“Sort of,” Tiffany said.

“‘Sort of’ for how long?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “A long time. Maybe six months.”

“Were you together when he was arrested?”

“He came over a few times,” she said. “Him going away saved my life.”

“How’s that?”

“We had a lot of good times,” she said. “We liked to party. I mean, I was twenty. Isn’t that what you do?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I haven’t been twenty for a while.”

Tiffany had brown hair with highlights and was short and small-boned, with angular features and a sharp nose. She had green eyes and very long, ornate nails, as you would expect. She wore stylish dark blue jeans with red stitching and very tall pink heels. Her very tight pink V-neck sweater showed off a good bit of lace bra, also pink. Her breasts were high and very large for such a delicate girl.

I tried not to leer. But the devil lived in details.

Mattie sat in a waiting area of two faux-leather chairs patched in several places with duct tape. She read a celebrity gossip magazine as she eavesdropped, Sox cap down over her eyes like an infielder. Her legs were crossed, the right foot kicking up and down with nervous teen energy. I didn’t like her tagging along, but she’d insisted, arguing that she knew the neighborhood better than I did.

In the back of the salon, two Vietnamese women worked on the feet of a couple of hefty ladies in glittery sweatshirts. The ladies jabbered on their cell phones and flipped through more celebrity rags. One lady peered over the top, perhaps confusing me for Brad Pitt.

“He ever get rough with you?” I asked.

“Mickey?” Tiffany asked. She laughed.

“Never?”

“Never,” she said. “Are you kidding? I would have kicked his ass. He’s not that guy. You know? He’s kind of like Charlie Brown, bad things just seem to happen to him. He never looked for trouble.”

“You ever know him to beat up another girlfriend? Get in a bar fight?”

She shook her head. “You want a manicure?” she asked. “You have some rough cuticles.”

“Might harm my reputation as a tough guy.”

“Lots of men get manicures,” she said. “There’s no shame in it.”

“Might lead to a Brazilian wax.”

Tiffany opened up a cardboard box with the sharp end of a nail file and started to arrange colorful little bottles of nail polish on a wall display. I wondered if Susan had ever thought about painting her nails dark purple. Probably didn’t call it purple. Maybe eggplant. Better yet, aubergine.

“That your daughter?” she asked.

“Julie Sullivan’s kid.”

Tiffany’s small white face flushed. “Jesus. I hadn’t seen her in years. She know who I am? Me and Mickey?”

“Don’t worry. She thinks Mickey Green is an innocent man.”

“Jules Sullivan’s kid thinks Mickey is innocent?”

“Yep,” I said. “Makes you wonder.”

“Never made sense to me,” she said. She folded her arms across her chest as if she’d grown cold. “Lots of shit in Southie happens that don’t make sense. Mickey was pretty far gone. Figured it was the drugs that changed him. You know anything about heroin?”

“Know enough not to try it.”

“You ever do any drugs?”

“Took Benzedrine in the Army,” I said. “I prefer a good whiskey. Beer, too. I’m not picky.”

“Better than sex.”

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“The rush,” she said. “It’s ten times more powerful than sex.”

“Maybe you’re not doing it right,” I said.

“Took me most of a year to get clean.”

Tiffany unlocked her arms and continued to arrange the little bottles of nail polish. She had to lift up on her toes to reach a top shelf, showing off a wide butterfly tattoo on her lower back. I searched for more clues.

“Mickey said you were with him the night Julie was killed.”

She stopped arranging and turned, staring at me.

“Is that true?”

She nodded.

“He slept on my couch.”

“What time?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Was it past midnight?”

“I think,” she said. “He sometimes came over like that. You know? Knocking on the door, saying he loved me. Wanting some booty.”

“And you were intimate?”

“You mean did we fuck?”

“Or maybe a cordial game of naked Twister.”

“Not that night.”

“Did he act strange?”

“Mickey’s a strange guy,” she said. “He always acted strange, especially when he was drunk. He was pretty messed up. Said he needed me. Blah, blah, blah.”

I nodded. “You see any blood on him? Did he seem nervous or agitated?”

She shook her head. “He came over for one thing. Telling me he loved me. Wanted to marry me and a bunch of shit.”

I nodded. “Was he serious?”

She laughed again. “He was serious about getting into my pants. I knew he was doing the same thing with Julie. It was no biggie.”

“What time did he leave?”

“Early,” she said. “I know it was light out. Said he was gonna buy some eggs, make breakfast, and never came back.”

“You tell this to the police?”

She shook her head.

“Why not?”

“No one asked,” she said. “I don’t think even his lawyer cared. Same shit I’m telling you. Charlie Brown.”

“You know Red Cahill?” I asked.

“Sure, Mickey’s cousin.”

“I hear he’s a top-shelf individual.”

“He’s an evil piece of shit.”

“How bad can a guy named Red be?”

“He was a fighter,” Tiffany said. She took a seat in the receptionist’s chair and spun to the right and then to the left. She lifted her eyes, waiting for me to digest that fact. “Hung out at the old McDonough’s Gym when we were kids. Won all kind of trophies. That Golden thing. You know.”

“Golden Gloves,” I said.

“Yeah,” she said. “Heard he went pro but didn’t go that far.”

“What’s he do now?”

“Sells drugs,” she said. “What else?”

“And Moon Murphy?”

“He and Red work together,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen them apart. They’re a team, you know. That guy freaks me out, looks at me like I’m a slice of hot pie. He’s not right in the head. You better watch it. He knows you’re looking for him, he might get rough.”

“I’m sure I can reason with him.”

“Red’s the brains,” she said. “Whatever he has left. Moon just does what he says.”

I asked her about more people from the Four Green Fields drinking crew. She gave me some names. I handed her my card. The one with just my name and phone number. I had decided against the magnifying-glass or skull-and-crossbones logos.

“Private eye,” she said. “For real?”

“Yep.”

“You really think Mickey is innocent?”

I looked over to Mattie. She caught my eye, listening to every syllable, and then looked back at a magazine advertising Hawaiian Dream Deals. Golden Shores. Memories to Last a Lifetime.

“To be honest, I really don’t know,” I said. “I’m pretty sure he didn’t get a fair shake in court.”

“I would like to think that wasn’t him,” she said. “I mean, we were together for a while. What would that make me? If you’re with someone who does something like that, the way he killed her, that shit infects you. Men take off once they hear I used to be with Mickey. No one in Southie has forgotten.”

I nodded.

“You think Julie’s kid would want a manicure? I’ll do it free.”

“You sell black nail polish?” I asked.

“Nope.”

“Then probably not.”

I walked outside into the cold, ankle-deep in slush. Mattie followed, and we stood on the street for a moment, our breath fogging in the cold as we looked north to south. Light sliced across the far-off Boston buildings and then faded across the triple-deckers and old brick buildings of Southie. Mattie jammed her hands into her coat pockets.

Three teen girls toting backpacks crossed our path. Each girl took special care not to glance at Mattie. But Mattie eyed them until they crossed Dorchester Avenue. As they walked, one girl turned to the others and whispered. The girls all looked back and laughed, barely covering their mouths.