Shotgun Lullaby Page 5

  He didn’t look at me. “Is there a question in there?”

  “Why?”

  “You’ve got to spend it on something.”

  I stepped to the door, opened it, hesitated, turned. “I’ve got a son myself,” I said, not sure why I was telling this to Charlie Pundo. Not sure why I liked him. Why I felt for him. “They’re not always easy.”

  He said nothing.

  “Sons, I mean.”

  He said nothing.

  I closed the door quietly.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “What now?” Randall said three minutes later. We sat in my truck kitty-corner across from the club, close enough but not too.

  “We wait,” I said.

  “What for?”

  “For Teddy, the son. Charlie just about dropped dead when I mentioned him. Put that together with things you told me and you get a picture.”

  “The father truly has backed out of La Vida Gangster,” Randall said. “Or is trying to.”

  “But the son’s trading on Daddy’s rep, trying to be a hotshot drug dealer.”

  “It’s conjecture.”

  “But it’s good conjecture.”

  “That it is.” Pause. “‘Just when I thought I was out…’”

  An SUV slammed to a stop in front of the club. “That’s got to be him,” I said, pointing. “He must’ve been nearby.”

  “Agreed,” Randall said as the driver’s door of the SUV opened. “No critique of my splendid Pacino?”

  “Be glad. And hush.”

  The guy we assumed was Teddy Pundo climbed from the SUV, a Mercedes Geländewagen you couldn’t touch for less than a hundred and ten grand. It was black, of course, with twenty-four-inch chrome rims, of course. Then he steamed into the Hi Hat, looking neither left nor right.

  He was gone so soon we didn’t get much of a look at him. Impressions: long brown hair, greasy. Expensive high-top sneakers topped by jeans topped by a black leather car coat. Fat Teddy? You could see where he got the nickname. But he moved well beneath the weight. He wasn’t sloppy fat; he was powerful fat.

  “That it?” Randall said, keying the SUV’s license number into his tablet. “Are we done here?”

  “I guess we are,” I said, finger-drumming the steering wheel. “But we got a lot. We know the club, including the layout of the office. We’re pretty sure Charlie Pundo really is trying to go legit, and that his numbnuts son is gumming up the plan.”

  “But what did we learn about the likelihood of Clan Pundo shooting up the halfway house?”

  I thought that through. “Charlie’s a definite no. He’s got his club, his records, his little make-believe block. An old-school shotgun party feels like the opposite of what he’s into now.”

  “I’ll buy that. And Teddy?”

  “I dunno. For a hard-case killer, he sure hustled over when Daddy called. Maybe he … hell, look at that.”

  As I’d pulled from my parking space, the white-shirted guy who looked like an ex-boxer had stepped from the club. He was now wearing, but hadn’t zipped, a black Windbreaker.

  He stared at my truck.

  He made eye contact with me and mouthed my license number twice.

  He stepped to the driver’s-side rear corner of Teddy’s Geländewagen. There was nothing but thirty yards of empty street between us and him.

  He set hands on hips, pushing the Windbreaker back a few inches.

  He had a goddamn cannon tucked in his waistband.

  “Jesus Christ,” Randall said. “Desert Eagle, maybe the .50-caliber model. I’m surprised his pants stay up.”

  I drove away, right past the man.

  He tracked us with his eyes. When we eased by, he wasn’t more than ten feet from Randall’s window.

  “‘They pull me back in,’” Randall said a few seconds later.

  “Shut up.”

  We were quiet after that.

  * * *

  When he answered the door of the apartment I’d set him up in, Gus was surprised. He looked at his watch. Then I thought he looked over my shoulder. “Done for the day?”

  “I’ve been to Marlborough and Springfield,” I said. “Need to talk with you.” I stepped in, told Gus to swap his pajama pants for jeans.

  Then I told him about the day.

  When I finished, he shook his head. “So you walked into a wise-guy bar and wrote a note asking to see the man in charge of cocaine sales?”

  I shrugged.

  He rubbed his temples. The move annoyed me—it was like he was a teacher and I was a student being a giant pain in his ass.

  “You’re fantastic to let me stay here,” he said. “And all the world knows you’ll give any Barnburner the shirt off your back. Subtlety, however, is not your strong suit.”

