VINNIE MORRIS WAS a middle-sized ordinary-looking guy who could shoot the tail off a buffalo nickel from fifty yards. We weren’t exactly friends, but I’d known him since he walked behind Joe Broz, and while he wasn’t all that much fun, he was good at what he did. He kept his word. And he didn’t say much.
We were in my car, parked at a hydrant on Beacon Street beside the Public Garden, across the street from where Beth lived with Gary Eisenhower.
“Her name’s Beth Jackson,” I said. “We’ll sit here and watch. If she comes out and gets in a car, we’ll tail her. If she comes out and starts walking, you’ll tail her.”
“’Cause she knows you,” Vinnie said.
“Yes.”
Vinnie nodded.
“And that’s it?” he said. “You want me to follow this broad around, tell you what I see?”
“Yep.”
“I don’t have to clip her?”
“No,” I said.
“I don’t like to clip no broad, I don’t have to,” Vinnie said.
“You won’t have to,” I said.
He looked at her picture.
“Nice head,” he said.
“Yep.”
“How long we gonna do this?” Vinnie said.
“Don’t know.”
“She takes a car and I just ride around with you,” Vinnie said.
“Correct,” I said.
“Okay,” he said.
“You care why we’re tailing her?” I said.
“Nope.”
One of Vinnie’s great charms was that he had no interest in any information he didn’t need. We sat with Beth for several days. Mostly she walked. So mostly I stayed in the car and Vinnie hoofed it.
“She goes to Newbury Street,” Vinnie said. “Meets different broads. They shop. They have lunch. Today it was in the café at Louis.”
“Must be an adventure for you,” I said.
“Yeah. I thought Louis was a men’s store.”
“All genders,” I said.
“You buy stuff there?”
“Don’t have my size,” I said.
“Got my size,” Vinnie said.
“See anything you like?” I said.
“Most of it looks kinda funny,” Vinnie said.
“That’s called stylish,” I said.
“Not by me,” Vinnie said.
“She spot you?”
Vinnie stared at me.
“Nobody spots me, I don’t want to be spotted,” Vinnie said.
“I don’t know what I was thinking,” I said.
We did that for most of a week, with Vinnie doing all the legwork and me twaddling in the car. On a white, dripping, above-freezing Friday in late February, I called it quits.
“You stick with her till I call you off,” I said to Vinnie. “Or you can’t stand it anymore. You don’t need me. She’s obviously a walking girl.”
“I won’t get sick of it,” Vinnie said. “I like looking at her ass.”
“Motivation is good,” I said.
Vinnie got out of the car, and I drove home.