Robert B. Parker’s Someone to Watch Over Me

18

Matthew Greebel, attorney at law, kept an office in a high-rise on Atlantic. I parked at the parking deck next to the Harbor Health Club and walked across the street. I rode to the twelfth floor of a tall glass building, where I found a heavyset woman with henna-colored hair who was blowing her nose.

“I’m here to see Matt,” I said. “He’s expecting me.”

“And who are you?”

“I’m that one in ten dentists who doesn’t approve of Matt’s toothpaste,” I said.

“Excuse me,” she said.

“It’s pretty urgent,” I said. “He has a lot invested in those pearly whites.”

The woman wiped her nose and eyed me, picking up the phone and telling Greebel that his dentist was here to see him. I winked at her, and she told me to take a seat. I didn’t feel like sitting and walked to one of the large windows and looked out onto the Financial District, the Quincy Market, and far into the North End. Looking out at the North End made me think of Mike’s Pastry and a peanut-butter cannoli.

I looked at my watch. Perhaps on my way home to check on Pearl.

“Who?” Greebel said, walking out from his office. He had on a white dress shirt, a blue power tie, and pleated black pants. He placed his hands on his hips and stared at me. “What do you want?”

“To continue our conversation.”

“There’s nothing to continue,” he said. “We’re done.”

“You and your client might be done,” I said. “But I’m not.”

“No offense,” Greebel said, scratching at his neck and looking to be in bad need of a shave. “But I really don’t give a fuck.”

I turned to his older, portly secretary. She was still snuffling into a Kleenex.

“He always talk like this?”

She shrugged and looked back to Greebel. Greebel eyed me, nodding, and appearing to be contemplating his next move.

“Gretchen, call security.”

She nodded and picked up the phone again. I walked away from the window and over to Greebel. I could smell his cologne within ten feet. As he stared at me, I noticed he had some lettuce stuck in his teeth.

“Sure you don’t want to talk first?”

“I’m sure,” he said. “I don’t usually run such small errands. You continue to harass me, and I’ll call the police.”

“You ran an errand down to Southie yesterday,” I said. “To harass the mother of Chloe Turner. Made me wonder why an attorney in a big high-rise is driving all around Boston to protect his client. Must be some client.”

“You have any more issues, take it up with the club.”

I smiled and walked up even closer to Greebel. His breath was most unpleasant. I detected both onions and tuna fish.

“The club isn’t your client,” I said. “You’re a fixer for Peter Steiner.”

He snorted. “Who?”

“Peter Steiner,” I said. “He had Chloe’s bag. He sent you and the cash. Did you help him on the rape case as well?”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“You will not harass Chloe Turner or her family ever again,” I said. “Nor will you harass any more of Peter Steiner’s victims.”

“Please.” Greebel gave a smug little chuckle.

“Or I’ll come back here,” I said. “And I will knock those caps right off your rotten teeth.”

“Go ahead,” he said. “Threaten me. You heard it, Gretchen. You heard it.”

Gretchen heard it. She nodded, phone still cradled to her chin.

“No intimidation, no payoffs, no more threats,” I said. “I’m coming for Peter.”

“You’re making a very big mistake.”

“Please threaten me with something more original.”

Greebel must have felt the lettuce in his teeth, as he used his pinkie to dislodge it. He inched closer to me, craning his neck to look up at me. The teeth, the unshaven jaw, the breath, and the cologne were hard to take. Yet I stood my ground.

“This is the big leagues, pal,” he said. “I checked up on you. You’re a minor-league slugger at best.”

“I would recheck my sources.”

“Ha,” he said. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Tell Steiner to keep it in his pants,” I said. “Or else I’ll tie it in a knot and hang it from the tallest branch of the Liberty Tree.”

“What?”

I smiled and began to whistle “The Sons of Liberty” on the way out. Johnny Tremain would be proud.