Роберт Паркер - Sixkill

“Two down,” I said.

“Three,” Z said.

“Wow,” I said. “Quiet.”

“Old Mr. Bowie,” Z said.

I raised my voice.

“Okay,” I said. “Last assassin. There’s two of us, and you’re alone. We’ve killed three of you already. I got no need to kill you, too. You sit tight, we’ll leave, and you can go about your business. You do anything else, and we got all night. We’ll find you and kill you.”

Silence.

“Z,” I said. “Can you see the door?”

“Sort of,” he said.

“Okay, go for it and on out. Let me know it’s you, as you come. I’ll come out right behind you.”

As he moved toward me through the blank darkness, heading for the hint of light that was the door, he began to sing softly.

“ ‘Buffalo gals, won’t you come out tonight, come out tonight, come out tonight?’ ”

Then I saw him move in the darkness as he went past me. On my hands and knees, I fell in behind him.

“ ‘Buffalo gals, won’t you come out tonight, and dance by the light of the moon?’ ”

I was pretty sure that the last assassin would take the offer. I holstered my gun, and felt the tension beginning to drain. As I followed Z through the open door, I found myself giggling at his song lyrics. In the rain we sprinted across the short open space to the car, and got in.

“Buffalo gals, won’t you come out tonight?” I said, and started the car.

“Give white eyes a sense of Indian culture,” Z said.

We pulled away.

“That’s the best you could do?” I said.

“You knew it was me,” Z said.

“That song has as much to do with Indian culture as Marshmallow Fluff,” I said.

“Injun like’m Marshmallow Fluff,” Z said.

It was late. The rain was still raining. We sat at my kitchen counter with a siphon of soda, a bucket of ice, and a bottle of scotch.

I raised my glass toward Z.

“Pretty good,” I said.

Z nodded.

“Ever kill anybody before?” I said.

“No.”

We both drank some scotch.

“How you feel about it?” I said.

“Less than I thought I’d feel,” he said.

“How you feel depends on stuff,” I said.

“They would have killed me,” he said.

“They would,” I said. “And that helps with how you feel. Also, whether you knew them or not. If they died fast or slow. How close they were. What they looked like. It’s easier at a distance.”

“It was easier in the dark,” Z said.

“Anything that distances you from the human fact of them,” I said.

“Doesn’t mean I liked it,” Z said.

“Good,” I said. “Stephano would have liked it. But it’s worth remembering about yourself that you are the kind of guy who can stick a knife into someone in the dark.”

“Are you like that?” Z said.

“Yes,” I said.

“You wish you weren’t?”

“No,” I said. “But I keep it in mind.”

“Why?”

“So I won’t be that way when I don’t have to be,” I said.

Z nodded.

“You took Stephano out pretty nice,” he said.

“I’m supposed to,” I said.

“Yeah.”

We didn’t talk for a while. We finished our drinks at an easy pace, and made fresh ones. I could hear, faintly, the sound of the rain outside my front windows.

“Whaddya gonna do now?” Z said.

“I’m going to tell Quirk that I don’t think Jumbo killed Dawn Lopata.”

“You believe Jumbo?”

“Yes.”

“Remember,” Z said. “He’s a lying fuck.”

“Of course he is,” I said. “But it’s a plausible story, and nothing any of us knows contradicts it.”

“Okay,” Z said. “Then what?”

“Then Quirk does what he does,” I said. “The DA does what he does. Jumbo’s people do what they do.”

“Can Quirk keep him out of jail?”

“Maybe,” I said.

“What if he doesn’t?” Z said. “What if they send him to jail?”

“I did what I could. I did what I said I’d do. That’s all there is to do.”

“Would it bother you?” Z said.

“Some,” I said. “But I’d get over it.”

“He probably should do time, anyway, for being a creep,” Z said.

“Probably,” I said. “Maybe he can make a deal.”

“Swap Nicky Fellscroft for a light sentence?” Z said.

“Might,” I said. “If they press charges.”

“They might kill him,” Z said.

“Also possible,” I said.

“Easier than killing us,” Z said.

I nodded. I could hear the rain outside my front windows. Z looked at his half-full glass.

“Ain’t a lot of happy endings here,” he said.

“There often aren’t,” I said.

“That’s how it is,” Z said. “Isn’t it.”

“’Fraid so,” I said.

He nodded and sipped his drink and kept nodding slowly, as if in some kind of permanent affirmation.

“That’s how it is,” he said.

I don’t think he was talking to me.

I spent the morning with Quirk and a black woman with wide-spaced eyes from the Suffolk County DA’s office. Her name was Angela Ruskin. I told them what I knew, and what I thought. They listened.

When I got through, Quirk said, “I don’t think there’s enough.”

“We can’t prove it didn’t happen the way he said it did,” Angela Ruskin said. “We might be able to get him for trying to pretty up the scene.”

“How much time would he do?” Quirk said.

Angela shrugged.

“Not much,” she said. “Probably none, if Rita represents him.”

“I don’t want to arrest him,” Quirk said.

“Because?” Angela said.

“Because I don’t think he did anything. Unless being a creep is illegal.”

“And you believe Spenser,” she said.

“Yes,” Quirk said.

She nodded and scanned the notes she had taken. Then she closed the notebook and stood up.

“I’m inclined to believe him, too,” she said. “Despite all the publicity, this isn’t a winner for us. We don’t prosecute and we’re giving him a bye because he’s a big star. We prosecute and don’t convict, it’s because we’re incompetent, and probably giving him a bye as well. We prosecute and convict and he’s sentenced appropriately, we’re all soft on him because he’s a star.”

“Only way to win is to get him convicted of something he didn’t do, or get him a sentence that won’t stand on appeal,” Quirk said.

Angela smiled.

“I’ll consult with my colleagues,” she said.

After she left, Quirk leaned back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head, and looked at me for a while.

“Heard there was three people killed at a construction site in Somerville last night,” he said. “Two of them killed with a knife. One with a .40 caliber handgun.”

“World’s going to hell in a handbasket,” I said.

Quirk nodded.

“Guy shot to death was Stephano DeLauria, who is the husband of Jumbo Nelson’s agent.”

“Tough on Alice,” I said.

Quirk nodded.

“He was a button man,” Quirk said. “For an L.A. Mob.”

“Really?” I said.

“Had a big rep, I’m told,” Quirk said.

“Well,” I said. “I feel bad for Alice.”

Quirk looked at me some more.

“I’ll bet you do,” he said.

I stood.

“We done?” I said.

Quirk nodded.

“Nice job,” he said.

I said, “Thanks,” and left.

I had one more thing I had to do.

Tom Lopata’s office was in a converted storefront in Malden Square. There were several desks. Tom sat at the one closest to the door. The others were unoccupied.

He stood when I came in, and I could see him flipping through his mental Rolodex until he matched my face with a name. Then he stuck out his hand.