Bruce DeSilva - A Scourge of Vipers

“Hey, Bobby.”

“Oh, hi, Mulligan. Nice work in there today.”

“Not really,” I said. “All I did was call 911.”

“And maybe saved two lives.”

“Not me. Shortstop did that.”

“Who’s Shortstop?”

“Whoosh’s dog.”

“His dog took the shooter down? I hadn’t heard that. The dicks have been in and out of there all day, but they aren’t telling me shit.”

“The mutt woulda killed him if Whoosh hadn’t called him off.”

“Too bad he didn’t let the pooch finish the job.”

“This Mario’s car?”

“Not exactly. It was stolen from a Stop and Shop parking lot in Johnston last week.”

“Find anything interesting inside?”

“Dirty clothes, a dozen empty Pabst cans, and a bunch of fast food cartons. Judging by the stink, I think maybe he’s been living in it.”

“No bundles of hundred-dollar bills stuffed under the seats?” I asked. “No briefcase with two hundred grand in it concealed in the trunk?”

“Two hundred grand? If I’d found that, I’d already be on my way to Brazil.”

I thanked him, saddled up Secretariat, and pointed him toward Rhode Island Hospital. Turning onto Olney Street, I spotted another gray Honda Civic. It trailed me for a couple of miles, but when I crept through the congestion in downtown Providence, it dropped off and backed into a parking space.

I told the hospital receptionist I was Dominic Zerilli’s grandson, learned that he had been admitted, and rode the elevator to his room on the fourth floor. There, I peeked inside his door and saw him sitting up in bed, a fresh bandage covering the gash on his temple. His wife sat at his side, fingering her rosary beads.

“Stop being so stubborn,” she said. “Next time, you might get yourself killed. It ain’t worth it anymore, honey. We got all the money we need. Why don’t you just walk away?”

“I can’t, sweetheart. You know Arena ain’t gonna let me leave till I find somebody to take over.”

“Mulligan to the rescue,” I said as I stepped inside.

Whoosh looked up at me and managed a smile.

“That mean you’re gonna take the job?”

“Sort of,” I said. “Unless the governor’s bill passes and puts us out of business.”

“ Sort of? What the hell’s that mean?”

“It means you two lovebirds can move to Florida,” I said. “We’ll hash out the details when you’re feeling better. How’s he doing, Maggie?”

“He’s got a mild concussion,” she said. “If he was younger, they woulda sent him home already, but they want to keep an eye on the old coot for a coupla days.”

“Who you callin’ an old coot?”

“You,” she said. “It’s time you started actin’ your age.”

Whoosh dismissed that with a wave of his hand.

“So what happened this morning?” I asked.

“Mario came into the store waving a pistol and demanding money. Said he needed at least fifty grand to start a new life out of state. I told him no fuckin’ way. That the ten grand I already gave him was all he was gonna get. So he locked the front door, herded me and Doreen into the office, and ordered me to open the safe. I worked the combination and showed him there wasn’t nothing in it but my Walther, my coded record book, and maybe twelve grand in cash.”

“Then what?”

“I gave him the twelve grand and closed the safe. He asked where I kept the rest of the money. ‘The Caymans,’ I told him, and that’s when the fucker pistol-whipped me.”

“Sweetie,” Maggie said, “you know I don’t like that kind of language.”

“And when he hit you, Shortstop jumped him?” I asked.

“Yeah. Leaped through the air like he was Michael Fuckin’ Jordan and chomped down like he was Mike Fuckin’ Tyson.”

Maggie scowled and wagged her finger. I wasn’t keen on Whoosh’s choice of words either. Jordan had played a little baseball, but neither he nor Tyson had ever been a shortstop. I would have gone with “leaped like Ozzie Smith,” but I couldn’t come up with a shortstop who’d ever bitten anybody. Ty Cobb was mean enough to have done it, but he’d played the outfield.

“And that’s when the gun went off and shot Mario in the foot?” I asked.

“Served the cocksu-” Whoosh hesitated and glanced at Maggie. “Served him right.”

After I left them, I called the Providence cops and asked what Mario was being charged with. They wouldn’t tell me anything.

I was stuffed, but I didn’t know how to unsnap my jeans in a way that wasn’t suggestive.

“Yolanda, that was the best soul food I ever tasted.”

“How many soul food meals have you had?”

“Counting tonight?” I asked.

“Counting tonight.”

“One. But damn, it was good.”

“The smothered chicken was my mama’s recipe. It was the first thing I ever learned to cook.”

“If this keeps up, I’ll need my own ZIP code.”

Her dining room table was scattered with china we’d scraped clean of the onions-and-gravy-lathered chicken, the fried okra, the collard greens, and the sweet potato pie. I helped her clear it and load the dishwasher.

“Go get comfy in the living room,” she said. “I’ll be there in a sec.”

I sank into the sofa in a room that was all mint green and light, the setting sun burning gold through the open mullioned windows. Yolanda strode in, set a birdbath-size glass of white wine on the glass coffee table, and handed me a tumbler half filled with amber liquid.

“Gimme one more minute, baby,” she said, and turned back to the kitchen.

I rolled the drink around on my tongue and knew instantly that it was better than my brand of Irish whiskey. She returned with an open bottle of Locke’s Single Malt and placed it on the table. Then she flopped down beside me, tucked those long legs under her, picked up her wineglass, and laid her head on my chest.

“Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about,” she said. “I definitely could get used to this.”

“I know I could.”

She dropped her hand to my thigh.

“Are you really wearing Bruins boxers?”

“No. I don’t have any. That was just a joke.”

“Actually, I picture you in Blackhawks briefs. Maybe I’ll get you some.”

“I’ve already got what I need,” I said. And then I kissed her.

“You know I’m breaking a rule here, right?” she said.

“The one about not dating white guys?”

“The one about not dating clients.”

“I’m a client?”

“You gave me a five-dollar retainer.”

“Give it back. I don’t need a lawyer.”

“Oh, yes you do.”

‘What? Why?”

“Because I think you’ve got a solid wrongful termination case.”

“I never thought of that.”

“Let me ask you a couple of questions,” she said, her voice suddenly lawyerly. “Did The Dispatch give you an opportunity to explain before they fired you?”

“No. My boss never even told me why I was being fired. He just ordered me to collect my personal stuff and get out.”

“He offer to hire you back?”

“Yeah. With a raise, too.”

“What did you say?”

“I don’t remember. I wasn’t exactly sober at the time.”

“But you didn’t accept?”

“No.”

“That’s good. We can show damages.”

“Huh,” I said. I was warming to the idea.

“I’ve already done my homework on General Communications Holdings International,” Yolanda said. “Over the last decade, three dozen wrongful termination complaints have been brought against them. Only eleven had merit, and they were all settled out of court.”

“For how much?”