at reading lips; that's the kind of skill you pick up when you're in Walpole at age eighteen.

I looked over at Katy. “You still think your boy McGee is on the level.”

“I never said he was on the level. I said that just because he wrote an anti-casino column doesn't mean he's in the satchel.”

“How about going to the game with the commissioner of probation?”

“What do you want me to say?” she said. “He's a columnist; I'm a reporter. He was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize once.”

“Until they found out he was piping the columns.”

She took a deep breath. “Look, Jack, why don't we both just take the night off? These are great seats.” She squeezed my forearm. “Not everything has to be a conspiracy, you know.” She smiled at me. I hadn't seen that grin in months. I immediately forgot Ted McGee and Drew Amato and didn't think of them again until the next morning.

 

17

VISITING HOURS, 2-4, 7-9

I had to put in an appearance at Hole in the Head's wake. It was, of course, at Rossetti's in the West End. Rossetti's went way back, and I couldn't count how many wakes I've been to there. Sometimes even for guys I'd taken care of myself. That was when an appearance really was mandatory.

Years ago, the Rossettis bought the building right behind their funeral home, and then knocked down the abutting building's back wall and connected it to the funeral parlor. Since then all the wiseguys would get dropped off in back and come through the other building and avoid all the feds in wingtips and the TV cameramen loitering outside the front door wearing those stupid lanyards.

Must be ten years now that we'd been coming in the back, and the feds still hadn't figured it out. Filed away somewhere in the J. Edgar Hoover building in Washington, D.C., they've probably got 209s and 302s, stating authoritatively that the Boston LCN no longer attends wakes of their deceased members. Now that I think about it, why are all these G-men called “special agents”? What's so special about them?

Normally I would have driven myself, but I didn't like the ominous drift this thing had taken. Leaving a car somewhere, especially at night, can make you a sitting duck. Sometimes they slash your tires, so you can't get away, and even if you make it back inside the car, you're an easy target. So I had a kid from the garage give me a lift, and as I got out I told him to drive back to Roxbury, lock the gates tight, keep somebody else there with him at the garage on overtime, and wait for me to call him for a pickup.

I opened the back door to Rossetti's and was greeted by JoJo Rossetti, the older brother. They were a political family, like a lot of funeral home owners used to be. JoJo had been the state rep, and he'd done federal time with me and Sally in Lewisburg when we were doing our time for contempt of the grand jury. JoJo had been in for assaulting a DEA agent, I still have no idea why, because I never asked, and he never told me. After JoJo got out, the voters in their gratitude promoted him to the Governor's Council. I always thought that was only fitting and proper, that at least one of the eight politicians who has to vote on state judgeships should be an ex-con.

JoJo smiled when he saw me and even took the cigarette out of his mouth. He still calls them “racks,” not packs.

“Mr. McCarthy,” he said, pronouncing my name correctly. “How's your hammer hangin'?”

“I been better,” I said. “How's the family taking it?”

I heard a long moan from the larger parlor, followed by a female scream. JoJo rolled his eyes.

“What a mess,” he whispered. “I thought the bodies that get left in the trunks at the airport in the summer were bad, but those ain't nothing compared to this here. I ain't seen nothin' like this since I got back from 'Nam.”

“You're telling me it's a closed casket?”

“Closed? Bench, there ain't nothing in there but … body pieces. You ever hear the phrase ‘empty suit'? That's what in there, an empty suit. Nothing left, the cops said whatever they used was more powerful than dynamite. They think it was maybe C-four.”

“That's military, isn't it?”

“That's what they told me,” Rossetti said. “I'm telling you, whatever it was really got the job done. I had to call the family to send over a suit, just to make them think—”

I'd heard enough. I got the picture. I asked, “They're in the front parlor?”

“Follow the screams.”

Or I could follow the scent. Diego the Florist had done an excellent job, as usual. We all used him—he understood Mob protocol, but this one had been a little tricky. Sally always sent the biggest arrangement, since he was the boss, but Hole in the Head had been number two. Then came Blinky Marzilli, at least nominally. I usually ordered the fourth largest wreath.

