Blow Fly

42

MARINO DOESN'T LIKE the taxi driver and asks him where he's from.

"Kabul."

"Kabul's where, exactly?" Marino asks. "I mean, I know what country" (he doesn't), "but not its exact geographical location."

"Kabul is the capital of Afghanistan."

Marino tries to envision Afghanistan. All that comes to mind are dictators, terrorists and camels.

"And you do what there?"

"I do nothing there. I live here." The driver's dark eyes glance at him in the rearview mirror. "My family worked in the wool mills, and I came here eight years ago. You should go to Kabul. It is very beautiful. Visit the old city. My name is Bдbur. You have questions or need a cab, call my company and ask for me." He smiles, his teeth gleaming white in the dark.

Marino senses the driver is making fun of him, but he doesn't get the joke. The driver's identification card is fastened to the passengers seat visor, and Marino tries to read it, but can't. His vision isn't what it used to be, and he refuses to wear glasses. Despite Scarpetta's urging, he also refuses laser surgery, which he adamanrly claims will make him blind or damage his frontal lobe.

"This way don't look familiar," Marino comments in his usual grumpy tone as unrecognizable buildings flow past his window.

"We take a shortcut along the harbor, past the wharfs and then the causeway. Very pretty sights."

Marino leans forward on the hard bench seat, avoiding a spring that seems determined to work its way out of the vinyl upholstery and uncoil and bite his left buttock.

"You're heading north, you Mohammed scumbag! I may not be from Boston, but I know where the Embankment is, and you ain't even on the right side of the fucking river!"

The cabdriver who calls himself Bдbur completely ignores his passenger and continues along his route, cheerfully pointing out the sights, including the Suffolk County Jail, the Massachusetts General Hospital and the Shriners Burn Center. By the time he drops Marino off on Storrow Drive, close but not too close to Benton Wesley's apartment building, the meter registers $68.35. Marino slings open the door and throws a crumpled one-dollar bill onto the front seat.

"You owe me sixty-seven dollars and thirty-five cents." The taxi driver smooths open the dollar bill on his leg. "I will call the police!"

"And I'll beat the shit out of you. And you can't do nothing about it, because you ain't legal, right? Show me your green card, asshole, and guess what, I'm the police and got a pistol strapped under my arm." He snatches out his wallet and flashes the badge he did not return to the Richmond Police Department after he retired.

He said he lost it.

Tires squeal as the taxi driver speeds off, screaming curses out his open window. Marino heads toward the Longfellow Bridge and veers off southeast, briefly following the same sidewalk he and Benton walked along earlier today. He takes a roundabout way beneath gas lamplight on Pinckney and Revere, constantly listening and checking his surroundings, making certain he isn't being followed, as is his habit. Marino isn't thinking about the Chandonne cartel. He is on the lookout for the usual street punks and lunatics, although he has seen no evidence of either in this section of Beacon Hill.

When Benton's building comes into view, Marino notices that the windows of unit 56 are dark.

"Shit," he mutters, tossing his cigarette, not bothering to stamp it out.

Benton must have gone out for a late dinner, or to the gym, or for a jog. But that isn't likely, and Marino's anxieties tighten his chest with his every step. He knows damn well that Benton would leave lights on when he goes out. He isn't the sort to walk into a completely dark house or apartment.

Climbing the stairs to the fifth floor is worse than last time, because adrenaline and beer quicken his straining heart until he can scarcely breathe. When he reaches unit 56, he bangs on the door. Not a sound comes from inside.

He pounds harder and calls out, "Yo, Tom!"