Fatal Harbor Read online

  I went into the entranceway, and there standing by the hostess stand was Felix, who was talking to a young woman with raven hair and a snug red dress, who kept on pressing menus against her impressive chest as if trying to cool them down.

  Felix turned to me, smiled. His skin was darker than usual, and he was finely dressed in a dark blue suit, light blue shirt, and red necktie. The coat had been expertly tailored to hold whatever weapon he was carrying this afternoon, while I made do with my Harris tweed.

  A snug handshake, a slap on the shoulder. “Good to see you,” he said. “And what’s with the facial hair? You forget to shave or something?

  “Good to see you, too,” I replied, and it was true, it did feel good. For the past several days, it seemed like Felix was the only one who knew who I was and where I was coming from. I rubbed at the bristle on my face and chin. “Truth is, I’ve been running so far and so fast, shaving’s been taking a back seat.”

  The hostess came up to us but reserved her gaze for Felix. “Speaking of seats, let’s go find them.”

  The place was busy, with lots of laughs and conversation. It was sprawling, with a second floor, and booths and round tables. The hostess led us to a quiet corner table and, after ordering drinks and meals, Felix sat back and asked, “How are you doing?”

  “Lousy.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “My house burned down early this morning.”

  His brown eyes narrowed. “Not funny.”

  “I agree.”

  “Lewis . . . for real?”

  “Just under two hours ago, I left Tyler Beach. The fire trucks were there, as well as a couple of cops and some people pretending to be my neighbors. Plus an officer from the State Fire Marshal’s office, though it’s pretty damn obvious the fire didn’t start from somebody smoking in bed.”

  For what seemed to be a first for him, Felix was at a loss for words. Our wine and our meals arrived, and we took the opportunity to eat. Felix had some complicated pasta dish with tomato sauce, sautéed vegetables, and eggplant. I, on the other hand, had a fettuccine Alfredo dish with lobster meat and scallops, and we threw caution and ceremony to the wind and had a nice New Zealand Pinot Noir to go with everything. Along the way, I told Felix what I had been up to, including my trip to D.C. and back.

  At one point, knife and fork in hand, he said, “Sorry about Annie Wynn. She seemed to be a grand woman.”

  “She is a grand woman,” I said. “She’s a strong, capable woman who is focused on getting her man elected president. She’s not in some planning board campaign for a small town or city. Up there where she is, the air is pretty intoxicating. I can’t fault her.”

  “You’re a better man than me.”

  “Which I’ve told you many times,” I said.

  After we both paused to have another healthy swig of wine, I asked, “How’s your Aunt Teresa?”

  “Adjusting to her new condo.”

  “Her new what?”

  “Condo. When I got her down to Florida, I did a quiet recon of her facility. Found out some muscular clean-cut men had been hanging around, asking questions about her and her favorite nephew. So I found her another place.”

  “Felix, I’m sorry to hear that.”

  He shook his head. “No worries. It’s a step up from where she was, the kitchen is bigger, she has her own private Jacuzzi, and she tells me the pool boys are much more attractive than the ones at her previous place.”

  “But what’s going to happen in the spring? When she wants to go back to the North End?”

  His eyes hardened. “I fully expect that this mess will be settled long before spring.”

  I told him I didn’t disagree with that, and when our dining finally slowed down, Felix said, “Tell you a story?”

  “Sure. Cops and . . . well, people of your persuasion always have the best stories.”

  “Hah,” he said, breaking off a chunk of bread. “I think I might have just been insulted. But knowing you . . . maybe not.”

  He chewed reflectively for a moment or two, then said: “Story begins in Providence. A number of years ago, when I was much younger, quicker, but still as handsome.”

  “Rhode Island?” I asked innocently.

