in the afternoon, which includes your lab work, Doc. That leaves the errand for the library involving the lawyer's papers from the North End. What kind of papers were they, Sam?'
'Just some papers from a case a long, long way back. Forget it, Joe, it's old history. It was for the library, uh… archives. That's what they said: archives.'
'Then I think we can rule it all out. It was a grudge hit, probably from the Mob. When we consider that it must've taken time to build the bomb and plan the thing, which happened like clockwork, then I think we can rule it all out.'
'I think so too. But remember, Joe, I used to be a cop in this town. I still know cops all around here. And state guys, like you, and some of the Feds even. I got connections and contacts. I'm gonna keep an ear to the ground, hear? I'll keep pumpin' these dudes, hear? When I find out who it is I'm going huntin'.'
We didn't say anything. Sam Bowman didn't seem to me to be a fellow to argue with. And if he had Popeye along, one would have to think not only twice, but a third time at least. Then I noticed that two of the lower cubbyholes in the safe were packed with stacks of what looked like bills. Legal tender. Coin of the realm.
'What's all that stuff that looks like money?' I asked.
'Money,' said Sam. 'That why it look like it.'
'How much is there, Sam? Looks like a bundle,' said Joe.
'Twenny thousand five hundred dollars. Small bills. It's our I stash. Looks like it all mine now.'
'Why don't you keep it in a bank?' asked Joe. 'You'd get interest on it.'
'Got plenty in the bank. Got about a quarter million bucks between us. This here's emergency cash money. Also, the bank I blows up, we still got the loot here.'
Sam was slowly drawing out his arm now. When his coffee-colored hand emerged from the cubbyhole it was holding a blue cardboard box. Heavy. I didn't have to be told what was in that famous blue box, even before I saw the S amp;W monogram on the lid. Sam placed the box down on the desk, took a long pull of coffee, and lifted the lid.
'Now what the hell are you going to do with that?' asked Joe.
Sam was holding a giant revolver in his right hand. It was finished in bright nickel. Its bore was big enough to stick a palm tree in. Sam put the piece down quickly on the desk. The room seemed to shake a bit. He walked back over to the big safe.
'I tole you, Joe. I'm goin' huntin'.'
'No you're not.' Joe stood up and started for the safe. In less than a second the big dog was in front of him in a crouch. The mouth was half-open, the front of the lips curled up in a combat snarl. A deep rumbling filled the room. Joe froze.
'Be cool, Popeye! Don't come no closer, Joe; he's trained to stay between you and the safe whenever it's open. Little trick I taught him.'
Sam fished around further back in the cubbyholes and drew out another box, which he carried over to the desk. Joe squatted on his heels in front of the dog and held out his hand. The dog stared blankly at it.
'I'm good with dogs, Sam, right Doc? Watch. Here Popeye! Here boy! C'mon… caaaaaa-mon boy. Tchh! Tchhh! Caaa-'
'RRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!'.
A Joe stood up, chagrined.
'Don't think you're having much luck,' I said.
Sam looked up from the desk. He was loading the revolver with the cartridges he had just fetched. They were spilled out all over the maple desktop and looked as big as lipsticks. The ammo box
said FIFTY CENTERFIRE PISTOL CARTRIDGES 45-CALIBRE LONG COLT. 185-GRAIN HOLLOW POINT.
Big bullets that would go very slowly from the big handgun. I hefted one; it was heavier than a golf ball. And there was the gun itself. Perhaps the Nimitz could use it for a sea anchor. 'How much does Popeye weigh, Sam?'
' 'Bout a hundred thirty. Not too much fat on him.'
There was a decisive clack as Sam slammed the loaded cylinder into the revolver's frame. He replaced the spare cartridges and put away both boxes. Joe stood up and came over to the desk. The dog likewise went back to his bed and sank to his belly on the old carpet. Sam opened a lower drawer in the desk and brought out an empty shoulder holster, which he ducked into, then replaced his light jacket. He slipped the big silver gun into its snug resting place underneath his left armpit.
'Johnny was the only one of us carried a piece. Now I'm carryin' this one every day.'
He tapped the bulge under the jacket for emphasis.
'Every day. ' He shut and locked the big safe.
Joe's sternness gave way to a helpless look.
'I assume you're licensed to carry, Sam. But be careful. How long since you've fired that howitzer?'
'Last month at the Deer Island range. It might surprise you, Joe, but I pretty good with this ol' cannon. Here, you want this logbook anymore?'
We said no thanks, and told Sam how much we appreciated his coming to Dependable's office on a Sunday. He and Popeye led us out and then he turned and relocked the three big deadbolts and reset the electronic intrusion device. He faced us.
'I'm not kiddin'. I'm gonna have my ear to the wire. I hear who did that to Johnny- they're dead. I don't care if I go down with 'em. Got nobody waitin' for me… just like Johnny. Don't care if they take me with 'em. They're dead.'
'See you, Sam. Sorry about Johnny.'
'One more time,' said Joe. He squatted down in front of Popeye. 'Here boy. C'mon Popeye. Caaaaaa- mon!'
The dog seemed as interested in Joe as he would be in a snow shovel.
Sam fastened the lead and walked the blocky beast back to the motorcycle. As we drove off I heard the faint popping and rumbling of the old bike starting up. Joe said the lab at headquarters had some news.
'Two items. One: there was evidence on the corpse in the chimney that he was tortured. Cigarette burns on the sole of his right foot.'
'Oh Christ.'
'Yeah. Two: the emergency room of Union Hospital in Lynn treatedget this- an Italian fisherman for two amputated fingers late Friday night. The guy could barely speak English. Claimed he got his hand caught in a cable winch. Hah! You see how clever that was? Know how many illegal aliens there are in our fishing boats? Especially Portuguese down in New Bedford and Italians on the North Shore? Records show the guy paid cash, had no I.D. Don't you see how perfect it is?'
'Very clever. About as foolproof as the gas bomb. These guys are pros, or near it. I can just see that doctor who was on call in Lynn. He's sewing up the hand and thinking, this poor, poor fisherman. So far from home, working to support his starving family in Ragusa. And if word gets out, they'll deport him.'
'Shit. It's enough to make me wish Sam does catch up with them.'
'Think he will? And if he does, is he really going to try to kill them?'
'Oh yes indeed. Sam's no pussycat, in case you didn't notice. He was a paratrooper in World War Two and never got out of jump shape. He was a cop, like he said. I guess he's good with a sidearm. Sure hope he doesn't get himself killed. Whatever happens on this case, I'm keeping mum to Sam.'
We drove up Mass. Ave. through Central Square, which on a Sunday looked unrecognizably quiet and deserted.
'Where are we headed?'
'To the Fogg Museum,' said Joe, driving through a thicket of Dunkin' Donuts wrappers that fluttered in our
