flyer I’d gotten from Hector, but not much more. Certainly he hadn’t found anyone who’d seen the arsonist in a dark cap and a down coat leaving the building.
By this point, I’d begun to doubt whether Ruthie was a valuable witness or not. Thinking she saw the guy go into The Shore when that was impossible lessened her credibility. I wondered how seriously I should take her description.
The night before, Davey had called and asked to meet in front of Paradise in the morning. I keep regular office hours, so ten o’clock Monday morning wasn’t a hardship for me. For Ross, it was painful. Used to going to bed at four or five in the morning, he looked something like a junkie on the tail end of a three-day binge.
Davey drove a dusty blue 1976 Cadillac Eldorado that he’d bought when The Cellar was at its peak. He’d parked illegally in front of the burned-out bar and had takeout coffee and donuts spread out on the trunk. Ross was already halfway through his coffee.
“Anyone from the arson squad been here?” I asked as I picked up a Styrofoam cup full of steaming brew.
Davey nodded. “Came around eight. Just left a little while ago.”
“They say anything interesting?”
“Just that they’ve got a suspect.”
“That’s great,” said Ross, a little too enthusiastically. I could tell he wanted to go back to bed.
“Who do they think did it?”
“Me,” Davey said flatly.
We went silent. I pulled out a box of Marlboro reds and lit one up. The smoke filled my lungs with a familiar rush; it’s stupid, I guess, but a chest full of smoke always makes life seem a little more manageable. “Any word on Bernie?”
With a frown, Davey told us about Bernie. “He’s gonna make it. But there are burns on twenty percent of his body. A lot of it’s on his face. He’s gonna be...” He looked down at the pavement, as though he was looking for something to kick. “He’s not gonna be the same.”
Ross mumbled, “Ah, shit,” under his breath.
Bernie was only a kid, twenty-two years old, and he had great face. Big, crooked smile, creamy cheeks, big brown eyes. His body was okay, but Davey had hired him for his face. Customers left big tips because of his face. Guys chased after that face. It was going to be tough on Bernie figuring out how to get through life without it.
“When can I talk to him?” I asked.
Boystown - 62
“Soon. He’s still pretty doped up. He’s not making much sense.”
“What do you think happened here, Davey?” I wanted to get him talking first. Direct questions would come later.
“I dunno. I keep going over it in my head. Who would do this to me? I have no idea.”
“Have you been greasing the right palms?” I asked.
“My, uh, municipal payments are up to date. I don’t think there’s a problem there. A bagman comes by once a month for The Outfit. Picks up four hundred bucks.”
“And you’re current?”
“Yeah, but here’s the thing. He’s the only one I’ve ever seen. I don’t know where the money goes. I don’t even know that it gets where it’s going. I never thought that was a problem before, but maybe it is?”
“What’s the bagman’s name?”
“Mickey Troccoli.”
“Mickey?” said Ross. “I know him. I think he hit on me once.”
Davey shrugged. Then he looked at me. “Mickey might have started keeping the money, you know? Maybe The Outfit’s trying to teach me a lesson I didn’t need to learn.”
“I’ll find out.” I was going out on a limb. I still had a few connections, but they didn’t always pan out. I wasn’t all that sure I could find out. “Tell me about The Surfside Neighborhood Association.”
“Who?”
Ross pulled out a flyer and handed it to Davey. He looked it over. “Oh, yeah, these jerks. Pain in the ass, that’s all.”
“You sure?”
“They make a lot of noise, but they can’t do anything to me. Like I said, I greased all the right palms.” The way he said it made me think that greasing palms was a
By this point, I’d begun to doubt whether Ruthie was a valuable witness or not. Thinking she saw the guy go into The Shore when that was impossible lessened her credibility. I wondered how seriously I should take her description.
The night before, Davey had called and asked to meet in front of Paradise in the morning. I keep regular office hours, so ten o’clock Monday morning wasn’t a hardship for me. For Ross, it was painful. Used to going to bed at four or five in the morning, he looked something like a junkie on the tail end of a three-day binge.
Davey drove a dusty blue 1976 Cadillac Eldorado that he’d bought when The Cellar was at its peak. He’d parked illegally in front of the burned-out bar and had takeout coffee and donuts spread out on the trunk. Ross was already halfway through his coffee.
“Anyone from the arson squad been here?” I asked as I picked up a Styrofoam cup full of steaming brew.
Davey nodded. “Came around eight. Just left a little while ago.”
“They say anything interesting?”
“Just that they’ve got a suspect.”
“That’s great,” said Ross, a little too enthusiastically. I could tell he wanted to go back to bed.
“Who do they think did it?”
“Me,” Davey said flatly.
We went silent. I pulled out a box of Marlboro reds and lit one up. The smoke filled my lungs with a familiar rush; it’s stupid, I guess, but a chest full of smoke always makes life seem a little more manageable. “Any word on Bernie?”
With a frown, Davey told us about Bernie. “He’s gonna make it. But there are burns on twenty percent of his body. A lot of it’s on his face. He’s gonna be...” He looked down at the pavement, as though he was looking for something to kick. “He’s not gonna be the same.”
Ross mumbled, “Ah, shit,” under his breath.
Bernie was only a kid, twenty-two years old, and he had great face. Big, crooked smile, creamy cheeks, big brown eyes. His body was okay, but Davey had hired him for his face. Customers left big tips because of his face. Guys chased after that face. It was going to be tough on Bernie figuring out how to get through life without it.
“When can I talk to him?” I asked.
Boystown - 62
“Soon. He’s still pretty doped up. He’s not making much sense.”
“What do you think happened here, Davey?” I wanted to get him talking first. Direct questions would come later.
“I dunno. I keep going over it in my head. Who would do this to me? I have no idea.”
“Have you been greasing the right palms?” I asked.
“My, uh, municipal payments are up to date. I don’t think there’s a problem there. A bagman comes by once a month for The Outfit. Picks up four hundred bucks.”
“And you’re current?”
“Yeah, but here’s the thing. He’s the only one I’ve ever seen. I don’t know where the money goes. I don’t even know that it gets where it’s going. I never thought that was a problem before, but maybe it is?”
“What’s the bagman’s name?”
“Mickey Troccoli.”
“Mickey?” said Ross. “I know him. I think he hit on me once.”
Davey shrugged. Then he looked at me. “Mickey might have started keeping the money, you know? Maybe The Outfit’s trying to teach me a lesson I didn’t need to learn.”
“I’ll find out.” I was going out on a limb. I still had a few connections, but they didn’t always pan out. I wasn’t all that sure I could find out. “Tell me about The Surfside Neighborhood Association.”
“Who?”
Ross pulled out a flyer and handed it to Davey. He looked it over. “Oh, yeah, these jerks. Pain in the ass, that’s all.”
“You sure?”
“They make a lot of noise, but they can’t do anything to me. Like I said, I greased all the right palms.” The way he said it made me think that greasing palms was a
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