Finn shook himself and started back to his office. The August heat was oppressive, and he loosened his collar and tie. Everything had changed. The sky seemed a different color, and the buildings and people around him seemed less friendly. It had been more than a week since he’d had anything to drink, but he sure felt like he needed something now.
T
IGH MCCLUEN
, a giant of a man with dark hair, sat on a stack of packing crates in a warehouse at the edge of Southie. The old man sitting in front of him was taking his time, as was his habit, reading every entry in Tigh’s ledger with care, and adding the figures in his head with greater precision than any Harvard MBA.
“You got a few stiffs you’re carrying here,” the old man said at last.
“Long-standing customers,” Tigh offered with a wink. Although he’d been in the United States for more than two decades, his accent still rang with the cadence of the shores of Donegal on the west coast of Ireland. “They’ll pay, and in the meantime it gives me leverage to get whatever I want out of them.”
“What could you possibly want from them?”
Tigh pointed at the ledger, halfway down. “That man there’s a doctor at Mass General. Remember the tiff that Johnny and Viles got into last month?”
The old man nodded. “With Frankie’s old crew, right?”
“Right.” Tigh nodded. “Johnny took a slug in the leg. Nothing serious, it missed the artery, but it still needed tending. The good doctor was kind enough to pay a house call—off the record. At the hospital there would have been a police report, which would have presented a bit of an embarrassment.”
He slid his fingers down to another red entry. “That man there is a waiter.”
“What the fuck good is a waiter?”
“He’s a waiter at Olives,” Tigh explained. “It’s the mayor’s favorite restaurant. I told his Honor to ask for Sean whenever he goes to eat there. Sean cuts the check down to nearly nothing, and the mayor is very appreciative when we need him to be.”
“How about this guy, here?” the old man asked, pointing to the bottom of the page. “Billy Zern?”
“That’s a separate issue entirely,” Tigh said, smiling. The old man looked at him expectantly. “I fancy his sister,” Tigh explained with a wink.
The old man laughed. “I swear to fucking God, Tigh, if you didn’t bring in as much money as you do, I’d have had you clipped years ago for that mouth on you.” He shook his head. “You’re just lucky you’re good at what you do.”
Tigh chuckled. “Funny, that’s just what Billy Zern’s sister said to me the other night. You two been sharing secrets, now?”
“You think that fuckin’ charm can get you through anything, don’t you?”
“It’s worked so far,” Tigh pointed out. “I stepped off the boat from the motherland when I was twelve with nothing in my pockets and no one in the world who cared about me. Now look at where I am.” He waved his arms around the warehouse, which smelled of decay and had rats scurrying noisily in the corners. “Heaven!”
The old man shook his head again. “You do okay. Not as well as you would have in the old days, but you do fine.” He rubbed his face in his hands. “When I was younger, all you needed were some balls and the muscle to back them up. Now the plays are bigger and you need more. You need brains. Guys like you and me are a dying breed.”
Tigh scratched his head. “Like you said, I do fine.” He nodded toward the ledger. “Everything all right in there?” he asked.
“Yeah, you’re fine. Just don’t give the stiffs too much rope, okay?”
“Understood.”
“There’s one other thing, Tigh. I got the word this morning that we need your help.” The old man looked up from the flimsy card table that served as his desk.
“I’m listening,” Tigh said after a moment of silence.
The old man blew out his breath heavily. “You know this Little Jack fuck that’s been killing some of the local girls?” he asked.
Tigh nodded. “Only what I read in the papers.”
“Yeah, well the organization wants him stopped. It’s fuckin’ up business and scaring the girls off the streets. Pussy ain’t the meal ticket it once was, but it still provides a good, steady income stream. We’d like your help in putting an end to this fuck.”
Tigh was silent for a moment, weighing his response. “What can I do?” he asked warily.
“You can do what you can do,” the old man said. “You know the streets better than anyone. Hell, when you were younger you owned the streets. Get out there and find him. Talk to people…use those fuckin’ connections you got.”
Tigh shook his head. “I don’t think my connections will be of much use,” he said. “We’re not dealing with a local hood, here, we’re dealing with a psycho. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”
“You can begin at the Kiss Club. Our friends in the department tell us that’s probably where this guy bagged his last girl.”
