"Can you pull this off?" Faye said.

Crow shrugged.

"Jimmy thinks so," he said.

"Jimmy's enthusiastic," Faye said.

Crow smiled.

"Maybe it's not as sure a thing," Faye said.

"Maybe."

"You scared that it'll go bad?"

"I'm not scared," Crow said.

"But you think it might go bad."

"Might."

"So why are you in it?"

"Why not?" Crow said.

Faye looked at him for a while and knew that there was too big a gulf for her to bridge. All she could do was ask.

"If it goes bad, will you look out for him as much as you can?"

Crow smiled at her.

"Sure," he said.

Faye finished arranging more sandwiches on the platter. Crow swirled the ice slowly in his glass.

"You'd be better off with somebody else, Faye."

"I love him," she said.

"Appears so," Crow said.

They continued to stand, with their private knowledge holding them.

"You're going to go through with it," Faye said.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Lot of money," Crow said.

"Just that?"

"And I said I would."

"And if it goes bad?"

Crow shrugged and smiled down at her.

"Might be a good day for dying," he said and took a sandwich off the platter.

THIRTY-NINE.

The condominiums in this part Navy Yard were elevated, with parking below. Jesse parked in a space with someone's name and condo number on it, under the building next to the one where Harry Smith's Mercedes was parked.

The name on Smith's parking slot was Prentice, and the number was 134. Jesse was driving his own car and wearing jeans and a baseball hat. From where he sat, slouched in the front seat, he could see the front door of condo number 134. He didn't know why he was there exactly. There was just something wrong with Harry Smith. He said he was from Concord, but his car was registered in Charlestown. A lot of people moved without changing their car registration. And the fact that he was parked in a spot that had another name on it was hardly criminal. Maybe his wife kept her maiden name. Maybe the condo was his wife's, and he'd moved in with her when they got married. Which might have been recently. Still it was better to sit here and see what was up with Harry Smith than sit around the station house taking calls from Abby.

Abby had been ferocious in bed, as if by the force of her desire, she could make him love her. He shouldn't have slept with her. He knew that. It sent her a mixed message. Wiser to have driven her home. But not human. Jesse liked sex, and he accepted as fact that it would sometimes lead him to do things that were unwise. On his deathbed, he was pretty sure, he would not be regretting the women he'd made love with. Abby had cried this morning, full of regret, embarrassed that she'd gotten drunk, frightened of her remembered intensity. Jesse had been steadfast. He had never lied to her, and she knew it. Jesse patted her shoulder and wondered if he'd sleep with her again.

A tall, bony guy with red hair pulled back in a ponytail stepped out onto the small wooden entry porch of condo 134 and lit a cigarette. Thank you for not smoking.

Whether he would sleep with Abby again was not pressing. He was after all also sleeping with Marcy and at least once with Jenn.

Probably he would sleep with Jenn again. One was never sure about anything with Jenn, except that the prospect of sex with her made all other sex merely a speculative abstraction. He smiled to himself.

It was easier to think calmly about sex when it was abundant.

The door to condo 134 opened, and Mrs. Smith came out and handed the red-haired guy a drink. Mrs. Smith was good-looking.

Jesse smiled at himself again. The appeal of strange stuff. It would be fun to party with friends in the late afternoon like that and stand on the porch and have a drink and look at the harbor. The redhaired guy took a last drag on his cigarette, flipped it into the ocean, and followed Mrs. Smith inside. The door closed. Jesse looked at his watch. It was getting on toward cocktail time for him. He could wait. And when he got home, he could have a couple. Having a couple of drinks at night gave him something to look forward to all day. And no harm to it, as long as he controlled it. He seemed to be controlling it, mostly. He was pretty sure he wasn't an alcoholic, or at least not an alcoholic anymore. If he could get really in comfortable control, he'd be halfway home. Then all he'd have to do was get in control of Jenn... or himself. Maybe, if he got really in control of himself, he wouldn't have to control Jenn. He could control his reaction to her. And if he could do that, he thought maybe he wouldn't have to be so much of a cop so much of the time.

The door opened again, and four men came out of condo 134.

One of them was the red-haired guy; another one might have been an American Indian. There was something about the Indian. They got in a maroon Chevrolet van and drove away. The van had Arizona plates. Jesse took down the number. Just because he was there and he could. Just gathering information. That's like a cop's job description, Jesse thought, just gathering information. Is it important?

I don't know. Can you use it? Beats me. Why do it? Why not.

Jesse stayed where he was until after 7:00. Neither of the Smiths came out. Jesse needed a drink. And he had a date. He started up and drove down the wharf, and past the navy yard where the marine sentries still stood guard. At City Square, where the density of the old city had been leveled as part of a project begun before Jesse had come east, he went over the Charlestown Bridge and turned right onto Causeway Street, where they were tearing down the Boston Garden, past the single tenement left from the west end reclamation that had been completed long before Jesse came east.

He saw nothing that made him optimistic about future reclamations. He went behind the new Fleet Center and past the old registry building and the old Suffolk County Jail now defunct, under the up ramp to the central artery, which was heading for extinction, and onto Storrow Drive. The Charles River was on his right.