  “We’re assuming somebody tried to kill you,” I said. “I am, anyway. If you’re looking for subtle help, you’re out of luck.”

  “Damn straight.”

  I wanted to shake the little bastard. Why the hell was I helping him? What the hell wasn’t he telling me?

  You know the answer to the first question.

  I took my time. Breathed myself calm. “You named two possibilities,” I finally said. “Andrade and Teddy Pundo. I checked them both out. Andrade didn’t do it, and I’m pretty sure Pundo didn’t either.”

  “Conway, he’s a drug dealer. He’s a gangster. His father was bullshitting you.”

  “Nope. Charlie Pundo didn’t know Teddy was dealing until I told him so, and he didn’t know anything about Almost Home. And if Teddy was badass enough to be blowing people down with a shotgun, you can bet his dad’d know. So we’re back where we were before: who else has something against you?”

  “I’ll say again that maybe whoever killed Brian Weller was trying to kill Brian Weller.”

  “Nope. We read up on him. He was a damn choirboy, and you know it.”

  Gus folded his arms. “Be that as it may, why is this your mission in life all of a sudden? Why am I your big fucking project?”

  “The Barnburners asked me to keep an eye on you. I’m doing that.”

  “Is that all? Really? How old did you say your son is?”

  I said nothing.

  “His name’s Roy, I believe you said.”

  Charlene says I’m transparent. I hate being transparent.

  I wanted to tell Gus about Roy. I wanted to ask Gus about his father, to see what their relationship looked like from his vantage point.

  I wanted to ask him if Roy would come back to me.

  “You ever ride a dirt bike?” I said. “I know a great spot.”

  * * *

  He could ride, all right. I watched him clear a hill twenty-five yards ahead of me. He tabletopped his jump, laying the little 125cc Yamaha sideways in midair, then snapping it wheels down just in time to land.

  We’d been riding the power lines near Route 495 for a good forty minutes. I was beat. I hadn’t ridden for a couple of years, had forgotten how punishing it was.

  I goosed the throttle, squirted alongside Gus, made a drinking gesture. He nodded, pulled over at the next power-line tower.

  We killed the bikes and took off our helmets. First impression when you shut down: quiet, quiet, quiet.

  I stepped off, stretched, pulled water bottles from a fender carrier, tossed one to Gus. On his face: big smile, goggle marks. “Killer idea,” he said. “These little one-twenty-fives are a hoot.”

  “You ever race?”

  “I wanted to, but my old man wouldn’t let me. I did most of my riding in the backyard.”

  “Must have been some yard. Over in Sherborn, you said? Nice town.”

  Gus shrugged. “I used to whip around in the woods. I even hacked out my own little course. Man, did I want to race. But when I hacked too close to the neighbors’ yards, they bitched to my dad. He gets scared shitless when anybody disapproves of anything, so he rolled over and made me quit riding. He used to say, ‘Do you want to read about it in the police log on Friday?’ That was his worst
fear, a police log write-up in the Sherborn Sentinel.”

  From the north, the deep-noted engines of bigger bikes pounded our way. “High school years are tough for the son and the father both,” I said. “Things any better now?”

  Gus said nothing.

  Three guys on big green Kawasakis busted past. Friendly waves all around.

  I said, “I used to ride here with my son Roy.”

  “How old is he?”

  “About your age. Tried college, but it didn’t take. He’s a good body man.” To our left, the Kawasakis jumped a hill and disappeared. “It’s been a while. He doesn’t ride with me anymore.”

  “He’s nuts. This place rocks.” Gus whipped his empty water bottle at me, grinned, straddled his bike. “Looks like you got the wrong kid and I got the wrong dad.” Lit up his Yamaha, tire-fired dirt at me as he took off.

  I followed as fast as I could. Smiling big.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Hello?”

  I walked down a short flight of steps, stutter-stepping in the dark. Felt half-ridiculous, half-mad at Charlene.

  “Anybody home?” As I said it, I pushed through the church basement door. It was unlocked, which was good. But I couldn’t see three feet in front of me, which was bad.

  Goddamn disorganized drunks.

