Scar Tissue Page 6

  Scarlett munched the strawberry that came with her frappe of the same flavor. “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

  Sebastian gave Constantin the side-eye and answered, “Because Big Mike did not hesitate to let us know how he feels about my father, and about… people like me.”

  Wolfe’s fingers tightened around the bottom of his glass. “What do you mean?”

  “He called him a faggot.” Constantin’s voice was hard, his craggy face harder. “Among other things. Sebastian made me leave before I could break his jaw.”

  “That’s definitely worth breaking a jaw,” a new voice interjected, echoing Wolfe’s thoughts. It belonged to Ryan Murphy, namesake and owner of Ryan’s Diner after inheriting it from his father when he retired to Florida. Like Wolfe and most of his friends, Ryan was in his early thirties, a mop of black hair swept to one side and a perfectly-placed set of dimples giving him boyish charm that was at odds with his gym-honed body and hard jaw. He also happened to be getting married to Wolfe’s ex-girlfriend Caitlin in about a week’s time, and while Wolfe had a range of feelings on that topic, he liked Ryan (and his food) too much to let it be awkward. “Do we need to round up a posse and curb stomp someone?”

  Scarlett looked at Ryan like she was seeing him for the first time. “You know how to do a curb stomp?”

  Ryan laughed and shook his head, gesturing back toward the kitchen. “Nah, Kevin does. We were talking about different ways my relatives might start a fight once they get drunk at the wedding.”

  Wolfe craned his neck and spotted Kevin Sullivan’s perpetually messy brown curls from where he was putting together a salad behind the counter. “How the hell do you know what a curb stomp is? You’re a librarian!” He paused. “Also, since when do you work here?”

  “I don’t,” Kevin replied around a mouthful of avocado, bringing his salad—some kind of all green kale thing that looked too healthy—and loped over to the table, glancing at Constantin before deciding sitting next to Scarlett was the safer bet. He pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up his hooked nose and mercifully finished chewing before he tried to speak again. “Work here, I mean. I come here for lunch on my days off. I do, however, know how to perform a curb stomp. Theoretically.”

  After a poke to the ribs from Wolfe, Scarlett cleared her throat and asked, “Are you also theoretically free tonight? Because I could use your help with something.”

  “We could,” Wolfe confirmed, before explaining where they were going and why, pausing while Ryan took their lunch orders. “And yes, before you say it, I’m aware that your brother is a dimwit of the highest degree.”

  “Dimwit was not the word I was going to use,” Kevin sighed. “But yeah, I’ll come with you guys.” He nibbled on a piece of broccoli and rubbed his brow. “I can only imagine what he’s going to be like at the wedding. You heard Christopher’s standing up for Ryan too, right?”

  Wolfe choked on his frappe. “Who the fuck thought that was a good idea?”

  “I cannot believe I’m saying this, but I agree with Wolfe.” Constantin looked up as Ryan returned with more drinks; black coffee for Constantin, and a Shirley Temple for Sebastian, who was evidently intent on rotting all his teeth before he hit forty. “You told us there were, what, three hundred people coming to your wedding? And Wolfe is already your best man—why in the name of God did you include him?”

  “Because the guys standing up for you write speeches,” Ryan replied calmly, “and since Christopher is inevitably going to give a speech whether I want him to or not, at least this way I get to read it first.”

  As Ryan went back to the kitchen, Sebastian’s eyes widened as the bell above the door to the diner jangled. He paused, cherry from the Shirley Temple halfway to his mouth, and asked icily, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  Old vinyl creaked as Wolfe, Scarlett, and Kevin all turned in their seats only to come face-to-face with Danh Sang, head of các triều đỏ—or the Red Dynasty, Boston’s largest Vietnamese gang—and his right-hand man, Thanh Ngo. Both men were middle-aged and dark-eyed, but that was where their similarities ended; where Sang was tall and svelte with collar-length hair and a designer linen jacket folded over his arm, Ngo was short and chubby, his black hair cropped close to his head and his face sweaty from the heat outside.

