Liar's Dice: A Shane Cleary Mystery

By Gabriel Valjan

Boston might be white with snow, but there's nothing but a winter's darkness for Shane Cleary, a former cop, veteran, and reluctant PI.  There's an international war within the mafia over drugs, and he has been asked to find the nephew of the local crime boss. When federal agencies descend on the

• Language: English
• Publisher: Level Best Books
• Release date: Mar 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9781685122072

Gabriel Valjan

Gabriel Valjan is the Agatha, Anthony, Derringer, Silver Falchion, and Shamus-nominated author of the Shane Cleary mystery series with Level Best Books. He received the 2021 Macavity Award for Best Short Story. Gabriel is a member of ITW, MWA, and Sisters in Crime. He is a regular contributor to the Criminal Minds blog. He lives in Boston's South End and answers to a tuxedo cat named Munchkin.

Book preview

Chapter One: Thou Shalt Not Say No

Iheard the slap of the Boston Globe on our doorstep.

It was seven-thirty and Bonnie had already kissed me goodbye. It was a kiss. A long, slow kiss to make a man lose his dignity. I begged her to stay home, to play hooky from work, and give the boys in the office a reprieve. She told me she couldn’t. I watched her walk out the front door. Her perfume may have hinted of spring but the mercury in the thermometer said winter.

The phone rang and interrupted my trip to the front door for the paper. I answered on the second ring.

Glad you’re still there, she said.

Bonnie?

I’m at a payphone on Comm. Ave.

Forget something?

I noticed a Cadillac parked across the street when I left.

It’s a car that stands out, I’ll give you that, but what’s the problem?

The man inside the car. He’s getting out.

I thought I was the PI, and you were the lawyer.

I’m serious, Shane.

So am I. Okay, I’ll play. Describe him to me?

Six-six. Menacing. Dark winter coat. He’s headed to our door. Wait, he’s stopped.

He stopped?

To light a cigarette, but he’s not having any luck. He keeps trying with his lighter.

Tony Two-Times.

That’s Tony Two-Times? Not exactly subtle, is he?

It goes with the job description.

Oh my god, Shane. He’s reached into his jacket. I’d never heard Bonnie’s voice hit that note, not even during sex, though in my defense, this was panic and not ecstasy. We were nearing our anniversary, and I suppose months of cohabitation or what the Census Bureau calls POSSLQ or Person of Opposite Sex Sharing Living Quarters had eroded her tough exterior.

Never mind, she said. It’s a newspaper. I thought he might’ve had a gun.

Go to work, Bonnie.

I did the rude thing and hung up on her. It’s not that I wanted to do it, but Tony Two-Times, uninvited and unannounced, was not the same thing as the guy at your door with the news you’ve won the Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes. Tony was a ‘friend,’ and the mob always sent your friend to kill you. I moved fast and pulled my .38 out of the holster, hidden under a coat on the rack. I opened the door and kept the revolver behind my back.

The cold air punched my lungs, and my eyes watered. I found Tony doubled over, picking up my Boston Globe. When he stood upright, he blocked the wind and the sun. An unlit cigarette stuck to his lower lip. You gonna invite me in, or what?

I stepped aside, back against the door. He pressed the paper into my chest. I put a hand over it. He paused before he stepped in. His dark eyes bore into me. Relax, Cleary, and saddle the Colt you’re hiding behind you.

You could’ve called.

This conversation is best in person, face to face.

If you say so, Tony.

I say so. I’ve gotta job for you.

Tony had tapped one foot against the other to knock off any snow, salt, or sand. He took the cigarette from his lips and pocketed it. He wiped his feet on the small mat, and took off his hat and coat, and hung them on the coat rack. I holstered my sidearm and directed him to the kitchen. He walked down the hallway, talking. You really thought you needed to draw your piece on me?

You weren’t what I expected with the morning paper.

I tossed the Globe onto the table in the hallway. He held up his newspaper. I picked up a rag myself this morning, except it’s not a Boston paper. It’ll help you after our talk. He could see me doing the calculations behind my eyes. Out of town paper? I said.

"New York Times."

‘All the News That’s Fit to Print.’ Those are the seven most famous words in American journalism. Coffee?

Tony said he’d like some. They might be the seven most famous words for desk jockeys who write about what happens to other people, but the operative number for our conversation isn’t seven, it’s five.

Tony would’ve made a great writer and scared the hell out of Hemingway at the same time. His sentences were declarative, loaded with nuance and innuendo, and terrifying. I took his number as the clue to our version of the game Password on television and chose my answer with care. Five as in the five families?

I wouldn’t know what you’re talking about. Hoover himself said there’s no such thing. About that coffee?

