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Close to the Bone

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"William G. Tapply belongs to that growing school of Massachuasetts-based writers who threaten to make Boston the new capital of the the whodunit. . . . Tapply's novel, crisp and clean and muscular, won't hurt Beantown's chances in the slightest."
--San Diego Union

Excerpted from Close to the Bone:

I ushered the day's last client out of my office on Wednesday afternoon. It was four o'clock, which, if I didn't dillydally, would give me just enough time to zip home, change my clothes, gather up some gear, and drive out to the Squannock River in Townsend, where the trout would be feeding on mayflies. An attractive plan, I thought. I would do it. I owed it to myself.

About then Julie tapped on the door, pushed it open, and stuck her head into my office. Her eyebrows were arched in her "May I come in?" expression. I crooked my finger at her, and she came in.

She closed the door behind her and stood in front of my desk. "Brady," she said, "there's a man here who wants to see you."

"He doesn't have an appointment?"

"No."

"You never let anyone see me without an appointment," I said. "I was actually thinking of going fishing."

"He's been waiting all afternoon. I told him you'd see him when you were done."

I slumped back in my chair. "He must be awfully persuasive. Or desperate. What's he want?"

"I don't know. He's desperate, I think. He came in, said he needed to see you, and when I told him he could make an appointment, he just sat down and said he'd wait. I told him you were tied up all afternoon, and he said that was okay. He's been sitting there jiggling his knee and flipping through your old Field & Streams."

"You're telling me I should see him."

She nodded.

"Even though he doesn't have an appointment and he's not one of our clients."

She shrugged.

"The whole damn trout season is passing me by."

"He seems like a nice quiet man with big problems."

"Fine. Okay. I'll see him." I shook my finger at her. "But don't you ever again accuse me of being a softie when I make house calls or forget to record all my billable time," I said, in what I thought was a convincing growl.

Julie grinned, came around the desk, and planted a wet kiss on my cheek. "You're a nice man," she said.

"I'm a sucker, is what I am," I said.

She went out, and a minute later she came back, followed by a short, round man with a high forehead and gray hair and dark eyes. He wore khaki pants and a green linen sport jacket, blue-and-white striped shirt, no tie, and a shy smile.

"Mr. Coyne," Julie said, "this is Mr. Vaccaro."

I stared at the man for a moment, then nodded. The last time I'd seen him, he'd been wearing a camel-hair topcoat in Skeeter's Infield, and he'd been talking to Paul Cizek. "We've met," I said to Julie. "Thanks."

She frowned for an instant, then shrugged and left the office, closing the door behind her.

I settled back in my chair. "What can I do for you, Mr. Vaccaro?"

"I need a lawyer."

"Who referred you to me?"

"No one. At least, not exactly. See, Mr. Cizek is my regular lawyer. Paul Cizek?"

I nodded. "Go ahead."

"Well, Mr. Cizek defended me. Almost two years ago, it was. And now--"

"I know all about you," I said.

He looked at me without expression.

"You work for the Russo family," I said. "Vinny Russo pays you to kill people. You shoot them in the eye. You're famous for that. You murdered an old man in a North end restaurant."

He shrugged. "They found me innocent."

"They found you not guilty," I said, "which is a lot different. Look, Mr. Vacarro. I don't know what your problem is, but I'm not a criminal lawyer. I can't help you."

"You mean you don't want to help me," he said.

I nodded. "Yes, that's right."

"Mr. Cizek is missing," he said. "I need him."

I didn't say anything.

Vaccaro leaned forward. "You're looking for him. So am I. We can help each other."

"What makes you think I'm looking for him?"

He sat back in his chair and shrugged.

I lit a cigarette and looked at him through the smoke. "Why did you come here, Mr. Vaccaro?"

"I want Mr. Cizek. Look, can I tell you about it?"

I shrugged. "You've already ruined my fishing plans. Go ahead."

"Okay." He took a deep breath. "Okay," he said again. "Yeah, the cops had me by the nuts for poppin' that old guy in Natalie's. What the wanted was for me to give them Vinny Russo. You know, testify against him. They knew I coulda done it. I give them Uncle Vinny, they let me go. You know, move someplace, give me a new name and some money. I told 'em no fuckin' way. I know how those deals work. The Russos'd find me in a month. I'd be a dead man. I told 'em to go fuck themselves. I'm better off going on trial. I figured they'd put me away. But Uncle Vinny got Mr. Cizek to defend me and he got me off."

"So what's your problem?"

He narrowed his eyes. "Now I think that prick Russo's gonna have me hit. I stood up for the son of a bitch, and now he decides he don't trust me. I wanna go back to the feds and give 'em Vinny and every other fuckin' Russo in Boston."

"Good idea," I said. "Do it. It's your civic responsibility."

He didn't smile. "It ain't that easy, Mr. Coyne."

"I don't want to hear this," I said. "You should go find yourself a lawyer who can help you."

"There's only one lawyer I trust. I gotta have Mr. Cizek. So you gotta find him for me. You find him and tell him I need him."

"As far as I know," I said, "Paul Cizek went overboard Friday night. They haven't found his body, but--"

"He's alive," said Vaccaro.

"What makes you think so?"

He shrugged. "He's gotta be alive. I need him."

"Well, I tell you what," I said. "If I see him, I'll give him your message. How's that?"

"Don't fuck with me, Mr. Coyne," he said softly. "I give you respect. You shouldn't disrespect me."

"Frankly, Mr. Vaccaro," I said, " "I don't see any reason why I should respect you, and I don't think there's anything left for us to to discuss."

"You kicking me out?" he said.

"I think you said what you had to say. Your appointment is over."

He stared at me for a moment, then shrugged. He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a roll of bills. He removed several of them one at a time and made a stack on my desk.

I pushed it away. "I don't want your money."

"You better take it."

"I'm not your lawyer. I don't want you for a client."

"You don't get it," he said. "You gotta be my lawyer."

"No, I don't. My clients are all people who I want to help. People I like and care about. I'm the one who decides who my clients are."

He smiled. "Yeah, that's pretty good, Mr. Coyne. I like that." His smile abruptly vanished. He leaned forward and peered at me with his hard little black eyes. "I know how it works, and so do you. I told you all this. I told you I was ready to give Uncle Vinny to the feds. That's important information. If it got out, it'd be bad for me. I can't have that happen. if you're my lawyer, you can't tell anyone else. If you're my lawyer, I can trust you. So you better take the money, Mr. Coyne, see?"

"Are you threatening me, Mr. Vaccaro?" I said quietly.

He waved his hand. "I'm just trying to hire a lawyer."

"And if I refuse to be hired?"

He leaned back, spread his hands, and smiled. "Please," he said. "Take the money."

I picked up the stack of bills from my desk. I counted them. There were twenty fifties. I took three of them and pushed the rest away. "Okay," I said. "That covers the time you've been here. So you can trust me. Now you appointment is over."

"Now you can't tell anybody what I told you."

"That's right."

He pushed the money back toward me. "Take mare than that," he said.

"This is my regular fee."

"Go ahead. I've got plenty of money."

"So do I," I said.

He shrugged, picked up the stack of bills, and shoved it into his jacket pocket. "You tell Mr. Cizek I need him."

"I don't expect to see Paul Cizek."

"But if you do?"

"I'll tell him," I said.

"Good," he said. He stood up and held his hand out to me.

I did not shake it.