Robert B. Parker's Cheap Shot E-Book

Ace Atkins

• Herausgeber: No Exit Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: A Spenser Novel
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 353

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

Kinjo Heywood is one of the New England Patriots' marquee players-a hard-nosed linebacker who's earned his reputation as one of the toughest guys in the league. When off-field violence repeatedly lands Heywood in the news, his slick agent hires Spenser to find the men who he says have been harassing his client. Heywood's troubles seem to be tied to a nightclub shooting from two years earlier so when his nine-year-old son, Akira, is kidnapped, it seems his past has come back to haunt him. When he makes a controversial call to get Akira back, all hell breaks loose in Boston's underworld. With the feds distracted by other cases, Spenser, Hawk and their protégé, Zebulon Sixkill, will have to call upon their outlaw contacts to track the child down, before it's too late.

Leseprobe

CHEAP SHOT

Kinjo Heywood is one of the New England Patriots’ marquee players-a hard-nosed linebacker who’s earned his reputation as one of the toughest guys in the league. When off-field violence repeatedly lands Heywood in the news, his slick agent hires Spenser to find the men who he says have been harassing his client.

Heywood’s troubles seem to be tied to a nightclub shooting from two years earlier. But when Heywood’s nine-year-old son, Akira, is kidnapped, ransom demands are given, and a winding trail through Boston’s underworld begins, Spenser puts together his own all-star team of toughs. It will take both Hawk and Spenser’s protégé, Zebulon Sixkill, to watch Spenser’s back and return the child to the football star’s sprawling Chestnut Hill mansion. A controversial decision from Heywood only ups the ante as the clock winds down on Akira’s future.

ROBERT B. PARKER

Robert B. Parker (1932–2010) has long been acknowledged as the dean of American crime fiction. His novels featuring the wisecracking, street-smart Boston private-eye Spenser earned him a devoted following and reams of critical acclaim, typified by R.W.B. Lewis’ comment, ‘We are witnessing one of the great series in the history of the American detective story’ (The New York Times Book Review).

Ace Atkins is the Edgar-nominated author of fifteen books, including the forthcoming Quinn Colson novel The Forsaken. Selected by Robert B. Parker estate to continue the Spenser novels, he has also written Robert B. Parker’s Lullaby and Robert B. Parker’s Wonderland, both of which were New York Times bestsellers. He lives in Oxford, Mississippi.

CRITICAL ACCLAIM FOR ROBERT B. PARKER

‘Parker writes old-time, stripped-to-the-bone, hard-boiled school of Chandler… His novels are funny, smart and highly entertaining… There’s no writer I’d rather take on an aeroplane’– Sunday Telegraph

‘Parker packs more meaning into a whispered “yeah” than most writers can pack into a page’– Sunday Times

‘Why Robert Parker’s not better known in Britain is a mystery. His best series featuring Boston-based PI Spenser is a triumph of style and substance’– Daily Mirror

‘Robert B. Parker is one of the greats of the American hard-boiled genre’– Guardian

‘Nobody does it better than Parker…’– Sunday Times

‘Parker’s sentences flow with as much wit, grace and

assurance as ever, and Stone is a complex and consistently interesting new protagonist’– Newsday

‘If Robert B. Parker doesn’t blow it, in the new series he set up in Night Passage and continues with Trouble in Paradise he could go places and take the kind of risks that wouldn’t be seemly in his popular Spenser stories’– Marilyn Stasio, New York Times

For Bob and Joan.

Still here.

1

‘I had dressed for Chestnut Hill: a button-down tattersall shirt that Susan had bought me, crisp dress khakis, a navy blazer with gold buttons, and a pair of well-broken-in loafers worn without socks. The lack of socks implied a devil-may-care attitude understood by the wealthy. Even though the wealthy individual I was calling on today was a two-hundred-and-sixty-pound NFL linebacker with a twenty-inch neck named Kinjo Heywood. I’d seen Kinjo toss around quarterbacks like rag dolls and doubted that he’d notice the missing socks.

Kinjo’s agent had sent a private car for me. A private car was not needed or requested to find Chestnut Hill, but there were some ground rules that had to be discussed on the ride over. I tried to remain attentive and alert as we turned off Route 9 and made our way up and around on Heath Street. The homes were very old and stately, with lots of brick and ivy. The leaves had started to turn loose on the oak branches overhead. As we drove, it all felt like a ticker-tape parade.

‘You can’t discuss this case with anyone, Mr Spenser,’ said Steven Rosen, Kinjo’s agent. He was a beefy guy with thick black hair and dark, humorless eyes. He smelled like a quart of Brut after-shave and was dressed in a pin-striped suit with wide lapels and a purple shirt open at the neck.

‘Will he sign my bubblegum card?’ I said.

‘You’re trying to be funny,’ Rosen said, making a sour face. ‘But Boston is a sports-crazy town and everyone is up in Kinjo’s business. If it gets out he’s hired a private investigator, this thing will become even more of a pain in the ass.’