Tony sat at the kitchen table while I scooped coffee out of a can of Bustelo and banged all kinds of angles inside my head. Why Tony or his boss, Mr. B, needed me for anything involving organized crime in New York was beyond me. I was a civilian, and the mafia didn’t look to outsiders the way companies hired auditors for their objective opinion.

What’s with the Cuban coffee? Tony asked.

Wanted something different, and Bustelo is from the Bronx.

No kidding. Now, there’s clever marketing for you, Tony pointed to the Mr. Coffee machine on Bonnie’s counter. You need to get yourself a Bialetti.

A what?

Tony wrung his hands as if he were choking an imaginary chicken. "Twist-top coffee maker for the stovetop. What you’re doing there is an injustice to the coffee. Press the button to brew the coffee and sit down, please. I haven’t got all day. Next time, I’ll bring you a Bialetti, but for now, we talk. The rest you’ll understand after I leave and you read The Times."

The water dripped behind me and stung the grounds to release a strong, robust song of caffeine in the air. I pushed aside his copy of the New York Times. Say what you gotta say, Tony.

You still doing that management thing for your Greek friend?

Rental properties, yes.

But your other friend restored your PI license, right?

I hated rhetorical questions. This conversation reminded me of my days as a cop, when we’d sweat someone in the Box. It’s all a game of set ’em up and knock ’em down, like dominoes. Lawyers call it establishing the foundation of their argument. Hunters call it a turkey shoot, and the army, an ambush. By ‘other friend,’ Tony meant the Commissioner of the Boston Police Department, who had left the city for good.

I have my PI license, and I manage properties. Why?

I’ll get to that in a second. Some coffee, please.

I was thinking while I filled two mugs. Agatha Christie’s detective Poirot used his ‘little gray cells’ in his cases, but the Belgian had never matched wits with a Sicilian mafioso. If Mr. B sent Tony to hire me for a case that required my PI license, the job hinted of something legit, but I knew better. The license was for show. There’s nothing kosher out of Boston’s Italian North End where Mr. B held court. I slid the coffee in front of Tony.

Tony sipped and made a face. You oughta get clipped serving this, but I’ll give you a pass.

You were saying.

This friend of yours left with his friend.

Mafiosi were not obtuse; they were oblique, spoke in code, and Tony was no exception.

Yeah, I said. He left and took his Shadow with him, but not before giving the city the middle finger and dropping a six-hundred-page report about corruption on Mayor White’s desk.

Tony didn’t blink. He was used to nicknames. The Shadow was the Commissioner’s right hand man, his ambassador, so to speak. He finessed things.

Fuhgeddabout the report, Tony said. That’s nothing but stand-up material for the politicians. Don’t worry about it.

Do I look worried?

What about this other friend, the one who drives the crappy car?

Pinto isn’t a friend.

I could see concern register on Tony’s face. Pinto was not a cop. Pinto had been the middleman between the Commissioner and me. He was the guy left behind when the Commish and Shadow left. Pinto was the child with abandonment issues, the man who might want revenge.

Not a friend, okay, Tony said and then asked, Is he an enemy?

Where’s all this going, Tony?

Let’s say, the fewer the liabilities, the better. In this landscape you described, the only people who’d want to put a line through your name are the cops, on account of the bad blood between you. All of this simplifies the situation.

Thanks, Tony. For a minute there, I thought you were Tip O’Neill or Ted Kennedy. Your compassion and eloquence have me mesmerized and overwhelmed.

There’s no need for sarcasm.

Get to the point, Tony. I’ve sheltered you from the cold. I listened to you stall the job description with riddles, and I’ve served you bad coffee. What does Mr. B think I can do for him?

Tony sat there, mug midway to his face, and his eyes, lifeless as a great white shark. Anybody who talked to him the way I did would’ve been Gloria Grahame to his Lee Marvin in The Big Heat, the recipient of scalding hot coffee thrown into their kisser, and that would’ve been the start of the festivities. Instead, his mug touched wood. Tony placed one large hand on top of the other and said, The job is to find Sally.

Tony stared at me. There was no life preserver thrown into the water here, no nothing. It was sink and drown until I figured it out. I saw a sliver of moonlight in the dark and nothing more. His nephew?

One and the same.

Sal, when I had met him, was introduced to me as a driver, a protégé. His true identity as Mr. B’s relative wasn’t revealed to me until much later, and Sal was already gone, off in the distance, exhaust smoke in the air. In his brief visit to Boston, he had paired up with my friend John’s niece, who was on vacation from Canada on account of ‘family problems.’

He’s missing, and he’s not. Tony didn’t even blink when he said it.

What does that mean in English or in any other language?

