Shallow Graves - Jeremiah Healy (18 page)

"Like a recording studio, Mo."

"What?"

"Like — "

"Just a second." Mo put the aid back into
his ear. "Like a . . . ?"

"Like a recording studio?"

"Yeah, yeah. Like that. Except instead of
earphones, I'm wearing this stethoscope thing. And he beeps me up and
over the cowshed, both ears. Then he says I hear the low tones okay,
but not the high ones. So now I get to sit in this chair and he pours
a moulage of like wax in my ear, with a wick in it. He lets the wax
harden, which is not the greatest feeling in the world, I'll tell
you.

"Then, maybe ten minutes later, he pulls the wax
plug out of my ear by the wick. Then he puts it on the side to harden
some more while he asks me questions. He tells me he'll mail the
little plug out to some company and my aid will come back in like
three to six weeks."

"So now you have a custom-made hearing aid."

"Yeah. Only they don't tell you some things.
Like the little bugger's custom-made for only one ear, not the other.
My case, it's the left, but guess what?"

"What, Mo?"

"My left is the ear I use for answering the
phone. Guess what else."

This could take a while. "What, Mo?"

"The thing's murder if you put the receiver to
that ear. The habit of a lifetime, John, and I'm supposed to change
it now?"

"That's a tough one, Mo."

"Huh. Tell me about it. Another thing. The
little bugger costs like a thousand dollars, and I'm not completely
covered by insurance."

"How come?"

"Because it's not from an accident. Can you
believe that? I tell the guy, ‘What, you can't see your way clear
to reimburse me for all the years I've been on this planet?"

"I'll bet that shut him up."

"Yeah. Yeah, it did. I got to admit, though, it
is a clever piece of machinery. I mean, it's got this little wheel,
you can adjust it for noise, even while you're wearing it. The
audiologist says to me, 'Mr. Katzen, you can even turn it off
completely, should say a motorcycle start up next to you.' And I say
to him, 'Doctor' — I don't know, is he a doctor, but I figure, it
doesn't hurt to be polite, right? — 'Doctor, I'm not sure how to
tell you this, but my Wild One days are behind me, you know?' "

"Good comeback, Mo. I — "

"So then he tells me the battery lasts six
months and the aid itself is built for a lifetime. He says, 'It's got
the Manhattan Project in it.' And I say, 'Great, my age, I have to
have an atomic bomb in my ear,' and he says, 'No, Mr. Katzen, the
Manhattan Circuit,' and that's when I realize, John, I got to have
the thing."

"I think you're right, Mo. Listen, I wonder
if--"

" 'Course, the little bugger does have its
drawbacks. I told you about the phone business?"

"Yes, Mo."

"Well, it's no picnic riding in the car, either.
Oh, it closes out the engine noise just fine, but you put the
directional signal on'? Because it's inside the cabin with you, the
thing sounds like a Mongol gong. Also, if it falls out or you can't
remember where you put it, there's a homing device inside, makes this
sound to let you know where it is. But, surprise, surprise, guess
what?"

"You can't hear it."

"On the button, John. On the button. You need a
hearing aid to start with, how're you supposed to find the little
bugger from a homing sound you can't hear without the little bugger
in your ear?"

"Speaking of finding things, Mo."

"What?"

"I said, speaking — "

"I heard you, John. You're sitting not four feet
away from me, right?"

"Right, Mo."

"
No need to repeat things, right?"

"Right, Mo."

"So, what'd you come over here for. Spit it
Out."

I took a breath. "I'm working on a case. It
involves somebody I'd like to talk with you about."

"Who?"

"Thomas Danucci."

"Thomas . . . Tommy the Temper?"

"Yes."

Mo shook his head, fired up the dead cigar with a war
memorial lighter. "John" — puff — "I don't think"
— puff-puff — "working on a case" — puff-puff-puff —
"involving Tommy Danucci is such a great idea."

"I'm inclined to agree with you. But I'm already
in it, and for a lot of reasons, it's easier to keep going than to
bail out."

"Your decision." Mo blew a smoke ring.
"Tommy Danucci, Tommy Danucci. One of the last of the old ones,
John. The ones who made their bones before the war — WWII, I mean.
He stayed in the background, always the gentleman, I heard. Like he
ran one of those Renaissance city-states with the Borgias and
whatever."

"
Do you know much about his family?"

"You mean his relatives or his organization?"

"Good point. Start with his organization."

"He came up through the Buccola crowd, late
thirties. Heard a little bit about him, here and there during the
war. Loan-sharking, barbooth games, something with the Teamsters.
Nothing unusual. Then around the early sixties, he really hit his
stride with the sharking. You were still in school then, John, but
Boston started getting a reputation"

"What kind of reputation?"

"As a place where deadbeats got beat dead."

"Catchy."

"Yeah, I'm sure Tommy intended it that way. He
wasn't all that big, but boy he was tough. And blind to the pain if
he was in a fight. I have this friend who's Italian — grew up with
me in Chelsea. My friend says he saw the Temper take a knife in the
shoulder from a deadbeat when Tommy was doing some collection work in
the old days. Knife and all, my friend says Tommy was able to punch
the guy senseless."

"
Danucci still in the rackets?"

Mo shucked some ash from the cigar. "Who can
say? Those guys, I assume they got the equivalent of profit-sharing
after they retire, even if they're not still active. Seems to me I
heard Tommy had a heart attack a few years back, not much since."

"How about his relatives?"

"Tommy married a little late as I recall. Beauty
from the old country, real ethnic name. Couple of sons, but I think
one went to Vietnam like you, and the other . . . I don't know,
doctor or lawyer, maybe?"