  Here’s what’d happened: while Gus and I had trailered the dirt bikes back to the shop, I’d found a rambling voice mail from Charlene. Breathless, almost panicky, not like her at all. The gist of the ramble was that a couple of good eggs we both knew, longtime Barnburners, were trying to launch a new AA meeting. Greek Orthodox church out in Hopedale. The meeting wasn’t getting off the ground. To change that, a big crew was planning to swarm the joint tonight and lay down some Barnburner mojo. Upshot: could I come by? It’d mean a lot, blah blah blah.

  “That’s a hell of a sigh,” Gus had said as I glared at my phone. He looked like a reverse raccoon: white skin where his goggles had sat, dirty everywhere else. I guessed I looked the same.

  I’d been looking forward to a hot shower, an hour with QuickBooks, then dinner and TV. I told Gus all this. The little bastard hadn’t seemed sympathetic. If anything, he’d smirked as I dropped him off.

  Anyway, here I was in Hopedale, which makes Framingham look like Chicago. Showered but still hungry, I’d made it three minutes early for the eight o’clock meeting.

  And the parking lot was empty, and the building was dark, and Charlene wasn’t picking up.

  “Hello?” I let the door shut behind me.

  Nothing.

  Something beneath my feet crinkled. I barely noticed.

  “Well fuck me sideways,” I said to the darkness.

  “For that,” a man’s voice said from a far corner, “you want the Congregational place down the street.”

  And a hundred people cracked up.

  And the lights snapped on.

  And there they were.

  The banner behind them said FREE AT LAST.

  And I’m so thick it took me another second to remember: my parole had ended at 12:01 that morning.

  They were hooting and clapping and smiling, but in my head everything went silent as I took them in.

  All of them.

  There were Charlene and Sophie, front and center. I even spotted Jessie, arms folded, along the back row. All the key Barnburners were there: Butch Feeley, Mary Giarusso, Carlos Q (the world’s meanest Colombian, and that’s saying something), a bunch more. Floriano and his wife Maria stood off to one side, not knowing most of the others. Eudora Spoon and Moe Coover, my two favorite old-school AAers, smiled and clapped. Randall stood with his father, Luther. Luther was beckoning me for some reason.

  Hell, even Gus Biletnikov was there. He must have been in on the setup—it explained the smirk that afternoon when I’d dropped him off.

  Roy wasn’t there.

  No reason he would be, really.

  Luther Swale’s beckoning was nearly out of control. I took a step forward, and the hooting and hollering doubled. Luther cupped his hands to be heard. “How does it feel to be off paper?”

  I looked down. They’d taped newspaper just inside the door. It explained the crinkling when I stepped in.

  It was a long way to go for an inside gag. See, parole is called being on paper. The best day of an ex-con’s life comes when he gets off paper. No more weekly PO visits, no more travel restrictions, no more peeing in a cup.

  Charlene strode across the basement and planted a big honkin’ kiss on my lips, putting extra Hollywood on it for the benefit of the crowd. Then the rest of them flooded over and ringed us. Somebody cranked music on a boom box.

  It was a good night. Who says drunks don’t know how to throw a party?

  * * *

  The good vibe ended when my eyes snapped open the next morning. My first thought wasn’t of dirt bikes or parties: what popped into my head was the dude outside the Hi Hat. A dude who walked around with a giant handgun stuffed in his pants and didn’t mind showing it to you.

  The dude was Charlie Pundo’s muscle man. But was he also Teddy Pundo’s muscle? Or was he more like Teddy’s babysitter?

  Hell, that was just one thing I needed to look at. First, I’d decided to drop in on Gus Biletnikov’s family. Unannounced.

  Whether Gus acknowledged it, it sure felt to me like whoever’d done Almost Home was trying to kill him.

  Which meant I had to bail out of work today.

  Which maybe happened more often than it should, thanks to Barnburner chores.

  Which didn’t go over so great with Charlene or Floriano.

  I slipped from bed, took the world’s quietest shower, and escaped the house without waking Charlene. Which meant I didn’t have to explain to her that I wasn’t going to work.

  Phew.

  Called Randall while driving east, told him where to meet me.