‘Mum’s the word.’

‘And this all may turn out to be nothing.’

‘Of course.’

‘And we’re straight on the fee offered?’

‘No.’

‘No?’

I told him my standard rate.

‘Seriously?’

I nodded modestly. ‘As you know, a fee separates the pro from the amateur.’

‘Okay, okay.’

The Town Car slowed and we dipped down off the road past a stone fence and toward a very large stone house with two identical white Cadillac Escalades parked outside. Before the driver got out, I opened my door and waited for Rosen to follow.

The air smelled of a good fire burning and crisp autumn sunshine. A brisk wind warned of cold days to follow.

The front door opened. Rosen ushered us toward the brick walkway. He seemed less than enthused with having to clean up the latest mess for his client.

An old woman with copper-colored skin and dressed in a gray maid’s uniform led me into the foyer. The foyer led into a great room, where a very large black man was watching an old samurai movie on a very large television. A skinny white woman with enormous breasts and blond hair sat across from him, drinking a red drink in a martini glass. The furniture was all leather and glass and too modern for such an old house.

‘What’s up, Kinjo?’ Rosen said. ‘My main man.’

Kinjo pressed pause on the DVD player. He looked up, surprised that he had guests, and stood up as if he’d been dozing. The woman with the large breasts continued to sip her drink. She wore a white tank top with gold embroidery, gold hoop earrings, and blue jeans so tight they might have been applied by Earl Scheib.

Kinjo was much larger than me. I wasn’t used to meeting anyone larger than me except for Hawk. And Hawk stood only a half-inch taller. Kinjo was made of muscle the way a jaguar is all muscle. He moved with a strong confidence, eyes shifting from me to Rosen to his wife with just a flick. He had a mustache and a goatee and kept his hair in long cornrows. He wore a light blue Adidas tracksuit and no shoes. I’d read that he was twenty-seven, a Pro Bowl selection for the last two years, and faster than a cheetah.

‘You the detective?’ Kinjo said.

‘Yep.’

‘You look like a detective. Or a cop.’

‘A cop would have worn socks.’ I pulled up my pant leg.

Kinjo nodded. A frame of the film remained on the large television screen. Yojimbo. I nodded toward it.

‘Toshiro Mifune.’

‘I’ve seen every movie he’s made.’

‘I’ve always been partial to Seven Samurai.’

‘My mother named me after the emperor of Japan,’ he said. ‘She found it in an encyclopedia, because she wanted me to stand out. That’s how I got into these movies and the way of the warrior. Not a lot of black kids in Georgia digging Kurosawa.’

‘But you played college in Alabama.’

‘Auburn,’ Kinjo said. ‘Don’t ever say I played for the Tide.’

I smiled. He nodded over his shoulder at the woman with the red drink.

‘That’s Cristal,’ he said. ‘Say hello, Cristal.’

She said hello. She was slightly tipsy but did not seem drunk. Her eyes took me in with some humor. ‘Do you carry a gun?’ she said.

I opened my blue blazer and showed the .38 on my hip.

She said, ‘Wow.’ I tilted my head modestly.

Rosen seemed impatient with all the small talk. He stood by the housekeeper and pulled an iPhone from his pocket and studied the screen. The maid whispered in his ear. Without looking away from his phone, he said, ‘Teresa wants to know if anyone would like anything to drink.’

I said coffee would be nice. Kinjo turned off the film and we sat in the little grouping. Cristal finished the red drink.

It was one in the afternoon.

‘You gonna catch these guys?’ Kinjo said.

‘Sure.’

‘And find out why the hell they following me?’

‘Why not.’

Kinjo looked to super-agent Steve Rosen and Rosen nodded in affirmation. Goody.

‘So how much do you know?’ Kinjo said.

‘I know you and your wife were having dinner at Capital Grille by the Chestnut Hill mall and that someone followed you home. And when you tried to take another route, they kept on following you, and you decided to take matters into your own hands by discharging your weapon on Route 9.’

Rosen looked up from his iPhone and swallowed.

‘Goddamn cowards wouldn’t get out of their car, so I tried to get their damn attention.’

‘That’s one way to do it.’

‘His actions were ill advised,’ Rosen said. ‘A cop with the Boston police suggested we talk to you.’

‘Instead of Mr Heywood continuing to pursue the matter himself?’

‘Stevie said if I shoot one of them, it might mess up my new contract.’

‘Ah,’ I said. ‘And the weapons violation?’

‘Mr Heywood has an attorney to make that disappear if it doesn’t happen again.’

‘Have you seen the same car again?’

Kinjo leaned forward, elbows on knees, and nodded. ‘Yesterday. Different car. First time was a new black 4Runner, but it was a green Tahoe yesterday.’

‘Same men?’