  Two unremarkable men in white suits filed in after Ngo and Sang and stood in front of the door, flipping the diner’s OPEN sign to CLOSED and blocking the most obvious exit with their bodies.

  Sang flashed a crooked yellowed smile, the one thing about his appearance that wasn’t prim and proper. “Now Sebastian, is that how you greet all your old friends?”

  “You are not his friend,” Constantin spat, rising from his seat. The bodyguards jolted forward to intervene but a raised hand from Sang stopped them. “You are a pig, and so are your men. I can’t imagine how you get anything done when you are so busy wagging your dicks everywhere.”

  “Careful, Mr. Ionesco,” Sang chided. “Those are words that could get Anton’s restaurant shot up in a drive-by… again.”

  Ryan was coming to the table with their tray of food and froze upon seeing Sang and his men, but Scarlett beckoned him forward, eyes never leaving the mob boss’s face. “What do you know about that? And how did you know we were here?”

  “The second question is easier to answer than the first.” Taking a seat at the counter, Sang folded his jacket across his lap. “I have eyes everywhere, Ms. Vaughn, and most of them look less like me and more like you—white as snow and altogether unremarkable.” He examined his nails. “As for what I know about the shooting at Stela, I can tell you no one in my organization had anything to do with it.”

  Wolfe folded his arms on the tabletop, the club sandwich he’d ordered all but forgotten. “And why should we believe that?”

  Sang’s angular face took on an amused bent. “Because it would be awfully hard for me to steal the Rapture formula from Anton if he accidentally took a bullet, seeing as he’s the only one who knows where the drug is being made.”

  Sebastian made a disgusted sound. “Why am I not surprised? You’ve been in business together for all of three months, and already you intend to stab him in the back.”

  “Your father does not make friends well,” Sang responded mildly, “and he does an even worse job keeping them. He is a cunning businessman, but he has no idea how to deal with people.”

  It was Kevin who piped up next: “Did you come in here just to gloat, or do you have useful information?”

  One of Sang’s guards choked on a laugh and earned a scathing look from Thanh Ngo.

  Sang tilted his head, studying Kevin with dark, reptilian eyes. “Quite ballsy for a librarian, aren’t you?” His gaze moved to Wolfe and became no less unfriendly. “I suggest looking a bit closer to home for your culprit—and I don’t mean your father.”

  A winter-cold chill of dread shot up Wolfe’s back. “How do you know about my father?”

  Sang snorted. “Please. He gallivants around my city with Anton’s adopted daughter on his arm and you think I don’t know about it? Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell. If Anton tried to go after David Wolfe he’d wind up dead for his trouble, and then I’d never get what I want. I was referring to your uncle.” He paused. “You know, the one who took over the Winter Hill Gang.”

  ~***~

  Jake Wolfe liked routines… ah, fuck it, that wasn’t true. He hated routines, loathed schedules, and detested anything binding. However, all of the above were necessary to keep what was left of his sanity from fraying, and his new roommate’s consistently horrible quiches and the PTSD-fueled nightmares didn’t cut it.

  Cut it…

  Jake shut his green eyes, forehead creasing with the effort of keeping That Voice at bay. He smacked a fingerless-gloved hand against the steering wheel of his 1985 Chevy Camaro in frustration. “Come on, Wolfe, get it together. You’re better than this.” A moment passed with blood and a curved knife teasing the edges of his mind, and he snorted. “Well, s
o much for that positive self-talk crap.”

  Instead of lying to himself, Jake shut his eyes again, though not as tightly as the first time, and took in a deep breath through his nose. He calmed down as he slowly flexed his fingers and wiggled his toes. If he could move any which way he wanted, then he was free, and alive, and not trapped in a basement with a psychopath.

  These episodes—not quite panic attacks, but close—were happening more frequently since Jake peaced out of Caitlin and Ryan’s place. His rational for leaving was threefold: he was all healed up (physically, at least) from his tangle with the Mass Art Murderer, Ryan and Caitlin were getting married and didn’t need a fourth wheel (Kevin lived with them too), and Misha (also known as the roommate with horrible quiche) had desperately needed someone to split the mortgage on his house. Together they were barely making the payment, but Jake’s only other option would be to move back in with his mom, and he’d eat his shoe before he’d live in his childhood bedroom and endure Angela’s pity.

