I said, “Friendly discussions.”
“Nope, no discussions,” said Swanson. “He talks, I listen. Perfect, the less anyone knows about me the better. So he was a gangster, huh? And now his kid’s getting tutored for Harvard or wherever.” He chuckled.
Milo said, “Not sure how he ranked in the gang, just that he belonged. Any pals from back then ever show up?”
“Here? Don’t think so, amigo. Only people show up are the maid, the gardener, the kid’s violin teacher, and the tutor.” Big grin. “Oh yeah, occasionally the wife.”
—
We crossed to the living room, where Milo approached Gerald Boykins and touched a shirtsleeve tentatively.
Boykins’s eyes opened slowly, as if operated by motor-driven shutters.
When they cleared, his head jerked back and he raised both fists.
Milo said, “Sorry for waking you, sir,” and showed his badge.
Boykins’s eyes remained hot but his arms dropped. His lips set grimly as he ripped the buds out of his ears. “Police? What’s the problem?”
“No problem, sir. We’re looking into a case and wondered—”
“What case? I don’t know about any cases? What’s goingon?” Boykins half rose out of the chair, sank back down looking exhausted.
For all his anger, not much volume to his protest. Big, fleshy man with a small, almost boyish voice.
He looked at Walt Swanson. “You just let them in?”
“I didn’t think you’d mind—”
Boykins’s lips curled in contempt. “You didn’t think.”
“Due to our prior discussions, sir,” said Swanson. “What you always say about being supportive of law enforcement.”
Gerald Boykins stared at him. “That doesn’t mean anyone’s free to just come in here.”
“Sorry, sir. Shall I ask them to leave?”
“No, no, just go back outside and do your job.”
“Yes, sir.”
Swanson turned and left. Shielding the smile on his face from Boykins but making sure we saw it.
The details change but upstairs-downstairs never dies.
—
When the door had hissed shut, Boykins said, “Let’s make this quick. I’m listening to great music. Want to guess what?”
Milo said, “No idea.”
“Bullshit,” said Boykins. “You’re cops so you know about me and even if you didn’t you’d see the color of my skin and assume hip-hop. Or some otherjunglemusic.”
We said nothing.
“Not that it matters,” said Boykins, “but it’sBach.The Cello Suites. Which you’ve probably never heard of but there are six and I’m only in the middle of Three.”
I said, “Saraband or bourrée?”
