“You know those girls?”

“Bitches.”

“How about I walk you home?” I asked.

“What about the pub?”

“What about it?”

“You said we’d go back and talk to the bartender at Four Green Fields,” she said. “Shirley? It’s Monday like that douchebag with the tattoos said.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“I saw you looking at that woman’s ass in there.”

“I am a keen observer.”

“What did you learn?”

“She has a thing for butterflies.”

“Come on,” Mattie said. “It’s happy hour. Do I have to do all the thinking here? Jesus.”

13

The Celtics were playing Miami, and the pregame show blared from a flat-screen television that seemed out of place with the faded beer posters and dusty neon signs of Four Green Fields. Behind the old bar, Shirley held court, peering up at the television while drinking a cup of coffee from a mug that read GRANDMA KNOWS.

“Good evening,” I said. “Lovely night.”

She cut her eyes at me, nodded, and went back to watching the game. Shirley was a big white-haired woman with thick arms and skin as fine as parchment paper. She wore a boxy flower-print top and a massive gold cross around her neck. A well-worn Louisville Slugger took the place of honor next to her ashtray, the grip wrapped in silver duct tape.

“Use that much?” I asked, nodding in the bat’s direction.

“When I need to.”

“I bet it might upset you if I asked for a Grey Goose martini. Up with a lemon twist.”

“We got what’s on the shelf, beer, and soda.”

I did not see Grey Goose on the shelf. I ordered a Sam Adams with a shot of Bushmills, and a soda for Mattie.

Shirley nodded, making a great show of getting off the barstool behind the counter and reaching into the cooler for the beer. She poured the shot and then sprayed some Coke into a tall glass of ice for Mattie. Mattie leaned onto the bar with her elbows. We exchanged glances. She bit her lip and nodded for me to get on with it.

I laid down a ten and the picture of Julie Sullivan with the slick-haired man.

“You know these people?”

Shirley shook her head. She went back to her barstool. With great effort, she sat back down with her coffee and listened to Mike Gorman and Tom Heinsohn discuss the Celtics’ rebounding troubles.

“That’s your technique?” Mattie said, whispering.

“Terrific, isn’t it?”

“It sucks.”

“What do you expect for a bag full of donuts?”

“You haven’t even earned the holes.”

I shrugged. I drank half of the shot and chased it with the beer. I had always liked Bushmills. I kept a bottle in my office for cold, rainy days. Medicinal purposes.

“Shirley?”

She cut her eyes back at me.

“How about another beer?”

“You aren’t finished with the first one.”

“I like to plan ahead.” I winked at her.

She groaned, got off the barstool, and reached into the cooler for another beer. She managed to do all this while keeping her eyes on the pregame.

“Julie Sullivan was a regular,” I said. “Four years ago, she was killed.”

Shirley’s eyes turned back to me. She studied Mattie. She turned back to me.

“So?”

“I’d like to find some of her friends,” I said. “This is her daughter. I work for her.”

“You a lawyer or somethin’?” Shirley asked. “’Cause I fucking hate lawyers.”

“It’s your lucky day,” I said. “I couldn’t pass the bar. I’m just a detective.”

Shirley nodded. “I don’t know what to tell you. I remember that name, that girl that was run down. But lots of people drink here. How am I gonna know what was going on four years ago? I’ve been tending bar here for thirty years.”

“You must love your work,” I said.

“Yeah, it’s a pleasure to meet so many smart-asses.”

I smiled and shrugged.

“You want more soda, sweetie?” Shirley asked.

Mattie nodded. Shirley added ice to the glass and sprayed in more Coke. The bar seemed like a cave, light and sound flashing in spurts whenever the battered front door opened, the cold, bright wind cutting through the stale heat, body odor, and cigarette smoke.

“How about Red Cahill?” I asked.

She looked at me. She didn’t answer.

“Moon Murphy?”

“I just serve drinks, doll.”

She wandered back down the bar. But she did not take a seat on her throne again. She hovered there for a few minutes, watching the television and burning down a long, thin cigarette. She served two beers to a bald-headed man who retreated to a back corner. She looked over to me and then at the television set. After a few more minutes, she picked up the phone.

The phone call was short. She returned to her throne.

A sign above her read NO DOPE SMOKING, NO BAGGY PANTS, AND NO FUCKING CUSSING. MISS MANNERS.

“Do you mind waiting outside for me?” I asked.

“Why?” Mattie asked.

“I believe things are heating up.”

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Wait in the car,” I said.

“I’ll wait right here.”

I finished the Bushmills, not wanting her to see what came next but figuring she’d be safer right here anyway. Tom Heinsohn was on to why the Celtics need to play more cohesive ball in the face of LeBron James. Injuries had thinned the ranks. Ray Allen was questionable with a bruised knee.

“Maybe Heinsohn should suit up,” I said. “Come out of retirement.”

Shirley didn’t respond. She kept her eyes on the flat screen with a dull stare. Mattie drank her Coke and watched the game. I watched the game, too, keeping an eye on the old metal door.

Fifteen minutes later, the door opened. A very large man walked inside Four Green Fields. He had on a black leather jacket that could serve as a circus tent. He had a thick, doughy face with black stubble and small, dumb eyes. He didn’t close the door behind him, and a lot of cold air rushed into the place. Another man followed, skinnier and smaller, who pulled the door shut. He had thinning hair shaved tight to his head and a pockmarked face.

They approached the bar.

“Now,” I said to Mattie.

I must’ve said it with a little force behind it. Mattie’s face burned with color.

“That’s him,” she said. “Fucking fat ass is Moon.”

“I’d arrived at the same conclusion using deductive reasoning,” I said. “Now go.”

Mattie got up and backed away. I took a sip of the beer. Moon Murphy took one side, and the skinny guy took the other. The bar had one other patron. The drunk in the shadows.

The men crowded me.

I began to whistle “Moonlight in Vermont.”

Moon Murphy jabbed his elbow into my side as if he were stretching. He turned and studied my profile, unblinking, watching me. I could hear the creaking of his leather jacket. His breath was something to behold.

“Do you find me that attractive?” I asked.

“Why don’t you go back to Beacon Hill, shithead.”

“Don’t let my good looks fool you,” I said. “I only seem rich.”

“That little girl gets hurt, and it’s your own fault.”

I shook my head. “That little girl gets one scratch on her, and you’ll be wearing your ass for a hat.”

He grabbed my biceps. I shook his hand loose and stepped back. Moon gave me a very mean look in return.

I shot him a left jab in the temple. His buddy lunged at me, and I hammered a hard right cross to his eye. The skinny guy staggered back. Moon came for me, so I found some open space on the concrete floor. Moon was one of those guys who tried to pass off fat for muscle. Most of the time they didn’t have to fight, only look mean. He probably practiced a menacing look in the shower. I bobbed to the right and nailed him with a solid left hook in the gut. He lunged for me and punched me in the eye. It was sloppy and wild but hurt just the same. I sidestepped another punch and peppered him with a couple left jabs and a solid right cross. And another solid right. And another solid right. And a nice uppercut to his fat throat. Moon’s feet left him. He made a noise that sounded like “Eck.”