Free The Wolf in Winter by John Connolly Page B

If things were going to turn bad, they would do so now.
    “What happened to Jackie, we don’t blame you for it,” said Paulie.
    He spoke with great solemnity, like a senior judge communicating a long-considered verdict.
    “Thank you,” I said, and I meant it, not only because my continued good health appeared assured but because I knew how important Jackie was to them. I wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d held some residual grudge against me, but it appeared there would be none. With the Fulcis, it was all or nothing. We had a clean slate. “Jackie done something very bad,” said Tony, “but that didn’t mean he should have been shot down from behind because of it.”
    “No,” I said.
    “Jackie was a good guy,” Tony continued. “He took care of his mom. He looked out for us. He—”
    Tony choked. His eyes were tearing up. His brother patted him on a muscled shoulder.
    “Whatever we can do,” said Paulie, “whatever help you need to find the man who did this, you let us know. And, anytime you want us to step up for you, you just call. Because Jackie would have stepped up, and just because he ain’t around no more don’t mean we ought to let these things slide, you understand? Jackie wouldn’t have wanted that.”
    “I hear you,” I said.
    I reached out and shook their hands. I didn’t even wince, but I was relieved to get the hand back.
    “How’s his mom doing?” I asked.
    Jackie’s mother had been given a diagnosis of Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease the previous year. Her illness was the only reason Jackie had committed the acts that led to his death. He just needed the money.
    “Not so good,” said Paulie. “Even with Jackie she would have struggled. Without him . . .”
    He shook his head.
    Jackie’s insurance company had invoked a clause in his life-­insurance policy relating to criminal activity, arguing that his death had resulted from participation in a criminal enterprise. Aimee Price was fighting the case on a pro bono basis, but she didn’t believe the ­insurance company was going to modify its position, and it was hard to argue that it didn’t have a point. Jackie was killed because he screwed up: he was careless, somebody died, and vengeance fell. I made a mental note to send a check to Jackie’s mother. Even if it helped only a little, it would be something.
    The Fulcis finished their drinks, nodded their goodbyes, and left.
    “You’re still alive,” said Dave, who’d been keeping one eye on proceedings and another on his bar, in case he didn’t get to see it again in its present form.
    “You seem pleased.”
    “Means I get my night off,” he said, as he pulled on his overcoat. “Would have been hard to leave otherwise.”
    I ENJOYED THAT EVENING in the Bear. Perhaps it was partly relief at not having incurred the wrath of the Fulcis, but in moving between the bar and the floor I was also able to empty my head of everything but beer taps, line cooks, and making sure that, when Dave returned the next morning, the Bear would still be standing in more or less the same condition it was in when he left it. I drank a coffee and read the Portland Phoenix at the bar while the night’s cleanup went on around me.
    “Don’t tax yourself,” said Cupcake Cathy, as she nudged me with a tray of dirty glasses. “If you strained something by helping, I don’t know how I could go on living.”
    Cathy was one of the waitstaff. If she was ever less than cheerful, I had yet to see it. Even as she let off some steam, she was still smiling.
    “Don’t make me fire you.”
    “You can’t fire me. Anyway, that would require an effort on your part.”
    “I’ll tell Dave to fire you.”
    “Dave just thinks we work for him. Don’t disillusion him by making him put it to the test.”
    She had a point. I still wasn’t sure how the Bear operated, exactly; it just did. In the end, no matter who was nominally in charge, everyone just worked for the Bear itself. I finished my coffee,