Robert Parker - The Widening Gyre

Vinnie was Broz's instrument. He had no life of his own. If he was at Browne's fund-raiser, it was because Broz sent him. If Broz sent him, it was because there was business to be done. Broz would have the same interest in politics as Exxon does in oil wells.

I wrote Joe Broz on a piece of note paper and read some more. I read until 9:15 and there was nothing else. I stuffed all the clippings and Xerox copies and photos back into the big envelope and put the envelope into the bottom drawer of my file cabinet. Then I sat back down at my desk and looked at my notes. Joe Broz. Not a lot of notes for twelve hours research.

I put the note in my pocket, stood up, and looked out the window at the dark street and the empty buildings. I was hungry. I got out my bottle of Irish whiskey and had a drink. I was still hungry. I capped the bottle, put it away, and went home. I had a steak, a bottle of red wine, and went to bed. The wine helped me to go to sleep but not to stay there. I woke up at 3:30 and lay awake and thought disjointedly about life and death until dawn.

The morning was clean and cold and bright. I bought a corn muffin and a large black coffee at the Dunkin' Donut shop on Boylston Street and stood out front, on the corner of Exeter Street, and had breakfast. It was early. People with clean shaves and fresh perfume were going by on the way to work. They all walked with hurried purpose, as if they were all late for work. I dropped my empty cup into the trash and strolled down Boylston. I turned up Berkeley past my office building toward Police Headquarters. It was just after eight when I went into Martin Quirk's little cubicle off the homicide squad room.

Quirk looked like he'd been there for hours. His sleeves were rolled up, his tie loose. There was a half-empty container of coffee on the desk. When I came in Quirk nodded.

I said, "Good morning, Martin."

Even with his tie loose and his sleeves rolled, Quirk looked, as he always did, brand new. As if he'd just come from the Mint. His coarse black hair was short and freshly cut. His face was clean shaven. His shirt was gleaming white and crisp with starch. His gray slacks were creased. The blue blazer that hung on a hanger from a hook on the back of his door was unwrinkled.

He said, "You want any coffee?"

I said yes and he went into the squad room and brought me a cup and a refill for himself.

"How's Susan?" he said when he was back behind his desk.

"She's away," I said.

He nodded.

I said, "I'd like to take a look at your intelligence file on Joe Broz."

"That's the Organized Crime Unit," Quirk said. He drank more coffee. His hands were very thick and the fingers were long and blunt-ended.

"I know," I said. "But I don't have any friends over there."

"And you think you have friends over here?" Quirk said.

"Everything's relative," I said. "At least you know who I am."

"Whoopee," Quirk said. "Why do you want to see it?"

"I think he owns a politician."

Quirk grinned. "Everyone else does," he said. "Why shouldn't Joe?"

"I want some evidence."

"Don't we all. Explain things to me. If it sounds good, I'll get you the file and you can sit here and read it."

I leaned back a little, put one foot up on the edge of Quirk's desk, and told him. He listened without interrupting, his hands locked behind his head, his face blank.

When I finished he said, "I can get the names of the two stiffs you rousted in Springfield."

"And?"

"And?" Quirk frowned. "Christ, are you getting senile? And maybe they'll lead you somewhere. Maybe they got sent around to remind Alexander that whoever was blackmailing him was serious. A message."

I nodded.

"Yeah," I said. " 'Don't think I'm kidding, see what I can do if I wish.' That kind of message."

Quirk smiled. "See, if you apply yourself, you can do it."

"Okay, get the names. Might be worth talking with them again. How about the file? Give me something to do while you're talking to Springfield."

I spent three hours looking at the file that OCU kept on Joe Broz. I was looking for intersections between Browne and Broz. I found none. The only intersection I found was between Alexander and Broz. Broz's eldest son went to Georgetown University. When Congress was in session, Alexander lived in Georgetown. It didn't look like a clue.

When I left, Quirk said, "How come you haven't told me to keep all this to myself?"

"I didn't think I needed to," I said.

Quirk handed me a piece of paper with two names and addresses written on it. "The two stiffs in Springfield," he said. "I told the Springfield cops you were cooperating with me, unofficially, on an investigation."

"Well, it's sort of true," I said.

"Sure it is," Quirk said. "While I was out of the office you didn't steal my jacket. If that's not cooperation, what is?"

"Thanks for the use of the file," I said.

"Let me know how things go down," Quirk said.

"Sure," I said.

When I got back out on the street it was nearly time for lunch. After I ate it, there'd be only five or six hours to kill before supper. No wonder I. hadn't thought about the Springfield stiffs, busy as I was. Even now there were decisions to make before I could drive out to Springfield. Should I eat before I left? Or stop at a Hojo on the Mass Pike?

I stopped in Cambridge and bought a brisket, pastrami, and Swiss cheese sandwich on a roll at Elsie's to eat on the way. The art of compromise-maybe I was political after all.

The two Springfield sluggers were named Pat Ricci and Sal Pelletier. I decided to go alphabetically. Pelletier lived in a brick apartment building on Sumner Avenue near Forest Park. He didn't answer my ring, so I went back out and sat in the car and debated whether to call on Ricci or wait for Sal. While I was debating, Sal showed up, walking briskly along the sidewalk with a paper sack of groceries in his arms. He was the one with the tattoos.

I got out of the car and walked toward him. He didn't recognize me. I said, "Remember me?"

His eyes widened. He said, "Hey."

I said, "We need to talk. Shall we go to your place?"

"What do you want to talk about?" Sal said. He moved away from me as he talked.

"I was hoping you'd show me your tattoos," I said.

"Take a walk," Sal said. "I got nothing to talk about with you."

I could see the top of a quart bottle of Miller High Life beer sticking out of the grocery bag. I took it out and dropped it on the sidewalk. It broke and the beer foamed around the broken glass.

"Hey, what the fuck are you doing?" Sal said.

"It could be you and not the bottle," I said. "I want to talk."

Sal dropped the bag and turned and ran. I jogged along after him. He didn't look in shape and I figured he wouldn't last long. He didn't. He turned into the park and 100 yards past the entrance he stopped, gasping. I jogged up and stopped beside him.

"Oughta take up running gradually," I said. "Starting all out like that is dangerous."

Sal was sweating in the cold November sunshine, and his face was red.

"Whyn't you leave me alone," he said. "I didn't hurt them kids."

"Sal," I said, "let us cease to play grab-ass. I want to know some things from you, and you are going to tell me."

Sal's chest was still heaving.

"Remember how hard I can hit," I said.

Sal nodded.

"Who hired you to roust those two kids?" I said.

Sal opened his mouth, and closed it, and shook his head. I shrugged and hit Sal a modified version of the left hook I'd hit him with before. It sat him down.

"I can hit you with that left hook until evening," I said. "Who hired you to roust those kids?"

Sal's head sank forward. "Nolan," he said, "Louis Nolan."