‘Couldn’t tell,’ he said. ‘But when I left Gillette, they rode up real close, I took some turns and they didn’t back off until I got home.’

‘And then what did you do?’

‘Got my damn gun, jumped out of my car, and they took off.’

Rosen held up his hand and smiled at me. ‘And the reason we called you, Mr Spenser. You came highly recommended.’

‘By whom, may I ask?’

‘A detective named Belson.’

Rosen nodded. Heywood watched him nod and then nodded, too. I nodded. We looked like a collection of bobbleheads. Cristal stood and went to the kitchen.

‘Could this have been just some fans?’ I said. ‘Your face is on several billboards, and often on television.’

‘These people didn’t want no autograph,’ he said. ‘This was all business.’

‘How so?’

Kinjo rubbed his goatee in thought. He tilted his head and met my eye. ‘They were real aggressive about it.’

‘You want protection for you and your wife?’ I said.

‘I don’t need protection,’ Kinjo said. ‘They need protection from me. I just want to know who they are and what they want. And I don’t want to have to shoot no one. That might make me look bad.’

‘Always the trouble with shooting people.’

He looked to Rosen again. Rosen was too busy texting someone to notice.

‘Any enemies? Anyone who would want to do you harm? People you owe money?’

Kinjo shook his head. ‘I got lots of both. Plenty of enemies and money.’

‘Mr Heywood just signed a contract extension worth ten million,’ Rosen said.

‘Makes you a good target.’

‘Yeah.’ Kinjo looked down at his hands and then back up at me. ‘But I think this shit is personal.’

‘Why would anyone want to hurt you?’

No one said anything. Rosen unfolded his arms and made way for Teresa, who brought in two coffee mugs on a serving tray. Somewhere in the kitchen, I heard a martini shaker. Rosen shifted in his seat. ‘I’m sure you read up a little on Mr Heywood before coming over.’

I nodded.

‘I pissed a few folks off over the years,’ he said.

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Who would most likely want to get back at you?’

Kinjo leaned back into the couch. It was a big white sectional in a U shape. He stared right at me. ‘How much time you got?’

I shrugged. ‘I’m paid by the hour,’ I said. ‘Take as long as you’d like.’

2

‘Don’t you need a notebook, Spenser?’ Rosen said. ‘You’re not writing down any of these women’s names.’

I tapped at my temple with my index finger.

‘You’re kidding,’ Rosen said. ‘Right?’

‘Nope,’ I said, turning to Kinjo. ‘Have any of these old girlfriends tried to contact you recently?’

Kinjo shook his head.

‘Any asked for more money?’

‘Just my ex-wife,’ he said. ‘She’s always asking for money. I hadn’t even gotten done at the press conference when my cell started ringing. Her lawyer knew exactly how much more I’d be owing her.’

‘If she wants money from you,’ I said, ‘seems like she’d want you healthy.’

‘Yeah, I guess,’ he said.

Kinjo continued to stroke his mustache and goatee. Behind him was an expansive bank of windows. Beyond the glass, there was an elaborate play fort made of reddish wood and fashioned like something for the U.S. Cavalry. There were four turrets at each corner topped in a lookout point. In the far-left corner, I spotted a young kid, maybe seven or eight, watching us with binoculars.

I lifted a hand and waved.

The child disappeared.

Kinjo peered over his shoulder and then turned back to me. ‘My kid,’ he said. ‘Akira. We work things out with games and my schedule.’

‘Your ex lives in Mass?’

He nodded. ‘Akira my heart, man,’ Kinjo said. ‘Everything I do is for him. Nicole never liked the name, wanted to name the kid after her uncle George or some shit. But I wanted him to stand out, the way my momma wanted for me. We love anything Japanese. Movies, comics, sushi. How many kids like raw fish?’

Kinjo turned back to see if his son was still watching us. Rosen drank his coffee, waiting for the right moment to cut the conversation short. Cristal Heywood entered the room with another big red drink in a martini glass. I would have guessed a Manhattan, but it was too red, too fruity to be an authentic cocktail. It was the kind of drink that needed the shade of a tiny umbrella.

‘Nicole’s a fucking nightmare,’ Cristal said, taking a seat beside Kinjo. She took a quick sip, holding up her hand to continue her thoughts. ‘I can’t even stand being in the same room with her. She talks down to me. Looks at me like I’m trashy or something.’

Cristal slurped her cocktail and giggled.

Kinjo gave a hard sideways glance at his wife. Cristal wore a bright pink bra under the white tank top. She giggled again and pulled up a single pink strap.

‘Anyone else I should know?’ I said.

‘Nope.’

There was a long silence. Cristal sipped her drink. I held my coffee mug and smiled.

‘When can you get started?’ Rosen said.

I shrugged. ‘Are we going to talk about the nightclub shooting in New York?’ I said. ‘Or pretend it didn’t happen?’