Tigh rubbed his neck. “This may slow down my collections,” he offered.
The old man frowned. “Fuck that, Tigh. If you weren’t carrying so many stiffs, that wouldn’t be an issue. You figure out how to get both done.”
Tigh got up and picked up his ledger. “Uncle Vinnie, it’s been a real pleasure, as always.”
The old man laughed again. “Boy, you got a fuckin’ mouth on you.” Tigh was nearly at the door when the old man called out to him. “Tigh!”
He turned around.
“When you find this little fuck, we don’t want him talkin’ to the cops—or to anyone else, for that matter. He can give his explanations to Saint Peter, you got it?”
“Sure, Vin. Any particular reason?”
The old man shook his head. “A psycho like this don’t deserve a lawyer, or a fair trial.”
Tigh studied the old man for a few seconds. “Is there anything else I should know about this, Vinnie?” he asked.
Vinnie shrugged. “I do what I’m told. Just like always, you know.”
Tigh nodded. “Yeah, I know, Vinnie. Just like always.”
O
FFICER PAUL STONE SAT
at a corner table in the Kiss Club. He was dressed in his best bar-hopping clothes for the evening: black pleated slacks with a tight knit polo shirt, open at the neck. He stirred the soda water on the table in front of him and smiled to himself. This sure beat the hell out of walking a beat in Southie in his uniform. Finding that body was a stroke of luck, he thought. When the call went out for a young officer unknown to the usual players in Boston’s nightlife to work undercover on the Little Jack case, Stone’s prior connection to the case gave him an advantage and won him the assignment. It was also possible, he thought, that Lieutenant Flaherty might have felt badly about the way she’d treated him during their first meeting. Whatever the reason, Stone was just happy to be off the beat and doing real investigative work. It was an enormous opportunity for him, and he appreciated it.
Never mind, of course, that he had no idea what he was looking for. The Caldwell girl—Number Seven, as most people knew her—had been in this bar on the night of her death, that much had been confirmed by the bartender during the investigation. He hadn’t been able to remember if she was with anyone, so it remained possible that Little Jack had met her here before he killed her. But so what? Even if Little Jack did meet her at this bar, Stone thought, what was the likelihood he’d return to find another victim? And even if he did, how was Stone supposed to differentiate between a serial killer leading a hooker to her death and a pervert leading a hooker to a hotel room?
That was what he’d been instructed to do, though: hang out at the Kiss Club every night to “see if anything turns up.” Personally, he thought his presence at the club was an indication of how desperate the investigation had become, but he hadn’t expressed that thought to the brass.
From his seat, Stone watched the patrons as closely as he could without attracting attention. The Kiss Club was a typically sleazy singles bar, with men and women sliding in and out of easy conversations in an endless game of musical chairs. Many of the men were still in suits or the contemporary equivalent “business casual” that dominated the modern workplace, clearly having come from work for a good time out. Judging from the amount of booze that was being tossed down, work might proceed at a slower pace the next morning, but that was to be expected. Other men fell into a different category—local wiseguys looking for a play, or conducting their own business.
The women were a similar mix. Some were regular young businesswomen out for a walk on the wild side, or looking for a story to share with their friends, or trying to prove to the men they worked with that they deserved membership in their boys’ club. Others clearly earned their livings working in places like the Kiss Club—high-class prostitutes looking for clients. Most of the working girls sat at the bar, and although they were dressed a bit more provocatively, they were difficult to distinguish from their amateur counterparts. The line between sleazy and chic had been blurred by fashion trends, as satin chokers and shorter skirts became more popular. It was no longer the clothes that identified the professionals; it was the eyes. Stone could spot them a mile away. They scanned the crowd like those of sharks swimming in a school of fish; cold and dark and calculating.
“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” The question came from Lou Salandro, seated at Stone’s table. He’d noticed Stone looking across the bar at two of the better-looking barflies. One had shoulder-length brown hair braided down the back and was wearing stiletto heels that could pierce skin. The other was a redhead, her hair cropped close to her alabaster face in a retro-eighties style. They were both sitting at the far side of the bar with a good view of their prospects.
“You know, I could probably get you a freebie, if you’re interested.”
