Robert Parker - Family Honor

“I’m gay, of course I can cook stuff like that.”

“I didn’t know you were gay.”

“Yes, makes me immune to your seductive ways.”

“I never met anyone gay before.”

“You did,” Spike said, “you just didn’t know it.”

Millicent looked uneasy. I didn’t know if it was because she was leaving me, or because she was going with a homosexual man.

“Come on, Mill,” Spike said. “You’ve fallen upon good times here. Make the most of it. The best thing Sunny can do with a pot is put it away.”

“Go ahead,” I said. “Maybe he’ll give you a cooking lesson.”

Millicent looked doubtfully at Spike but she went with him. Rosie, hearing talk of food, plomped down from the window seat and followed them. I went and sat on the bed and called Richie.

I was in District 6 Station House, Area C, on Broadway, talking with Brian Kelly at his desk in the detectives’ room. It was a state-of-the-art squad room, which is to say overcrowded, cluttered, and painted an ugly color. In the midst of it Brian was neat and crisp, cleanshaven and smelling of good cologne.

“Everybody agrees it’s a clear case of self-defense. Nobody wants to bring charges,” Brian said.

“And one of them shoved my dog with his foot.”

“He got what he deserved,” Brian said. “You clean that shotgun?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t clean them, you know, the barrel pits.”

“I know.”

“Ten-gauge?” he said.

“You weigh 115,” I said, “you like firepower.”

Brian’s teeth were even and very white, and his eyes were very blue. His hands were strong-looking. He had on a white shirt with a buttoned-down collar and a black knit tie and a Harris tweed jacket. He nodded.

“You weigh 115. I’m surprised the recoil didn’t put you on your ass.”

“I’m very grounded,” I said.

Brian smiled.

“Terry Nee was mostly a part of Bucko Meehan’s crew,” Brian said.

“What’s Bucko’s line?” I said.

“Truck hijacking, some dope dealing, extortion.”

“Tell me about the extortion.”

“Mostly small business owners — taverns, sub shops, liquor stores. Pay off or we’ll bust up your store, or your customers, or you. Terry Nee was the bust-up specialist.”

“Not a major player,” I said.

“Bucko? Hell no. Worked the fringes.”

“Did Terry ever freelance?”

“Sure. In Boston organized crime is an oxymoron. There are affiliations, but they’re loose ones, usually ethnic. The micks hang with micks, the guineas with guineas. But everybody freelances.”

“So it didn’t have to be Bucko Meehan that sent Terry Nee and Mike whatsis to my house.”

“No.”

“What’s Mike say?”

“He says he doesn’t know anything. Terry asked him to go along and hold a gun. He says they were supposed to take some girl out of there. Says he didn’t even know your name.”

“You believe him?” I said.

“I can’t turn him. We got him on attempted murder. I tell him if he’ll give us who sent him he can get a lot lighter charge.”

“And he stays with his story,” I said.

“Un huh.”

“Which means either it’s true, or whoever sent them is too scary to turn on.”

“Yep.”

“You have any theories?”

“I’m inclined to think he’s telling us everything he knows. He’s looking at serious time. I think he’d rat out Al Capone if it got him a deal.”

“You talked with Bucko Meehan yet?”

“Not yet, want to go with me?”

I looked at my watch. Ten-thirty. I had to be home by four, when Spike went to work.

“Sure,” I said.

We talked with Bucko Meehan at the far end of the counter in a Dunkin’ Donut shop across from Assembly Square in Somerville.

“Boston cremes,” Bucko said. “The best.”

I looked at the chocolate-covered things Bucko had in front of him and decided on a plain donut and a coffee. Brian just had coffee.

“You’re missing out,” Bucko said.

“I’m used to it,” Brian said. “Bucko Meehan, Sunny Randall.”

“How ya doin’?” Bucko said.

“Fine.”

Bucko was a fat muscleman. Hard fat, my father used to call it. He was obviously strong, but his neck disappeared into several chins. He was wearing a Patriots jacket over a gray sweatshirt. The sweatshirt gapped at the waist and his belly spilled out through the gap. The donut shop was empty, except for us and a couple of people at the take-out counter. A middle-aged Hispanic woman was taking their order.

“Whaddya need from me today, Brian?”

“Couple guys that hang with you got in some trouble,” Brian said.

“Who’s ‘at?”

“Terry Nee and Mike Leary.”

Bucko shrugged. The shrug didn’t say he knew them. It didn’t say he didn’t. People who’d spent a lifetime talking to cops learned, if they weren’t stupid, to find out what the cop knew before they admitted anything.

“What kinda trouble,” he said.

“Attempted murder.”

“Don’t know nothing about it,” Bucko said.

He broke one of his donuts in two. It had a creamy filling. He took a bite, and wiped his mouth with a napkin.

“I thought Terry was part of your crew,” Brian said.

“I got no crew.”

“You know Terry?” I said.

“See him around,” Bucko said.

“How about Mike Leary?”

“Don’t know him,” Bucko said.

“Terry run with anybody but you?” Brian said.

“Hell, Brian, I don’t know. Terry’s a good guy. He’s got a lot of friends.”

“He tried to break into a home in Fort Point,” Brian said. “And the homeowner shot him.”

“Terry?”

“Un huh.”

“He dead?”

“Un huh.”

“Terry’s a tough guy.”

“Not anymore,” I said.

“Who shot him?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Brian said.

“Housebreak?”

“He was there for a purpose,” I said. “If you didn’t send him there, maybe you can speculate who did.”

“Speculate? Jesus Christ, Sunny, I’m too fucking stupid to fucking speculate. What’s the other guy say?”

“Says you sent them,” Brian said.

“That lying sack of shit,” Bucko said. “I don’t even know the guy I got nothing to do with anything in Fort Point, for crissake. I don’t get east of Lechmere Square.”

“Maybe doing somebody a favor?” Brian said.

“I don’t know a fucking thing about it, Brian. Swear on my mother. Terry’s over in Fort Point doing a B & E, I got nothing to do with it. I don’t care what lies some guy is telling you.”

“Why would he lie?” I said.

“He’s trying to deal,” Bucko said. “You know the fucking game, Sunny. He’ll say whatever you want to hear.”

“And maybe he’ll say it in court about you, Bucko.”

Bucko spread his arms palms up.

“What can I tell you. I got nothing to do with whatever Terry and this other jamoke was doing.”

Brian nodded.

“How many times have you been up,” I said.

Bucko held up two fingers.

“Three would be a really unlucky number for you,” I said.

Bucko shrugged and made his palms-up gesture again. Brian and I stood up. Brian gave Bucko his card.

“You find out anything to help your case,” Brian said, “Give me a ringy dingy.”

“Thank you for the coffee,” I said.

When we were in Brian’s car again, I said, “Mike didn’t tell you Bucko sent him.”

“I lied,” Brian said.

“It’s a lie that might get Mike in trouble with Bucko,” I said.

“What a shame,” Brian said. “You believe Bucko?”

“He swore on his mother, didn’t he?”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot.”