Robert B. Parker’s Blood Feud

Thirty-Five

In the late afternoon I went for a long run along the Charles, my short-barrel .38 Velcroed above my ankle and beneath baggier running pants than I usually wore.

I went past the Charles River Bistro after I crossed the footbridge, said hello to the bust of Arthur Fiedler, took a left at the small dock facing Cambridge, and headed toward Mass Ave, a light, pleasant breeze in my face.

Normally I liked listening to music on long runs. Just not today. I wanted my head clear, a blank board, hoping the quiet and solitude of the run would help sort out the information overload inside my brain, so much of it having to do with an old knockaround guy named Albert Antonioni, and whether or not he had been the puppetmaster here all along; whether whatever was happening here wasn’t just about a woman out of the past, his and Desmond Burke’s, or part of a much deeper blood feud between him and Desmond that neither one of them wanted to talk about, at least not with me.

I kept coming back to the same thing: Was it only about Maria Cataldo, or was it about something more?

I thought back to all the times when I was at BU and I had gone with either dates or friends to the Brattle Theatre to watch Casablanca, all of us bringing cheap wine and glasses, everybody in the theater toasting the screen by saying “Here’s looking at you, kid” when Humphrey Bogart said the same thing to Ingrid Bergman, not long after Sam had broken one of Bogey’s rules by singing about hearts full of passion, jealousy, and hate.

How much of this might simply be about jealousy and hate?

Before I got into the shower Frank Belson called and told me that the casings found at the scenes of the shootings of Richie, Peter, and Buster did match the gun found in Dominic Carbone’s pocket.

“You think Carbone was the shooter?” I said.

“No,” Belson said.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t,” he said. “Because I think this is some kind of head fake.” And promptly hung up.

After my shower I fed Rosie and thought about fixing myself a martini, and decided that the cocktail hour was always better when it included Spike.

I called him and told him I was on my way over.

“And to what do I owe the impending pleasure of your company?” Spike said.

“I am hopeful that you can help me bring order to the world of objective facts,” I said.

“Boy,” he said, “I wish I had a dollar for every time somebody has asked me to do that.”

I asked if I could bring Rosie.

“Absolutely,” he said.

“You know she bothers the customers sometimes,” I said, “especially when they bother her.”

“We can only hope,” Spike said. “Objectively or otherwise.”

Spike was waiting for me at a table he’d held for us near the bar. He was wearing a gray blazer over a gray shirt of almost exactly the same color. Tonight he had a diamond stud in his ear, an accessory that came and went.

“Any particular reason for when you wear the earring and when you don’t?” I said.

“I’m feeling kind of awesome,” he said.

“Any particular reason for that?”

“Look around,” he said. “Business is fucking awesome.”

We sat down at the table, Rosie on the chair Spike had provided for her between us. As much as she would sometimes bark at strangers and other dogs when we were out on a walk, a crowded, noisy room did not seem to bother her as much. She was a complicated girl. Like her mommy.

“I got tired of being inside my own head,” I said to Spike, and he said it had to happen eventually, and told our waitress that he wanted two filthy martinis, extra olives, and to tell the bartender not to get crazy with the vermouth.

I said, “Why do we even bother with vermouth? Have you ever asked yourself that?”

“It would diminish us,” Spike said, “to order vodka with olives.”

Our drinks came promptly, along with a calamari appetizer Spike knew was my favorite, and some chopped-up chicken for Rosie. Spike fed Rosie some chicken. He and I clinked glasses and drank.

“So where are we?” Spike said.

“Settle in,” I said.

“Happily,” Spike said. “The night is young and there’s no telling how many vodka-with-olives we might drink before we’re through.”

It was not a linear presentation. Spike was used to that. He knew about the body at the skating rink, didn’t know that the gun found on Dominic Carbone had turned out to be the one used on Richie, Peter, Buster. I told him that I knew hardly anything yet about Carbone, other than the fact that he had worked for Albert Antonioni. I told him about how Albert had made sure Maria Cataldo had a proper burial, and where Maria had been born and where she’d died. I told him that Desmond Burke thought it had been Albert who’d capped Maria’s old man. But may have lied about that. Because he could.

“Albert sure do get around, do he not?” Spike said.

“Be interesting,” I said, “to know more about what he was doing when Desmond was sowing his wild oats, so to speak, before Maria got sent away by her father.”

“Could Albert have had a thing with Maria before Desmond came along?” Spike said.

“Worth knowing.”

“Think Desmond would know?” Spike said. “And if he did know, would he tell?”

“Knowing Desmond,” I said, “I might have to extract the information surgically.”

“Would explain a lot, though,” Spike said.

“Wouldn’t it,” I said.

“Got another question,” Spike said. “You think that Richie would know if Desmond and Felix decided this Carbone guy was the shooter and had him taken out?”

“No,” I said.

“Even though him getting shot was the thing that started this?”

“Even though.”

We reached down for our glasses at the same moment. Synchronized martini drinking. Maybe it should be an Olympic event. Why not? I thought. I knew badminton was.

“Belson thinks Carbone is too good to be true,” I said.

“You think it’s him?”

I shook my head. “Desmond and Felix find out it’s him and manage to lure him to a skating rink in Southie? Makes no sense.”

“What in this thing does?” Spike said.

Rosie growled suddenly, first time all night, at an older woman suddenly standing over our table, closer to Spike than to me. Pointing at Rosie.

“I wasn’t aware pets are allowed here,” the woman said.

“Actually,” Spike said, “they’re not.”

He gave her his most brilliant smile now, one that he usually reserved only for dudes. And one I was convinced could turn straight ones gay.

“But he’s sitting right there between the two of you,” the woman said.

“He’s a she,” I said. “Her name is Rosie.”

“Whatever,” the woman said, exasperated.

“Rosie doesn’t see herself as a dog,” Spike said. “Per se.”

“Are you trying to be amusing?” the woman said.

Spike looked at me, then shook his head sadly. “If they have to ask,” he said.

I knew it was bitchy, but I reached over and fed Rosie some chicken.

“Well, if the dog stays, I’m leaving,” the woman said.

Spike smiled at her. I smiled at her. Rosie growled. The woman turned and left. I had never actually seen someone turn on their heel. But I was pretty sure she just had.

Spike said, “So what’s your next move? Finding out more about this Carbone guy?”

“I think it might be easier just to speak to Albert again.”

“Fuck,” Spike said. “I was afraid of that.”

“If it’s any consolation to you,” I said, “I feel the exact same way.”