Rosen looked to Kinjo. Kinjo did not look pleased I subscribed to Sports Illustrated, watched ESPN, and that I even knew how to use Google. His jaw clenched and eyes flattened.

‘I was acquitted,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t even there.’

I nodded. ‘But the man’s family sued you in civil.’

‘Digging for money.’

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘But don’t you think you might have listed them under the heading of people who would like to do you harm? Probably more than some jilted girlfriends.’

‘That’s bullshit,’ Cristal said. ‘Just because Kinjo is tough doesn’t mean he’s a thug.’

‘I’m not being hired to investigate that,’ I said. ‘But you told me that you believe these men want to do you harm. If you want me to find them, you need to help me with a list. I start with a list and then narrow it down. Unless it’s some nuts, and then we just wait till they follow you again.’

Kinjo nodded. Cristal swigged a bit more.

‘Kinjo needs this thing settled,’ Rosen said. ‘Regular season starts in two weeks.’

‘I understand,’ I said. ‘But I need to know if you think these men might be connected to what happened in New York.’

‘No,’ Kinjo said. ‘No fucking way.’

‘A man was shot to death,’ I said. ‘The family blamed you.’

‘The family knew I was at the club,’ Kinjo said. ‘The family wanted money.’

‘Then who else would you guess?’

He looked to Rosen and then nodded along with his thoughts. ‘I swear to you I think it’s another player messin’ with my head.’

‘For the Pats?’

‘Hell, no,’ he said. ‘Not a teammate. Somebody I hurt. They want my ass taken out before the season.’

‘Who?’ I said.

‘You better get some paper and a pen,’ he said. ‘’Cause I had a good season last year. People call me dirty. What’s my job but to take people out? That doesn’t make me a hit man.’

‘That hatchet piece in Sports Illustrated about Kinjo being the NFL bad boy was a lot of crap,’ Rosen said. ‘They barely mentioned his recent marriage or relationship with Akira. I thought the piece was completely racist. We will never work with that reporter again.’

‘So it’s messing with your head?’ I said. ‘And to play, you need to be relaxed and loose.’

‘Yeah, that’s right.’ Kinjo looked up from his hands. He met my eye and nodded. He studied me again, as if I’d reentered the room. ‘You play?’

‘A couple years in college,’ I said.

‘Where?’

I told him.

‘That what happened to your nose and around the eyes?’

‘Nope,’ I said. ‘We had face guards back then. Leather helmets had just gone out of style.’

‘Fight?’

‘Boxing,’ I said.

‘Pro?’

I nodded.

‘Boxing?’ Cristal said. ‘Wow? Like Rocky?’

‘Yep,’ I said. ‘Just like Rocky. I used to have pet turtles and everything.’

Rosen rolled his eyes. Kinjo stood and walked to the bank of windows. Akira had moved onto another turret, another wall to be protected from the enemy. He was a skinny kid with short hair and a mischievous smile. A bright red Under Armour sweatshirt swallowed him to the knees.

The child looked at us through the binoculars. When I smiled directly at him, he ran away. A strong wind rustled tree branches overhead. A bright sun shone across the tree fort, creating small pockets and insignificant shadows. Leaves fell and fluttered to the ground.

Cristal made another drink. I finished my coffee and said my goodbyes.

I would start tomorrow.

3

I made corn muffins from scratch for Susan.

I had not planned to make corn muffins but had decided today’s brisk fall wind called for chili. And to me, chili always seemed lonely without corn muffins. Or perhaps I made them because I had stocked a six-pack of Bohemia in Susan’s refrigerator. Truth be told, it was very difficult to know the meal’s catalyst. Probably the beer.

I had let myself in shortly before five and took Pearl for a short walk. Susan was in session, so as silently as possible I crept up to the second floor and helped myself to a Bohemia. I had bought the corn meal, flour, eggs, and ingredients for the chili at the Whole Foods on River Street. I drank while I chopped some peppers, garlic, and onions and browned some ground buffalo. Pearl showed a lot of interest in the sizzling buffalo.

I added the peppers, garlic, and onions to the browning meat, and then a couple dashes of the beer. Some chili powder, kosher salt, cumin, and black pepper. More beer. I played some Mel Tormé at a volume low enough not to disrupt psychotherapy. Pearl tilted her head and I scratched her ears.

‘Mel Tormé?’ Susan said, walking in.

‘The velvet frog himself.’

‘ “Goody Goody” is very odd to hear after talking with a patient who wishes to be impregnated by her husband while conducting an extramarital affair.’

‘Better odds?’

‘She has no desire to be impregnated by her lover.’

‘Must draw a line in the sand somewhere.’

‘Yes.’

‘How hot is too hot?’ I said.

‘Is this a trick question?’

‘Yep,’ I said.

