Robert B. Parker’s Cheap Shot

35

My mental Rolodex of thugs had ebbed and flowed over my years of business. The old Italian and Irish crews I’d known seemed to have mostly disappeared or gone to that big house in the sky. Over the last decade, there seemed to be a lot of ethnic crime around Boston: Ukrainians and Albanians, Chinese, and lots of Vietnamese. Fast Eddie Lee had a stronger and stronger grip on the city. Gino Fish still did a nice bit of business about town, as Tony Marcus kept his eyes on much of the working ladies. I had removed Joe Broz from my Rolodex after his recent demise and had added his son’s name in light pencil.

Gerry Broz had owned a pretty posh sports bar in Southie. Sports bars being a cultural obsession in Boston almost like the coffeehouses of Vienna. But Gerry’s bar, Playmates, had gone into bankruptcy, and he’d decided to start a tropical-fish distributorship in Coolidge Corner, down the street from the old movie house.

It was still raining that morning as Z and I walked into the large brick warehouse.

Gerry looked up from vacuuming out a fish tank as large as my apartment.

He was wearing a custom T-shirt reading Broz Tropical Equipment and Supplies, old khaki pants, and knee-high rubber boots. His mouth hung open when he recognized me.

“Fuck me,” he said. “Out. Get out.”

“Gerry Broz, wow,” I said. “You work here?”

Broz put down the vacuum and turned off the pump. He wiped his wet hands on his khakis and stared at us.

“I’m in the market for two clown fish and some information on dirty deeds in Dorchester,” I said.

“Good luck with that,” Broz said. “I’m out of the life.”

“Sure you are,” Z said.

“Who the fuck are you?” Gerry said. “Do I fucking know you, kid?”

“Sorry, Gerry,” I said. “Gerry, this is Zebulon Sixkill. My associate. He’s named after Zebulon Pike. Of Pike’s Peak fame.”

“I don’t give two shits,” Gerry said. “I’m out of the life. You come around and harass me and talk about dirty shit and I’ll call the cops. I pay fucking taxes.”

“Fish,” I said. “Really?”

“I always been into fish, Spenser,” he said.

I tilted my head. He had me there.

“All I need is some direction,” I said. “You know a guy named Kevin Murphy?”

Gerry roamed his hand over his pudgy face. “Sure,” he said. “I’ll get right on it. Weren’t you the same guy who wanted to turn over my dad on his deathbed? Yeah, I’d love to help you.”

“Did I?”

“But you would have,” he said. “You forced me getting into a lot of shit that wasn’t my fucking business.”

Z wandered off along a row of fish tanks stacked five high. The warehouse was dim, but the aquariums were brightly lit with all manner of colorful fish. I couldn’t name any of them if a marine biologist put a gun to my head.

“What if I said I’ll owe you one?”

Broz dumped the vacuum and the hose in a stainless-steel work sink. He rinsed out the sludge and looked to be thinking. Of course, it was very hard to tell if Gerry Broz was thinking, as he did it so infrequently.

Z walked up the metal framework that balanced all the aquariums. He pushed at it lightly, as if testing its strength. Pushing with his arms and shoulders, leaning into it and stretching out his back. The metal and glass made the slightest cracking sounds.

“Hey,” Gerry said. “Hey.”

“A favor?” I said.

Z let go. He smiled and placed his hands back into his leather jacket.

“A favor,” I said. “Anytime. Within reason.”

Gerry shot an unpleasant look at Z. Z grinned back at him.

“Murphy,” I said. “Kevin.”

“Yeah, I know him,” Gerry said. “What do you want to know?”

“He used to be the main squeeze of a woman who is now married to my client,” I said. “I want to know if he’d be the kind of guy who might expand from making dirty pictures.”

“Into what?”

“Kidnapping,” I said. “Maybe murder. All kinds of good stuff.”

“Murphy is a fucking punk,” Gerry said. He scratched his neck and patted his pockets for a cigarette. He fished one out and lit it. “Man, I don’t know. He’s got a pretty decent deal going on, thinks he’s the Bob Guccione of the Internet. These young guys kill me with their macho bullshit.”

“Where?” I said.

“Why don’t you ask your cop pals?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“Couldn’t help.”

“Me, either,” he said. “Don’t know.”

“But can you find out?”

“That’s it?” he said.

“That’s it.”

“A favor?”

“To be named later,” I said.

Gerry squinted at us as he smoked. He stared hard at Z, to whom he had taken an instant dislike, and let out a long stream of smoke. “What are you? You sure ain’t from around here.”

“Cree Indian from Montana,” Z said.

“He’s running with you and Hawk?”

I nodded. There was a lot of noise from the pumps in the large, enclosed space. Gerry nodded and took another drag. “You putting together one of those Village People tribute bands? You guys would be great.”

“Keep thinking, Gerry,” I said. “That’s what you’re good at.”

“Okay,” he said. “Where can I get you?”

I told him my number. Twice.