“Are you trying to kid me,” he said. His voice was shrill and flat.
“Me?” I said. “Kid you? A big shot like you? Not me. The boy here just asked me to define class and I thought it would be easier to bring him over here and show him.”
The three card players in the garage looked up. One of them got up and moved to the office door. I wasn’t sure he could fit through it.
“You want to get your ass kicked,” Harry said, “you come to the right place. Ain’t he, Shelley? Ain’t he come to the right place?”
From the doorway Shelley said, “That’s right. He come to the right place.” Shelley looked about the same size and strength as a hippopotamus. Probably not as smart, and certainly not as good-looking. His hair was blond and wispy and hung over his ears. He wore a flowered shirt with short sleeves and his arms were smooth and completely hairless. He burped quietly and said, “Fucking anchovies.”
“I’m trying to locate a guy named Mel Giacomin,” I said.
“You see him here?” Harry said.
“No.”
“Then buzz off.”
“I heard you’d know where he is.”
“You heard wrong.”
“Listen up, Paul,” I said. “You want to learn repartee. You’re in the presence of a master.”
Shelley frowned. He looked at Harry.
Harry said, “Do I know you?”
“Name’s Spenser,” I said.
Harry nodded. “Yeah. I know you. You’re the one cleaned out Buddy Hartman and that woodchuck he brought with him a while ago.”
“That’s me,” I said. “The woodchuck’s name was Harold, I think. He had a blackjack.”
Harry nodded. He was looking at me while he dragged hard on the short cigarette, making a long glowing coal reach almost to his fingers. He dropped the butt on the floor and let it smolder. He exhaled slowly, letting the smoke seep out of each corner of his mouth.
“I’m one of the guys that threw one of your people in the river off the Mass. Ave. Bridge too,” I said.
Shelley was chewing tobacco. He spit tobacco juice on the floor behind him.
“What makes you think it was one of mine?” Cotton said.
“Aw, come on, Harry. We both know they were yours. We both know you’re tight with Mel Giacomin and you were doing him a favor.”
Harry looked at Paul. “Who’s the kid?”
“He’s a vice cop, undercover,” I said.
“That Giacomin’s kid?”
I put my hands in my hip pockets. I said, “What’s your connection with Giacomin, Harry?”
“I got no connection with Giacomin,” Harry said. “And I don’t want you sticking your nose into my business. You unnerstand?”
“Understand, Harry. With a D. Un-der-stand. Watch my lips.”
Harry’s voice got a little shriller. It sounded like chalk on a blackboard.
“Shut your fucking mouth,” he said. “And keep your fucking snoop nose out of my fucking business or I’ll fucking bury you right here, right out front here in the fucking yard I’ll bury you.”
“Five,” I said. “Five fuck’s in one sentence, Paul. That’s colorful. You don’t see color like that much anymore.”
The other two card players were standing behind Shelley. They weren’t Shelley, but they didn’t look like tourists. Harry took out his handkerchief and blew his nose. He examined the results, then folded the handkerchief up and stuffed it back in his right pants pocket. Then he looked at me.
“Shelley,” he said. “Throw the bum the fuck out, and make it hurt.” There was a faint touch of pink on his cheeks.
Shelley spit another batch of tobacco juice on the cement floor behind him and took a step toward me. I took my gun out of its hip holster and pointed it at him.
“Stay right there, Shelley. If I put a hole in you, the shit will seep out and you’ll weigh about ninety-eight pounds.”
Behind me I heard Paul breathe in.
“Harry,” I said. “I can see you out of the corner of my eye. If your hands go out of sight under the desk, I’ll shoot you through the bridge of your nose. I’m very good with this thing.”
Everyone was still. I said, “Now what was your connection with Giacomin, Harry?”
“Go fuck yourself,” Harry said.
“How about I shoot off one of your earlobes?”