Diego had sounded relieved when I called earlier in the day to inquire about my wreath.

“Who-sa I make number two now?” he asked.

“Blinky's,” I said. “That's the way Hole in the Head would want it.”

“You really think-a so?”

“How the hell do I know? Just make mine third—no, fourth biggest, after Cheech's. I'll defer to the grieving brother.”

“'At's another thing, Bench, now you bring it up. Cheech, he no call. What you and Sally want I should do?”

Not even sending a wreath to your own brother's funeral? But that was Cheech for you, tighter than a frog's ass, wouldn't pay a nickel to see a volcano. Still, not sending a wreath to his brother's wake would push Sally over the edge. In the interest of peace (and quiet), I told Diego that if Cheech didn't call in an order, just send over the usual and put it on my tab.

“What if he ask who paid?”

“You know him better than that, Diego. He'll figure somebody took care of him because he's a big shot.”

Now I was slipping into the viewing room. No line, there couldn't have been more than fifteen people in the room. Hole in the Head had more enemies than that, wiseguys who should have shown up just to make sure he was dead. I shook Cheech's hand and he made the introductions to the family. It was Hole in the Head's ma who'd been making all the noise. She was no more than five feet tall, maybe 180 pounds, dressed all in black. She was definitely old enough to remember where she was when she heard the news about Pearl Harbor. I arrived just in time to hear her let go with another screech.

“My Felipe,” she screamed. “He was-a the best boy! Philip, I love you! I'll see you in heaven! Philly, why'd it have to be you?” She shot a withering glare at her surviving son; talk about putting the “dis” back in dysfunctional. “They hadda blow you up, Philly, them dirty cock-a-suckahs, they was afraid-a ya.” She paused to gulp some air, then started in again.

“PHILLLLLIIIPPPP!”

Cheech leaned over and grabbed her by her flabby, age-spotted upper arm. He got in close to her face and hissed: “Jesus, Ma, calm down. He murdered half of Boston.”

That set her off again. I averted my glance and looked over at the bank of wreaths. Sally's said, “From the boys.” Mine said, “From the boyos.”

I kneeled at the casket, crossed myself and pretended to pray. If there is an afterlife, nobody's prayers were going to help Hole in the Head. I stood up and made my way to the family. I took Ma's hand and introduced myself.

“Mrs.—” Then I drew a blank. I couldn't remember Hole in the Head's last name. I looked over at Cheech.

“Mrs.—” Cheech stepped up behind me and whispered in my ear, “Imbruglia.”

“Mrs. Imbruglia,” I said. “Phil was an inspiration to us all.”

“He was-a the toughest guy in Boston,” she said.

Well, the meanest anyway. I was trying to think of something else to say when I felt a hand on my arm. It was Sally, in a suit about two sizes too small for him. His face was flushed, either from booze or from his too-tight shirt collar.

“C'mon,” he said, more softly than he normally spoke, perhaps in deference to Mama. “Let's go upstairs.” He nodded in her direction. “You'll pardon us, Mrs. Imbruglia?”

“You just find them motha-fuckahs blew up my boy,” she said, staring at the casket. “He shoulda been the boss, not you—then you'd be lying in there. In pieces.”

Sally turned, tightening his grip on my arm, as Cheech excitedly pushed aside his mother and then bumped his brother's casket in his haste to get to Sally. He grabbed Sally's arm.

“Sally,” he said, in obvious terror. “She don't mean none of it. We all love you.”

Sally pulled his arm away from Cheech's grip. “Forget about it,” he said. As we walked up the stairs, he said to me:

“You think it's easy?”

When we reached the top of the stairs he guided me toward a door that opened into a room I knew well. Downstairs was for family, upstairs for wiseguys. Again I noted the small turnout—no more than ten or twelve people, average age close to seventy. There was only one other non-Italian in the room, a real old-timer named Tommy Callahan. He sold me my first machine gun, a burp gun actually, when he retired from the rackets. Somebody later used it in Framingham to kill a strong-arm guy who'd snatched one of Sally's bookies and buried him alive. I've been told the Framingham cops still keep the piece in working order, even fire it on the police department range every six months or so.