Killing the Blues by Michael Brandman Page B

like I’m under coercion?”
    â€œMy instructions are to make certain that you’re not being held against your will, sir. There have been other incidents in this neighborhood. If you’ll allow me to see that you’re safe, I’ll be on my way. If not, I’m to phone for backup.”
    â€œAll right, all right,” Lombardo said.
    He closed the door, unchained it, and then reopened it so that Jesse could see inside.
    Jesse hit him low, taking his legs out from under him. Lombardo crashed heavily to the floor.
    â€œWhat the fuck . . .” Lombardo said.
    â€œYou wanted to see me,” Jesse said, as he stood Lombardo up and slammed him into the wall.
    â€œYou dare to break into my house? My house,” Lombardo said.
    â€œInsolent of me, isn’t it,” Jesse said. “Why did you send the two goons?”
    â€œWhat in the fuck do you think you’re doing? Do you have any idea who I am?”
    â€œListen to me, fat boy,” Jesse said. “One of your associates killed a man in Paradise over a stolen car. I hold you responsible for that killing. Let this be your warning. If you or any of your meatballs show up in Paradise again, I’ll kill you.”
    Lombardo glared at Jesse.
    Jesse smacked him hard in the mouth. Blood appeared on his lower lip.
    â€œDo I make myself clear?”
    â€œYou’ll pay for this,” Lombardo said.
    Jesse smacked him again.
    â€œDo I make myself clear?”
    Lombardo mumbled his assent.
    Jesse stared at him for several moments.
    Then he walked to the door, opened it, and left the house.

35
    T he next morning, Jesse pulled his cruiser to a stop in front of a commercial building located in the north side of Boston. He parked in front of a fire hydrant and went inside.
    He approached the receptionist’s desk, where he was greeted by a handsome young man wearing a double-breasted blue blazer and a freshly ironed pair of blue jeans. His powder-blue sport shirt was open at the neck. He eyed Jesse warily.
    â€œI’m here to see Gino Fish,” Jesse said.
    â€œDo you have an appointment?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œMr. Fish isn’t in.”
    â€œAnd if I had an appointment?”
    â€œWho knows.”
    â€œWhat’s your name?”
    â€œSteven. What’s yours?”
    â€œJesse.”
    â€œDo you have a last name, Jesse?”
    â€œStone.”
    â€œDoes Mr. Fish know you?”
    â€œWhy don’t you ask him?”
    â€œBecause he’s not in.”
    â€œLook, Steven, this is an old game. You say Mr. Fish isn’t in. I ask you to tell him I’m here. Again, you say he isn’t in.”
    â€œI’m following you so far.”
    â€œBut here’s where it gets complicated, so pay close attention. My next line is: If you don’t go inside and tell Mr. Fish that I’m waiting to see him, I’m going to call the state homicide commander, who will in turn send ten squad cars packed with dozens of police personnel right to this very door.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you say so?”
    â€œCan we move this along now, Steven?”
    â€œJesse Stone, yes?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI’ll be right back.”
    Steven buzzed himself into Gino’s inner sanctum. Jesse meandered around the office, looking at the various paintings and sculptures that were on display there.
    Steven returned.
    â€œMr. Fish is in,” he said.
    As Jesse brushed past Steven on his way inside, he punched him lightly on the shoulder.
    â€œSome fun, huh,” he said.
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    G ino was seated at his desk, thumbing through a sheaf of papers. Behind him, leaning against a wall, listening through a pair of earbuds to a minuscule iPod, stood Vinnie Morris.
    Jesse approached the desk and waited. When he came to the end of a page, Gino looked up at him.
    â€œJesse Stone,” he said, his face breaking into a crooked grin.
    â€œTa-da,” Jesse said.
    Jesse