Stone turned his head to look at Salandro, evaluating him carefully. He was a small-time player in the Anguillo crew, which was an offshoot of New England’s Patriarcha crime family and was fighting for greater control of the turf in downtown and Chinatown. It seemed like it couldn’t even be called “organized” crime anymore, though. Too many factions had split apart and turned on one another, and the FBI’s use of informants had succeeded in inflicting heavy damage on La Cosa Nostra. Salandro had been busted several years back by Kozlowski for selling heroin, and he’d become a fairly reliable informant for the Boston Police Department. He continued to work minor scams for the family, and was suspected of running girls and dealing marijuana, but he stayed away from anything the department considered “serious” crime. As a result, the police left him alone, and he provided Kozlowski with a stream of useful information. Kozlowski had set up a meeting between Stone and Salandro so that Stone wouldn’t look out of place.
There was nothing about Salandro that Stone liked. He had big, thick lips that bubbled out in front of a round, red face and were kept moist by a thick tongue, which he slipped out of his mouth constantly. His chin seemed to recede in an unbroken slope from his lips to the bottom of his neck, and then from there into a concave chest. The inward slope was only arrested by the swell of Salandro’s belly. Stone wondered how the Anguillo crew had survived this long with specimens like this running its errands.
He shook his head, indicating he would not need a “freebie” from the prostitutes at the bar.
“You sure?” Salandro kept up. “They do a tandem act you wouldn’t fuckin’ believe.” He slipped his tongue back and forth between his fingers in an obscene gesture. Stone just looked at him, revolted. Salandro let rip a belly laugh that left him doubled up, coughing.
“Suit yourself,” he said when he caught his breath. Then he whispered, “Just like Kozlowski—straight as an arrow, huh?”
“Yeah, I guess you could say that. But then, you could also shut the fuck up, if you knew what was good for you.”
Salandro held up his hands in surrender. “No need to be un-civil. I was just trying to be cooperative.”
Stone shook his head and returned his attention to the rest of the bar. Salandro was a worm. Stone had known people like him growing up in Southie, where walking a straight line was sometimes a challenge. But Stone’s parents had drilled a sense of duty and morality into him, and he had managed to weather the temptations of his youth. He was willing to use Salandro if it could aid the investigation, but he’d never have anything but contempt for him. That he was giving information to the cops and betraying his friends in the process only made him more of a worm in Stone’s eyes. In the end, with or without Salandro’s help, Stone found it difficult to believe they’d accomplish anything sitting at this place.
He looked around the bar again and sighed. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he was better off walking a beat.
Finn couldn’t believe he’d found his way back to the Kiss Club. It had been at least two years, and he’d only been to the hole-in-the-wall once before—with Natalie. It was during that exciting time when he and Natalie were together. The intensity of their relationship had taken him by surprise, but so much of it seemed focused around their work lives. She was full of questions about the firm and its politics, and it took several weeks before she realized Finn would never be in a position to help her in the long run. She ended it soon after that, and he’d been wounded for a time. He’d spent his entire life on his own, though, and he knew he’d survive.
She’d surprised him back then by bringing him to the Kiss Club, but then, she’d surprised him in many ways. He remembered that she wore the tight leather skirt with the matching jacket and lingerie that night—the outfit she was found in. He realized at that moment that she indulged her passions more than he’d suspected.
The memories had brought him back here. He didn’t know why. It felt like he was searching compulsively for something he couldn’t put his finger on. He scanned the crowd for her face, recognizing the futility, but unable to stop himself. He was on his fourth gin and tonic, and the bar was becoming gauzy in his eyes. More than once he thought he saw her. Perhaps, he thought, he’d never been completely honest with himself regarding his feelings for Natalie. He was beginning to realize that he’d harbored the hope, unarticulated even to himself, that they’d be together in the end. It was absurd, he knew, given who she was. She was too tough to survive in any type of true, long-term romantic relationship—as he was, for that matter. But he felt her loss sorely nonetheless.
He was glad when the woman sauntered over and asked him for a light. It felt like she’d thrown a rope down into the hole he was digging for himself and dragged him back to reality. It took him a moment to respond, but the sound of his own voice reinforced the notion that he was still among the living.
He realized quickly that she was working him. She leaned in toward his shoulder, letting her breasts linger against his arm, laughing coquettishly when he looked down in surprise. She laughed at his lame attempts at humor, and hinted he should buy her a drink so that they could both be more comfortable. It was all too predictable.
