Silent Night

“And what exactly are Juan’s business interests?” I said.

Jackie smiled at me as though I should know. “My brother has a very successful import/export business with offices all over the world. Alvarez Worldwide Limited. Since I am not a businessman, I do not pretend to understand all the ins and outs of what he does, but I do know he is very rich and powerful. Most of his business is between Mexico and the States, and he travels a great deal between the two.”

“And what do you want me to do for you?”

“Find out who’s trying to get rid of us and make them stop.”

I nodded.

“Are you thinking about paying me?” I said.

“We will pay you what we can.”

“Were you thinking about when?” I said.

“We will pay you when we can,” he said.

“Gee,” I said, “do you have the same deal with the electric company?”

Jackie straightened in his chair and looked at me evenly.

“Mr. Spenser, it is not easy for me to ask for help. I am trying to do good in the community. I am being opposed by unknown forces that I ca

I leaned back in my chair and thought about my other cases. That didn’t take long. I had no other cases. Crime in Boston had apparently taken an early holiday. Then I thought about the earnest man sitting in front of me, pleading for my help. I thought about Slide, a frightened kid trying desperately not to show fear. And I tried to imagine Hawk when he was Slide’s age, living on the streets and learning to survive.

“Yes,” I said. “I will help you.”

After Jackie had gone, I phoned Hawk. I asked him to look into the background of Juan Alvarez and find out everything he could. I told him that I had agreed to help his younger brother, Jackie. I filled in the details and hoped for more to come.

WE DIDN’T NEED AN EXCUSE, but Hawk and I had arranged to meet at Jake Wirth’s for a pre-Christmas lunch.

A waitress came by to take our orders. She was young and blond and wearing a green-and-white outfit that fell somewhere between a Hansel and Gretel costume and a cheerleader’s uniform. Her short skirt revealed long, tan legs of the type you seldom see in Boston in the winter, the kind that make you yearn for spring.

In keeping with the season, I ordered a Sam Adams Winter Lager and a Jake’s Burger with Russian dressing. Hawk ordered a Paulaner Hefeweizen and the Jaegerschnitzel.

Hawk shook his head. “Come to a place like this and order an American beer. Shame you aren’t more adventurous.”

“Just supporting local industry, and showing a little civic pride.” I hoisted my mug. “Sam Adams, Brewer and Patriot.”

Hawk snorted. “Stuff’s brewed in Ohio. You just afraid of ordering anything you can’t pronounce.”

“And while you’re showing off your command of German, I can order two of these before you can say ‘Hefeweizen.’”

A Muzak version of “Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer” infiltrated the din of lunchtime conversation. It was not a song that improved with repeated listening, though the Sam Adams helped.

Hawk looked up as his plate of veal was set in front of him. “Any progress finding out who’s trying to get rid of Jackie’s business?” He tucked his napkin into the open collar of his light green silk shirt.

My burger arrived, and I took a bite. “Jackie doesn’t know who’s behind it. He seems to think it may be the church looking to expand.”

“Don’t it seem odd to you that the church would be roughing up boys to scare this Alvarez into selling his property to them?”

“Forget about the punch line that’s buried in there somewhere,” I said. “You’re right. It’s more than odd. The church has plenty of money. And I doubt they’d need to resort to thuggery.”

“I asked around about Juan Alvarez, and most everybody say the same thing. He’s part of the Puerto Rican section of Lawrence that immigrated early part of last century. Some of them did well. Got an education. Became lawyers, bankers, and such. Some joined gangs and started a kind of Puerto Rican mafia. Juan chose the first path. He’s something of a mystery man. He left town; nobody seems to know where he went, but he came back rich. Now he’s Mr. Philanthropy in Boston. Very popular. Co

I waited while Hawk forked some spaetzle.

“He says that Alvarez’s been wanted by the Feds for years, but they can’t pin anything on him. Suspect he be head of one of the biggest drug cartels coming out of Mexico. He just slippery.”

Hawk’s attention returned to his plate.

“He wouldn’t be the first rich guy to use payoffs to politicians and contributions to charities to run circles around the Feds. They usually get caught on some trivial tax misdemeanor. Your guy a reliable source?” I said.

“No. Snitch done plenty of jail time. But no reason to lie to me, either. Gave him a fifty. Only ’cause it’s Christmas. Otherwise, it would have been twenty.”

“Good to hear you’ve embraced the holiday spirit,” I said. “But that doesn’t really explain how a poor kid from Lawrence rockets to wealth and prestige in Boston. He reinvents himself somehow, the old-fashioned American way, and we don’t know how. Or why anyone would want to wreck his younger brother’s enterprise, in this case Street Business, which seems to help young homeless boys get jobs and maybe even some self-respect. Besides getting the sense that this Juan Alvarez is a bit of a cipher, we don’t really know diddly-squat.”

“So where we start?”

“We?”

“Yeah,” Hawk said. “Fair to say I’m a little curious about this Street Business. If it’s legit, seem a shame for it to be shut down.”

“And if it’s not legit?”

“Like to shut it down personally,” Hawk said.

I signaled our waitress for the check. I wasn’t in a rush. But I wanted to admire her legs one more time before we left. It would be a long time until spring.

“Okay,” I said. “Perhaps it’s the moment for some quiet contemplation. Let’s go to church.”

THREE BLOCKS NORTH of the harbor stood St. Bartholomew the Apostle Catholic Church, known locally as St. Bart’s. We walked briskly from the car. The wind off the water was icy.

Outside St. Bart’s gray granite walls in the ugly small yard was a Christmas crèche depicting the birth of Christ, with Mary and Joseph and the three Wise Men in attendance. When we entered we could hear the sweet, high-pitched boys’ choir rehearsing Handel’s Messiah in the back of the church. A burly, youngish man in a black suit and Roman collar approached us. He smiled. “May I help you?”