I leaned back in my office chair. “He promised all five million.”

“You don’t think your guy will be happy with this?” he said, smiling. “Isn’t he wanted by the cops?”

“Yep.”

“So this should help him get out of town.”

“Sure.”

Ray was still standing. He shifted from one leg to another. He was wearing a gray rollneck sweater with a matching scally cap. A large diamond glinted from his right earlobe.

“You’ll be paid, man,” Ray said.

I leaned forward and rested my elbows on my desk. I put my right hand to my face and rubbed my jaw. My contemplative look was stunning.

“We straight?”

I reached out and closed my morning paper. I covered the top of my fresh large coffee with the plastic lid. I looked right up at Ray Heywood and said, “Nope.”

“Nope?” he said. “What do you mean fucking ‘nope’?”

“I mean I don’t deliver bounties,” I said. “I agreed to bring back Akira. Akira has been brought back.”

“To his mother, man,” Ray said, snorting. “Shit. You should have waited until Kinjo flew back. Do you work for Nicole or for us?”

“Neither,” I said. “Our business is done.”

Ray bit in his cheek. He started to turn around and then caught himself. He turned to me with his index finger outstretched. “I see how it is. Now you’re through with us. Don’t need shit from the Heywood brothers anymore.”

I tilted my head and nodded a bit. “Only one thing.”

Ray crossed his fat arms across his fat body. “What’s that?”

“You were with Kinjo the night Antonio Lima was killed.”

Ray’s eyes wandered over my face. He stared at me for a while and then broke the glance and shook his head with disgust. “What are you trying to say?”

“Why would you keep on paying Lela Lopes and not tell Kinjo?”

“’Cause that’s what I do,” he said. “I look out for my brother so he can keep his head right for the game. And that’s all I need you to do, is look out for us and pay off this piece of shit like we agreed.”

“You shot Antonio Lima,” I said. “Didn’t you?”

“Bullshit.”

“You never showed up in the reports.”

“’Cause I wasn’t there.”

“Kinjo had three men with him at the club,” I said. “Sometime later, that third man disappeared from the stories of Kinjo and his teammates. A few witnesses remembered but thought you were another player. Why wouldn’t he tell police you were with him?”

Ray looked at me for a while. I leaned back in my chair and waited. It was a beautiful day on Berkeley Street, and the sunlight filled all of my office.

“You crazy.”

“Sure,” I said. “But that’s beside the point.”

Ray shook his head some more but did not deny it. “Will you take the money?”

“No.”

“How will the man get paid?”

“That’s your problem,” I said.

“Must be nice to be blameless, man,” he said. “Spotless and clean.”

“Nobody is clean in this,” I said.

Ray picked up the Nike bag and left in a huff. He didn’t even bother to shut the door behind him.

I reached for my coffee, removed the lid, and watched the steam roll out. I opened the newspaper and resumed reading the argument between Arlo & Janis.

66

I never knew, nor ever asked, if the bounty was delivered. It took more than two months for my invoice to be paid in full by Steve Rosen Enterprises. I searched within his envelope for a thank-you card or hair-styling tips but came up empty.

It was late November, Thanksgiving week, and I left my office for the Harbor Health Club. I changed in the locker room and walked out to find Z and Henry Cimoli wearing identical white golf shirts with the club logo.

I smiled.

“Don’t say shit, Spenser,” Henry said.

I lifted up my hands. I wore an old pair of blue running shorts and a gray sweatshirt cut off at the elbows and neck. “I was about to compliment you both on the professional attire,” I said.

“Screw you.”

Z was cleaning off a lat pull-down machine and oiling the chain attached to the weights. He looked up at me and just shook his head.

“Women go crazy for Z in the uniform,” Henry said. “I got twenty new members in the last couple months. Housewives and divorcees who act like they don’t know how to use the machines. Jesus.”

“If he asks you to wear the white satin,” I said, turning to Z, “run.”

Z continued to clean off and oil the equipment as a handful of people ran on treadmills. Some local businessmen on their lunch break talking more than pumping iron. On the other side of the wide picture window facing the harbor, snow flurries twirled and whirled about, dusting across the wharves and melting on impact.

I made my way to the new-and-improved boxing room and went about wrapping my hands and wrists. The walls were mirrored, and I started off with three rounds of shadow-boxing before sliding into the gloves and attacking the heavy bags. On my third round with the bag, Hawk strolled into the room carrying a paper cup of coffee. He set the coffee on a window ledge and watched as I finished up. I took on the bag with an added ferocity, making the bag dance and jangle on the chains.

“No need to show off,” Hawk said.

“Showing you how it’s done.”

“Ha.”

“You want to spar a bit?” I said. “I have time.”

Hawk shook his head. He raised his eyebrows. “You remember our pal, Papa B?”

“Sure.”

“Motherfucker is dead.”

“DeVeiga?”

“My guess,” Hawk said. “But DeVeiga the one who told me. Said he’d been looking for Papa B since his sister got killed. Seemed upset that he wasn’t the one to finish him off.”

“Where?” I said, trying to catch my breath.

“Gone to New York,” Hawk said. “Live large.”

“What’s it to us?”

“DeVeiga wants to talk. He says someone else in on this.”

“Does it matter?”

“Matters to DeVeiga,” Hawk said. “Might matter to us. Depends on what he’s got to say.”

“Akira said there were three of them,” I said. “All dead. Victor Lima. Lela Lopes and now Papa B.”

“Real name is Pasco Barros.”

“I like Papa B better.”

“God rest his soul.”

I walked to the corner and found a pair of heavy mitts. I tossed the mitts to Hawk. He removed his black duster but not his sunglasses. He slipped the mitts onto his hands and I practiced combos for the next three three-minute rounds. Hawk told me several times that my left hook needed some work. I was breathing very heavily and sweating when I walked over to the water cooler.

“Okay,” I said.

“Figure we at least hear what the man have to say.”

“Sure.”

“And good to know a man like DeVeiga down in Glocksbury.”

“A gangbanging drug dealer?”

“You rather know someone with the Rotary Club?”

I took off my gloves and unwrapped my hands. In fifteen minutes, I was showered and changed back into my street clothes and riding in style with Hawk to meet Jesus DeVeiga.

67

We met DeVeiga at the Jim Rice ball fields in Ramsey Park. Two Outlaws stood watch at the iron gates as we walked inside and started climbing the stands toward DeVeiga. He sat alone up on the top row, staring out at the empty field dusted with snow. Hawk took two steps at a time. I followed suit.

“Took Rice a long time to get in the Hall of Fame,” Hawk said.

“Would have won the series in ’75 if he hadn’t broken his wrist.”

“Not bad in ’86 against the Mets.”

“Why did it take him so long?”

“’Cause Rice is a surly motherfucker,” Hawk said. “Press hated him.”

“Reason you like him.”

Hawk grinned. We hit the top steps and sat down beside Jesus DeVeiga. DeVeiga was wearing the same flat-billed Sox cap, and this time a navy-blue parka with a fur-trimmed hood.