Lifeguard - James Patterson [31]
Watertown was one of those working-class suburbs of Boston, except instead of just the Irish and the Italians and the blacks, it was home to a lot of Armenians. I had the cab let me off on Palfrey, and walked back a couple of blocks to Mount Auburn. I stopped in front of an ordinary white Victorian just off the corner.
A sign hung over the front steps: WATCHES REPAIRED. JEWELRY BOUGHT AND SOLD. A wooden arrow pointed up to the second floor. I climbed the steps and made my way around to the porch. A bell tinkled as I opened the door.
A heavyset man with bushy gray hair in a jeweler’s apron looked up from behind the counter. His jowly face broke into a thin smile. “You’re taking a helluva chance coming here like this, Neddie-boy. But how the hell are you?”
Chapter 36
I FLIPPED a hand-scrawled sign to CLOSED. “I need to talk to you, Uncle George.”
George Harotunian wasn’t my real uncle. It was just that I had known him my whole life. He was my father’s trusted friend, his business partner. His fence.
When we were growing up, George was as close to a real uncle to Dave and me as we ever had. He always gave my mother money when my father was in jail. He had connections for choice Celtics seats at the Garden. Somehow he managed to steer clear of the law himself. Everyone seemed to find a way to like Uncle George. The good guys and the bad. So I was thinking, Is he Gachet?
“Congratulations, Neddie.” George shook his head. “Always thought it would be for hockey, but you certainly made the big leagues now.”
“I need to find Frank, Uncle George.”
He took out his eyepiece and wheeled his chair back from the counter. “I don’t think that would be wise right now, son. You want some advice? You need a lawyer. Let me hook you up with somebody good. Turn yourself in.”
“C’mon, Uncle George, you know I didn’t do anything down there.”
“I know you didn’t do anything,” George said, tossing a copy of the morning paper on the counter, “but you got a helluva novel way of showing that to everyone else. You think your father was involved? Jesus, Neddie, you don’t know him now. Whitey’s too sick to do anything these days. Except cough and complain.”
“He needs a kidney, right?”
“He needs a lot of things, kid. You think your father would trade his brother’s son, and the rest of those kids, just to pee in a tube for a couple more years? You’re judging him a bit too hard, son.”
“You know better than anyone that Mickey wouldn’t make a move without Frank,” I said. “I’m not saying he had anybody killed, but I damn well think he knows who set them up. He knows something, and I need to know it, too. My best friends are dead.”
“Christ, Ned,” George wheezed, “you think your father knows the difference between a Jackson Pollock and a fucking Etch-A-Sketch? The man’s no saint, I know, but he loves you more than you think.”
“I guess I figure he loves his life more. I need to find him, Uncle George, please. . . .”
George came around the counter and stared at me, shaking his large, bushy head. “You must need money, kid.”
He reached under his apron and peeled off five fresh hundred-dollar bills from a large roll. I took them and stuffed them in my jeans. Accessing my ATM account would have been like a homing signal now. “I know people you could stay with, but your best bet is to come clean.”
“Tell my father I need to see him, George. Somewhere safe, if he doesn’t trust me. He should be pleased. I finally landed in the family business.”
George’s hooded eyes grew soft. He stared at me for a long time, then shook his head. “Try calling me Thursday, Neddie. I may run into him by then.”
“Thanks, Uncle George.” I smiled.
He stuck out his fleshy palm, and when I took it, he pulled me close in a hard embrace. “Everyone knows you had nothing to do with what happened down there, son. I’m sorry about Mickey and your friends. But you’re in trouble, Ned, and I don’t think Frank can get you out. My