Read Online Vineyard Shadows by Philip R. Craig - Free Book Online Page B

now? All right, where might he have gone?”
    â€œI advised him to go to the cops.”
    He looked at me with those white-ice eyes. “And did he do that?”
    I looked back. “I don't know what he did or where he went. But I know this: he's not at my house and I want no more of him or of you.”
    â€œWell, Mr. Jackson, we don't always get what we want, do we? There are some people here in town, for instance, who want to see Tom Rimini and probably won't stop looking until they find him. Those people will take it bad if they find out people have been sheltering him and lying about it.”
    â€œSo far,” I said, “all Tom Rimini has been to me is trouble. I moved to Martha's Vineyard to get away from trouble.”
    â€œYou want to know a funny thing?” asked Whelen. “I hear that The Pilot and Howie Trucker didn't go down there to find Rimini. I hear that they were already there, on vacation with their wives in a place Trucker owns down there. Not a bad place. I was down there once or twice myself. I hear that they got a call from Boston or somewhere and went over to collect Rimini as a sort of favor before they went to the beach. What do you think of that? You never know what's going to happen, do you? You're on vacation, you're going to the beach, then you do a friend a favor and you end up dead.”
    â€œEven Attila the Hun probably went on vacation,” I said, “and we all end up dead sooner or later. But HowieTrucker's not dead yet. I imagine the cops will want to keep him alive so he can talk to them.”
    â€œFuck Howie Trucker,” said Todd.
    â€œThe Pilot was a stupid man,” said Whelen. “His brain was in his crotch. I hear that Howie was supposed to keep him in line on this caper, but I guess he didn't do his job. Your wife a looker, Mr. Jackson?”
    I saw the bruises on her face. “Yes.”
    He nodded. “Yeah. Well, The Pilot never could keep his hands off a good-looking woman.” His glacier eyes bored into mine. “Whoever sent him made a mistake. People make mistakes.”
    I thought it was as near as I was going to get to an admission of error.
    â€œYeah,” I said. “I guess The Pilot paid for his own, and for the one made by whoever sent him. I don't want any more mistakes.”
    â€œYeah,” said Whelen. He sat back. “Well, thanks for the drink, Mr. Jackson. See you around, Mr. Quinn.”
    I got up and Quinn slid out of the booth and stood beside me.
    â€œOne other thing,” said Whelen, looking up at me.
    â€œWhat's that?”
    â€œYou sure you don't know where Rimini is?”
    â€œI know where he isn't. He isn't at my house, and I don't want any more wiseguys looking for him there.”
    He cocked his head to one side. “Don't try to be too smart or too tough, Mr. Jackson. It's not healthy. You happen to run into Tom Rimini, you tell him to go home. Tell him his friends miss him.”
    â€œI'm hungry,” I said to Quinn, “but I've changed my mind about having pub grub. Take me to the nearest Big Mac.”
    â€œSure,” said Quinn, and we walked out of the Green Harp feeling Irish eyes on our backs.
    â€œYou're terrific,” said Quinn. “You should take up politics. You're a born diplomat. You're lucky Todd didn't shoot your balls off.”
    â€œI doubt if anybody does much shooting in the Green Harp,” I said. “Sonny likes a nice Irish bar and likes to keep his own life quiet and peaceful. Todd probably does his shooting somewhere else, when Sonny isn't around. Was Pete McBride there just now?”
    â€œYeah. Chunky fellow at the far end of the bar. Works the docks, mostly. Collects from the unions and shippers both, they say. And they say he skims from Sonny's take but never enough to make Sonny mad. Why?”
    I remembered the man at the end of the bar, and stored his face away in my mental files.
    â€œNo reason,” I said.