Silent Night: A Spenser Holiday Novel Read Free Page B

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.

W E 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. Connected politically. Only one guy say something a little different,” Hawk said.
    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,