“I don’t know,” Mattie said. “Maybe be like him.”

I jabbed a thumb at my chest in surprise. I raised my eyebrows in triumph.

“Yeah,” Mattie said. “All you do is go around and ask questions. Bother people till they give you answers. I figure I could do the same thing. You basically act like an asshole and don’t let people lie.”

Susan grinned. “The young lady makes an excellent point.”

“Sometimes I do have to shoot people.”

“I could do that,” Mattie said. She sipped her milkshake. Her pink ball cap was slightly askew. Her winter coat had been buttoned all wrong.

I looked to Susan. Susan watched Mattie.

“Shooting people is not the highlight of my work,” I said.

“If I got a gun,” Mattie said, “I’d shoot down Red Cahill and Moon Murphy in two seconds.”

I didn’t say anything.

“I’d kill ’em both and go to prison for the rest of my life with a smile on my face. That’d be my freakin’ vacation.”

Susan’s face showed concern. I nodded.

I understood.

26

After dropping off Mattie in the projects, I made two phone calls. I checked in with Bobby Barrett, the patrol officer I’d met. I told him about my run-in with Moon and the thugs who’d stolen my car and escorted me away from the Mary Ellen McCormack. He said he’d been checking on the Sullivans and would continue. He didn’t offer much hope for my car.

I thanked him anyway.

I then called my answering service to learn that a Mr. Red Cahill had called that afternoon. He would like to arrange for a meeting tonight.

“Jeepers,” I said to the service operator.

“Excuse me, sir?”

“It’s an expression I use when filled with both anticipation and dread.”

I called Red’s number. He answered on the second ring.

“Where?” he asked.

“No fond greeting?” I asked.

“Where?”

“Quincy Market.”

“Sure,” he said. He had a gravelly voice. Subdued. “What time?”

“An hour?”

“Come alone or I ain’t sayin’ shit.”

I agreed.

Then I called Hawk.

“You want me to make my presence known?” Hawk asked.

“No.”

“My step will be as stealthy as the catamount’s.”

“You and Natty Bumppo.”

I drove back to my office and slipped into a leather rig for my

.357. I placed the loaded .38 in my side pocket. I searched my drawers for some grenades but came out with nothing more than a handful of bullets.

I placed those in my jeans pocket.

I zipped up my leather jacket, fixed my Braves cap down over my eyes, and drove toward the Quincy Market in the rental car.

A light snow had started to fall. The snow drifted so fine and light, it could be detected only in the streetlights on Boylston.

27

I liked the Quincy Market despite itself. You had to look beyond such authentic Boston staples as the Cheers Bar and Ned Devine’s Irish Pub to appreciate the charm. But inside the old brick building you could find some decent fast food and a hot cup of coffee. At night, white festival lights shone off icy brick pathways.

I bought a cup of coffee and found a seat inside the center of the market, under the rotunda.

A group of Japanese tourists was posing next to a pushcart that sold Boston T-shirts and Sox hats. All the pushcarts had cute little names: A Hat for Every Head. Happy Hangups. Every Bead of My Heart. In spring, the carts would move outside and the open space between buildings would be filled with tables topped with umbrellas. Women with very long legs would be sipping wine and smoking cigarettes.

I looked forward to that time. But now it was too cold.

I warmed my hands with the coffee cup. I looked out for thugs with red hair.

I didn’t have to wait long.

Halfway through the coffee, a man with the lean, muscular build of a welterweight walked through the side door to the market. He scanned faces.

I raised my cup. He caught my eye.

Red Cahill crossed the rotunda and slid into the seat on the other side of me. Less than half of the tables were filled with tourists dining on pizza, chicken fingers, or teriyaki chicken. I wondered if every food court in America served teriyaki chicken.

I asked Red.

“How the fuck do I know?”

“You always find hot pretzels, too.”

“So the fuck what?”

I drank some coffee. I waited.

“Mr. Broz said you want to talk.”

I nodded.

Red wore a black leather blazer and a black skully cap. His nose was red and growing bulbous. His eyes were so blue they looked almost transparent. He seemed fidgety as he waited to get down to it. He had big, thick hands and hard, round knuckles. I detected the bulge of a gun under his left arm. I expected nothing less.

I drank some more coffee. His knee pumped up and down like a piston.

I watched faces in the rotunda. Businessmen and -women out in Beantown. A few families.

Hawk was out there somewhere, moving as a catamount.

“Julie Sullivan,” I said.

“Who?”

I groaned and worked a crick out of my neck. I shook my head.

“Can we get to it?” I asked. “Or do you want to play Abbott and Costello?”

“Who?”

I smiled. I noted calcium deposits over his brow. I figured it must impair brain activity.

“You fight long?” I asked.

He nodded. “Mr. Broz said you fought, too.”

I nodded.

“You go pro?”

“I did.”

“What happened?”

“An ex-champ derailed my aspirations.”

“I went out west,” Red said. “I found a manager, but he didn’t do jack. He took me to a queer bar and wanted to suck my cock.”

“He must have had great faith in your talent.”

“I came back and tried to get on with some promoters,” he said. “They talked a lot of shit but could never get me a decent fight. I had to eat. You know?”

“So you started selling drugs?”

“It’s a living.”

“It is.”

“Who was your trainer?” Red asked.

“Henry Cimoli.”

“Holy shit,” he said. “Get the fuck out of here.”

“Nope.”

“He’s famous.”

“He’d agree.”

“You must’ve been pretty good.”

I smiled. I finished the coffee.

“You still think about it?” Red asked. “Things you could’ve done different?”

“Not so much anymore.”

“But you loved the life,” he said. “Being a fighter. The training and all.”

“I did.”

I scanned more faces. Two large men walked through a side door. The two men did not look at us. They walked over to a pizza kiosk and debated pepperoni or anchovies.

“Let’s say I knew this woman,” Red said.

“Julie Sullivan.”

“Yeah, Julie,” Red said. He rubbed his hands together. The skin was cracked and chapped. He blew his breath into a fist and nodded. “So what?”

“So it seems she was in the company of you and Moon Murphy before she got killed.”

“You know what I do for a living?”

“Yes.”

“So maybe she just wanted a score.”

“Maybe she did.”

“And maybe I’m not responsible for dumb whores who get hooked and get killed,” he said. “I sell dope. Sue me. What she does when she’s fucked up is her business.”

I rubbed my jaw. I listened.

“Why’d you send those guys for me?” I asked.

Red screwed up his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You sent a welcome wagon out to the projects to steal my car and chase me out of Southie.”

“If I wanted you out of Southie, I woulda done it myself.”

“Or tried.”

He looked at me and snorted.

I tilted my head.

He met my eye. He nodded.

I nodded back.

“I don’t want trouble,” Red said. “I come here because Mr. Broz asked me to. He don’t want trouble, either. You want to know about that broad, and I told you. I sold her dope. But I didn’t kill her.”