I turned on the oven and found her lonely mixing bowl and measured the corn meal, flour, salt, baking powder, and sugar, and then added the eggs, butter, and some milk and whisked it all to the proper smoothness. I searched for the muffin tin I had stowed in a secret location. When I added the sautéed mix of meat and onions to a large pot of bubbling tomatoes and beans, Pearl lost interest and trotted over to a window facing Linnaean. The branch of an oak tapped at the glass.

I added more beer with the simmering chili. And a quart of water so as not to waste more beer.

‘For fear of sounding too domestic, how was your day, dear?’

‘I met with a professional football player named after a Japanese emperor,’ I said. ‘His agent hired me to help him.’

‘Protection?’

‘In a roundabout way,’ I said. ‘The Patriots organization thinks it’s a bad idea if their player shoots or beats up someone.’

‘So you’ve been hired to protect the bad guys?’

I nodded. I stirred the chili. I waited to put the corn muffins in the oven. Mel sang ‘A Stranger in Town.’

‘The team also wants me to find out who is following Kinjo and why.’

‘Kinjo.’

‘Emperor of the gridiron.’

I reached into the refrigerator for a bottle of sauvignon blanc. I poured Susan a modest glass.

‘Should I know who this is?’ she said.

‘You should.’

‘Did you?’

‘Of course.’

‘I thought you only paid attention to baseball and basketball?’

‘Sometimes it’s on TV,’ I said. ‘Sometimes I watch it. I played it once.’

‘But you prefer baseball.’

‘I prefer baseball for the skill and nuance,’ I said. ‘I’m sure a damn good bit of sportswriters could talk to me about the elegant violence of football. But I like the pace of baseball.’

I greased the muffin tin, poured in the batter, and placed the tin into the oven. I finished the beer and opened another.

‘How does an investigator, even one of your advanced skill, watch a client and sleuth at the same time?’

‘I am hoping the watching will lead to a meeting with the bad guys.’

‘As it often does.’

‘And if not,’ I said, ‘Z can watch while I sleuth.’

‘Nice to have an understudy.’

I nodded. I set the timer. ‘Of course, I’m not even sure if there are any bad guys.’

‘And how is that possible?’

‘There is a distinct possibility that his celebrity status is making him a bit paranoid,’ I said. ‘He’s a famous athlete. Some overzealous fans may just recognize him and see where he lives or what nightclub he prefers.’

‘Did he seem paranoid to you?’

‘You mean did he pace around with some metallic ball in hand and mutter about strawberries?’

‘Or something more subtle,’ she said. ‘Was he jittery or nervous? Did he seem on edge?’

‘Nope.’

‘Yet he felt threatened.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But he couldn’t really define it.’

‘Hmm.’

‘What’s your diagnosis, Doc?’

‘Time will tell?’

‘What if he tells me the men following him are little and green and perhaps from another planet?’

‘Give him my card,’ she said. ‘I have people he should meet.’

I turned back to Susan, pulled her in close, and placed a hand against the flat of her back. I tilted my head toward her open bedroom door. I had missed her a great deal when she’d been away teaching that spring.

‘Sometimes I think you use simmering for an excuse,’ she said.

‘But it’s such a damn good one.’

4

The next morning, I picked up Kinjo Heywood and drove him to Foxboro.

The Patriots kept their training facilities, offices, and practice fields in and around Gillette. Up the hill from the stadium, a sprawling entertainment complex called Patriot Place had recently opened to make sure every dime stayed within a quarter-mile radius. There were shops, outdoor cafés, and a movie theater. Bass Pro Shops, a Renaissance Hotel, and even Toby Keith’s I Love This Bar & Grill made Patriot Place about as unique as a trip to suburban Ohio.

On the south end of the complex, I watched Kinjo go through a series of warm-up drills, stretching and running with the team. They had dressed out in half-pads, helmets, and shorts. It was still early and gray, a misty rain falling. I stood, watching, next to Kinjo’s brother, Ray, who was also his business manager.

‘They shouldn’t practice in the rain,’ Ray Heywood said.

‘Somebody is going to get hurt.’

‘But if you don’t practice in the elements, how will you play in them?’

‘You sound like Coach Belichick,’ Ray said. ‘You see that big metal building behind us? Cost something like twenty million and he’s used it maybe two times. Rain, sleet, snow, the players’ asses are out here.’

‘Might ruin Tom Brady’s hair.’

Ray Heywood laughed.

If Kinjo hadn’t introduced me to Ray, I would have never figured them for brothers. Ray Heywood stood a little under six feet and was short-legged and thick around the waist. He had shaved his hair and beard very short and had an earring in his right ear. He wore a pink oxford cloth shirt hanging out over designer jeans and designer sneakers.

‘You like working for your brother?’

‘I work for him but don’t work for him,’ Ray said. ‘I just look out for his business affairs.’

‘So you’re his other agent?’

