Bruce DeSilva - Cliff Walk

I unpacked the rest of my pulp magazine collection from the box, and as far as I could tell it was all there. I slit open the other boxes and found my turntable, my old blues records, and my hoard of paperback novels from the 1940s and 1950s.

I showered, pulled on fresh jeans, plucked a relatively odorless Tommy Castro Band T-shirt from the laundry basket, and headed to the diner for a breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast and a mug of Charlie’s decaf. I took a sip, pulled my phone out of my jeans, and punched in a number.

“Sal Maniella.”

“It’s Mulligan.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I found some boxes on my doorstep this morning.”

“Is that so?”

“It is. Apparently a couple of big guys forced their way into my almost-ex’s place and retrieved them for me. Scared the woman half to death.”

“Must have been terrible for her.”

“I don’t suppose you know anything about this.”

“Of course not.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“The boxes. Was everything in them?”

“Yes.”

“That’s good,” he said. “Be a shame if somebody had to go back and scare the poor woman all over again.”

Maniella had done me a favor, and his banter showed that he wanted me to know it. I wondered why he’d thought it was worth his while. Call me a cynic, but I couldn’t buy the possibility that he was just being nice.

“Hear about the murders at Chad Brown?” I asked.

“I did.”

“Something you can shed light on?”

“All I know is what I read in your paper.”

I signed off, finished my eggs, and walked to the Dispatch . The assistant business editor had called in sick, so I spent the morning and half the afternoon editing banking and technology stories I didn’t understand. It was past two o’clock before I was able to break away to check in with my sources.

I tore open a bag of Beggin’ Strips, pulled one out, and tossed it to Shortstop. He snatched it from the air, wolfed it down, and laid his head in my lap. I scratched him behind the ears. He rumbled contentedly and drooled on my jeans.

“Give me a dime on Miami to cover,” I said. I hated betting against New England, but the Dolphins’ wildcat offense usually gave the Patriots fits. Zerilli jotted my bet on a scrap of flash paper and tossed it into his washtub.

“Nice of you to bring something for the mutt,” he said.

“No problem.”

“He likes you.”

“Good somebody does.”

“Yeah,” he said, drawing the word out. “Nothin’ gets your head straight like spending time with a good dog.”

I reached into the bag and gave the pooch another treat. He swallowed it whole, tore the bag from my hand, retreated to a corner, and helped himself to the rest.

“So what are you hearing?” I asked.

“The Chad Brown murders?”

“Yeah.”

“Not a fuckin’ thing.”

He opened his file drawer and presented me with a fresh box of Cohibas.

“Thanks, Whoosh,” I said, and laid the box on the floor by my chair.

“Not lighting one up?”

“Not right now. My doc says I gotta cut down.”

“That sucks.”

“It does.”

“Think the child porn racket was Maniella’s?” he asked.

“I was gonna ask you .”

“No idea.”

“Did Arena and Grasso try to have Sal whacked?” I asked.

“And risk a war with the ex-SEALs? No fuckin’ way.”

“If they did, would you tell me?”

“Ah… probably not.”

“Okay, Whoosh,” I said. “If you hear any chatter about the Chad Brown killings, give me a holler.”

Fifteen minutes later, I pulled my car into the lot at the Tongue and Groove just in time to watch Joseph DeLucca shove a half-dozen pickets from the Sword of God off the stairs into snow.

“Assholes have been hassling the customers all afternoon,” he told me. “They keep hollering about how I’m goin’ straight to hell. I told the fuckers I look forward to seeing ’em there.”

We walked out of the light into the dark and took adjoining stools at the bar. Christmas was just two weeks off, and the place was festooned with pine boughs, tinsel, and twinkling colored lights. The bartender popped the tops on a couple of Buds, clunked them on the bar in front of us, and wandered off without asking for money.

“How’s the leg?” I asked.

“It’s healing up good.”

“Glad to hear it,” I said. “By the way, I want to thank you for that tip on the bodies at Chad Brown.” It was a shot in the dark. When his small eyes flew open, I thought I might have scored a hit, but I couldn’t be sure.

“No idea what you’re talkin’ about,” he said.

I was about to press the point when a slim, small-breasted girl in high heels, a G-string, and a Santa hat bounced up and wrapped her arms around my neck.

“Alo, beebe. You come back to spen’ some moany on DEZ-tin-ee?”

“Not today, Marical.”

She stood on tiptoes, beamed at me, and brushed her brown nipples across my lips.

“Pleeze, beebe. I make you world go round like craysee.”

The complimentary card for a trip around the world was in the wallet in my hip pocket. I swear I felt it vibrate.

“Sorry, darlin’,” I said, and her face fell. She pouted, threw me a look that said her heart had just been shattered by the man of her dreams, and took her routine to a fatso in a plaid work shirt at the other end of the bar.

“My God, she’s beautiful,” I said.

“Yeah,” Joseph said. “And she can suck a hard-boiled egg through a screen door.”

“Know this from experience?”

“Oh, yeah.”

I took a small sip of Bud and tried to block out the image.

“So, Joseph,” I said, “do you think the Maniellas have been making child porn videos?”

“How the fuck should I know?”

The bartender was lurking now, interested in our conversation, so we spun around on our stools to watch a lone dancer swinging from a stripper pole.

“Somethin’ wrong with your beer?” Joseph said.

“My doctor says I’ve got to quit the booze,” I said, and Joseph gasped as if he’d been told the worst news in the world.

Parisi’s Crown Vic was already in the Johnston Town Hall parking lot when I pulled in beside it and rolled down my window.

“Somebody copied the address books and e-mails off the computers in the death house at Chad Brown,” he said. “Loaded them onto some kind of portable hard drive. Was it you?”

“I’m a Luddite, Captain. I wouldn’t have any idea how to do that.”

“You better not be lying to me, wiseass.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

“Sure you would.”

“Okay, I guess I would. But I’m not.”

A five-second delay, and then: “If it wasn’t you, it must have been the perps.”

“Copied stuff from the smashed laptops, too?”

“Yeah.”

“How can you tell?”

“ I can’t. The department computer nerd figured it out by fiddling with the hard drives.”

“Fiddling?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure know your techie lingo.”

“Fuck you,” he said, and shot me a look that could make Dirty Harry cry out for his mama. In all the years I’d known him, Parisi had always been as alert as an eagle and as well-groomed as a show dog. Today, his hair was tousled, he needed a shave, and the light had leaked out of his eyes. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in days.

“What do you suppose they wanted the e-mails for?”

“Don’t know.”

“Did they wipe them off the hard drive after they copied them?”

“They did not.”

“So what’s in them?”