Part 19 (2/2)
”Do you think there could be one?”
”As far as I know, Sal has never stooped to child p.o.r.n, so I doubt it,” he said, ”but I'll keep an open mind. What else you got?”
”I dropped in on King Felix a few days before the shooting at the Tongue and Groove.”
”And?”
”He was still popping Vicodin from the beating DeLucca gave him.”
”Meet his baby hit squad?”
”I did,” I said. ”Got to see Jamal before the Providence cops shot him full of holes.”
”What about the other one?”
”Felix called him Marcus. A couple of inches taller and maybe a year or two older than Jamal.”
”How'd he strike you?”
”Like a snake coiled to strike.”
”His full name is Marcus Was.h.i.+ngton and he's sixteen,” Parisi said. ”We've got surveillance video of him shooting beer cans at twenty feet behind the Calvary Baptist Church.”
”With a little nickel pistol?”
”Yeah.”
”He hit any of them?”
”About a quarter of the time, yeah.”
”That's pretty good shooting.”
”It is,” Parisi said. ”If Felix sent him after DeLucca, things might have turned out different.”
”Wonder why he didn't.”
”Maybe he's saving him for something else.”
”Think Felix had Sal whacked?” I asked.
Parisi took longer than usual to consider his answer. ”I doubt it. His beef is with DeLucca. The dumb s.h.i.+t probably doesn't even know who Sal is. So what else you got?”
”That's it.”
”Then you got jack s.h.i.+t.”
”No disrespect, Captain, but so do you.”
”Unless I know more than I'm telling.”
”You usually do,” I said.
”You gonna stay on this?”
”Whenever I can break away from the routine c.r.a.p.”
”Let's compare notes again in a week or so,” he said. ”And get that m.u.f.fler replaced, or next time I'm writing you up.” With that, he cranked the engine of his Crown Vic and fishtailed out of the lot.
As I pulled onto Hartford Avenue, I didn't see the Hummer lurking. I drove less than a mile to the Subway on Atwood Avenue, ordered a veggie sandwich, and ate the vile thing standing up. Then I walked out of the place into a light rain and found the white monstrosity parked beside my Bronco. The Hummer's front doors swung open, and Black s.h.i.+rt and Gray s.h.i.+rt climbed out. This time, though, they wore matching x.x.xL Patriots jerseys. That made it hard to tell them apart. They leaned against the back of the Bronco and slowly shook their heads, letting me know I'd disappointed them.
”You and your pal Mason have been asking questions again,” said the one on the left.
”Which we asked you nicely not to do,” said the one on the right.
”So one of us is going to have to teach you a lesson,” said the one on the left. He flexed and added, ”You get to choose.”
”What if I win?”
”If you pick him,” said the one on the right, ”you might have a one-in-a-thousand shot, but then you'll just have to fight me.”
”Are you two carrying?” I asked, and they burst out laughing. The idea that they'd need a weapon to deal with me struck them as hilarious.
”Well, I am,” I said, and I showed them the Colt. They didn't wet their pants, but they didn't come for me, either.
”You told us it wasn't in working condition,” said the one on the right.
”I lied.”
”Know how to use it?”
I thumbed the safety off and a.s.sumed a shooter's stance.
They shrugged, got back in the Hummer, and drove away. I wondered if they were going home to fetch their guns.
29.
Nighttime at Swan Point Cemetery was the perfect spot for a gunfight-plenty of cover and no one around to hear the shots-but I probably hadn't irritated Vanessa enough to provoke anything more than a savage beating. I had no trouble finding Rosie in the dark. I unfolded the Manny Ramirez jersey and draped it over her headstone.
”Rosie, I'm h.o.r.n.y,” I said. But she was in no position to help me with that.
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