“I don’t know. Everything. Drives her around. Carry stuff when she shops. Errands. That shit. He’s got it made, man.”
“What’s her name?”
“The rich broad?” Mulready shrugged. His breath was back. I had put the gun away. He was talking, which was something he obviously had practiced at. He was beginning to relax a little. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t think Mingo ever said.”
At Furnace Brook Parkway I went off the expressway, reversed directions, and came back on heading north.
“Where we going now?” Mulready said.
“We’re going to go visit Cousin Mingo,” I said. “You’re going to show me where he lives.”
“Oh, fuck me, man. I can’t do that. Mingo will fucking kill me.”
“But that will be later,” I said. “If you don’t show me I’ll kill you now.”
“No, man, you don’t know Mingo. He is a bad-ass son of a bitch. I’m telling you now, man, you don’t want to fuck with Mingo.”
“I told you, Michael. I’m looking for Rachel Wallace. I told you back in the warehouse that I’d break things if I had to. You’re one of the things I’ll break.”
“Well, shit, man, lemme tell you, and then drop me off. Man, I don’t want Mingo to know it was me. You don’t know what he’s fucking like, man.”
“What’s his real name?” I said.
“Eugene, Eugene Ignatius Mulready.”
“We’ll check a phonebook,” I said.
In Milton I pulled off the expressway and we checked the listing in an outdoor phonebooth. It didn’t list Watertown.
“That’s in the West Suburban book,” Michael said. “They only got Boston and South Suburban here.”
“Observant,” I said. “We’ll try Information.”
“Christ, you think I’m lying? Hey, man, no way. You know? No way I’m going to bullshit you, man, with the piece you’re carrying. I mean my old lady didn’t raise no stupid kids, you know?”
I put in a dime and dialed Information. “In Watertown,” I said. “The number for Eugene I. Mulready—what’s the address, Michael?”
He told me. I told the operator.
“The number is eight-nine-nine,” she said, “seven-three-seven-oh.”
I said thank you and hung up. The dime came back.
“Okay, Michael, you’re on your way.”
“From here?”
“Yep.”
“Man, I got no coat—I’ll freeze my ass.”
“Call a cab.”
“A cab? From here? I ain’t got that kind of bread, man.”
I took the dime out of the return slot. “Here,” I said. “Call your buddy Swisher. Have him come get you.”
“What if he ain’t home?”
“You’re a grown-up person, Michael. You’ll figure something out. But I’ll tell you one thing—you call and warn Mingo, and you won’t grow up any more.”
“I ain’t going to call Mingo, man. I’d have to tell him I tipped you.”
“That’s what I figure,” I said. I got in my car. Michael Mulready was standing shivering in his shirt sleeves, his hands in his pants pocket, his shoulders hunched.
“I give you one tip though, pal,” he said. “You got a big surprise coming, you think you can fuck around with Mingo like you done with me. Mingo will fucking destroy you.”
“Watch,” I said and let the clutch out and left him on the sidewalk.
Watertown was next to Belmont, but only in location. It was mostly working-class and the houses were shabby, often two-family, and packed close together on streets that weren’t plowed well. It was slow going now, the snow coming hard and the traffic overcautious and crawling.
Mingo Mulready’s house was square, two stories, with a wide front porch. The cedar shingle siding was painted blue. The asbestos shingles on the roof were multi-colored. I parked on the street and walked across.
There were two front entrance doors. The one on the left said Mulready. I rang the bell. Nothing. I waited a minute, rang it again. Then I leaned on it for about two minutes. Mingo wasn’t home. I went back to my car. Mingo was probably off working at his soft job, driving the rich woman around Belmont. I turned on the radio and listened to the news at noon. Two things occurred to me. One was that nothing that ever got reported in the news seemed
