Robert B. Parker’s Fallout

Forty-Two

They met at a mom-and-pop Italian restaurant in the North End called Tony and Elaine’s. Wine bottles in baskets. Red-and-white checked tablecloths. The whole place smelled like red sauce. Jesse felt that if he looked hard enough, he could find a framed photograph of the Pope on one of the walls. Right next to a signed one from Sinatra.

“You can imagine my surprise when I got your call,” Richie Burke said.

Ex-husband to Sunny Randall. Son of Desmond Burke, which meant son of the Irish Mob in Boston. Father, Jesse knew, to Richard Burke, the product of Richie’s second marriage, long since over, the way his marriage to Sunny was, despite Richie’s best and continued efforts for a second trip up the altar with Sunny. Or Round Two, the way Jesse used to describe it.

Owner of his own saloon, a legitimate business by all accounts, a few blocks from here.

“Imagine my surprise at placing the call,” Jesse said.

They had been in each other’s company only a handful of times, usually by accident. It was always awkward between them, but cordial. Or perhaps wary. The only thing they had in common, apart from Richie’s family connection to the kind of bad guys it was Jesse’s sworn duty to put away, was that they both loved Sunny Randall.

“Before we get to it,” Richie said, “are we gonna talk about the elephant in the room?”

They had each ordered pasta with Bolognese sauce. When in Rome. Richie had a glass of Chianti in front of him, Jesse a Coke.

“Pretty sure Ms. Randall would be resistant to that reference,” Jesse said. “I assume she’s the elephant to which you’re referring.”

“You talk to her lately?”

“No.”

“Even though you two were broken up,” Richie said, “she was less than pleased when she found out you were with Rita Fiore.”

“It didn’t last.”

“Never does with Rita.”

“Fun while it did last, though.”

“So I’ve heard,” Richie said.

“Sunny with anybody these days?”

Richie said, “She was going around with some newspaper guy last I heard from her.”

“No standards.”

“I still see her for lunch or dinner sometimes,” Richie said.

“How does that go?”

“I’m now of the opinion she likes my son better than she likes me.”

Richie broke off a piece of the warm Italian bread in the basket in front of him, dipped it in olive oil, and ate it.

“So tell me about this guy Marin,” Richie said. “You say he worked for my father when he was a kid.”

“Only briefly, according to Healy. Your father never mentioned him?” Jesse said.

Richie grinned. “You’d probably be amazed about how little I talk to my father about his business. And how many Steve Marins he’s employed in various capacities.”

“According to Healy,” Jesse continued, “Marin didn’t last long with your father because he was too much of a hothead. Liked beating up people who didn’t pay more than he should have. When your father let him go, he moved on to Jackie DeMarco’s old crew, under new management by then. When he was still a kid, not even out of high school. All-around headbanging. They even clipped him for arson before he ended at the youth center in Roslindale from there.”

“I thought juvie records are supposed to be sealed.”

“Not to Healy, they’re not.”

Richie drank wine. “How’d he end up working at a chocolate company in Paradise, Mass.?”

“Not sure yet,” Jesse said. “But I’m going to find out tomorrow.”

Hillary More had tried to call Jesse a few times, but hadn’t left a message. He was sure it was about his visit to her house, and conversation with her son. Lots for them to talk about tomorrow.

The food was delicious. No shocker there. They were in the North End of Boston, which considered itself to be a capital of Italian food the way Fenway Park considered itself to be the capital of big league baseball.

“Jackie DeMarco died, right?” Jesse asked Richie.

“So he did. But this guy named Roarke had been the new management you mentioned even when Jackie was still with us.”

“What can you tell me about Roarke that might be useful?”

“Not as much as my father can.”

Richie pulled out his phone, punched out a number, waited.

“Need some intel on Roarke,” Richie said.

He listened, nodding, for what felt like a couple minutes to Jesse, or even more. Then he said, “Just asking for a friend.”

Listened again. “Jesse Stone, Dad.”

Richie Burke grinned then.

“Yes, Dad. Sunny’s copper friend.”

“Wait, while I’ve got you,” Richie finally said into his phone. “You know where Jesse might find Roarke if he were so inclined?”

Nodded one last time and put the phone back in his pocket.

“The gentleman’s full name, though my father clearly considers him something less than a gentleman, is Liam Roarke.”

“Irish,” Jesse said. “That can’t be good.”

“Never,” Richie said. “He says that their interests haven’t yet collided in any meaningful way, mostly because Roarke, at least up to now, has had a different area of interest.”

“That being?”

“My father called Roarke the king of crypto,” Richie said.

Jesse put down his fork and stared at Richie Burke.

“Oh, ho,” he said softly.

“Haven’t heard that one in a while,” Richie said.

“Oldie but goodie.”

“My father says that if Roarke is sideways with anybody these days, it’s Tony Marcus.”

“Because of crypto?”

“And the fun-filled world of money laundering in general.”

Jesse explained then about Charlie’s laptop and crypto to Richie.

“Could be a coincidence,” Richie said.

“And the earth could be flat,” Jesse said.

Richie grinned. “Prove that it’s not.”

“If your father knows where Roarke is, that must mean he keeps an eye on him from time to time.”

“There’s a reason why Desmond Burke has lasted this long,” Richie said.

Jesse called for the check, then paid it.

“Wait, no dessert?” Richie said.

“You interested in taking a ride with me?” Jesse said.

“I’ve got the babysitter until eleven.”

“Who knows,” Jesse said. “Could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” Richie Burke said.

Then he said, “You sure you want to do this?”

“Hell, no,” Jesse said.