Like the robbers who exited the Brink’s Armored Car Depot more than a quarter century ago on the same street, I left the club unscathed and with my hat on my head. With perfect timing, Bill stopped the car in front of me outside. I opened the door, hopped in, and we escaped Prince Street under the speed limit and with Andy Gibb’s ‘Shadow Dancing’ on the radio. It wasn’t until the North End was behind us that Bill turned the knob and killed the song before the strings stepped in front of the rhythm section and vocals. I looked out the window at a cold raw sky and experienced a heaviness in black waves that would not subside until I heard Bonnie was safe in Newton.
Hunter wanted revenge for Pedro Gonzalez, and he’d extract it from whomever he thought had played a part in killing his friend, whether it was the mafia from the north, terrorists from the Caribbean, the locals in Winter Hill or in the North End, or the men in suits.
Bill’s fingers gripped the wheel. I could tell he was thinking, processing his thoughts like those punch cards on the steel runners in the opening of Adam-12. Moving. Racing. Taking the curves that came with the ride to their final destination. “Your friend Hunter,” he said. “What do you think is running through his mind?”
“He’s living the life of man on the run.”
“I’d say so. He’s capped mafia guys, and we can’t forget the Puerto Ricans either.”
“And don’t forget our northern neighbors, the Canadians,” I said.
“You know, something bothers me about this whole thing.” I glanced over at Bill and waited. He said, “Did you ever think it through, Shane?”
“Think what through?”
“The possibilities, man. You did your part for Mr. B. You found Sal for him.”
“What are you saying, Bill?”
“Mr. B can sit at home, Hugh Hefner robe on, and drink Chivas Regal, all the while the word is on the street that he wants Hunter dead. Executive privilege. Executive decision.”
“Hunter will manage. He’s agile.”
Bill’s expression changed when he heard me say the word ‘agile.’ Bill understood what it meant in the military. Hunter could adapt to any situation and improvise, which is why Mr. B’s men didn’t stand a chance against him. The lot of them may’ve seen action in World War II, possibly Korea, but they were no psychological or tactical match against Hunter. He’d survive, and they’d die.
I told Bill that I had asked Tony Two-Times to bring Bonnie to Mr. B’s place in Newton.
I also instructed him to return to the scene of the crime in Southie. If my request surprised Bill, he didn’t show it. He looked as preoccupied as an expectant mother counting the seconds between contractions. I asked the question. “What’s on your mind, Bill?”
“You think Hunter would go after Bonnie?”
“No, but I wouldn’t rule out friends of the Canadians, anybody with a beef with Mr. B or Sal, and I haven’t forgotten there are other folks in town.”
“If I were Hunter, I’d disappear.”
“He won’t. He’ll surface because he wants answers.”
“Answers to what?” Bill asked.
“Who killed his friend Pedro Gonzalez? And, is Mr. B involved in drugs or not?”
“His friend Pedro got himself killed. He chose to get involved with drugs.”
“We don’t know that for certain. As a cop, you should know better.”
“You told me Mr. B is against drugs.”
“He is. You know that. I know that, but Hunter doesn’t, but that’s not to say someone in Mr. B’s crew doesn’t want in on the drug trade. His men were at that meeting, and you saw how Mr. B responded.”
“I also saw how your friend responded.”
We rode quietly for a few minutes, the circus outside our windows. He put the music on low. Something mellow, not Muzak, played. Bill wanted to know why I wanted him to drive to Southie. I told him that I needed intelligence on the ground. It was a risk worth taking. The place would be crawling with cops, and Homicide was territorial about their crime scenes. Whether he sat in the car and watched, or milled about behind the barricades, the cops assigned to guard the perimeter might spot him and ask why he was there when he was supposed to be on vacation. When he asked me what he should say, I advised him to tell them that he lived nearby, had heard about the shootings, and was curious.
“But I live in Bay Village.”
“Not all of them know that. Say you were in the South End when you heard the news.”
“The South End is not South Boston.”
“No, it is not, but play the part of the dutiful cop,” I said.
I sensed his hesitation. Bill was a seasoned cop in Vice, and one quality that made any undercover cop successful was that they were actors. They became other people, able to work any situation they found themselves in. They ad-libbed. They improvised. Bill spat out a question. A non sequitur.
“Mr. B didn’t mention the location, did he?”
“No, he did not.”
Bill reached for his cigarettes, a soft pack of Marlboro Reds. He squeezed the thin paper until he produced a weed. Without looking, he dipped inside his jacket for his lighter, clicked the Bic, and fired up the end of his smoke, while staring through the windshield. “I don’t like where my mind is taking this, Shane.”
“I know, so let me say it for you, Bill, because I’ve thought the same damn thing. If Mr. B violated the peace, then the Winter Hill Gang should retaliate, hard and fast, but they haven’t.”
I looked through my window again. The sun was trying harder than Mark Spitz to deliver some gold to a dark city and the cynical tribe of people called New Englanders.
Bill exhaled smoke. “What if someone within the Winter Hill Gang doesn’t care because it’s in their interest not to care?”
“Okay, elaborate on that, please.”
“Forget territory and their peace treaty for a second. Winter Hill has to know by now it was Mr. B’s men who cleaned house. How they found out is immaterial. Moles. Rats. Whatever. But think about it, Shane.”
“Think about what?”
“The treaty is still good, ain’t it? Mr. B solved the problem on his end. The Italians who are dead won’t be dealing drugs in Southie and neither will the Puerto Ricans because they’re dead, too.”
“Okay,” I said. “And what if Winter Hill or the Italians want in on the drugs? They’ll find someone who’ll do the dirty work for them, and they’ll skim a percentage. Business is business, Bill, and never underestimate that money talks.”
“Fair enough, but maybe we’re looking at this through the wrong end of the telescope.”
“How so?” I asked.
“You’re thinking Hunter wants to know if Mr. B is into the drugs business that killed his friend. I say it’s simpler.”
“Simpler how?”
“He goes after Mr. B because he thinks the man wants him dead. Mr. B needs to save face because he’s lost men. Either way, Mr. B is inside his fort, safe and sound from Hunter, but Hunter has to know the mafia has the patience of Moses. Whether it’s today or after forty years in the desert, if they want you dead, you’re dead. I’m saying it’s a matter of survival.”
“In other words, self-defense.”
We arrived. Bill eased the car into a spot across the street from the bar. Squad cars blocked our line of sight, and cops, probably rookies, stood behind the barricades to shoo away curious onlookers. If there were detectives on the scene, we couldn’t see them.
“What is it that you want me to do here?”
“Ears and eyes, Bill. Be my ears and eyes. I’m interested in knowing whether any of the victims had been shot with a nine millimeter.”
“You’ve covered ears. What is it that you want my eyes to do?”
“Look for anyone who stands out.”
“Like how?” he asked.
“Suits and shades.”
“Government types? And what if I don’t see them?”
“Be on the lookout for anyone who made the effort not to stand out.”
“Remind me never to open a fortune cookie around you. Anything else?”
“Circulate around the scene, but for no more than ten or fifteen minutes. Any more time than that, and you’ll draw attention to yourself.”
“Then what?”
“Jump into the car and cruise up and down Broadway until you see me.”
“You do know cruise has another meaning, don’t you?”