So far things checked out pretty well. "There's
an obituary I'd like to see, if I could."

"Obit?" Mo's brow furrowed. "John, the
hell you got yourself into here?"

"Between us?"

"You mean off the record?"

"I mean between us, Mo."

A glacial sigh. "Okay. My word on it."

I told him about what happened with Mau Tim Dani when
I was out of town.

Mo fumed. "Well, I'll tell you, John, I wasn't
the fuck out of town and I don't remember anything about it. Hold on
a second." He picked up his phone, pushed a button, and hit
three numbers. Then he cursed, pushed another button, and hit three
more. He rasped at whoever answered, and whoever answered read him
something. Mo asked whether there were any accompanying pieces, and
he cursed some more, then hung up without saying thank you.

"Well, John. It seems your Mau Tim Dani died on
a Friday night, and being only murder number forty-seven in a year
that ought to break the record set last year, which should surprise
nobody, there was a story without a victim's name in the Saturday
paper. A follow-up with 'Dani' but not 'Danucci' got pushed to page
sixteen of Sunday's, and then nothing but 'Dani' in the obit. Nobody
else ran this, print or broadcast?"

"I don't know."

Mo sucked on the resumed-dead stogie. "It's
possible Tommy still has enough juice to get people to sit on
something like this, John. I wouldn't have bet on it, this day and
age, but it's just barely possible. So I have some advice, you can
take it from a man needs a hearing aid in his head."

"Say it, Mo."

"Tread softly, John.
Muffle the drums and tread very, very softly through the jungle."

* * *

"What are you doing back here?"

"
Nice to see you, too, Lieutenant?

"Cuddy, what?"

"
I was driving home and a parking space opened
up across the street. I figured it might be an omen."

Robert Murphy reached for a sheaf of phone messages
on the corner of his desk and started riffling through them. Finding
the one he was looking for, he held it up to the light from the
window behind him. "Says here, 'John Cuddy called. He is going
for a ride with Primo Zuppone.' "

"He likes you to pronounce it 'Zoo-po-ny.' "

"
You take a ride with a wiseguy, you're lucky
the M.E. didn't have to pronounce you."

"How did you know he was connected?"

"His name's cropped up over the years."

"In what kinds of cases?"

"Various gentlemen we've pulled out of the
harbor."

Lovely. "I thought maybe you looked him up
special."

Murphy made the phone message waffle in the air.
"Account of this?"

"Made me feel safer, thinking you were watching
out for me."

"Cuddy, the fuck you into?"

"I can't tell you."

He put down the slip of paper. "Why not?"

"The other name there."

Murphy looked back at the phone message. "Harry
Mullen?"

"Right."

"Who's Mullen?"

"He's with the insurance company I used to work
for."

A memory worked its way across Murphy's forehead and
jumped for its life. "Not Holt's case."

"That's why I can't tell you."

Murphy closed his eyes. "Get out."

"If Holt screws up, I want you to haunt him for
me."

"Cuddy, you screw up with the Danucci family,
you'll be able to haunt him yourself. Now — "

I got out.
 
 

-14-

OSCAR PURIEFOYIS ADDRESS ON BOYLSTON WAS PAST MASS
AVE, almost to the Fenway. Inside the glass entrance door, a mailbox
on the wall had its lock staved in and his name over it. I climbed
four flights of stairs past a palm reader, a discount travel agency,
a total health consultant, and a CPA before I reached Puriefoy's
studio door. I knocked, and a deep bass voice said, "Yeah?"

Inside the room, a teddy-bear black man was on his
knees, bending over a set of toy railroad cars on a black velvet
blanket. The cars were made from blocks and dowls of wood, all
enameled in primary colors. The man consulted what looked like a
polaroid photo, then used the thumb on his large hand to nudge the
caboose a quarter of an inch.

There were bright umbrella lights over the cars and a
camera on a tripod, but from there any comparison to the studio where
I'd met Sinead Fagan was unflattering. Puriefoy's place was maybe
four hundred square feet, with only a door to a half bath and no
windows. Exposed pipes wended through the original stamped tin
ceiling, which itself looked fifty years the worse for wear. The
wallpaper curled over the chipped and gouged wainscoting, painted an
uneven white. A couple of plastic chairs and two TV trays were the
furnishings.

"Help you with something?"

The voice really was sonorous, like a Shakespearean
actor. His complexion ran to medium brown. Puriefoy was mostly bald,
with a beard that seemed to ride up and over his ears into the fringe
of hair remaining on his head. He wore hiking khakis with button
pockets on the thighs and an old chamois shirt, stained down the
front like a mechanic's overalls.

I said, "My name's John Cuddy. I'm a private
investigator."

Puriefoy made a face as he stood up, rising to about
six feet.

"You got some ID?"

Taking out my leather folder, I walked over to him.

He examined it, shook his head, and handed it back to
me.

"I can't help you."

"
You haven't heard what I'm here for."

"Don't matter." He turned back to the train
set. "I don't know anything about it."

"I'm looking into the death of Mau Tim Dani, and
I'm guessing Sinead Fagan already told you I spoke to her about it."

His head came up as he stopped and turned to me
again.

"She said you were working for some insurance
outfit"

"That's right."

"Why?"

"Why insurance, you mean?"

"Yeah. Her family, they own the building. Who's
getting sued?"

"Nobody yet. Everybody helps me, maybe nobody
will."

A cynical scowl. "Yeah. Right."

"I understand you were the one who scouted her."

Puriefoy looked like he was trying to decide which
would be less trouble, to throw me out or talk with me and get it
over with. Then he said, "How long you gonna be?"