Dark Harbor by David Hosp Page B

other thing, Tigh. I got the word this morning that we need your help.” The old man looked up from the flimsy card table that served as his desk.
    “I’m listening,” Tigh said after a moment of silence.
    The old man blew out his breath heavily. “You know this Little Jack fuck that’s been killing some of the local girls?” he asked.
    Tigh nodded. “Only what I read in the papers.”
    “Yeah, well the organization wants him stopped. It’s fuckin’ up business and scaring the girls off the streets. Pussy ain’t the meal ticket it once was, but it still provides a good, steady income stream. We’d like your help in putting an end to this fuck.”
    Tigh was silent for a moment, weighing his response. “What can I do?” he asked warily.
    “You can do what you can do,” the old man said. “You know the streets better than anyone. Hell, when you were younger you owned the streets. Get out there and find him. Talk to people…use those fuckin’ connections you got.”
    Tigh shook his head. “I don’t think my connections will be of much use,” he said. “We’re not dealing with a local hood, here, we’re dealing with a psycho. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”
    “You can begin at the Kiss Club. Our friends in the department tell us that’s probably where this guy bagged his last girl.”
    Tigh rubbed his neck. “This may slow down my collections,” he offered.
    The old man frowned. “Fuck that, Tigh. If you weren’t carrying so many stiffs, that wouldn’t be an issue. You figure out how to get both done.”
    Tigh got up and picked up his ledger. “Uncle Vinnie, it’s been a real pleasure, as always.”
    The old man laughed again. “Boy, you got a fuckin’ mouth on you.” Tigh was nearly at the door when the old man called out to him. “Tigh!”
    He turned around.
    “When you find this little fuck, we don’t want him talkin’ to the cops—or to anyone else, for that matter. He can give his explanations to Saint Peter, you got it?”
    “Sure, Vin. Any particular reason?”
    The old man shook his head. “A psycho like this don’t deserve a lawyer, or a fair trial.”
    Tigh studied the old man for a few seconds. “Is there anything else I should know about this, Vinnie?” he asked.
    Vinnie shrugged. “I do what I’m told. Just like always, you know.”
    Tigh nodded. “Yeah, I know, Vinnie. Just like always.”

Chapter Seventeen
    O FFICER PAUL STONE SAT at a corner table in the Kiss Club. He was dressed in his best bar-hopping clothes for the evening: black pleated slacks with a tight knit polo shirt, open at the neck. He stirred the soda water on the table in front of him and smiled to himself. This sure beat the hell out of walking a beat in Southie in his uniform. Finding that body was a stroke of luck, he thought. When the call went out for a young officer unknown to the usual players in Boston’s nightlife to work undercover on the Little Jack case, Stone’s prior connection to the case gave him an advantage and won him the assignment. It was also possible, he thought, that Lieutenant Flaherty might have felt badly about the way she’d treated him during their first meeting. Whatever the reason, Stone was just happy to be off the beat and doing real investigative work. It was an enormous opportunity for him, and he appreciated it.
    Never mind, of course, that he had no idea what he was looking for. The Caldwell girl—Number Seven, as most people knew her—had been in this bar on the night of her death, that much had been confirmed by the bartender during the investigation. He hadn’t been able to remember if she was with anyone, so it remained possible that Little Jack had met her here before he killed her. But so what? Even if Little Jack did meet her at this bar, Stone thought, what was the likelihood he’d return to find another victim? And even if he did, how was Stone supposed to differentiate between a serial killer leading a hooker to her death and a pervert