Devin and Oscar turned on their stools and watched him as he walked back through the crowd toward the back.
Oscar pulled a half-smoked cigar from his shirt pocket and lit it, his flat gaze staying on Pasquale. He sucked back on the cigar, and the black, torn tobacco cackled.
“Subtle,” he said, and tossed his match into the ashtray.
“What’s going on, Patrick?” Devin’s voice was a monotone, his eyes on the empty shot glass Pasquale had left behind.
“I’m not sure,” I said.
“You made an enemy of the cowboys,” Oscar said. “Never a bright move.”
“Wasn’t intentional,” I said.
“You got something on Broussard?” Devin said.
“Maybe,” I said. “Yeah.”
Devin nodded and his right hand dropped off the bar, gripped my elbow tight. “Whatever it is,” he said, and smiled tightly in Broussard’s direction, “let it go.”
“What if I can’t?”
Oscar’s head loomed around Devin’s shoulder, and he looked at me with that dead gaze of his. “Walk away, Patrick.”
“What if I can’t?” I repeated.
Devin sighed. “Then you might not be able to walk anywhere soon.”
30
In the blind hope that it might make a difference, we decided to drive over to see Poole.
The New England Medical Center sprawls across two city blocks, its various buildings and skywalks occupying a linchpin spot between Chinatown, the theater district, and what remains, gasping and gulping, of the old Combat Zone.
On an early Sunday morning, it’s tough to find an open parking meter around New England Med: on a Thursday night, it’s impossible. The Schubert was playing its upteenth revival of Miss Saigon and the Wang was showing the latest bombastic Andrew Lloyd Webber or someone similar’s piece of sold-out, overwrought, overdone, singing dung extravaganza, and lower Tremont Street was teeming with taxis, limos, black ties, and blond fur, angry cops blowing whistles and waving traffic in a wide arc around the triple-parked throng.
We didn’t even bother circling the block, just turned into New England Med’s parking garage, took our ticket, and drove up six levels before we found a spot. After I’d exited the car, I held Angie’s door for her as she struggled onto her crutches, shut the door behind her as she worked her way out between the cars.
“Which way to the elevator?” she called back to me.
A young man with the tall, ropy build of a basketball player said, “That way,” and pointed to his left. He leaned against the hatch of a black Chevy Suburban and smoked a slim cigar with the red Cohiba label still wrapped around it near the base.
“Thanks,” Angie said, and we proffered stock-friendly smiles as we passed him.
He smiled back, gave a small wave with the cigar.
“He’s dead.”
We stopped, and I turned back and looked at the guy. He wore a navy-blue fleece jacket with a brown leather collar over a black V-neck and black jeans. His black cowboy boots were as weathered as a rodeo rider’s. He tapped some ash from the cigar, put it back in his mouth, and looked at me.
“This is the part where you say, ‘Who’s dead?’” He looked down at his boots.
“Who’s dead?” I said.
“Nick Raftopoulos,” he said.
Angie turned fully around on her crutches. “Excuse me?”
“That’s who you came to see, right?” He held out his hands, shrugged. “Well, you can’t, because he died an hour ago. Cardiac arrest due to massive trauma as a result of gunshot injuries incurred on Leon Trett’s front porch. Perfectly natural, given the circumstances.”
Angie swung her crutches and I took a few steps until we were both standing in front of the man.
He smiled. “Your next line is, ‘How do you know who we’re here to see?’” he said. “Take it, either one of you.”
“Who are you?” I said.
He slung his hand low in my direction. “Neal Ryerson. Call me Neal. Wish I had a cool nickname, but some of us aren’t so blessed. You’re Patrick Kenzie, and you’re Angela Gennaro. And I must say, ma’am, even with the cast and all, your picture doesn’t do you justice. You’re what my daddy’d call a looker.”
“Poole’s dead?” Angie said.
“Yes, ma’am. ’Fraid so. Say, Patrick, could you shake my hand? It’s a little tiring holding it out like this.”
I gave it a light squeeze, and he offered it to Angie. She leaned back on her crutches and ignored it, looked up into Neal Ryerson’s face. She shook her head.
He glanced at me. “Fear of cooties?”
He withdrew the hand and dug it into his inside coat pocket.
I reached behind my back.
“No fear, Mr. Kenzie. No fear.” He withdrew a slim wallet and flipped it open, showed us a silver badge and ID. “Special Agent Neal Ryerson,” he said, in a deep baritone. “Justice Department. Ta-da!” He closed the wallet, slipped it back in his jacket. “Organized Crime Division, if you need to know. Christ, you’re a chatty couple.”
“Why are you bothering us?” I said.
“Because, Mr. Kenzie, judging by what I saw at that football game this afternoon, you’re kinda short of friends. And I’m in the friend business.”
“I’m not looking for one.”
“You might not have a choice. I may have to be your friend whether you like it or not. I’m pretty good at it, too. I’ll listen to your war stories, watch baseball with you, generally pal around with you at all the hip watering holes.”
I looked at Angie, and we turned and started walking toward our car. I went to her side first, unlocked the door, and started to open it.
“Broussard will kill you,” Ryerson said.
We looked back at him. He took a puff of his Cohiba and came off the back of the Suburban, sauntered toward us with loose, long strides, as if he were walking off court at the end of a period.
“He’s real good at that, killing people. Usually doesn’t do it himself, but he plans it well. He’s a first-rate planner.”
I took Angie’s crutches from her and brushed Ryerson back with the rear door as I opened it to slide them in the backseat. “We’ll be fine, Special Agent Ryerson.”
“I’m sure that’s what Chris Mullen and Pharaoh Gutierrez thought.”
Angie leaned against her open door. “Was Pharaoh Gutierrez DEA?” She reached into her pocket, removed her cigarettes.