Free Shallow Graves - Jeremiah Healy by Jeremiah Healy

complexion
reminding me of an all-weather radial. A toothpick stuck out from one
comer of his mouth, the corner curling in a half-smile.
    He said, "How ya doin'," as a statement
rather than a question and then settled into one of my client's
chairs, the leather coat squeaking against the wood.
    I said, "You want to take your coat off?"
    "We ain't gonna be staying that long."
    "So maybe I should put my coat on."
    "You don't want to catch cold on the way to the
car."
    "Where are we heading, we aren't going to be
here that long?"
    "Some friends of mine, they want to have a
little talk with you."
    "And if I don't exactly feel like going with
you?"
    A shrug so small the coat gave just one tiny squeak.
"I leave, come back with two associates, and then we go see my
friends."
    "And if two more aren't enough?"
    The only part of his expression that changed was the
toothpick. It rolled to the other corner of his mouth. "Then I
come back with four more. Sooner or later, you have that talk with my
friends."
    "I step on some toes somewhere?"
    "I don't know. I'm just transportation."
    If he were just "transportation/' he'd be
leaning against a car downstairs, and somebody else would be talking
with me. I thought over what I'd been doing the last couple of weeks
and came up with only one possibility.
    I said, "Where are we going?"
    "You find out when we get there."
    I shook my head very slowly. That brought a good
smile.
    "Hey-ey-ey," he said, dragging out the
syllable. "Look, we was gonna clip you, we wouldn't send
somebody you don't know, would we?"
    " You would if you don't have anybody I know."
    "You raise a good point." He sat back into
the chair, folding his hands over his stomach, lifting his shoulders
once and letting them sag into the chair, a symphony of squeaks from
the coat. When I didn't say anything, he waited thirty seconds or so,
then said, "You come now, we beat the afternoon rush."
    "These days, there's always traffic."
    He rolled the toothpick back to where it started,
then used the thumb and forefinger of his left hand to pull back the
lapels of his coat and jacket. Letting me see he wasn't reaching for
anything lethal. He pulled out a long wallet from the inside pocket
of the jacket, extracted a plastic card, and sent it across the desk
to me.
    "My license. A picture of me and everything."
    I looked at the driver's license. It seemed
legitimate. Social Security number, date of birth. The photo was
recent, the expiration date four birthdays away. The address was in
the North End, Boston's Italian-American section.
    I read off, "Zuppone, Primo T."
    "Yeah, only you gotta pronounce it 'Zoo-po-ny'.
"
    "Primo, how many of these do you have?"
    The small shrug again. "Six, seven. But that
there's the real one."
    I couldn't help but grin at him. "People
underestimate you a lot, Primo?"
    That got the half-smile. "Just once, usually."
    " Primo, what's the license number on your car?"
    "That ain't on there."
    "I know. I want the plate of the car we're going
for a ride in."
    He rattled it off, no more hesitation.
    "I'm going to make some calls, Primo. Then I'll
decide whether we're taking a ride."
    Zuppone and his coat made themselves more comfortable
in the chair.
    I dialed the Boston police, making a point to ask for
"Homicide" and "Lieutenant Robert Murphy" instead
of Holt. Murphy wasn't in, so I left Harry Mullen's name and
telephone number at Empire, then Zuppone's name, address, and plate
number. Then I called my answering service and left the same
information with them.
    When I hung up, Zuppone said, "You want to call
your friend, the assistant D.A,, we got time."
    I spoke to the half-smile. "That's okay. She
needs you, she'll find you."
    Zuppone said, "You carrying?"
    "At least one."
    He said, "Okay. Let's go."
    I said, "What if I'd said no?"
    "What, about carrying?"
    "Yeah."
    The leather squeaked its
last as he got up. "I wouldn't have believed you."
    * * *
    "This road's a fucking disgrace, ain't it?"
    We were driving out of