Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn (22 page)

I
would have let him die,” Z said. “The guy helped kill McGee’s friends. He shot at cops. He burned your apartment.”

“A few character flaws never deter a true hero.”

“Did you ever charge McGee for the case?”

“Nope,” I said. “He’s helping me find a new place to live.”

We were sparring. It would be our last time for a while. Z was leaving Boston for Los Angeles in a week. His three years under my tutelage had flown by. As if to underscore the point, he worked a tricky combination: jab, cross, lead uppercut, and another cross. His cross was always substantial.

“You won’t go back to Marlborough Street after they rebuild?”

“Nope,” I said. “I understand the tenants’ association has a few complaints.”

“That’s not your fault.”

“Maybe not directly,” I said. “But after the trial, they’ll know who Mr. Firebug was out to get.”

We danced around the ring at the Harbor Health Club. Henry leaned against the ropes calling out criticisms and even more complaints. According to Henry, his mother used to hit much harder than both of us put together.

“And how’s Teehan’s case going?”

“He blames Holy Innocents all on Donovan.”

“You believe that crap?”

“I do,” I said. “I don’t think Teehan has anything to hide anymore. He’s broken. He’s lost his captain.”

“Captain Whacko.”

We worked another couple of rounds and then went on to a little heavy bag work. We changed into running shoes to finish it off with some road work. We ran down Atlantic and crossed the old bridge into the Seaport. We weren’t far from the Boston Fire Museum where I’d first met Rob Featherstone. There still was a black ribbon on its front door.

“I heard police made a few arrests in Southie,” Z said.

“Good for them.”

“They must have gotten some good leads off the cameras,” he said. “But they still can’t get DeMarco.”

“Despite his appearance,” I said, “Jackie isn’t that stupid.”

“He’s the reason why Hawk has taken a vacation.”

“Hawk’s handled far worse than DeMarco,” I said. “He’s working in France. Supporting himself in the lifestyle to which he’s become accustomed.”

“What’s he doing there?”

“I never ask.”

Z smiled. “Jackie’s gonna come after Hawk. And you.”

“I certainly hope so.”

We ran past the new Federal Courthouse, where Teehan would have to answer to his arson charges, and deeper into the new Seaport, where the old run-down printing warehouses had become locavore restaurants and boutique hotels. Despite the hip appearance, it still smelled like rotting fish to me.

“I can stay,” Z said. “Until this thing with DeMarco blows over.”

“Nope,” I said. “It’s time. This thing with DeMarco has been simmering for a while. It’s not going away anytime soon.”

“If it does,” Z said. “I’ll come back.”

“I know.”

“And you’ll come to L.A. if I need you?”

“Why not,” I said. “It’s been a while since I had margaritas at Lucy’s El Adobe.”

Z was full of strength, health, and purpose as we graduated from a jog into a run and made our way back over the channel toward the Harbor Health Club. Again, I let him win.

We showered and changed into street clothes, following the steps down to the parking lot. Z looked as if he had something to ask me but didn’t quite know how to phrase it.

“Dinner,” I said. “We’ll have a nice sendoff at Rialto.”

When Z packed up and left a week later, it was the only time I’d ever seen Henry Cimoli cry. Just one tear, but for Henry, it was as good as a gusher. When he noticed me staring, he wiped his eyes and said, “Oh, shut the fuck up, Spenser.”

I
t was the first week of September and the first cool evening in a long while. Susan and I walked from the Russell House Tavern, where we’d had a big meal of many small plates, to stroll about Harvard Square. Susan had a vodka gimlet while I invested heavily in a special batch from Ipswich Brewing Company. While we strolled, I noted the trees’ many branches and mentioned this fact to Susan.

“Are you drunk, sir?”

“Never,” I said. “Simply content.”

“Is that your hand on my backside?”

“A pat,” I said. “Of love.”

I reached out and took her slim hand as we turned on Brattle Street and stopped in for a nightcap at Harvest. She sat at the bar with a glass of white wine, seeming to enjoy each delicate sip,
while I had a bourbon with one large cube of ice. We watched the students and teachers mingle and spoke for a while with the bartender.

On the way back, I offered Susan my sport coat, and to my surprise, she accepted it. It had taken some time, but I was slowly rebuilding my wardrobe. A new place might take more effort and thought.

“Have you thought more about us moving in together?” Susan said. “I know there was that one time. But the circumstances have changed a great deal.”

“What do you tell your patients?”

“Tell me more about your mother.” Susan said it as she imagined Sigmund Freud might have. Her German accent was about as good as my Bogart.

“No,” I said. My hand in hers. “Don’t screw up a good thing.”

“Ah,” she said. “You know, I don’t think I ever said that.”

“Maybe not in so many words,” I said. “How about ‘Stick to what works’?”

“Better,” she said. “And this works for us?”

“Maybe our living apart builds up the animal lust you have for me,” I said.

“I thought you said it was primal.”

With one hand, I beat my chest like Tarzan. I refrained from the jungle call.

“You can stay as long as you like,” she said. “But please pick up your underwear.”

“That’s how it starts.”

She smiled. We kept walking. The crisp air felt good to
breathe, and there was a rowdy excitement about the square of kids returning to Harvard. A sort of rekindled energy from the slow summer months.

“Have you heard from Z?” she said.

“Nope.”

“He’s very grateful.”

I nodded.

“You miss him.”

“I had a free trainer for a few years,” I said. “He basically retooled the entire gym. But no one misses him as much as Henry.”

“Maybe we need to invite Henry to dinner soon.”

“He would like that very much.”

“And Hawk?”

“Whenever he flies home,” I said. “I just got a postcard from Marseille.”

“Work?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “He only mentioned the bouillabaisse.”

“Of course,” she said. “When he comes home, there will be trouble?”

“I guess we’ll soon find out.”

We walked toward The Pit, filled with its street painters and drum bucket musicians, the homeless holding out plastic cups. The red line terminal bustled with life, people coming and going into the city. Steam rose from sewer grates while leaves swirled and turned in the brisk wind.

The big digital clock over the Savings Bank clicked off each
minute. I looked up at it, closed one eye, and made a gun with my thumb and forefinger.

“Let me guess,” Susan said. “You’d kill time if it wouldn’t injure eternity?”

“No such luck,” I said. I dropped the hammer. Susan and I walked off together into the swirling leaves and music.

My thanks to the Boston Fire Department: Steve MacDonald, public information officer, and Commissioner Joe Finn. A very special thanks to the late Mike Mullane of the Professional Firefighters of Massachusetts. Mike was a great resource and a true pal during the writing of this book. He offered beer and plenty of jokes down at Florian Hall and will be greatly missed.
Boston on Fire
, by Stephanie Schorow, and
Ring of Fire
, an unpublished manuscript by George Hall, were excellent sources on the true arson case that plagued Boston in the
1980s.

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