Роберт Паркер - Sixkill

Z finished the rest of his beer and put the empty bottle down on top of Henry’s desk.

“So we tidy up, and Jumbo takes a shower and gets dressed. He tries to hide the scarf by putting it around his waist under his shirt, but he’s too fat, so he has me do it around my waist. And he calls the front desk. You know the rest.”

“Where’s the scarf?” I said.

“After everybody left, I went out for a walk and put it and the bra in a trash can outside Quincy Market,” Z said.

“Which they empty every night,” I said.

“Long gone,” Z said.

“Long,” I said. “Jumbo ever tell you what happened?”

“Said she was drinking a lot of champagne. Says they was playing games with the scarf around her neck and he had to go to the bathroom, so he gets up and goes and closes the door...”

“Always the gentleman,” I said.

Z snorted.

“Yeah, he says while he was in the bathroom she musta passed out and rolled off the bed. He found her the way I said.”

“You believe him?” I said.

“He was drunk,” Z said. “She was drunk. Hell, I was drunk. Coulda happened. Or he coulda killed her. I got no idea.”

“Only two people know,” I said. “And one of them’s dead.”

Jumbo’s movie was shooting on a sunny day in the Rose Kennedy Greenway, where, not so long ago, the Central Artery had cast its shadow. The producer’s name was Matthew Morrison. Z and I had coffee with him on the set, sitting in bluebacked director’s chairs near the craft-services truck. There was a platter of turnovers on the counter.

“What kind of turnovers do you suppose those are?” I said.

“Usually some raspberry and some apple,” Morrison said.

“Two of my faves,” I said.

“What are the others?” Morrison said.

“Blueberry, strawberry, cherry, pineapple, peach, apricot, mince, blackberry, boysenberry...”

“Okay, okay,” Morrison said. “I get it.”

“Worst turnover I ever had was excellent,” I said.

“Like sex,” Morrison said.

“There’s no such thing,” I said, “as a bad turnover.”

Morrison nodded. He looked at Z.

“Jumbo sees you on the set, Z,” Morrison said, “he’ll throw a shit fit.”

“Eek!” Z said.

Morrison nodded.

“Seemed like I ought to mention it,” he said.

“You know a man named Tom Lopata?” I said.

“It was his daughter... wasn’t it?”

I nodded. A big guy wearing a cutoff Red Sox T-shirt and a tool belt bellied up to the craft-services counter and acquired some coffee and a turnover.

“You know him other than that?” I said.

“As a matter of fact,” Morrison said, “I do. He was trying to sell us insurance.”

“You personally, or the production?” I said.

“Insurance on Jumbo,” Morrison said.

“Life insurance?” I said.

“Sort of,” Morrison said. “With the production company as beneficiaries, in case Jumbo died or became disabled before he finished the film.”

“Don’t most movies have some kind of completion insurance?” I said.

“Of course,” Morrison said. “But the poor dope didn’t know squat about the business. He was just trying to sell insurance.”

“What did you tell him?” I said.

“I explained to him that we had all that sort of thing in place,” Morrison said.

“But let me guess,” I said. “He didn’t want to take no for an answer.”

“He wanted to talk with Jumbo,” Morrison said. “I told him that wasn’t possible, that Jumbo didn’t talk to people. He was pretty aggressive about it.”

“Did he get to talk with Jumbo?”

“Oh, God, no,” Morrison said.

“Maybe behind your back?”

Morrison shook his head. I noticed that there were still half a dozen turnovers on the craft-services counter.

“Jumbo’s the franchise,” Morrison said. “We keep a close eye on him. Ask Z.”

Z nodded.

“I worked for Jumbo, but his manager paid me.”

“Alice?” I said. “His agent?”

“Agent, manager, keeper,” Z said. “All of the above. She paid the bill, and I was supposed to report anything out of the ordinary to the company and to her.”

“But Jumbo could fire you,” I said.

“Sure,” Z said. “Jumbo got everything he wanted, as long as it didn’t damage the franchise.”

“Same deal with your, ah, successor?” I said.

Z shrugged and looked at Morrison.

“Same deal,” Morrison said. “Jumbo can be self-destructive, and we like to keep close tabs. Hell, I even followed up with Don, the new bodyguard. Lopata never got to Jumbo.”

I looked at Z.

“Maybe Tom sent a messenger,” I said.

Z nodded.

I shook hands with Morrison and thanked him for his time. Then I stood and went to the truck and took two turnovers.

As we walked away, Z said, “None for me, thanks.”

“I didn’t get any for you,” I said.

And took my first bite.

Stephano DeLauria came alone to introduce himself, on a drab June day with low clouds and rain spitting just enough to be unpleasant. I was at my desk and Z was standing with his arms folded on the top of the file cabinet, his chin resting on his forearms. He turned his head slightly to look at Stephano as he came into the office.

Stephano glanced briefly at Z. I opened the top right-hand drawer of my desk.

“No need for access to a piece,” Stephano said. “I am not going to kill you today.”

“Promises, promises,” I said.

I left the drawer open.

“My name is Stephano DeLauria,” he said. “Do you know who I am?”

“I do,” I said.

Z hadn’t moved. With his chin on his forearms, he looked steadily at Stephano. But there was about him a sense of potential kinesis, as if a spring was being coiled. Hawk was the only other person I’d ever known who gave off quite that kind of energy. Except that Hawk’s spring was always coiled.

“Then you probably know why I’ve come to Boston,” Stephano said.

His voice was very deep and flat. But it made the kind of throbbing purr that powerful engines make.

“I probably do,” I said.

He smiled blankly, and we sat silently, looking at each other. His face was narrow. His features were sharp and prominent. His dark hair was combed straight back. He had a healthy outdoors look about him, as if he took long hikes.

“I have come to kill you,” he said.

“Hot damn,” I said.

He smiled again, a small, aimless smile, without meaning.

“It is my rule,” he said. “I give one warning. If you stop what you’re doing, I will go back to Los Angeles — disappointed, yes. But it is the way I do business.”

“What is it I’m doing?” I said.

“We both know,” Stephano said. “So does the Indian.”

“And if I don’t stop what we all know I’m doing?”

“It will give me pleasure,” Stephano said. “It will allow me to kill you.”

He looked at Z.

“Both of you,” he said.

“Might be smart while it’s two to one,” Z said, “for us to kill you right now.”

Stephano shook his head.

“I can kill you both now, if I must. Here, now, with your desk drawer open,” he said. “But then it would be over quickly, and... I enjoy the process.”

Z looked at me. I shook my head.

“So far it’s all talk,” I said. “Let’s see what develops.”

With his chin still on his forearms, and his gaze still fixed on Stephano, Z shrugged. Stephano stood.

“Down the road,” he said, and walked out of the office.

I called Susan.

“I am going to have to check out for a while,” I said.

“Business?” Susan said.