The Widening Gyre by Robert B. Parker Read Free Book Online Page B

and successful mob. Vinnie was what you might call the executive assistant.
    I wanted to say, ”Oh, ho.“ But it would have sounded odd in the empty office. Maybe I ought to hire an assistant, so when I said, ”Oh, ho,“ someone would hear me. A dog might suffice. I could look knowingly at the dog and say, ”Oh, ho,“ and the dog would wag its tail, and I’d give it a cookie.
    Vinnie was Broz’s instrument. He had no life of his own. If he was at Browne’s fund-raiser, it was because Broz sent him. If Broz sent him, it was because there was business to be done. Broz would have the same interest in politics as Exxon does in oil wells.
    I wrote Joe Broz on a piece of note paper and read some more. I read until 9:15 and there was nothing else. I stuffed all the clippings and Xerox copies and photos back into the big envelope and put the envelope into the bottom drawer of my file cabinet. Then I sat back down at my desk and looked at my notes. Joe Broz. Not a lot of notes for twelve hours research.
    I put the note in my pocket, stood up, and looked out the window at the dark street and the empty buildings. I was hungry. I got out my bottle of Irish whiskey and had a drink. I was still hungry. I capped the bottle, put it away, and went home. I had a steak, a bottle of red wine, and went to bed. The wine helped me to go to sleep but not to stay there. I woke up at 3:30 and lay awake and thought disjointedly about life and death until dawn.

Chapter 11
    The morning was clean and cold and bright. I bought a corn muffin and a large black coffee at the Dunkin‘ Donut shop on Boylston Street and stood out front, on the corner of Exeter Street, and had breakfast. It was early. People with clean shaves and fresh perfume were going by on the way to work. They all walked with hurried purpose, as if they were all late for work. I dropped my empty cup into the trash and strolled down Boylston. I turned up Berkeley past my office building toward Police Headquarters. It was just after eight when I went into Martin Quirk’s little cubicle off the homicide squad room.
    Quirk looked like he’d been there for hours. His sleeves were rolled up, his tie loose. There was a half-empty container of coffee on the desk. When I came in Quirk nodded.
    I said, ”Good morning, Martin.“
    Even with his tie loose and his sleeves rolled, Quirk looked, as he always did, brand new. As if he’d just come from the Mint. His coarse black hair was short and freshly cut. His face was clean shaven. His shirt was gleaming white and crisp with starch. His gray slacks were creased. The blue blazer that hung on a hanger from a hook on the back of his door was unwrinkled.
    He said, ”You want any coffee?“
    I said yes and he went into the squad room and brought me a cup and a refill for himself.
    ”How’s Susan?“ he said when he was back behind his desk.
    ”She’s away,“ I said.
    He nodded.
    I said, ”I’d like to take a look at your intelligence file on Joe Broz.“
    ”That’s the Organized Crime Unit,“ Quirk said. He drank more coffee. His hands were very thick and the fingers were long and blunt-ended.
    ”I know,“ I said. ”But I don’t have any friends over there.“
    ”And you think you have friends over here?“ Quirk said.
    ”Everything’s relative,“ I said. ”At least you know who I am.“
    ”Whoopee,“ Quirk said. ”Why do you want to see it?“
    ”I think he owns a politician.“
    Quirk grinned. ”Everyone else does,“ he said. ”Why shouldn’t Joe?“
    ”I want some evidence.“
    ”Don’t we all. Explain things to me. If it sounds good, I’ll get you the file and you can sit here and read it.“
    I leaned back a little, put one foot up on the edge of Quirk’s desk, and told him. He listened without interrupting, his hands locked behind his head, his face blank.
    When I finished he said, ”I can get the names of the two stiffs you rousted in Springfield.“
    ”And?“
    ”And?“ Quirk frowned. ”Christ, are