  Sighing out his resignation, Jake emerged from the car into the heat of the parking lot at Caruso’s Grocery. A behemoth single-story eyesore, Caruso’s occupied almost a block of Broadway in Cambridge, right off Route 2A and less than ten minutes from Harvard and the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. The building had no windows and was striped with garish yellow-and-black paint, revolving doors like you’d see at a hotel serving as the entrance for customers. Recently, the owner replaced the piece of sheet metal above the doors that once served as signage with a billboard that displayed the store’s name and hours.

  Jake took a step toward the familiar building and froze, the thought of actually going inside enough to curdle his stomach. Every time he’d been out until today, he’d had someone with him—now it felt like he was the only man on an island, far away from everything he’d ever known. Sweat broke out on his brow and at the small of his back, insulated by the long coat and jeans he wore despite the weather. The itch under what was left of his skin started at his chest and moved outward, and suddenly he knew there was no way in hell he was going inside Caruso’s to be gawked at like a circus monkey. Not alone.

  A streak of burgundy light flared near the corner of his eye, offering a momentary distraction from Jake’s mounting panic.

  The light was a sign across the street from Caruso’s, on a storefront that was minuscule by comparison. It read Voici Spiritueux in cursive tube-lighting, which Jake translated through what he remembered of high school French to Here Is Liquor. This was a store owned by runway model turned businesswoman Joanne Lavinge, who according to Sebastian had played an indirect role in the execution of the Mass Art Murders. She’d needed more retail zoning for her stores, and Sebastian’s father Anton—who wanted sell some kind of new party drug using bottles of wine as a disguise—was more than happy to oblige.

  Jake shifted from foot to foot as he examined the store, noting the crush of cars parked out front and the shadows of people moving around behind the half-frosted windows. He could see clusters of wooden shelves holding row after row of seemingly identical wine bottles, including what looked to be a special section behind the cash register.

  It’s a fancy liquor store, he thought. One your best friend died for. You don’t need to go over there and torture yourself.

  The jangle of Jake’s car keys in his still-trembling hands, however, made him mull it over. If nothing else, he could sate whatever curiosity he had about Lavinge’s operation… and maybe pick up something to take the edge off his nerves?

  Going over there was a terrible idea. A colossal mistake.

  A break from routine.

  “Ah, screw it,” Jake said aloud, and jogged across the street.

  The air conditioning inside the liquor store was like a slap in the face, and Jake felt the tension ebb out of his shoulders as he slunk between the racks. Though the predominate inventory did seem to be wine—most of it with names Jake couldn’t pronounce and high price tags—there was the occasional stack of Scotch bottles or sale on goblets to keep things exciting. The other customers were scattered through the place and kept to themselves, not appearing to be interested in the only survivor of the Mass Art Murderer’s torment.

  There was no sign that said Hey Kid, Wanna Buy Some Drugs? so Jake presumed you had to ask for the special wine. He eyed the middle-aged guy slouched behind the register, who looked like an overly-cliché, not-skunk version of Pepe Le Pew, complete with a popped collar on his Ralph Laruen polo shirt and too much cologne. Was there a code word you had to know to get the Rapture? Was it like a speakeasy, where you had to memorize a phrase?

  Or was it ridiculously simple?

  Pepe Le Pew noticed Jake watching him and didn’t look impressed, sniffing haughtily as Jake approached him even though it was doubtful he could smell anything beyond his own cloying stench. “Can I help you find something, sir?”

  Jake was startled to hear a South Shore accent come out of some dude who resembled a low-rent mime, but he took it in stride. “I sure hope so. You got any Communion wine?”

  Evidently being a recovering Catholic had its perks, because Pepe scowled like he hated his mother but reached under the counter, producing an unremarkable bottle of pinot noir with something solid floating in its black depths. Whatever it was clinked against the glass as Pepe set the bottle down on the counter and reached for a paper bag. “A hundred dollars. Cash only.”

