Angela was not to be stopped from delivering her ser- mon. We were being irresponsible, it was dangerous walking into a situation for which we were not prepared, we were going to get hurt, would likely end up going on a deep-sea fishing trip in which we would function as the bait, this was not to be taken lightly, whatever were we thinking, were we crazy, was our life insurance paid up, how would she explain my certain demise to my employer at the Boston Journal, not to mention our families … and so forth.
We eventually told her we’d call as soon as we could to assure her of our continued safety and escaped to the men’s locker room upstairs. Jackie ordered a tall vodka on the rocks. I asked for a club soda. Jack looked at me accusingly so I had Roland put a slice of lime in it as well.
“So,” I said when our drinks arrived. “Do we have anything that resembles a plan of action?”
“Hacker,” Jackie said as he took a long pull of his 16 oz. glass of vodka. “We are so far from having a plan it isn’t funny. All we know is what we know. So we go see what Rene wants from us, we ask him to answer our questions and then maybe we all go out for a beer and a shot.”
“Or skip the beer part and just get shot,” I said.
“Whatever,” Jackie said, waving his hand in dismissal. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained, I always say.”
“Never heard you say that before, pards,” I told him.
“Whatever,” he said again, and drained his drink. But my accounting, that was 8 oz. per swallow. I cannonballed my club soda, choked a little, and slammed the glass down.
“Just do it,” I said.
Outside, dusk was beginning to creep out from beneath the hedges and trees, softening the edges of everything and turning the world gray. But even from 50 feet away, as we walked towards Jack’s car, we could see the blond woman leaning against the rear bumper. She wore black Capri pants, a red pattern sweater and had a suitcase-sized woven bag hanging over her shoulder.
“Hiya, fellas,” said Leta Papageorge as we approached. “Goin’ my way?”
“Dunno,” Jack said, not breaking stride. “Which way are you going?”
“Well,” she said, “I was hoping you’d take me down to police headquarters so I can bail poor Teddy out. I don’t think he was the one who killed Vitus.”
Jack and I looked at each other silently.
“I brought lots of cash,” she said, “See?” She opened her bag. There were blocks of wrapped bills inside. Lots of them.
“Might take more than cash to get him out,” I said.
“Might have to give them the killer. Until then, they think Ted’s the one and I don’t think he’s gonna get bail.”“Oh,” she said, and her face fell for a moment. Then she brightened. “Then I guess I’ll go wherever you guys are going.”
“Don’t you have a funeral to plan or something?” Jackie asked, unkindly.
“Up yours, Connolly,” she said. “Vitus’ family is handling all of that, and frankly, we’re both glad that I have nothing to do with it. It’s scheduled for Wednesday and I’m still trying to decide if I’m going.”
“I know the name of a good grief counselor if you want,” Jack said. “Help you to buck up and all that.”
He unlocked the car and Leta popped the back door and jumped in. Jack and I looked at each other and shrugged and got in.
“Are you armed and dangerous?” I asked as Jack wheeled us out of the parking lot and down the long, curving entrance road.
“Of course,” Leta said cheerfully from the back seat. “You think I’d go out with all this cash and no means of protection?”
“Well,” I said, “You got us, now, and where we’re going, I’m afraid having a gun might not prove to be the best idea.”
“Where are we going?” she asked, excitedly.
“To see Rene Lemere,” Jack said.
Leta Papageorge blew out her breath. “Holy crap,” she said.
I turned around in my seat and looked at her. “You know him?” I asked.
“Ahhh…know of him,” she answered, her eyes not meeting mine, but looking out the window at the passing scenery. “If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll keep my pistol.”
I shrugged. “Your funeral,” I said. Jackie laughed.
Jackie was driving down the river towards Lowell. We passed an ice cream store, the old waterworks, and a new pavilion alongside the water whose sign read: “Lowell Sailing Center.”
“Hey,” Leta said. “Did you guys know that Vitus had a son?”
“Really?” I said.
“Yeah. Surprise to me, too. My beloved husband never mentioned him to me. Turns out he was married twice before, the first time for about six minutes apparently. One of Vitus’ aunts took great pleasure in telling me. Apparently she told the son, too, ‘cause he’s flying in for the festivities.”
“Where’s he live?” Jack asked.
