The Fixer

64

The Dunkin’ Donuts on Old Colony Avenue in Southie was perched in the middle of a big parking lot, which made it a useful place to meet. It was a busy street, another advantage. Or so he was told. Rick was no expert.

He sat in his rented Saturn parked within view of the entrance. He wore a Red Sox cap and was barely recognizable.

He watched the customers enter.

A teenage boy with a bad case of acne. A man in glasses and an ill-fitting blazer, who could have been an accountant. An overweight woman in her twenties wearing a pantsuit. He gave a second look to a man who looked as if he worked with his hands but decided he was probably a construction worker.

He had nothing but fragmentary memory to go on. A shamrock tattoo on the man’s wrist and not much more. He’d seen that only close up. Leathery hands. But the man he was waiting to meet would be powerfully built and in his fifties or older, maybe closer to sixties. Rick was twenty minutes early but wouldn’t have been surprised if the man-Shamrock, he’d call him-arrived early, too. He’d look around, probably make a circuit, before he got his coffee.

Then at five minutes before seven a man came striding purposefully along the sidewalk and up to the restaurant. There was little question this was Shamrock. A bull-necked man of around sixty with a hard look, wearing an expensive-looking black leather jacket and a gray tweed scally cap. He had a pug nose and a scowl and big hands. He looked like a tough SOB. He was chewing gum. The cap was the giveaway. It was a flat cap, a longshoreman’s cap with a small brim. It might as well have been a neon sign with an arrow.

The man squinted and cast a glance around the exterior, then entered.

Rick got out of the car and, making sure Shamrock wasn’t looking out, crossed the street.

Directly across the street was a dive bar. It had a green awning with a Guinness sign on it and a green-painted door. There were four or five customers in here. The ones at the bar looked like regulars. The window in the front door had a good view of the Dunkin’ Donuts.

He texted Shamrock:

Saw someone I know in DD. Meet me in bar across street.

He wondered if this change in plans would screw things up. He watched out the bar window.

But not a minute later Shamrock came striding out. It was hard to tell whether he was pissed off or that was his normal glower.

He crossed the street and entered the bar. His eyes shifted side to side. He must have known what Jeff looked like; they’d probably met before.

Rick sat in a booth near the bar.

Thirty seconds later Shamrock’s eyes slid past Rick’s face and kept moving.

An instant later his eyes slid back and alit on Rick’s.

A moment of recognition, and then he smiled nastily.

He approached Rick’s booth and slid in next to him. Rick could feel something poking into his side. The blood drained from his face.

Shamrock leaned in close and whispered into Rick’s ear. Rick could smell the barbershop and feel Shamrock’s humid breath.

“So it’s the other fella’s body in the house, not yours. Ballsy gobshite, I’ll give you that. But stupid as shit.”

Rick’s pulse accelerated wildly. He knew this was it and that it could go any number of ways. He tried to look unafraid but couldn’t help a slight twitching in his left eye muscle.

“Here’s how we’re going to play it, boyo,” Shamrock whispered. “You and I are going to walk out of here nice and quiet. My nine millimeter’s safety is off. I will not hesitate to put a bullet in your spine.”

Rick swallowed, nodded.

The gun in Shamrock’s windbreaker pocket was hard in Rick’s ribs.

“Get up after me and if you try to fuck around, it’ll be the last time.”

Shamrock got up from the booth, and Rick slid out, light-headed, heart jackhammering.

Shamrock helped him out, grabbing hold of his elbow as he did so, yanking him roughly to his feet.

This was, Rick realized, the most foolish thing he’d ever done. Bravery was akin to stupidity. He was about to die. He looked around the bar frantically but kept going. Shamrock’s arm was around his shoulder. They could have been two friends who’d had too much to drink.

Shamrock shoved the front door open and Rick felt a gust of cold air hit his face.

He took a breath, then said, blandly, “You’re surrounded.”

Shamrock laughed disdainfully.

Three men in blue FBI windbreakers seemed to materialize out of thin air. As they shouted, “FBI!,” Rick dropped to the ground as he’d been instructed to do. He felt the sting of asphalt on his face.

Shamrock didn’t even struggle. He knew there was no point.

As Rick got up, he caught Shamrock staring at him with burning hostility. “You goddamned son of a bitch,” he said. “You don’t know what you just did.”