  Jake fished the grocery money out of his wallet with only a hint of guilt, a glance out the window at Caruso’s enough to make his hand shake slightly as he took the wrapped bottle from the fake Frenchie. He thanked him and headed out the door without a backward glance.

  ~***~

  Chapter Five

  David and Diana were exiting the offices of Quinn, Goldstein and Wickersham when David’s phone buzzed with an incoming call from his son. They were in the Financial District and fresh off a multi-story elevator plunge to get down from the law firm’s top-floor offices in a black-glassed skyscraper on Congress Street. As soon as they hit the corner and turned on to State Street they were assaulted by the smell of exhaust and a crush of sweaty tourists heading for the Old State House, heedless of the DON’T WALK signals flaring at the crosswalk.

  Diana shook her head in amazement. “I will never understand how those people do not get flattened with the way we drive in this town.” She glanced at David, who had stopped walking to look at his phone, now ringing in his hand instead of his pocket. “Are you going to answer that?”

  David snapped out of his reverie—it baffled him to think that after all these years of running, his family was only a phone call away—and moved aside for a guy pushing a cart of Boston-related hats. “Yeah. Sorry.” He slid his thumb over the green button on the screen. “Hey, Jimmy. What’s up?”

  “Hi Dad.” Wolfe’s voice was deep but not abrasive, and David heard him clearly despite the clamor of traffic on both ends of the call. “You see the news?”

  “If you mean did I hear about Christopher Sullivan getting shot, then yes,” David said. He followed Diana’s lead down State Street toward the garage where they’d left the rental car. They hadn’t learned anything new about Otis—according to the lawyers he’d never made it to the office—but at least their parking got validated. “Please tell me it’s you and Scarlett protecting him and not some two-bit security firm.”

  “We are, and that’s what I’m calling about.” Wolfe swore and honked his horn. “I just dropped Scarlett off at Christopher and Mel’s place—Frankie was there earlier, but he’s got patrol, and I’m trying to get to Uncle Bobby’s favorite bar.”

  David stopped walking again, much to Diana’s chagrin. “Bobby? What the hell does he have to do with the shooting at Codreanu’s place?”

  “Apparently he might be the one who ordered it.”

  “Who’d you hear that from?”

  Wolfe’s response was wry: “Danh Sang.”

  “Not exactly a trustworthy source of information, Jimmy,” David point
ed out, but as much as he’d hate to admit it, it was possible the Red Dynasty leader had a point when it came to his brother. “Where’s Bobby hanging out these days?”

  “When he’s not busting heads, you mean? He’s usually at Dirty Dan’s. It’s a shithole barroom.”

  “And where’s Dirty Dan’s? I’ll meet you there and we can have a chat with Bobby.”

  Wolfe sighed. “Where else would it be? Winter Hill.”

  ~***~

  Four hours ahead of the baseball game’s 7:15 start time, Laine Parker was dropped off several blocks away from her destination by her brother Aiden, the Steyr rifle broken down in pieces inside a rucksack she’d picked up at the Kenmore Army/Navy store. Despite the time to go until the first pitch, the crowd of people in the area around Fenway Park had grown since earlier in the afternoon, outdoor tables at nearby restaurants full to bursting and traffic moving at a crawl on Lansdowne and Van Ness Streets.

  Laine waited until she almost pulled level with the office building they’d scouted earlier on Brookline Street before cutting a sharp left down the neighboring alleyway. She kept her head down to avoid cameras, red hair once again tucked away under her ball cap. When she reached the back corner of the building she threw the rucksack up on to the fire escape first before she bent at the knees, springing upward with as much force as she could muster and grabbing the railing to haul herself up. She crept up the metal stairs, aware of noise potential despite all the nearby activity—the last thing she needed was a curious tourist wondering if they could catch a glimpse of a real-live city rat.

  Soon she was on the roof, the hot sun making its slow rotation westward. Laine made a note of where the fire escape was in relation to the roof access for the building, and then she headed to the northeast corner. Dropping the rucksack, she took shelter from the sun’s rays on the shadowy side of a large air conditioning unit, which was working overtime in the scorch and dripping condensation that sizzled away almost immediately.