Robert B. Parker’s Fallout

Fifty-Seven

Maybe Miss Emma really was an angel, sent to look out for Jesse in this moment by God Herself, which was the way Sunny referred to God.

She was pacing on her front porch when he pulled into her driveway, lit by an overhead light, wearing a powder-blue sweatshirt tonight, sneakers to match. Jesse wondered if she was always color-coordinated like this, or just when he happened to be in her presence.

“What’s upset you?” Jesse said.

“What has upset me and royally pissed me off,” she said, “is that I got another call from one of those punk-assed bitches Charlie was after.”

She was leading him into the house now, Jesse behind her, which meant that there was no way for her to see him smiling at her language.

When they were in the living room, it was impossible for Jesse not to notice the Smith & Wesson revolver on her coffee table. He would have bet all the money in his wallet that it was a concealed-hammer 640.

“A gun, Emma?” Jesse said. “Were you planning to shoot somebody through the phone?”

“I’m not in the mood for any sass tonight, mister,” she said.

“I can see that. But am I allowed to know if you have a license for this thing?”

“My boyfriend used to have your job,” she snapped. “What do you think?”

She sat on the couch. Her sneakers barely touched the floor. Jesse sat across from what appeared to be a mahogany table. There was what appeared to be a glass of whiskey next to the revolver. One of those nights, he thought.

The wolf now chasing him over here, even if Emma Cleary was his designated angel.

“The call upset you that much?” Jesse asked.

“I’m a little edgy these days. And you may recall that I got scammed once before.”

He said he sure did remember.

“Charlie wanted to catch just one of these punks so badly,” she said.

Finally her face softened as her voice did. Maybe it was the mention of Charlie. She was his Miss Emma again.

“He still wanted to be a cop so much,” she said.

“He was still a cop,” Jesse said, then asked her to tell him about the call.

She said it would be easier for him to listen to it.

“You recorded it?” Jesse said.

“Fuckin’ ay,” she said. “My friend Doris, down in Newport, got ripped off to the tune of five thousand dollars last week on a fake charity call. They tried that one on me a couple weeks ago, on my landline, before I might have told them what I wanted them to do to theirselves.”

“The other times they called on your cell?” Jesse said.

Miss Emma nodded. “The assholes do both,” she said.

Jesse and Healy had done enough research by now to know that family-members-in-peril was just one of the scams. There were old reliables, threatening calls from the IRS. Warranty calls on cars. Lottery hustles. People saying they’re from your bank, asking about a recent purchase they know hadn’t occurred, saying they’d blocked it, but asking for the account number. Just before they cleaned you right out.

The list was longer than that.

On the call Miss Emma had just recorded, a man with the deep voice of a radio announcer explained that Emma was about to lose her health insurance if she didn’t send money right away. Preferably by money order.

Somehow this person knew how old she was.

“Listen to me play along,” Miss Emma said proudly.

Jesse put a finger to his lips.

The radio announcer was in the process of telling her the easiest way to send the money so as not to interrupt her insurance when Jesse heard a familiar sound in the background.