Silent Night: A Spenser Holiday Novel (3 page)

W
E DIDN’T NEED AN EXCUSE,
but Hawk and I had arranged to meet at Jake Wirth’s for a pre-Christmas lunch.

A waitress came by to take our orders. She was young and blond and wearing a green-and-white outfit that fell somewhere between a Hansel and Gretel costume and a cheerleader’s uniform. Her short skirt revealed long, tan legs of the type you seldom see in Boston in the winter, the kind that make you yearn for spring.

In keeping with the season, I ordered a Sam Adams Winter Lager and a Jake’s Burger with Russian dressing. Hawk ordered a Paulaner Hefeweizen and the Jaegerschnitzel.

Hawk shook his head. “Come to a place like this and order an American beer. Shame you aren’t more adventurous.”

“Just supporting local industry, and showing a little civic pride.” I hoisted my mug. “Sam Adams, Brewer and Patriot.”

Hawk snorted. “Stuff’s brewed in Ohio. You just afraid of ordering anything you can’t pronounce.”

“And while you’re showing off your command of German, I can order two of these before you can say ‘Hefeweizen.’”

A Muzak version of “Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer” infiltrated the din of lunchtime conversation. It was not a song that improved with repeated listening, though the Sam Adams helped.

Hawk looked up as his plate of veal was set in front of him. “Any progress finding out who’s trying to get rid of Jackie’s business?” He tucked his napkin into the open collar of his light green silk shirt.

My burger arrived, and I took a bite. “Jackie doesn’t know who’s behind it. He seems to think it may be the church looking to expand.”

“Don’t it seem odd to you that the church would be roughing up boys to scare this Alvarez into selling his property to them?”

“Forget about the punch line that’s buried in there somewhere,” I said. “You’re right. It’s more than odd. The church has plenty of money. And I doubt they’d need to resort to thuggery.”

“I asked around about Juan Alvarez, and most everybody say the same thing. He’s part of the Puerto Rican section of Lawrence that immigrated early part of last century. Some of them did well. Got an education. Became lawyers, bankers, and such. Some joined gangs and started a kind of Puerto Rican mafia. Juan chose the first path. He’s something of a mystery man. He left town; nobody seems to know where he went, but he came back rich. Now he’s Mr. Philanthropy in Boston. Very popular. Connected politically. Only one guy say something a little different,” Hawk said.

I waited while Hawk forked some spaetzle.

“He says that Alvarez’s been wanted by the Feds for years, but they can’t pin anything on him. Suspect he be head of one of the biggest drug cartels coming out of Mexico. He just slippery.”

Hawk’s attention returned to his plate.

“He wouldn’t be the first rich guy to use payoffs to politicians and contributions to charities to run circles around the Feds. They usually get caught on some trivial tax misdemeanor. Your guy a reliable source?” I said.

“No. Snitch done plenty of jail time. But no reason to lie to me, either. Gave him a fifty. Only ’cause it’s Christmas. Otherwise, it would have been twenty.”

“Good to hear you’ve embraced the holiday spirit,” I said. “But that doesn’t really explain how a poor kid from Lawrence rockets to wealth and prestige in Boston. He reinvents himself somehow, the old-fashioned American way, and we don’t know how. Or why anyone would want to wreck his younger brother’s enterprise, in this case Street Business, which seems to help young homeless boys get jobs and maybe even some self-respect. Besides getting the sense that this Juan Alvarez is a bit of a cipher, we don’t really know diddly-squat.”

“So where we start?”

“We?”

“Yeah,” Hawk said. “Fair to say I’m a little curious about this Street Business. If it’s legit, seem a shame for it to be shut down.”

“And if it’s not legit?”

“Like to shut it down personally,” Hawk said.

I signaled our waitress for the check. I wasn’t in a rush. But I wanted to admire her legs one more time before we left. It would be a long time until spring.

“Okay,” I said. “Perhaps it’s the moment for some quiet contemplation. Let’s go to church.”

T
HREE BLOCKS NORTH
of the harbor stood St. Bartholomew the Apostle Catholic Church, known locally as St. Bart’s. We walked briskly from the car. The wind off the water was icy.

Outside St. Bart’s gray granite walls in the ugly small yard was a Christmas crèche depicting the birth of Christ, with Mary and Joseph and the three Wise Men in attendance. When we entered we could hear the sweet, high-pitched boys’ choir rehearsing Handel’s Messiah in the back of the church. A burly, youngish man in a black suit and Roman collar approached us. He smiled. “May I help you?”

“I’m a private investigator. My name is Spenser. And this is Hawk,” I said.

Hawk nodded at the priest.

“May we have five minutes of your time?” I said.

“Of course. I’m Father Ahearn. Please, follow me.” He led us to a small office off the sacristy, then waved his arm in the direction of two guest chairs before sitting down behind a weathered wood desk.