At first he was hurt when he realized she was a professional. Like all men, he’d wanted to believe she was bowled over by his looks, or his humor, or his mere presence. It was the ego that the best prostitutes played to, not the libido. The temporal limitations of sexual gratification were more often than not overshadowed by the lingering pleasure of feeling strong, and confident, and irresistible. That illusion was shattered for him when she asked what he did for a living.
“I’m a lawyer,” he replied.
“Ooh,” she cooed. “I just love lawyers. They’re so sexy.”
At that moment he knew she was playing him. In his eight years of being a lawyer, not a single woman had ever found anything sexy about the law.
Nonetheless, Finn was grateful for the company. He needed human contact, even if she’d be angry when she realized he wasn’t looking for sex. Besides that, he noticed she resembled Natalie. She had the same blonde hair, and there was something in her eyes that seemed familiar. In his inebriated state, it was enough. So, he bought her a drink, and then another and another, and let the drama between them play itself out.
It was one-thirty before anything happened. Stone hadn’t moved from his table in more than three hours, and his patience with Salandro was wearing thin. While Stone continued to sip at his soda water, Salandro switched from gin to vodka to tequila. It was clear that the man had a remarkable tolerance, but as the evening wore on, he began slurring his words, and his comments became increasingly annoying. By one o’clock, he was sufficiently lubricated to share his opinions on law enforcement in general and the state of the Boston Police Department in particular. It was not a good idea.
“You see, the problem with the entire system is that the cops need the criminals to justify the money that’s spent on law enforcement. The more crime you have in a city, the more the city will spend on cops. So, when you think about it, the cops have to make sure there’s someone out there breakin’ the law. It’s just a fact.”
Stone glared at him. Not only were his theories demeaning, but his tone and his diatribe risked blowing Stone’s cover. The bar had cleared out to a degree, and there was no one sitting within earshot of their table, but that didn’t excuse Salandro’s behavior. If it wouldn’t have caused a scene, Stone would have just beat the hell out of him right there. As it was, though, he had to sit there and take it.
“Just look at this ‘investigation’ you got here. One guy kills seven sluts and the city throws an endless stream of cash at the cops to catch him. Never mind that prostitution is illegal, so the guy is actually cutting down on the number of crimes that happen in Boston.” He lowered his voice and leaned in to Stone. “Shit, the PD has already spent a couple hundred bucks on my drinks alone tonight.” Salandro laughed at his own joke, slapping Stone on the shoulder. Stone shot daggers at him with his eyes.
“And in the end, it doesn’t count for shit. The police department ain’t gonna catch this guy; we’re gonna catch this guy.”
“What are you talking about, Salandro,” Stone hissed. “There is no ‘we.’ You and I are not a ‘we.’ ”
Salandro laughed again. “No, not you and me. I mean
we.
The organization.”
Stone looked at him, not comprehending.
“The organization,” Salandro said again. “You know, the family—or maybe those stupid Mick thugs in Southie. Those of us who actually live out here.” He leaned in again. “Those of us who, whether you like to admit it or not, really control this town.”
“Yeah?” Stone mocked. “And how is the family gonna catch this guy?”
“It’s already happening, my friend. The word went out last week. Fifty thousand cash to anyone who nails this sonofabitch—an extra ten if he’s brought in dead, so no fancy-ass lawyer can’t get him a walk. I’m telling you, with that kind of incentive, someone is definitely gonna find this guy.”
Stone looked skeptical. “Why would the mob want to get involved in police work?”
“I don’t know, but that’s the word. Hey man, look at it this way; who makes the money off the hookers? You start knocking them off, it’s bad for business. Besides, the way the organization sees it, this pervert has no morals. When we kill, there’s a reason that makes sense. It’s over money or power or turf, and it’s usually within the rules. This fucker just kills for the sake of killing; like it’s fun or something. That’s fucked up, and people around here don’t like it. So they figure they’ve got to do something about it.”
Stone couldn’t believe he was actually listening to this lecture on “morality” from a scumbag like Salandro. It made him feel sick to his stomach. He was about to tell Salandro to get the hell out of his face when he noticed a commotion at the bar.