Trouble in Paradise by Robert B. Parker Page A

said, “We’re all off the record, I assume.”
    “Right now we’re just three friends sitting around talking,” Abby said.
    “I’m surprised you had to ask.”
    “I knew they did it, but the way I knew it wouldn’t stand up in court. I had to get them to confess.”
    “And you tricked them into thinking each had tattled on the other,” Abby said.
    “In school,” Petrocelli said, “it’s tattling. In police stations, it’s ratting.”
    “It’s an old cop trick, and if the kids were older and smarter they wouldn’t have fallen for it. Snapper didn’t fall for it now. Next time the Hopkins kids won’t.”
    “And there’ll be a next time?” Abby said.
    “Unless this was the kind of wakeup call that can help them turn it around.”
    “You think?” Abby said.
    “No.”
    “And you can’t help them,” Abby said.
    “No.”
    “He did what he could,” Petrocelli said.
    “Yes,” Abby said.
    “That’s why you did it, isn’t it? You knew you probably couldn’t get them into court, but if you got a taped confession, you might be able to get the parents’ attention.”
    “I didn’t want them to think they could burn down some guys’ house and walk away from it,” Jesse said.
    “There needed to be consequences,” Petrocelli said.
    “He created some.”
    They all thought about that while they sipped their whisky.
    “You’re a little more than I thought you were,” Abby said.
    “I thought you were a tough guy with an ex-wife.”
    Jesse nodded.
    “Still got the ex-wife,” he said.
    “And when all that was going on with Jo Jo and the Horsemen last year…” She paused in mid-sentence and sipped from her second cup of whisky. “I was scared.”
    Jesse nodded. The room was quiet. Petrocelli was examining the empty space three feet in front of him.
    “There was a lot to be scared of,” Jesse said.
    “For you too.”
    “That’s sort of supposed to be part of the job,” Jesse said.
    Abby looked at Petrocelli.
    “You ever wonder if he can say more than one sentence at a time?” she said.
    “I like brevity in a client,” Petrocelli said.
    “Are you trying to tell him you made a mistake last year?”
    “I’m trying to apologize for misjudging him.”
    Petrocelli smiled and swiveled slightly toward Jesse.
    “Learned counsel says…” Petrocelli began.
    “I heard her,” Jesse said. He looked at Abby.
    “No apology required. I am a tough guy with an ex-wife.”
    “Maybe,” Abby said.
    And the three of them were quiet again for a while, sipping their whisky together in the bright room before they went home for the night.

 
     
    TWENTY-SEVEN
    Crow sat in the back booth of a storefront Chinese restaurant on Tyler Street with a sleek Asian man who said his name was Bo.
    Bo was wearing a silver-gray leisure suit and a black silk shirt buttoned to the neck.
    Leaning against the wall behind the booth was a heavyset Chinese man.
    “You Portagie?” Bo said.
    “Apache.”
    Bo looked puzzled.
    “Indian,” Crow said. “Native American.”
    “Ah,” Bo said.
    “Whores say to pimp you asking about buy a key. Pimp tell someone, someone tell me.”
    “That’s right,” Crow said.
    “You mind feel for wire?”
    Crow smiled and stood and held his arms from his sides.
    The heavyset man stepped forward and patted Crow down.
    When he was finished, he said something in Chinese.
    “You have gun,” Bo said.
    “Yes.”
    Bo shrugged.
    “No problem,” he said.
    “You have money?”
    “Not with me,” Crow said.
    “How you buy? No money?”
    “You got the blow?” Crow said.
    Bo smiled.
    “No with me,” he said.
    “How you sell, no blow?” Crow said.
    Bo shrugged.
    “Why you come?”
    “Thought I’d look at the product,” Crow said.
    “I like it, we’ll arrange something with money.”
    “You look see blow?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “You give gun to Vong,” Bo said.
    “Sure,” Crow said.
    He took the 9-mm Clock off his hip and handed it butt-first to Vong. Vong took it and