“We were wondering if you know anything about the house on Curtis Street owned by a man named Alvarez. It’s used for a place called Street Business.”

“I know the property,” Father Ahearn said, “but I can’t say I know much about Street Business.” He poured us each coffee from a carafe on a side table and passed around a plate of Christmas cookies. They looked homemade, stars and trees covered with red and green sprinkles. I took one of each.

“We understand that somebody out there would prefer that Street Business be gone,” I said.

Father Ahearn smiled slightly. “Well, I might fall into that category,” he said.

I nodded in what I hoped was an encouraging manner. Rule Number 17 of Effective Investigating: Keep them talking.

“I mean no disrespect to Street Business, and I mean them no harm, you understand. It’s just that we have been looking to expand our ministry, and are looking for space to build low-income housing and a new elementary school.”

“And Street Business stands in the way of your plans?”

Father Ahearn shook his head. “No, not exactly. We had looked into purchasing several of the houses on that block of Curtis Street, including the Street Business building. There aren’t many options for expansion in the neighborhood. That location would suit our purposes nicely, and the buildings are in such a dilapidated condition that we thought the owners might be interested in selling. They appear to be sparsely and infrequently occupied. And, frankly, given the condition of the houses, we thought they might be available at an attractive price. We started by trying to approach the owners directly without intermediaries, feeling that often this is the best way to get things done. Right away we realized it was going to be difficult to find out exactly who the real owners were.”

“And how did you proceed?” I said.

He sighed. “Alas, when we tracked down the various owners, none of them appeared interested in selling. The properties each have different owners, various realty trusts and so forth, but according to our lawyers they are all ultimately owned in one fashion or another by a single family, named Alvarez.” Father Ahearn stopped and sipped his coffee. Hawk sat straight and motionless in the chair beside me.

“So why not go straight to Alvarez?” I said.

The priest shrugged. “We’ve decided to look elsewhere. There are other locations in Boston that will be satisfactory for our needs, just not as convenient.”

“I appreciate your subtlety, Father, but I’m just not that smart. How come you backed off Alvarez?”

Father Ahearn chuckled and almost spilled his coffee. Hawk shifted slightly in his chair.

“You strike me as quite astute, Mr. Spenser. Of course, the first thing we did was to approach one of the members of the Alvarez family,” Father Ahearn said. “Juan Alvarez, the family patriarch, is a generous benefactor to the parish, and to the Archbishop’s Annual Appeal. We would never try to strong-arm him or his family. It would be ungracious, not to mention foolish. On the other hand, Mr. Alvarez was the obvious person for the church to approach, and we did. For whatever reason, he has no interest in selling any of his properties on Curtis Street. And for that reason alone, we had to look elsewhere.”

“Do you have any idea who might have a reason to try to force Street Business out of the neighborhood? Somebody who doesn’t care about the Annual Appeal?”

He shook his head. “No, I’m afraid I can’t help you. This can be a tough neighborhood, which is why we are trying to expand our ministry here, to bring peace and civility through our work. There is crime, and gang tensions flare up from time to time. But I have not heard of any threats or problems with Street Business specifically.”

Hawk and I stood up, and Father Ahearn walked us back through the church. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said as the boys’ voices filled the nave. He shook our hands at the door. “Thank you for stopping by.”

As we went down the long stone steps, Father Ahearn called out, “Merry Christmas!”

I returned the greeting. Hawk was silent.

We sat in my car and looked at the church.

“Do you believe him?” I asked Hawk.

“Been a long time since I believed anything from a priest,” said Hawk, “especially concerning young boys.”

“Not all priests, Hawk,” I said. “Not even most priests. Most are trying to do good things, in places just like this and worse.”

“Yeah,” he said. He fell silent and stared off into the middle distance.

“I believe him,” he said finally. “No reason for the church to be beatin’ up kids so they can build a school. One thing don’t make sense, though.”

“What’s that?”

“Why Alvarez want to hold on to houses that are run-down and uninhabited?”

“Maybe we should find out just how uninhabited those buildings really are. I hear looks can be deceiving.”

I
DECIDED TO GO VISIT
Street Business. It was in a big Victorian house on a quiet side street just beyond midtown Boston. The paint on the outside looked like a hippie’s dream: a faded mustard, with purple trim on the turrets and other extremities.

There was a patch of lawn covered with dirty snow. The steps up to the front door, also painted purple, were icy.

There was no bell. I had called Jackie that morning, and when I knocked he was at the door in seconds. “Hello, Spenser,” he welcomed me, flashing his disconcerting teeth. “Come in, come in.”

We entered a room where his thick hair gleamed in the ergonomic lighting. There were big overstuffed sofas and chairs scattered around a fifty-inch flat-screen television, and bookshelves filled with books along the walls. Boys’ stuff was strewn around, jackets and a basketball, a PlayStation console and a batch of game cartridges. A baseball bat and a catcher’s mitt. A couple of boys got to their feet. Well trained.