“Jesus,” Leta said. “Someplace in Hicksville. Ottumwa, Iowa or some damn place. Auntie Kay said that Vitus never liked the kid and he tried to get as far away from his father as possible. Which I guess is Ottumwa.”
“But he’s coming back for the funeral,” I said.
“He’s coming back to make a claim for the inheritance,” Leta said sharply. “I’ll probably have to buy him off. Little shit. I don’t like him either and I’ve never met him.”
“Would you like some cheese with that whine?” I said sarcastically.
There was a rustle from the back seat and something round and hard was thrust into the back of my neck at the base of my brain.
“Hacker,” she said coldly, “Are you sure you want to be insulting someone who’s carrying a loaded firearm?”
I felt the blood drain from my face. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jack try to stifle a grin. He failed. I whirled around. Leta was holding the thick end of a fountain pen. She and Jack burst out in peals of laughter.
“Bite me,” I said, which was the best I come up with to regain some dignity.
We rumbled across one of the suspension bridges that span the mighty Merrimac near downtown Lowell, and worked our way through the center of town. The town hall, a huge monolithic turreted structure constructed out of gray granite blocks, rolled by on the left. A long four-story red brick building stretched off to the right for several blocks: one of the miles of mills that made up this rusty old town.
“You know where we’re going?” I asked Jack.
He nodded. “I think Rene keeps something of an office in one of these old buildings on the canal,” he said. “I’m looking for a sign.”
“Lemere Legbreakers?” I asked. “You call, we haul, that’s all? The best pain money can buy? Don’t leave your loansharking to an amateur…call the best!”
“Hacker?” Jackie said gently. “Are you wigging out on me?”
“Sounds like it,” said the voice in the back seat.
“There it is!” Jack said. “Teamsters Foundations. Doesn’t that sound like a nice little law-abiding business?”
He pulled into a small, cobblestoned parking area. The building was brick, three stories high, and filled with large windows, most of them on the upper floors boarded up. Next to the parking area was a loading dock, the bay shuttered tight, and a gray door above which hung a lone metal light. It was dark and getting chilly. A lone streetlight a few yards away threw dark shadows across the sidewalk. There were no lights on inside the building that we could see, and no other cars in sight, except for a beat-up pick-up truck parked down near the corner. The only sounds were a dull rumbling of cars from a main street a few blocks away and the mournful cries of the crickets in the weeds. They knew their goose was cooked.
We got out of the car and looked at the dark facade. I was encouraged by the lack of lights. Leta was not. “Shit,” she said, “No one’s here.” Good, I thought, maybe we can get out of here with our brains intact.
“You never know,” Jackie said. He walked up to the door beside the loading dock and pushed the bell. We heard a ringing echoing inside. He waited a few moments and pounded on the door. Nothing.
“Oh well,” he said. “Let’s try Plan B.”
I was about to ask him what the next brilliant strategy was when the door creaked open, spilling bright light into the parking lot. A guy with a large head of brilliantined hair stuck his head out the door.
“Th’ fuck you want?” he grunted.
“We’re looking for Rene Lemere,” Jack said. His voice, I noticed, had just the smallest quiver in it.
“You got an appointment?” the guy asked, his frown causing his entire massive face to droop.
I laughed out loud. I didn’t mean to, of course. But the question struck me as absurd. That one would need an appointment to see a hood. In a dump like this. At seven o’clock on a Sunday night. Leta, standing next to me, gave me an elbow shot to the ribs, but it was too late.
“Th’ fuck’s so funny?” the guy grunted, not looking happy in the least.
“My friend is a little on edge,” Jack smoothly interjected. “We’re trying to find Rene and have a little sit-down with him. My friend here is Hacker, and we understand Rene’s been looking for a meeting. Thought we’d save him some time and effort and drop in.”
The guy looked Jack and up and down, and then focused his dark and beady eyes at me and gave me the up and down thing too. Then he turned to Leta, who said “Keep your eyes to yourself, bozo.”
That was enough. The guy threw the door open and motioned us inside.
“Ah,” Jack said, sounding proud of himself. “So he’s here?”
“Naw,” the guy said. “But you three pieces o’ shit ain’t goin’ nowhere until he says so.”
“Well,” Jack said, “Thanks anyway, but we’ll wait until …”
“You’ll wait until nuttin’” the guy said. He pulled back his jacket to show us his pistol tucked in his waistband. “Get your sorry asses in here. Now.”
Our asses, sorry and not, went inside.