  “No, you knucklehead, Nebraska. Of course Rhode Island. Funny how Boston and New York make all the papers and bestseller lists about what passes for organized crime these days, but Rhode Island is the most mobbed-up state in the Union. Anyway, this was when the Patriarca family was on the ropes because the old man was in prison. So up on Federal Hill, you had two associated families who were trying to keep the peace. You had Nicky Giovanni and Tony Messina. Neither as bright as old man Patriarca, but they wanted to keep things on an even keel so business wasn’t impacted.”

  “Fascinating,” I said, spearing the last piece of lobster in my bowl.

  “You kids are so impatient nowadays. So, one day Nicky Giovanni and Tony Messina are having coffee at some social club, and Nicky says, hey, Tony, you know, my house, the lawn and trees and bushes don’t look so good, and my wife, Carla, she’s busting my balls, you got any ideas? And Tony says, yeah, I got this Mick, his name is Callaghan, he’ll do a good job for you, no problem.”

  “Ah, the Irish have arrived. Should get very interesting.”

  “Yeah, it does. So Callaghan goes over and maybe he’s having a bad day, or maybe Nicky’s wife Carla doesn’t like the Irish, but Callaghan doesn’t get paid for his work. Callaghan complains to Nicky, and maybe Nicky’s having a bad day, and he tells Callaghan to piss off. So he goes to Tony, and Tony says, what, you’re bothering me with this little crap? Go away.”

  I picked up the bottle of New Zealand Pinot Noir, finished off the bottle between our glasses. “Being as intimate as I am with the Irish, I guess this doesn’t end well.”

  “Nope,” Felix said. “In fact, one weekend when Nicky and his family were away, Callaghan went to the house, wanting restitution, so he stole this marble statue of the Virgin Mary, a statue that had come over from the old country and was nearly a hundred years old. So Nicky went apeshit, because he knew Callaghan had stolen it. So he went to Tony, wanting it back, and Tony said, hell, ain’t my deal. You take care of it. And Nicky said, what the hell, you recommended the guy, and Tony said, doesn’t mean he’s my cousin, you idiot, and Nicky said, who the hell are you calling an idiot?”

  “Sounds like Europe, about August 1914.”

  “Good comparison. Insults get worse, tempers rise up, and before you know it, you got a full-scale gang war breaking out. Guys in the streets getting shot, laundromats getting burned down, cars blowing up. Meanwhile, Callaghan, seeing what’s going on and knowing that at some point blame’s coming his way in the guise of two in the hat, tries to do the right thing and make it right. So late one night, he tries to sneak back into Nicky’s yard and return the statue. But some nervous third cousin on guard duty sees somebody trying to climb over the fence with a sack slung over his back, and opens fire.”

  I took a healthy sip of the Pinot. “Not going to end well, is it.”

  “That’s for sure. Poor Callaghan takes a round to his ass, falls off the fence, and drops the Virgin Mary on the sidewalk, whereupon it breaks into a zillion pieces. Seeing this as a sign from above, Callaghan gets his ass stitched up and takes the next Aer Lingus flight back to the home country. Eventually the gang war peters out, but my God, what a mess. Even though a peace was worked out, there are still old goombahs down there in Providence who are holding a grudge over that landscape guy and the broken statue.”

  I nodded. “End of story?”

  “End of story.”

  “And the lesson, O wise one?”

  “The lesson is, people and institutions can plan for a lot, but they often fail to plan for the unexpected. Like a grumpy landscaper. You’re the unexpected piece in this little tale, Lewis. Curt Chesak and whoever’s behind him, they expected to do what they wanted to do, and when things got a bit messy, the right word or the right phone cal
l was made to tamp down the investigation. So in their world, Curt would be able to skate off to whatever next dark assignment waits for him. All is covered, all is contained, and whoever’s paying the checks and pulling the strings, they get to remain unscathed and untouched. Then someone like you, a crazy Irishman who has this funny old-fashioned concept concerning loyalty, pops up.”

  I smiled. “Gee, that’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all day.”

  “You need to get out more.”

  “I am getting out,” I protested. “Didn’t you hear me? Just came back from a trip to our nation’s capital.”

