52
Burton Chaney walked out of the elevator and saw Gordon Winter sitting in one of several easy chairs that were in the lobby. He crossed the room and sat across from him. “What are you doing here, Gordon?”
“The boss sent me, Burt.”
“What does he need?”
“Your expertise.”
“What?”
“We got a situation.”
“Gordon, I won’t do it. I’m not in that life any longer.”
Winter stood and said, “Jimmy ain’t gonna be happy about this. He feels you owe him.”
“I do. I just don’t want to go back to that.”
“I’ll tell him.”
Winter walked toward the exit, and Chaney said, “Gordon.”
Winter turned. “Yeah?”
“Tell Jimmy that if he wants my help, he can come ask for it personally. No offense intended.”
“Gotcha,” Winter said, “I’ll pass it along.”
It took less than twenty minutes for the call. “Meet me at the Claddagh Pub.” The tone of voice told Chaney that O’Leary was not happy about the way things were turning out. “Be here in an hour.”
“It’s nice to hear from you, too,” Chaney replied, making no effort to hide his sarcasm.
“Just be here.”
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Southie had not changed much since Chaney had last been there. But then, that was only a year ago; it had not changed much in the last fifty years, so it was unrealistic to expect anything drastic to have taken place. The streets felt claustrophobic when compared to the wide-open land around Chaney’s New Hampshire home. The triple-deckers were crammed together, separated by narrow alleys that were barely wide enough to allow a car to pass. Everything seemed in need of a good washing. Chaney thought flushing would be a more appropriate term. Cars lined both sides of the street, which was more suited to having parking restricted to a single side. He recalled the first time he drove these streets and how worried he was that he would sideswipe the cars that limited the thoroughfare. He saw the only open spots on the block were directly in front of Jimmy O’Leary’s Claddagh Pub. No one in Southie would dare to park in one of the three slots, which were reserved for O’Leary and his personal guests. Chaney parked in one of them.
The interior of the bar was dark and smelled of spilled beer and liquor; even though O’Leary spent lavishly to make the place look upscale, it was still nothing more than a neighborhood watering hole. Once his eyes adjusted to the dim interior, Chaney saw Winter backing the bar. Gordon said nothing, just tipped his head in the direction of the corridor that led to O’Leary’s office. Chaney gave him a casual wave and entered the hallway.
He knocked once on the office door and then entered, not waiting for permission. O’Leary sat behind a broad desk on which not a single piece of paper resided. He was smoking one of his ever-present cigarettes. O’Leary watched Chaney through narrowed eyes and said nothing until his childhood friend sat in one of the two easy chairs that fronted the desk.
O’Leary ground out his cigarette and said, “You’re lookin’ good. That country air must agree with you.”
“More so than the fog in here.”
O’Leary ignored the comment and said, “I suppose you’re wondering why I sent . . .” He amended his words. “. . . asked you here.”
“Yup.”
“I’ll get to it then. I know you don’t want to have any more to do with me than I do you.”
“It’s your meeting—do what you will.”
“First, let me clear the air . . .”
Chaney looked at the layers of tobacco smoke that hung in the air. “It’d be nice. This place smells like a full ashtray.”
O’Leary ignored the comment, which told Chaney that whatever the favor was that Jimmy wanted, it was big.
“I need you to cover my ass . . . for old time’s sake.”
“Old time’s sake? As I recall in those old times, I was a soldier, and you were a hood.”
“I’m talking about when we were kids—the old times before those old times, Burt. You know what I mean.”
Chaney glared at his former friend. “Yeah, unfortunately, I do.”
“A little less attitude would help.”
“Last time we talked, I was recuperating from a gunshot wound, and you informed me that our truce was over, and it was business as usual.”
“Yeah, I know. But it boils down to this: back then, you needed my help, now I need yours.”
“I’m not a hit man anymore.”
