I had a small idea.
It was late afternoon and raining hard when Z and I got in my car in the Public Alley behind my building, and pulled out onto Arlington Street. We circled the block and went down Berkeley Street to Storrow, into the tunnel under the city, southbound, and exited in time to cross Atlantic Ave and drive into South Boston. Stephano and his colleagues picked us up on Arlington Street and stayed close behind us, even bumping the rear of my car a little at the Boylston Street stoplight. I ignored them.
Jumbo’s movie was shooting in the big alley between the Design Center and the Black Falcon Terminal in Southie. And when we parked near the set, Stephano and friends parked near us, and made a show of walking behind us onto the set.
So far, so good.
Jumbo was in his trailer, having lunch. Z and I went in without knocking. Don came to his feet, and put his hand inside his coat.
“Hey,” he said. “You can’t come in here.”
“Can, too,” I said.
I hit Don with a left hook and a right cross and knocked him over backward. It stunned him, and while he was recovering, Z bent over and took the gun from inside Don’s coat and put it in the side pocket of his own raincoat.
“What the fuck is this,” Jumbo said.
He was eating a sub sandwich and drinking champagne.
“Want to tell you some stuff, ask you some questions, and point something out,” I said.
“What’s that fucking Indian want?” Jumbo said.
He was trying to talk and eat his sub at the same time, and was making a mess of it. Don was sitting on the floor, recovering.
“Here’s what I know,” I said to Jumbo. “I know that Dawn Lopata was strangled to death on your bed, naked, with a scarf tied around her neck.”
Jumbo looked at Z.
“The fucking Indian tell you that?” Jumbo said. “He’s a lying sack of shit. Always has been.”
“And that you had him dress her, and get rid of the scarf, before anyone called for help,” I said.
“Fucking snitch,” Jumbo said. “You think you can trust a fucking loser like Z?”
“Had you called for help right away,” I said, “maybe she wouldn’t have died.”
“Bullshit,” Jumbo said.
“And maybe you should go to jail for that,” I said.
“Fuck you,” Jumbo said, and drank some champagne.
“Good point,” I said.
I walked to the window of the trailer. And leaned against the wall beside it.
I said, “How’d she die, Jumbo?”
“How the fuck do I know,” he said, and stuffed more of his sandwich into his mouth. “I already told everybody what I know. I went to the bathroom, she was fine. I come out, and she was dead.”
I nodded.
“You recognize Stephano DeLauria, if you saw him?” I said.
“Alice’s husband,” Jumbo said. “Yeah, a’course.”
“That him?” I said, and nodded out the window.
Jumbo stared at me. Then he heaved himself up and came to the window. The rain blurred things a little. But Jumbo recognized Stephano.
“Jesus,” he said.
Stephano and his posse were under an awning, leaning against the side of a Penske rental truck full of lighting gear. They were all four staring at Jumbo’s trailer.
“Seem to be interested in you,” I said to Jumbo.
Jumbo looked out the window at Stephano.
“What’s he want?” Jumbo said.
“Maybe he’s worried that if you get busted for the Dawn Lopata thing, you might start spilling your big gut about things involving Nicky Fellscroft and AABeau and all that,” I said.
“I wouldn’t say nothing about nothing,” Jumbo said.
“You know that,” I said. “And I know that. But does Stephano know that? Maybe more important, does Nicky Fellscroft know that?”
I stepped in front of the window and waved at Stephano. He extended his right arm, sighted down it, and pretended to shoot me with his first two fingers.
“Guess he’s waiting until Z and I leave,” I said.
“God, Jesus,” Jumbo said.
His voice was shaking. He looked at Don, who was now sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands.
“Fuck,” Jumbo said. “Who’s gonna help me?”
He looked at me.
“You,” he said. “I’ll give you as much as you want. You want the Indian, I’ll hire him, too. Both of you. Say how much, you got it. Just keep Stephano away from me. Anything you want. Anything.”
“The truth,” I said. “You tell me what happened to Dawn Lopata, and maybe Z and I can help you out with Stephano.”
“You know about him,” Jumbo said. “What he does? What he’s like?”
“I do,” I said.
“I got nowhere else to go,” Jumbo said. “You gotta help me.”
“Tell me about Dawn,” I said.
Jumbo took his champagne bottle from the ice bucket and drank about a third of it. He put the bottle down, belched hugely.
Then he said, “Fuck Dawn. These guys are gonna kill me, and you’re worrying about some little slut from the fucking local boondocks?”
“Exactly,” I said.
Jumbo guzzled some more champagne.
“I tell you what I know, you’ll help me?”
“If I believe you,” I said.
“How I gonna do that?” Jumbo said. “How can I make you believe me?”
“Can’t,” I said. “Gotta hope I do.”
“That fucking sucks,” Jumbo said.
“Does,” I said. “Doesn’t it.”
Jumbo looked at his bodyguard.
“Lock the fucking door,” Jumbo said. “Can you handle that?”
Don stood up and locked the door to the trailer.
“Useless fuck,” Jumbo said.
“Hard to figure why you’re having trouble finding help,” I said.