Ray shook his head. ‘Un-uh,’ he said. ‘Kinjo has the same agent he’s always had. I only take care of his money while he keeps his mind right. I handle investments, off-season appearances, and endorsement deals. A life in the NFL ain’t forever. He’s got to make that hard cash now and see how it can grow.’

‘What did you do before?’

Ray ran a hand over the back of his thick neck and smiled. ‘Sold cars,’ he said. ‘I know what you’re thinking. But it was a dealership in Atlanta, and I am very good with money.’

I nodded and stuck my hands in the pockets of my A-2 bomber jacket. I wore a navy Lowell Spinners ball cap, since I didn’t own anything with an NFL logo. Maybe if I caught the bad guys and forced them to talk, the Pats would comp me a cap.

‘You have any theories as to who’s been following your brother?’ I said.

Ray shook his head.

The misting rain kept on falling. Kinjo had joined up with the other linebackers and was running his feet with great speed over a row of red blocking dummies. When his foot hit the grass after the last dummy, he darted toward his coach, who zinged him the ball. He ran the ball upfield. The coach blew a whistle.

‘Kinjo said you think it has something to do with that shooting?’

‘Nope,’ I said. ‘I just asked him what he thought.’

‘Two years ago.’

I nodded.

‘He didn’t have nothing to do with that.’

‘Have no reason to think he did.’

There were maybe twenty or thirty people perched around the aluminum stands where we now sat. The practice was closed to the public, and most looked to be sportswriters or family of the players. A couple news stations for film at eleven.

‘He seemed to think it was a player for another team,’ I said. ‘Maybe wants to rattle him before the season.’

‘You read that SI piece?’

‘Yep.’

‘Calling him the league’s hit man?’ Ray said. ‘That’s some bullshit. They had coaches and players saying he took cheap shots. Someone said he wasn’t no different from the guys on the Saints who worked for a bounty. What’s a linebacker supposed to do to a quarterback? Hug and kiss him?’

‘Hardly appropriate.’

‘You running at a quarterback on a blitz full-out, man,’ he said. ‘If he let go of the ball a tenth of a second before, how you supposed to put on the brakes? Kinjo start doing that and he’ll fuck up his knees and hips. That story’s told by people who never played the game. Most sportswriters hate athletes ’cause they know they’d shit their pants if they ever stepped on the field.’

Kinjo and the other linebackers had joined up with the rest of the defense and were going through different alignments. The Patriots, like most pro teams, ran a four-three defense, four down linemen and three linebackers roaming the mid-ground. Kinjo was the middle linebacker, the Mike, who was pretty much the quarterback of the defense. He could rush the passer or drop back and cover a receiver.

I’d seen some highlight film of Kinjo. He had aided many players to early retirement. But I saw nothing dirty about his play. No dirtier than a fighter who had a hell of a right.

‘So you gonna follow him to and from practice and see who’s tailing him?’ Ray said.

‘That’s the plan.’

‘What you do if you find out who they are and where they live?’

‘Reason with them.’

Ray laughed. ‘You don’t look like the kind of man with many reasoning skills.’

‘I am a man of many talents.’

An air horn sounded and Belichick called the entire team together to scrimmage. The hitting was very light on the line and the offense went through a series of plays while the linebackers shot the gaps in the line or went into pass coverage. Passes were thrown and caught, the orchestra of the defense and offense working with speed and efficiency.

As the special teams ran onto the field, a man in a dark suit approached us.

‘Oh, shit,’ Ray said. ‘This dickhead runs the security for the Pats.’

‘Lovely.’

When the man got closer, Ray stood up and said, ‘Spenser, this is Jeff Barnes.’

We shook hands while the players scrimmaged. The misty rain seemed to make the practice field glow an intense green.

Barnes smiled without warmth, eyes wandering over me. He was a compact man, blue-suited and red-tied, with chiseled features and thick white hair. His lips were thin and his nose hawkish, and he had a superior posture that reminded me of a rooster.

‘Nice to meet you,’ Barnes said, shaking my hand. ‘Can’t say I was excited that Steve Rosen didn’t tell me about you.’

‘Not everyone can sing my praises.’

‘I’m not familiar with some of the local cops, but I did call up a friend with the FBI,’ Barnes said, still gripping my hand. ‘His remarks weren’t kind.’

‘Are you taking my fingerprints right now?’

Barnes let go of my hand. A smile remained frozen on his face.

‘You must be quite a hot dog to draw the ire of the special agent in charge of the city.’

I wavered my hand in a so-so gesture.

Barnes’s face reddened. His cheek twitched just a bit. The air horn sounded on the field and Belichick called in all the players. Ray stared down at the field where the team had gathered, but Barnes remained splayfooted and cocksure.

‘Rosen is a hot-shit agent,’ he said. ‘But I can pull you off the tit fast. When you’re on this property, I am in charge.’

‘Yikes.’

‘What?’

‘I said, “Yikes.” It means my knees won’t stop knocking.’