  “Point taken.” He took a napkin, wiped at his fingers. “What now?”

  “Keep on keeping on being the crazy Irishman. Why stop now? You know my original plan, Felix. I don’t intend to give up.”

  “They burned down your house.”

  “Gee, thanks, I forgot all about that.”

  He drummed his fingers on the white tablecloth. “Okay, then. Anything else?”

  From my coat I took out a small pad of paper and wrote a list for Felix. I passed it over to him. “I need what’s here.”

  He read it and said, “Interesting. Looks like you intend to sail into harm’s way.”

  “And then some.”

  He folded the list, made it disappear. “No problem. Can probably get it to you by later today.”

  “That’d be great.”

  “And where do we go from there?”

  “Sorry, I thought I just heard you say the word ‘we.’”

  Felix said, “Lewis, please, you have vim, vigor, and a healthy sense of righteousness on your side. The guys you’re going up against have just one thing on their side: bloody experience. I want to come along, even up the odds.”

  “No.”

  “Lewis. . . .”

  The waiter came over, dropped off the bill. I picked it up and left enough cash to cover the tab and the tip. Still no credit card traces, thank you very much.

  “Here’s the deal,” I said. “You’ve been with me on some very edgy outings in the past, for which I owe you so very much. But this one is different. This one is personal. And trust me, this isn’t a comment on your skills and talents, but by being with me already on this little quest, you’ve been shot at, you’ve had to smuggle your aunt out of Boston, and you needed to find her new digs in Florida. I don’t want them upping the ante on you, by either burning down Aunt Teresa’s new condo or by putting a bomb in your Mercedes.”

  His eyes darkened and narrowed, and I suddenly felt sorry for all of those in the past who had crossed him. “Still don’t like it.”

  “My apologies,” I said. I took a large swig from my water glass, and I said, “And my apologies once again. I need to visit the head.”

  I slid my chair out and Felix said, “One of these days you’ll tell me why you insist on calling the men’s room the head.”

  “Old habit,” I said. “One of my bosses back at the Pentagon was ex-Navy. So the walls were bulkheads, the floors were decks, and the bathrooms were the head. So I adopted his lingo.”

  “Bet you became Employee of the Year for that suck-up.”

  “Not even close,” I said.

  On the way back from my brief absence, there was a small crowd of diners waiting for their seats by the hostess station, and I took a moment to spare a glance outside at the parking lot. A steady rain was falling, and I saw a black GMC van slowly go by. It had a side window at the rear that was low to the ground, and which was blacked out.

  I got back to the table, sat down, and said, “The bad guys have arrived.”

  Felix was sipping from a small white cappuccino cup. “Do go on.”

  “Just saw a surveillance van prowl the parking lot. Has one-way glass on the side that hides a specialized camera that scans license plates and runs background checks on the owners. Might be the State Police or Manchester Police, but I doubt it.”

  He took another sip. “Sit tight. I’ll be right back.”

  Felix moved as fast and as silently as he always did, while I shifted my seat so I could see the entranceway and the far windows. I touched my Beretta and, oddly enough, felt fine. Around me were couples and groups of friends, dining, drinking, and laughing. No one seemed to notice the little drama occurring here in my corner of the universe.

  Waited some more.

  Felix strolled back, sat down with urgency. “There’s another way out of here.”

  “I hope it’s more than just the rear door out of the kitchen area. You have to give these guys credit.”

  “You have to give me credit,” he said sharply. “There’s a back set of stairs, leads down to an old access tunnel used when this place was one big happy mill complex. That’s where you’re going.”

  “And you?”

  “I have my ways. Most important thing is to get you out of here, so let’s get a move on.”

  I stood up with him and we strolled out past the hostess station, where the young lady gave Felix a wide smile. He led me to a function room, past an alcove that was used to store dishes and glassware. Felix opened a plain wooden door, flicked on a light. Old oak steps led down into the darkness.

  Felix said, “The place is lit up now. Go down, take a left. At the third door on the right, go out, wait for me. I’ll be along presently.”