The kid took off with the girl.

Are you telling me you want me to cross our northern border and poach him?

Nah, we have people who can do that.

Then what is it? Mr. B not keen on an interracial relationship?

Hey, we’re not racists. Tony held up a finger. You can fuck whoever you want, but who you marry, that’s another story.

I wanted to say the NAACP Humanitarian Award just walked by. What I did say was, If it’s not the love life of said nephew then what is it, Tony?

His fingers danced on the rim of the coffee cup. He was framing his words, rather than repeating whatever Mr. B told him. Our eyes met, and he said, I need to be careful about how I say this, so you don’t get jammed up.

Jammed up? I said. Did you forget that most of Boston’s police department wants me inside a body bag?

Those dark eyes again. Mr. B believes ears are listening. That’s one problem. Understand? He wants this matter looked into, on the outside, with nobody on the inside knowing about it. This relative, he is reputed to be involved in drugs.

Reputed?

Alleged, Tony said.

Using or dealing?

Therein is the dilemma, my friend. We don’t know. A finger waved like a metronome. Mr. B is anxious about keeping this inside a box until he knows what is what. You know, the enemy within and without. There are rules, you see. The finger swept left to right, and right to left. Dealing is an automatic death sentence. No higher court. No appeals.

I realized that I hadn’t tasted my coffee in front of me. I was still in the dark as to what Tony and his boss thought I could do for them. I went to say something, but Tony held up his hand. It’s not that Mr. B doesn’t know where the kid is. He think he does. The issue is the girl.

Vanessa?

Tony blinked. Look at this one of two ways. She is the niece of your friends, the couple in Dorchester, and Mr. B does business with her uncle, John, out of friendship with you. Mr. B is worried that this has the potential to become personal. If Sal is doing the wrong thing, he’ll pay the consequences. He knows the rules. That’s one thing. Now, if she is mixed up in this business with him, that’s another thing. She’s collateral damage. We both know John would retaliate, and we both know who’ll win that confrontation. You follow me?

I do.

I was impressed with Tony’s delivery. The dilemma inside this enigma was no riddle at all. The mystery was who would die. There’s no friendship in the mafia. It’s a life of endless treachery, of eliminating rivals and claiming territory. I was in no position to refuse a request, but I wasn’t about to be mistaken for a jackass in the king’s stable either. I’d have my say.

I think I see what the real problem is here.

Tony pulled his head back. He hadn’t expected that. You do?

A hypothetical question since Hoover said this thing of yours doesn’t exist.

Sure, what’s the question?

Drugs are forbidden, right?

Correct.

If Sal wasn’t dealing but using, then that would make him a junkie, and it’s simple.

Simple how?

He’d go to rehab.

Tony hesitated before he answered. Yeah, he’d go to rehab.

However, you said something, Tony. You said he knows the rules. You said dealing drugs were an automatic death sentence, right?

That’s correct.

And not even his uncle could save him or give him a pass, like you did with me over this bad coffee, right?

I was joking about the coffee, but yeah, he can’t save him.

Like a character actor with a prop, I moved my coffee mug. I’ve done it for effect a thousand times with suspects when I was a cop. Tony’s eyes followed it. I had his attention. Now I was the one who wagged his finger. I’m not buying it.

Buying what?

The concern for John, this out-of-friendship crap you’re shoveling, nor am I buying the argument about Vanessa as collateral damage because we both know you and Mr. B would do whatever needs to be done. John, his wife Sylvia, and their niece, Vanessa don’t matter. They’d disappear, stuffed into oil drums, and dropped into Boston Harbor. End of story. They don’t count because they’re black and they’re not Italian, but that’s not the real issue here, is it? I decided I’d let the lug process what I said to him.

I gave it to you straight.

I tapped the table with my forefinger. Answer me this question then.

Tony pulled the cigarette out of his shirt pocket. I knew the lighter was inside his coat in the hallway. He was nervous. Ask me, he said.

Simple question. You said Sal knew the rules. My question is, was Sal made? Was he put up for membership?

You know I can’t talk about that.

"Right, because of omertà, the code of honor and silence. Tony’s mouth moved. I put my finger to my lips. Listen, and don’t talk. This way, I come to this on my own, and you don’t violate your oath. Understand?"

Tony raised both hands, in surrender. You talk, and I listen.

If Sal were a civilian and using, then the solution is to send him to rehab. True?

In a nutshell, yes.

But if he’s a made man and dealing, then he has broken a major rule. Correct?

Tony glared at me. We’ve been over this.

The penalty? I want to hear you say it, Tony.

Death. On the spot.

And nobody can save him?

You know the answer to that question. What is your point?

