'I think it's shit but no skin off my ass, is it.' Marcus spoke in a neutral dialect most of the time, softly, like an FM announcer. But every once in a while there was a Caribbean trace in his speech. He served himself some chicken and some rice. 'Then he branches out. He opens a series of resorts and vacation clubs and he starts staffing them with hostesses. At which point he starts cutting into part of my franchise. So I have lunch with him one day, and I tell him that he's off base. And that he should stick to the fuck magazines and let me run the actual fucking.' Marcus drank some beer. 'Try the chicken,' he said. 'Stuff's excellent.'
I nodded and put a little on my plate.
'So the fucking sleaze bag says, sure. Right. He hadn't realized that, and he'd take care of it, and maybe we could work out… what the hell he say…' Marcus put his head back for a moment then looked back at me. 'A franchising fee. A fucking franchising fee, man.' Marcus shook his head. 'Shit!'
I ate the chicken. It was good. But I had already had more lunch than I was used to. The beer was good too. Marcus seemed to have a low tolerance for it. As he ate and drank he talked faster and louder and more profanely and the island accent became more frequent.
'So I tell him to go think about it and we'll have lunch next week and we'll come to a decision. And I go and talk to some of my money people and they say maybe some sort of fee isn't a bad move, and I say no, you let the little Hymie prick in, man, and pretty soon he's all the way in.'
'And there goes the neighborhood,' I said. Marcus paid no attention. He was rolling.
'So I have lunch with him the next week, Jap restaurant in Harvard Square, and he don't show up. Instead a couple of wise guys show up.'
'Vinnie Morris?' I said.
Marcus shook his head. 'Not Vinnie. This is bigger than Joe Broz. You don't need to know the names.'
'Lehman's connected,' I said.
'Indeed,' Marcus said.
'Connected so good that you can't touch him.'
'It's a boat I don't want to rock,' Marcus said.
'And you want me to rock it.'
Marcus finished another beer and glanced around for the waiter.
'Anything bad happening to Lehman is good happening to me,' he said.
The waiter appeared, with more beer. 'Never mind the beer,' Marcus said. 'Gimme a double Scotch.'
'Okay,' I said. 'Let's start with Artie Fioyd. I find him and we'll see what happens.'
Marcus said, 'Daryl?' and the big guy with the telltale shoulder strap said, 'He lives in Salem, Six Grey Street, down by the water.' The waiter came back with Marcus's Scotch, and another showed up with littlenecks in black bean sauce. I stood up. Hawk followed.
'Thanks for lunch,' I said.
'Don't miss the clams,' Marcus said. 'Clams are the best.'
I shook my head.
Hawk said, 'Bon appetit.' And we left the restaurant.
18
The Salem waterfront was in the early throes of restoration chic. Run-down buildings were being rehabbed and condo-ized, people were buying jeeps and BMWs, the bars were serving nachos and potato skins, there were Vietnamese and Mexican restaurants, and it was only a matter of time before nouvelle cuisine was vying for position with Cajun cooking. Looming over all were the twin stacks of the 'power plant, which gently dusted the new condos with a fine black grit.
I drove down Derby Street past the Pickering Wharf development, full of restaurants, and shops that sold things like teddy bears and silk flowers, past the old custom house where Hawthorne had worked, past a barroom called In a Pig's Eye, and turned right onto Grey Street behind the House of Seven Gables.
Grey Street was very short and ended in a boatyard. Just before the boatyard was a five unit condominium development that hinted at having once been a warehouse. Floyd lived in unit five. He answered my second ring smoking a pipe, wearing Top-Siders and white duck pants and a short-sleeved khaki safari jacket. His hair was blond and longish and his mustache was thick and shagged over his upper lip. He was flawlessly tanned and was probably thought a hunk by sexually liberated young women.
I said, 'Art Floyd?'
He smiled. 'Absolutely,' he said.
'My name is Spenser, and I want to talk with you about a kid named Ginger Buckey.'
Floyd squinted at me, his bright blue eyes narrowing effectively. 'Gee,' he said, 'I'm sorry, but I don't think I know anyone by that name.'
'Oh, darn,' I said. 'I was so hoping you would. How about Perry Lehman?'
Floyd held the squint, his cheeks dimpling engagingly as he smiled in honest puzzlement, 'Gee, mister,' he said, 'are you sure you've got the right guy? I don't know any of these people.'
I put the flat of my hand against his chest and pushed him back into his living room and closed the front door behind us.
'Take your goddamned hands off me,' Floyd said.