‘If you see anything, suspect anything, or spot anyone in or around Gillette, you call me first. Connor said you’re overly fond of your weapon.’

I let that one go and simply shrugged.

‘These kids out there don’t have normal problems like you and me,’ he said. ‘Kinjo is probably being followed by a carload of sorority girls who just want to bang him. You make a mistake, and this team looks bad, and my entire job is in question. You understand?’

‘Un-uh. Go back to the sorority girls.’

‘Christ,’ Barnes said, shaking his head. He walked away.

I sat back down with Ray. He studied the field and the players fanning out on one knee and listening to the coach talk about their opponent. His chin was lifted as if he hadn’t heard a word. Not looking away, Ray said, ‘Looks like they got the right guy,’ he said.

‘Thanks.’

‘Don’t let that prick get in the way of protecting my brother,’ he said. ‘Kinjo’s a good man. He never wanted Akira to grow up like we did. It’s important to have a father, not just around, but in his life. We never had that. He and that kid go to the zoo, the mall, to movies. Disney World twice a year. That’s why the bad stuff hurts Kinjo. Because that ain’t him. You can talk shit about him on the field, but anyone who tarnishes who he is as a man, that’s about his family honor.’

‘A Southern man’s code?’

‘And all that Japanese shit he’s into. Man loves his family and he takes care of his people. Look at me. I may be good with money, but I never deserved all this.’

I nodded. ‘You think it’s really just a carload of girls?’

‘Tell you what,’ Ray said. ‘If it is, I’d better be the one you call first.’

5

The next day, I followed Kinjo away from Foxboro and into the city. Akira was to spend the weekend with his mother, and both had agreed to meet at the Quincy Market. This was not my decision, only a stroke of luck, as I had not eaten since early that morning. The Pats had not invited me to partake in their training table for carbo-loading or fruit smoothies.

We parked side by side at a garage with a nice view of the North End. I hung back as Kinjo followed the sidewalk with Akira, the son a little moody about the exchange. He wore an oversized Pats jersey with heywood written above number 57.

There were a few whispers and sideways glances as they made their way into the market. A couple of people stopped him for an autograph. Akira seemed used to all this. He’d smile up as his father signed a piece of paper or someone’s hat. Inside, I bought a turkey sub and sat down with them at a table in the common area under the rotunda.

‘Shit,’ Kinjo said. ‘Nicole’s always late. She can’t help it.’

I unwrapped the sandwich and offered Akira half. He declined. He said his mother was going to take him to the Five Guys in Medford. As I ate, two unsavory-looking men in leather coats walked from the Faneuil Hall entrance. I watched them move past our table, not a flick of recognition, as they headed toward a pizza vendor.

‘You ever shoot anybody?’ Akira said.

I looked to Kinjo. Kinjo nodded back.

‘Yep.’

‘Dead?’ Akira said.

‘As a doornail.’

The kid nodded with that, liking what he’d heard. He was smallish, even for eight, with bright eyes and a warm smile.

‘Why’d you kill them?’ Akira said.

‘Akira,’ Kinjo said. ‘Hush.’

‘I just want to know.’

‘They were very unpleasant people,’ I said.

‘Bad men,’ Akira said.

‘You might say that.’

‘And they needed to be dead?’

I looked to Kinjo again. He nodded. I looked to the bright-eyed little boy and shrugged. ‘It’s a little more complicated than that.’

Akira nodded.

‘Akira goes to Beaver Country Day,’ Kinjo said. ‘Every student got their own iPad. School where I went in Georgia was just a bunch of trailers. Teachers did the best they could. But they couldn’t do much.’

I lifted my eyes and nodded at his flat-billed baseball hat. ‘What’s that R with the squiggles mean?’

Akira looked at his dad as if I were simple. Kinjo continued to look at the crowded space filled with people eating and talking, coming and going, carrying food from the long food court. I ate more of my sub.

‘It’s Rocawear,’ Kinjo said.

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Rocawear.’

‘Jay-Z,’ Akira said. ‘He owns it.’

‘Hat cost a hundred damn dollars,’ Kinjo said.

‘Daddy never ate in a restaurant till he was in high school.’

Kinjo shrugged.

‘And he had three jobs after school when he wasn’t playing ball.’

Kinjo grinned. ‘Actually, just two.’

‘Shining shoes and loading shelves at the Piggly Wiggly.’

Kinjo nodded and put an arm around his son, pulling him tight. ‘Akira’s gonna work training camp next year. Learn what it’s like to make money.’

‘I don’t want to shine shoes.’

Kinjo nodded, grabbed Akira’s sneaker and dusted off some dirt. Akira laughed, but Kinjo looked away and shook his head. ‘Okay. Here we go. Here comes trouble.’