I held up two fingers. First, I’ll assume that if he were made, the sponsor, the guy who vouched for him, is our mutual friend. Point number two is our friend is concerned with the walls listening and eyes everywhere watching.

Are you done? Tony asked.

No, I said. We both know our friend would give the order in a heartbeat, if he learned that his nephew was dealing.

What are you saying, Cleary?

You called the situation a dilemma earlier. Dilemmas come with horns. One horn is he’s worried that his colleagues will learn about his nephew dealing. You used the term, the enemy within.

You listen good, Tony said. Anything else?

Yeah, the enemy without is the second horn, I said. If he’s not dealing and only using, that makes him an addict, and an addict is unreliable, not the kind of person you’d want around suits asking a lot of questions about his uncle. But, get to the kid in time, send him off to detox. Problem solved. If he’s a dealer, though, we have someone who has to worry about the cops, the Feds, and his competition. Serious liabilities. Grave concerns. If he is pinched, he might squeal for a deal. Tell me, Tony, what’s the penalty for someone who brings a rat into the organization?

Death.

Death for whom? I said and cupped an ear. I can’t hear you.

Death for the rat and for his sponsor.

And there it is, death to them who have brought shame and dishonor to the family.

Does this mean you’ll take the case?

Chapter Two: Fish Stick

Tony reached for The New York Times on the table. He reeled it in, undid the green elastic, and pushed the newspaper toward me. He didn’t say a word. Nothing. Not even where for me to look inside the paper for a clue. He kept the rubber band. I imagined a hundred perverse uses for it, beyond what the clerks at the nearest Post Office did with them all day long.

Tony Two-Times didn’t have more than an eighth-grade education. I imagined Tony of yesteryear might’ve looped the keepsake around his fingers and fired it like a gun at a classmate until he graduated to using a real one on the streets. He didn’t handle money like some of the soldiers in Mr. B’s crew, so I never pictured him stacking bills, wrapping green around green. I glanced at the elastic band in his hand and then at him. He answered the unasked question. The wife clips and bands coupons.

Coupons?

That’s right. I provide like a good husband should, but she’s never gotten over the Depression or the rations during the war. His knuckles rapped wood. On that note, I must bid thee farewell because it’s that time of the month. He raised his hand. No tampon jokes, please.

Didn’t and wouldn’t because you can rely on me, Tony.

Good pun there, Cleary, but don’t get too clever on me now. Tony had caught the joke. Rely was the most popular tampon on the market, and it worked a catchy slogan on television. ‘It even absorbs the worry.’

Tony checked his watch a second time. Time to make the peace.

Tony’s Sicilian mother nurtured a grudge against him for marrying a Neapolitan girl. She had wanted him to marry a southern girl, and she considered Naples a northern city. Tony had compounded the offence with interest when he moved out of her double-decker with his new bride. Materfamilias had never forgiven him that transgression either, even though Tony’s house was within driving distance from the homestead. Tony had relocated to a Victorian on Waverly Street, among upscale Jews and Italians. While technically Newton Corner, it wasn’t the Nonantum of his childhood. It wasn’t that the sons and daughters of Abraham or Garibaldi bothered his mother. No. Tony would tell you ma didn’t discriminate. She perceived those few miles and the Mass Turnpike between their homes as No Man’s Land.

Newton was a town of thirteen villages, and Nonantum, or what the locals called The Lake, had its own lingo, and Tony was fluent in all the colorful vocabulary. Once in a while, he’d let a word slip. An attractive girl was a jivel; a cop, a muskah. You didn’t call your friend by his first name. He was a face, a mug, and you said, mush, when you saw him on the street. The local patois was a descendent of carnies who traveled around New England, and the Italians borrowed words and blended them in with their dialect from the Old Country.

As for the peace, once a month, Tony would visit Antoine’s Bakery and buy some pastries for his mother and, because he did this, his wife teased him and called him a mama’s boy, so he had to surrender a different tribute to the spouse. No slice of rum cake for her, no cannoli or tiramisu for his beloved Giulietta. After he asked for sfincia, a soft pastry filled with sweet ricotta and candied fruit at the baker’s counter, he drove to De Pasquale’s for a tall order of meats and sausages to stock the family’s refrigerator for Sunday dinners. He said once that it was there, in the butcher shop’s basement, he learned how to throw craps and front other games of chance.

Tony? I tapped the Times in front of me. What am I looking for?

He glared at me as if I were the shortest kid without change for the Good Humor truck. Some detective you are, he said. Read and use your smarts. I’ll show myself out.

Tony could’ve pointed. He could’ve grunted. He could’ve given me a crumb, but he didn’t. He was the smart one because