  Dropped by the shop and told Floriano I had errands to run. His raised eyebrow and the Silent Sam routine as he looked over the day’s appointments were his version of a hissy fit. I told him I’d call Tory again to ease his workload, but he said she was out of action for the rest of the week—getting trained up on the new direct-injection fuel systems.

  Hell.

  Well, Floriano would just have to stay pissed. I needed to keep tugging threads.

  On the ride home last night, I’d worked through it in my head. I’d given Gus two chances to level with me about anybody who might have it in for him. Each time, he’d fed me Andrade and Teddy Pundo. Each time, he’d acted sketchy when I pressed. He wasn’t telling everything there was to tell.

  Far as I was concerned, that gave me license to end-run Gus. And the place to start was with his dad.

  Or I hoped it was. Couldn’t think of anybody else.

  Randall had agreed with my thinking. Our plan was to meet at the Biletnikov place and see what made the family tick.

  Sherborn is ten minutes southeast of my shop. It’s also a different world.

  The last address I passed in Framingham was a squat cluster of Section 8 housing. Once I crossed the town line, the first address in Sherborn was a horse farm. It’s up there with Wayland and Weston as the ritziest towns in the state.

  A few horse farms later I climbed a hill, angling northeast now, and turned where the GPS said to. Cleared a stone wall, drove up a steep gravel driveway.

  The house: a McMansion. New, designed to look old. Vast, designed to look modest. Flowing, designed to look rambling.

  I parked, rang the bell.

  A young woman in jeans answered. Chinese looks. Shoulder-length black hair thick as a horse tail. Perfect skin, sweat-sheen on her forehead. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Biletnikov in?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Her accent was vaguely familiar and not what I’d expected.

  “There a Mrs. Biletnikov?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you.” She began to close the door, but a phone clipped to her jeans buzzed. She raised a finger and took the call.
<
br />   Then everything changed.

  She hung up, smiling and half-bowing, and opened the door wide.

  “Come this way. Mrs. Biletnikov has been down in the cottage lately.” In addition to the cell clipped to one belt loop, she had a pink and white walkie-talkie clipped to another. She saw me looking at it. “I’m Haley. Nanny for little Emma.”

  “Emma is … Mrs. Biletnikov’s?” I knew Gus’s parents had split up. Looked like his dad had remarried and had a kid.

  “In a manner of speaking.” Haley said it with a locked jaw. While I puzzled that through, she led the way.

  The house was clean and tidy, but with baby stuff scattered here and there: a dozen bottles on the kitchen counter, nipples to match, a stuffed giraffe with a bow around its neck. I checked out the place as we walked. Wide pine floorboards, probably scavenged from an old farmhouse. Overstuffed chairs with preworn arms. New paintings that looked like folk art. The most authentic country money could buy. Snap judgment: this was a poser house, the home of people who didn’t know who they were. If a decorator walked in tomorrow and told them to change over to midcentury modern, they’d write a check to make it happen.

  We walked a long hall, then down a flight of stairs. I tried not to stare at Haley’s rear end. I failed.

  We moved through a walk-out basement to the backyard. Wildflowers, oaks, a patio with thousand-dollar steel chairs prerusted. Patina, they call it. It costs extra. I kid you not.

  The lot was three acres, easy. And though the spring leaves were still puny, I couldn’t see even a hint of any neighbor’s house. No wonder Gus’d had room to hack out a motocross track.

  Haley led me down a short path to a green-trimmed cottage screened by trees. To my left, Randall’s Hyundai crunched gravel. He climbed out and joined our wagon train, introducing himself to Haley on the fly.

  She gestured toward the door of a cottage half-hidden in the woods, smiled without really smiling, and walked back the way we’d come.

  I knocked. Heard “Yes.” Entered a room with walls the color of peach ice cream.

  “I’m Rinn Biletnikov,” she said, stepping into the room from a hallway.

  I took a fast breath. Heard Randall do the same.

  Everything about her was just right. Genuinely blond hair, chopped at chin length. Smart blue eyes that said If you play your cards right and You wish all at once. Nose freckles, tiny gap between her front teeth. Cross a 1950s Hollywood starlet with a frog-catching tomboy, you had Rinn.