RICHIE AND KATHRYN had enrolled Richard in the Kingsley Montessori School on Exeter Street, between Newbury and Commonwealth. Richie called the next morning and asked if after school he could drop Richard off with me before he drove Kathryn to the airport.
“Pretty sporting of you to be her ride to Logan,” I said.
“A form of closure,” he said.
“For now,” I said.
I told him I would be happy to spend time with Richard, and might even take him out for an early dinner.
“He likes being with you,” Richie said.
“Before he needed a father figure in his life,” I said. “Now he needs a mother.”
A few minutes later I called Richie’s father.
I MET DESMOND Burke at the Warren Tavern on Pleasant Street in Charlestown, a couple blocks away from the Bunker Hill Monument. I knew enough of my local history to know that the place was named after Dr. Joseph Warren, who had been a charter member of the Sons of Liberty and who, before he died at the Battle of Bunker Hill, had sent Paul Revere off on what became a fairly famous ride.
Desmond and I sat at a table near the window. Two bodyguards, neither of whom I recognized, sat at the bar. Desmond and I both ordered clam chowder. He ordered Shipyard ale to go with his. I went with iced tea. I was babysitting his grandson later.
It was as if he’d aged ten years, or more, since Felix had died saving his life, taking the bullet intended for Desmond. He’d never had much color, but today his face looked as white as the Irish knit sweater he was wearing, set off only by eyes the color of coal. He was still running what was left of the family business, even without Felix to run it with him. But Richie said the old man’s heart was no longer in it.
“I need a favor,” I said when the waiter had brought our drinks.
“I owe you one, don’t I, though?” he said. “You saved my life.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” I said. “And have already paid me handsomely when I expected no payment at all.”
“Not the way it works in my world,” he said. “An eye for an eye cuts a lot of ways.”
“I’ve been working on a case involving Tony Marcus,” I said.
“When I heard,” Desmond continued, “I thought you’d turned into a right moran.”
The Irish in him coming out. Moran meant fool. Or worse.
I could see his grandson in his eyes. But the boy’s eyes were constantly full of wonder. The old man’s had seen too much, the wonder in them drained out long ago, replaced now by ashes.
“So ask what you’re here to ask,” he said.
“Is it possible,” I said, “that Tony Marcus has taken on a partner?”
“I never trafficked in women, by the way,” Desmond said. “Or children.”
“I know that.”
“What kind of a man puts children on the street?” he said.
He shifted slightly in his chair to stare out the window.
“Have you heard anything?” I said.
“You hear things,” he said, turning back to me, looking as if even that small movement had exhausted him. “There’s even been a rumor about that Antonioni might have had another son no one knew about.”
“A name?”
He shook his head. “My interest in Albert Antonioni died when he died.”
I thought: After you had him killed and dumped off the coast of Rhode Island.
“But could this person already have enough strength to throw in with Tony?” I said.
“It’s possible,” he said. He waved a hand that looked as thin as paper in front of him. “You get tired,” he said.
“What would Tony have to gain, or lose, from such a business relationship?” I said.
“Loss of face, certainly,” Desmond said. “It is the only thing that matters to some of these morans. Before Whitey Bulger lost power, perhaps you know, he lost face.”
“Could you ask around?” I said. “Two women have died because of this case. I want to find out why.”
“Women from the whorehouses,” he said.
He pronounced it hoorhouses.
“Yes,” I said.
He said he would try. He repeated that he owed me. I repeated that he did not. He called for the check. As soon as he did, I saw the two men at the bar get off their stools, almost as if they had snapped to attention.
“My grandson is a gift,” he said.
“He is,” I said.
“You’ll help Richie with him now that she’s leaving?” Desmond said.
“I’m going to try,” I said.
He took money out of a clip thick with it, and threw some bills on the table. Then he stood.
“I’d like you to do more than try,” he said.
He made his way across the front room. But as he got to the door, he stopped, turned around, and came back to our table. Something in him seemed to have changed. Somehow he did not look old, or frail, or tired now. He was Desmond Burke.
“Be careful with this, Sunny,” he said.
He almost never called me Sunny.
“Always,” I said.
“Men like us,” he said, “will do anything to hold on to what we have.”
Now he left.