Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [71]
“What kind of fallout did you guys get from taking out Junior?” Nunzio asked Boomer and Dead-Eye.
“His father says he’s gonna sue the department.” Boomer paused, filling his mouth with pasta. “He’s put a team of six-figure lawyers on the case.”
“He know you were in on it?” Nunzio asked.
“He knows what he was told,” Dead-Eye said. “Two retired detectives heard a rumor about a young girl being held against her will in an abandoned building.”
“When we went in, Junior panicked and came after me with a knife,” Boomer added. “And Dead-Eye iced him.”
“That’s not gonna be enough for Pop,” Nunzio said. “He’s gonna want the ones buried his son.”
“They can take my pension if they want it,” Boomer said, breaking off a hunk of bread from a basket. “I don’t give a fuck. Nothing can take back what they did to that kid.”
“Pop’s gonna use his money to talk for him against the two of you. I’ll use mine to talk against him. End of the day, we’ll see whose money talks louder.” Nunzio sipped his wine.
“How’s Jennifer?”
Boomer put down his fork, took a sip from a glass of mineral water, and looked over at Nunzio, sadness easing its way across his face. “The doctors, with all their fucking diplomas, told her parents that kids can rebound out of these kinds of things.”
“She say anything?” Nunzio said. “Can she talk at all?”
“I was carryin’ her down the street to my car.” Boomer’s voice betrayed the weight of his emotions. “I still couldn’t get over the shape she was in. So much blood, so many bruises, you had to look to find skin. I was cursin’ to myself, sick about the whole fuckin’ business. Then she opens one eye, looks at me, and says ‘thank you.’” Boomer put his head down and picked up his fork.
“I’m only sorry I didn’t leave Malcolm’s body on top of Junior’s,” Dead-Eye said. “Cancel out both their checking accounts.”
“What happens to him now?” Nunzio asked.
“Malcolm?” Dead-Eye said. “He’s looking at a hard ten. Even with a soft judge and a kind wacko report.”
“Doesn’t seem like it’s enough,” Nunzio said.
“It’s never enough,” Boomer said. “No matter what they end up with, it’s never enough.”
“The family needs anything,” Nunzio said, finishing off his wine and getting up from the table, “let ’em know I’ll do all I can.”
They watched the restaurant owner walk toward the bar, giving quick greetings to diners along the way.
“How much juice does Nunzio really have?” Dead-Eye asked, leaning back in his chair.
“About as much as he needs,” Boomer said.
He paused for a moment and then reached inside the pocket of his blue button-down J. Crew shirt. He pulled out the card he had taken from Malcolm’s jeans and slid it across the table.
“Lucia Carney,” Dead-Eye said, reading the name printed on it. “Should that mean something to me?”
“She’s got four names.” Boomer picked up the card and placed it back in his shirt pocket. “Been married three times. All three husbands ended up dead.”
“Everything comes in threes,” Dead-Eye said. “Good things and bad.”
“She works out of Arizona,” Boomer said. “Runs a day care center. One of those drop-off-at-seven, pick-up-at-six places. Takes in about fifteen, maybe twenty thousand a year.”
“Any kids of her own?” Dead-Eye said.
“Can’t have any,” Boomer said. “She had a botched abortion when she was twenty. Messed up her insides. She was either living with or spending quality time with a drug runner down south. Beyond that, her early background’s sketchy.”
“I’m ready for another Pepsi,” Dead-Eye said. “You set with your water?”
“Get yourself two and a large bottle of Pellegrino for the table,” Boomer said, pushing his chair back and walking off toward the men’s room. “I’ll pick it up from there when everybody else gets here.”
“Who’s everybody else?” Dead-Eye asked, wondering where Boomer was taking all this, why he had devoted so much time to digging into the life of a three-time widow who spent her days watching other people’s kids.
“Don’t worry,” Boomer said, stopping between two empty tables. “You’ll like ’em. They’re a bunch of cripples. Like you and me.”
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BOOMER FRONTIERI