“Bobby and Sam, this is Mr. Spenser.” The boys stuck out their hands, and we shook. Jackie said, “Boys, why don’t you see about making yourselves some lunch.”

Bobby and Sam went off. “The rest of them are working,” Jackie said.

“How many live here?” I said.

“We’ve housed as many as twenty, but right now we have twelve. That includes a couple of Juan’s guys, who help out. You know, they round up jobs, make sure the kids keep the place tidy.” He took me into a small room where a man was working at a laptop. “Just talking about you,” Jackie said. “Spenser, this is Pablo.”

The man stood up. He was squat, with hair dyed the color of dark blue ink, wearing what looked like pale blue silk pajamas.

“Hello, Pablo,” I said.

“Hi there.” He gave me a smile that showed a lot of gold. “Jackie, I gotta talk to Juan. These books are a mess. You got to try to keep better records, kid.”

“Can we do it later?” Jackie said. “I’m showing Spenser around right now.”

Pablo sat back down and looked at what I recognized was a QuickBooks program.

Jackie led me through the house. There was one big central space upstairs with several beds set up dormitory-style and six other bedrooms, along with three decent-looking bathrooms. Downstairs was a kitchen, where some men were cooking tortillas. The air was rich with their smell.

Another room held a small gym with a couple of stationary bikes, an ancient treadmill, and a couple of punching bags.

“These get much use?” I motioned to the bags.

“Some,” Jackie said. “I’ve been trying to get some guys around here to volunteer time to give the boys some pointers on boxing and wrestling, that sort of thing,” Jackie said.

“For sport, or protection?”

“Both,” Jackie said. “Some of the boys need to toughen up a bit. Others need their aggression channeled into something with rules and finesse.”

“Ever hear of Harbor Health Club, Henry Cimoli’s place? Henry’s a friend. He can probably get you some equipment, if that would help. Headgear, gloves, mitts, mouth guards, that kind of thing.”

“That would be terrific, Spenser.” Jackie looked sincere and enthusiastic, but it was hard for me to tell. He had an open, boyish face, which gave away little. “I’m guessing you did some boxing. You any good?”

“Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee,” I said. “Of course, the broken nose might tell you otherwise.”

Jackie grinned. “I wasn’t going to mention that.” He made a halfhearted jab at a speed bag. “Any chance I could convince you to come by sometime and show the boys how it’s done?”

“They probably already know how to get their noses broken,” I said. If I was to find out who was trying to close down Jackie’s business and why, spending some time on the premises might be a smart idea. And I liked Jackie’s spirit. Upbeat. Relentlessly so. “But I’d be happy to teach them how not to.”

“That would be great!” Jackie said.

We walked back into the front hall. The worn wooden floorboards creaked beneath our feet.

“No girls here?” I said.

“No,” said Jackie. “We’re trying to instill structure and discipline here. Boys reach a certain age, being around girls too much is counterproductive to the goal.”

“Boys need to learn how to act around girls sometime.”

“First things first, Spenser,” Jackie said. “A young man must learn to respect himself before he can learn to respect others.” His voice was solemn. I couldn’t tell if he was parroting a self-help book or recounting a painful experience.

He walked me to the door. A scruffy, heavy-set guy dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt stood just inside the open door, inhaling a cigarette. About thirty pounds of unnecessary stomach spilled over the jeans.

“This is Joe,” Jackie said. He sounded and looked as happy to see Joe as I did to hear “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.”

“Joe,” I said.

Joe didn’t speak. He exhaled enough smoke to double the carbon footprint of metropolitan Boston. Then he flicked his cigarette out the front door. It bounced off the steps and fell into the snow.

“You know I don’t allow smoking in this house,” Jackie said.

“Bite me,” Joe said.
Wow, class act.
The kind of guy you want around impressionable young boys.

“You’d better leave, Joe. I don’t want you around the kids. You’re nothing but trouble,” Jackie said.

“I ain’t your trouble,” Joe said. “I’m the one protecting you and your little kindergarten here. Might be better for you to thank me once in a while, instead of riding my ass.” He slouched off and out the door.

Jackie sighed as he watched Joe shamble down the stairs and fish a package of cigarettes out of his pants pocket.

“Sorry, Spenser,” Jackie said. “He’s one of Juan’s men. He sent him over here to protect us. Sometimes I wonder if he’s worse than no one at all.” He gave a short shake of his head, as if to erase Joe from his memory. Then he brightened. “Thanks for coming over to see the place,” he said. “Any progress yet on finding out who wants us gone?”

“Too soon to have much,” I said. “But I’ll let you know when I do.”

“Thanks, Spenser,” he said. “I need to make Street Business work. I don’t want to let the kids down. I don’t want . . .” His voice trailed off.

I gave him a wave and negotiated down the icy steps to my car. When I looked back, Jackie was bending over the side of the steps, fishing Joe’s cigarette butt out of a snowbank.