A woman had walked in from the south end of Quincy Market, splitting the tourists like Moses and the Red Sea. She was diminutive but moved with purpose. Kinjo’s former wife was dark-skinned, with short black hair reminiscent of Audrey Hepburn’s. She wore a blue-and-white vertical-striped sleeveless blouse and navy pencil skirt. Her heels were brown and tall and her jewelry was simple. As she walked closer I noted a tiny silver necklace with a diamond pendant on her long neck.

She smiled at Akira. She ignored both me and Kinjo. I put down the sub.

‘I’ve been waiting for you outside for fifteen minutes,’ she said. ‘What the hell?’

‘I told you we’d be inside,’ Kinjo said. ‘It’s getting cold. Damn.’

She turned back to her son. ‘Don’t you have anything else to wear besides football jerseys?’

Akira shrugged. Nicole looked to me. I wrapped up my sub and stood. Her eyes were big and almond-shaped. She had full lips and fine features. I smiled at her. She did not return the gesture.

‘Why’d you bring a coach?’ she said.

‘He ain’t a coach,’ Kinjo said. ‘He does security.’

‘And why is he here?’ she said.

Kinjo’s eyes shifted from me to Akira and back to Nicole. Kinjo offered his palms and said, ‘He’s doing some security work for me.’ Akira slowly moved away from his father and hugged his mother around the waist. He was content. His mother glared at me.

I smiled some more. My cheeks started to hurt. A young Hispanic man in a do-rag and a skinny young white man with shoulder-length red hair watched us from a long table on the far side of the rotunda. They spoke back and forth, eyes on Kinjo and Nicole. One of them nodded. The Hispanic man continued to watch.

I asked Nicole if she’d like to sit.

She shook her head. Akira unwrapped his arms from her and took his backpack from his father. The kid watched the ground as his parents talked to each other.

‘You get straight with the lawyer?’ he said. ‘You see we doing things right?’

Nicole looked at Kinjo, eyes flicking across his face. ‘Sorry I didn’t trust you,’ she said. ‘Don’t know why that is.’

She turned. I smiled at Akira and winked at him. He returned with a weak smile and looked away.

I sat back down. I returned to my sub. The Hispanic man and Eric the Red continued to watch us. They watched Nicole and Akira as they passed, hand in hand. I started to follow, but their gaze hung back on Kinjo. The Hispanic man picked at his teeth with his small finger, eyes unwavering.

‘You recognize those two?’ I said.

‘Where?’

I ate a bit. I motioned slightly with my head.

‘Nope.’

Eric the Red started to stand. He had a matching mustache and goatee, red hair long and curly.

‘So how the Falcons look this week?’ I said.

‘Okay.’

‘You okay?’

‘She shouldn’t talk like that in front of the kid.’

‘I noted a trace of hostility.’

‘Shit,’ he said. ‘She’d be glad if someone did kill me.’

Kinjo shook his head. Akira and Nicole had disappeared into the long, narrow space of the mall. The Hispanic man joined Eric the Red, and they walked toward us. The Hispanic man had his hand at hip level. Both eyes were serious and intent. Eric the Red licked his lips. His Celtics T-shirt hung nearly to his knees.

I had one bite to go but steeled myself.

The men approached the table. The Hispanic man reached into his jacket.

Kinjo jumped up fast and threw a right hand at the man’s face. I caught his fist in my palm. The man ducked, yelping, ‘What the fuck?’

A pen fell to the floor. Eric the Red ducked and covered.

Kinjo breathed hard out of his nose. His face twitched.

I let go of Kinjo’s fist. My palm smarted as I picked up the pen and handed it to him. ‘Sorry about that.’ Kinjo took it and forced a smile. ‘What’s your name, man?’

6

The Pats flew out to Atlanta the next morning. Kinjo was now under the watch of Jeff Barnes. I told Kinjo to give him my best.

As I had a couple days to sleuth, I drove to the Harbor Health Club to search for some company. I found Z and Hawk sparring in Henry’s newly expanded boxing room. Hawk and I had taken turns coaching Z that summer.

Z wore cut-off gray sweats, a pair of eighteen-ounce gloves, and leather headgear. Hawk wore a black satin Adidas getup with red stripes, focus mitts, and no headgear. Hawk’s head was made of steel and Teflon and shone black and smooth in the harbor’s morning light.

Hawk played James Brown on the sound system. He had been telling Z he moved more white than red or black, and he needed rhythm.

‘Keep yourself bladed, move, come on, duck, okay, two, three, two. Slip. Up on that toe. Breathe like you live. Don’t breathe to punch. You do that in the ring and you get killed.’

I stood next to the heavy bag. The new section of plate glass provided a commanding view of the harbor. The boxing room had more than doubled in size, which, at first, Hawk and I thought came from Henry’s undying gratitude. Then we noted the flyers around the gym for kickboxing and something called Punch Fit classes. It didn’t matter. We now had two heavy bags, two speed bags, and a big mirrored room to shadow-box and to offer classes to promising young thugs.