“Never said you were. You gonna listen to what I have to say, or are we gonna sit here and hiss and spit at each other like two tomcats?”
“Okay. What’s got you so nervous that you’re willing to lower yourself to the point you’ll ask me for help?”
“The Russian mob.”
Chaney was silent for a few seconds and then said, “Thank God, for a few minutes there I thought it was something big.”
O’Leary stood up. “C’mon, let’s take a ride.”
“Don’t know if I like that choice of words.”
“Okay, how about, I need you to see something?”
“On one condition.”
“Which is?”
“No smoking in the damned car.”
“You know, Burt, you can be a real ball buster sometimes.”
“I learned it from an old friend . . . he’s a master at it.”
O’Leary grinned. “That I am—”
_________________
Chaney sat in the back and only spoke when O’Leary asked something that required an answer. When Winter turned off 1A and onto Chelsea Street, he knew where they were going. “Should I be concerned?” he asked.
“What?” O’Leary asked.
“We’re headed for your warehouse, aren’t we?”
“Yeah.”
“People you take there don’t usually come out alive.”
“For fuck’s sake, Burt, give it a rest.”
“You’re slipping, Jimmy.”
O’Leary turned and looked at him. “How so?”
“No one has frisked me. For all you know I could be carrying.”
“That tell you anything?”
“Yeah, it makes me think that I may live through this after all.”
O’Leary turned to the front, blew through his lips, and said, “Jesus Kee-rist. You can be a real nag when you get a mind to.”
Winter pulled up beside a warehouse and said, “End of the line.”
“You know,” Chaney said, “I could have gone all day without hearing that.”
Winter grinned. “How about ‘we’re here’?”
“That’s better.”
O’Leary led him to a side door and stepped aside to allow him to enter first. Chaney stepped inside and immediately stopped. One side of the warehouse was arranged like a huge dormitory. Women—many of whom stopped and, at first, stared at them with fear—occupied the area. “Since when did you start pimping, Jimmy?”
“Ever since we were kids, you always thought that you had all the answers,” O’Leary said. “Now how about just once you shut up and learn the question.”
“Okay, what’s this?”
O’Leary led him to a small dining area, and they sat at the table. Immediately, two women were at the table asking if they could get them anything. Their accents were Slavic, most likely Russian, and Chaney saw respect, not fear, when they spoke to O’Leary. A frail child raced forward and sat on Jimmy’s lap. “Meet Inca. Inca, this is a friend of mine. His name is Burton.”
The girl, who looked to be no more than eleven or twelve, said in faltering English, “Pleased to meet you, Burr-ton.”
Chaney smiled at her. “The pleasure is all mine.”
O’Leary slid her from his lap and said, “Now run along, Burt and I have business to do.”
Chaney watched the girl dash away and then turned to O’Leary. “I guess that at this point I should ask what the fuck is goin’ on?”
O’Leary told him the entire story.
_________________
“So,” Chaney asked, “what is it you want from me?”
“I’m gonna force the issue with Konovalov. He’ll come with a damned army. I need you and your sniper rifle to even the odds a bit.”
“I don’t have a sniper rifle anymore.”
“I’ll get one for you—same one Mike Houston used to bring down that sniper last year.”
“As I recall,” Chaney said, “that weapon was damaged.”
“I had it fixed.”
Chaney was reluctant to get involved in a gangland war, but O’Leary was right about one thing: he owed him. He looked at the young women as they moved about, straightening and cleaning their living quarters. He saw Inca, sitting off by herself, watching Jimmy much like the owner of a new Bugatti Veyron looks at his or her car. “The kid seems devoted to you. What’s her story?”
“She’s been taken away from everything she knew and was almost forced into being a whore.”
“Almost?”
“Yeah, almost. I got wind of it and stopped it.”
Chaney stood and said, “Introduce me to some of the women.”
Twenty minutes later, Chaney turned to O’Leary and said, “Okay, I’ll help you.”