  “How in God’s name did you find this?”

  “The nice hostess let me in on the secret.”

  “Really? In exchange for what?”

  A slight smile. “A meal.”

  “Doesn’t sound like much of a trade.”

  The smile grew wider. “The meal’s breakfast. Now get going.”

  I got.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The stairway descended quite a way before it ended in a dirt cellar. To the right were wood pallets piled high with paper towels, napkins, and toilet paper. To the left was a brick archway. A series of overhead lightbulbs went off into the distance. I ducked my head and started walking. The dirt was well packed. It smelled of dirt and dampness and old things not disturbed in a long, long time. I moved the best I could. Other stairways went up to the left, no doubt to other parts of the old mill complex. I passed one door, bolted and locked. Another door, also bolted and locked.

  Third door was the charm. It said FIRE ESCAPE on a sign up above, and there was a push bar to gain access. I pushed the door and stepped out on a narrow sidewalk. Rain was coming down. The door slammed behind me. I turned too late to get back inside. There was no door handle to get me back in. I pulled my coat tighter. I was at the other end of the brick building. The road was lined with parked cars. There were no entrances to other businesses over here. Just blank doors like the one I had just left.

  The rain was coming down harder. I shivered, stamped my feet. All around me were the old mill buildings, full of memories and dust and old stories of immigrants speaking French, German, Italian, and Gaelic, working long hours, getting bodies bloodied and broken. It was getting dark with the thick rain clouds overhead.

  Felix was nowhere about.

  What now?

  I pulled my coat around myself tighter. A wind came up, cutting through me. A car splashed by, headlights on against the heavy rain.

  Where to go?

  Felix had told me to wait.

  So I waited.

  I shifted my weight. The rain was a steady downpour. I thought about when this day was over, I could be home and turn up the heat and take a long shower, put on some fresh dry clothes, and then I stopped thinking.

  I didn’t have a home anymore.

  It was now smoking timbers, wet books, charred clothes, and who knows what else.

  I put my hands in my coat pockets.

  My hair was soaked through.

  A black van went up the road. I didn’t pay any attention to it.

  Pants were soaked through, too.

  I looked up the road, which went up a slight incline.

  The van had stopped at the top of the incline. />
  Then it made a three-point turn.

  It was coming back.

  Well, this was getting interesting.

  The van came down the road, slowed, and stopped across from me. Engine idling, headlights on, windshield wipers flipping back and forth, back and forth.

  The passenger’s side door opened up. A man came out.

  My right hand went up under my coat, slipped my Beretta out of my Bianchi leather shoulder holster. I brought my hand down and rested it behind my back.

  No matter what was going to happen, I wasn’t getting into that van.

  The man had on black slacks, a long black coat, and a tweed cap on his large head. He looked both ways before crossing.

  A careful man.

  I switched the safety off the Beretta, pulled the hammer back. There was a round in the chamber. There was always a round in the chamber. I didn’t want to waste time working the action.

  The man sloshed his away across the street, stood before me. His hands were in his pockets. I decided then and there that if one of his hands came out of the pocket with a weapon in his hand, then I’d open fire.

  I remembered my training. Aim for the lower trunk, keep on shooting, because the recoil would cause the pistol to buck, meaning subsequent shots would go right up the torso.

  He stopped. Grinned. “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey yourself.”

  “Hell of a day.”

  “I’ve seen worse.”

  “You need any help?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said, you need any help? Shelter, place to stay, a warm meal?”

  His right hand came out of his pocket and my pistol started coming up, until I saw he was holding a brochure. Clumsily, I brought my hand down, turned so he couldn’t see what was in my hand.

  “Not at the moment, but thanks,” I said.

  He held out the brochure and I cautiously took it with my left hand. “Catholic Charities,” he said. “Just driving around in this awful weather, see if we can help people who are in need.”

  I nodded, folded the brochure in half. “I’m all right, honest. Thanks for stopping.”