“Wally,” I said, “have you ever thought of renting out as a goblin for Halloween parties?”
Wally’s body was between Doerr and me, and Doerr couldn’t see the gun. “What the hell are you waiting for, Wally? I want to hear him yelling.”
I stood up and Wally inched back. The pressure of the gun muzzle made him rise slightly on the balls of his feet.
“Overconfidence,” I said. “Overconfidence again, Frankie. That’s twice you said ugly things to me and then couldn’t back them up. Now I am thinking about whether I should shoot Wally in the tongue or not. Put the baton in my left hand, porklet,” I said to Wally. He did. Our faces were about an inch apart, and his was as blank as it had been when he’d walked into the room. Without looking, I tossed it into the corner behind me.
“Of course, you could try me, Frank. You could rummage around in your desk maybe and come up with a weapon and have a go at me. Pretty good odds, Frankie. I have to shoot the Hog first before I can get you. Why not? It’s quicker than scaring me to death.” I kept the pressure of the gun barrel up under Wally’s chin and looked past his shoulder at Doerr. Doerr had his hands, palms down, on the desk in front of him. His face was quite red and his lips were trembling.
But he didn’t move. He stared at me and the lines from his nostrils to the corners of his mouth were deep and there was a very small tic in his left eyelid. With my left hand I patted Wally down and found the P.38 in its shoulder holster under his belt. All the time I watched Doerr. His mouth was open maybe an inch, and a small bubble of saliva had formed in the right-hand corner. I could see the tip of his tongue and it seemed to tremble, like the tic in his eye and in counterpoint to the movement of his lips. It was kind of interesting. But I was getting sick of standing that close to Wally.
“Turn around, Wall,” I said. “Rest your hands on the desk and back away with your feet apart till all your weight is on your arms. You probably know the routine.” I stepped away from him around the desk closer to Doerr, and Wally did as he was told.
“Okay, Frank,” I said. “So much for what hurts. Are you going to climb down from Marty Rabb’s back, or am I going to have to take you off?”
Doerr’s mouth had opened wider and his tongue was quivering against his lower lip much more violently than it had been. The small bubble had popped and a small trickle of saliva had replaced it. His head had dropped, and as he began to look at me, he had to roll his eyes up toward his eyebrows.
His mouth was moving too, but he wasn’t making any noise.
“How about it, Frank? I like standing around watching you drool, but I got things to do.”
Doerr opened his middle drawer and came out with a gun. I slammed my gun down on the back of his wrist, and it cracked against the edge of the desk. The gun rattled across the desk top and fell on the floor. Wally Hogg raised his head and I turned the gun at him. Doerr doubled up over his hand and made a repetitive grunting noise. Rocking back and forth in the swivel chair, grunting and drooling and making a sound that was very much like crying.
“Am I to interpret this as a rejection, Frank?”
He kept rocking and moaning and crying. “Aw balls,” I said. I picked up Doerr’s little automatic and stuck it in my pocket and said to Wally, “If you try to stop me, I’ll kill you,” and walked out the door. No one was downstairs. No one let me out. No one pursued me as I drove off.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THERE’S A BIRD I read about that lives around rhinos and feeds on the insects that the rhinos stir up when they walk. I’d always figured that my work was like that. If the rhinos were moving, things would happen. This time, though, the rhino had started to cry and I wasn’t too sure how to deal with that.
I had a feeling, though, how Doerr would deal with that once he stopped crying. I didn’t like the feeling. Maybe the technique only worked with real birds and real rhinos. Maybe I was doing more harm than good. Maybe I should get back on the cops and do what the watch commander said. I could get rid of a lot of maybes that way. I drove out Main Street, past the candy factory and around the circle at Sullivan Square, and back in toward Boston on Rutherford Ave. The sweet smell from the factory masked the smoke that billowed out of the skyscraper chimneys at the Edison plant across the Mystic River. Past the community college I turned right over the Prison Point Bridge, which had been torn down and rebuilt and called the Somebody T. Gilmore Bridge. The traffic reporters called it the Gilmore Bridge, but I remembered when it led to the old prison in Charlestown, where the walls were red brick like the rest of the city, and on execution nights people used to gather in the streets to watch the lights dim when they turned on the current in the chair. Now state prison was in Walpole and electrocutions were accidental. Ah sweet bird of youth.
It was before lunchtime still and traffic was light. In five minutes I was at my office and sliding into a handy tow zone to park. I bought a copy of the Globe at a cigar store and went up to my office to read it. The Sox had an off day today and opened at home against Cleveland tomorrow. Marty Rabb had beaten Oakland 2 to 0 yesterday on the coast, and the team had flown into Logan this morning early.
I called Harold Erskine and got Bucky Maynard’s home address. It was what I thought it would be.
“Why do you want to know?” Erskine asked.
“Because it’s there,” I said.
“I don’t want you screwing around with Maynard.
That’s the surest way to have this whole thing blow wide open.”
“Don’t worry, I am a model of circumspection.”
“Yeah,” Erskine said, “sure. You find out anything yet?”
“Nothing I can report on yet. I need to put some things together.”
“Well, for crissake, what have you found out? Is Marty or isn’t he?”
“It’s not that simple, Mr. Erskine. You’ll have to give me a little more time.”
“How much more? You’re costing me a hundred a day.
