A sharp odor emanated from inside. I closed the door.

“See?”

“I’m not done yet,” I said.

“How come you cook? What about your girlfriend?”

“Susan burns coffee,” I said. “Sets toast on fire. And I grew up in a house with just my old man and two uncles. We all cooked.”

“I bet you lived like pigs,” she said. “A bunch of nasty guys.”

“Just the opposite,” I said. “Maybe because we knew what people would expect.”

“People expect us not to get by,” she said. “Social worker’s always on my grandma’s ass.”

“But you find a way to get by,” I said.

Mattie nodded.

I checked the cupboards. Half a box of oatmeal. An empty box of Frosted Flakes. Stale saltine crackers and a can of chicken noodle soup.

“Okay, you got me beat,” I said. “Suit up the twins. Time to stock the house.”

34

Hawk would have paid handsomely to see me push a wobbly cart down aisle six of Tedeschi’s with three small girls in tow. The cart was already packed, even with Mattie returning most of what the twins handed us. She kept several boxes of junk cereal and cookies and jugs of fruit juice and milk. She put back the packs of chewing gum, barrettes, and pink cupcakes.

I wondered if I was the only shopper packing a .38. In Southie, I doubted it.

I tried for fresh produce, but Mattie wanted cans. I reached for ground round. She looked at the price and reached for the chuck.

“It’s on me,” I said.

“We got an EBT card.”

“No good,” I said.

“We’re doing fine.”

“If you buy smart, it will last,” I said. “Growing up, we didn’t have money, either. We bought quality stuff and used every ounce. There was a small grocery in Wyoming where we bought cuts of beef. Bacon and Borax.”

“What’s Borax?”

“Detergent with the power of a twenty-mule team,” I said. “We made it last.”

“So do we.”

“How about you let me buy some food without a cartoon on the label?”

“We got meat and stuff.”

“Breakfast?”

“We don’t have time.”

“You can make breakfast whenever you want,” I said. “I always make sure I keep a dozen eggs, some bacon, and a loaf of bread. You won’t go hungry if you got that.”

“The girls like scrambled eggs.”

“My scrambling skills are the stuff of legend,” I said. “All in the wrist.”

One of the twins dropped a box of Pop-Tarts into the cart. The other dropped a pink-headed doll. Mattie didn’t see them. I winked at them both.

“I don’t suppose the twins would care for eggs with cream and chives?”

“Nope.”

“Maybe just cheese?”

“Sure.”

“Havarti?” I asked.

“Cheddar.”

“Dark rye?”

“Wonder Bread.”

We compromised on a cheap loaf of whole-wheat, and I insisted on a couple pounds of sliced smoked turkey from the deli. I extolled the virtues of Havarti cheese with caraway seeds, halfway joking. And the need to have a jar of kalamata olives and feta.

“What’s that?”

“Aged goat cheese.”

The twins said “Yuck” in unison.

“Goes nice with some Syrian flatbread.”

“You been hanging out in Cambridge too much.”

We added in a box of laundry detergent, a pack of Ivory soap, four packs of luncheon meat, two thick slabs of hoop cheese, two loaves of wheat bread, apples and pears, some bananas, a tub of oatmeal, pasta, tomato sauce, dry beans, cans of green beans and peas, a bag of frozen chicken breasts, and a pound of coffee for Grandma.

“She likes coffee,” one of the twins said.

“I bet,” I said. “You think she’s home yet?”

“Nope,” Mattie said.

“You don’t rely on her,” I said, “do you?”

Mattie snorted.

“You rely on anyone?”

Mattie slowed the cart and looked up at me with great thought. She nodded. “Yeah,” she said. “Myself.”

“Me, too. But you won’t give yourself a break,” I said.

“Give it a rest,” she said. “I enjoy stuff.”

I smiled. “Sometimes having fun is pretty hard work.”

“Where’d you learn that?”

“The esteemed philosophers Calvin and Hobbes.”

Mattie pushed the car into the checkout lane. I took out my wallet. Seeing the cash in my hand made her uncomfortable. She wasn’t in control. Being in control was total for her.

“Are you ready for the meal of your life?”

“I can cook,” Mattie said.

“No,” I said. “You’ll cook food. There’s a difference.”

“I appreciate this, but it’s not going to change anything.”

“What am I trying to change?”

“Me,” she said. “You want me to act like someone I’m not. You want me to cry it out and let you be the grown-up. You want me to wear a dress and say my prayers and say everything is all right. But it doesn’t happen that way. Not now.”

The twins had their small hands clutched on the grocery cart. Their eyes had grown very big.

“I don’t want to change you,” I said. “I like you as you. But I do want to help.”

Mattie clenched her jaw. But soon it worked free, and she said, quite unexpectedly, “Okay.”

35

I didn’t get back to my apartment until late. I had stayed parked along a side street with a good view of the Sullivans’ apartment for several hours after the dishes were put away. When Grandma stumbled home from the pub at eleven-thirty and the last light clicked out, I headed back to Marlborough Street. I decided to cancel my order for a WORLD’S BEST GRANDMA coffee mug.

I took off my leather rig and placed it on my kitchen counter. I uncorked some bourbon and doused a healthy splash over ice. I thought about adding a bit of water. Real aficionados called it “opening up the whiskey.” It seemed like a waste to me.

I stood at the counter while I drank. I checked messages.

I added some more bourbon to the ice. Marlborough Street was a still life in hushed snow and ice. The piked fence at the Public Garden stood defiant. The soft yellow glow of the streetlamps burned smooth and pleasant.

In my wallet, I found Epstein’s card. A long time ago, he’d handwritten his personal cell phone under the FBI insignia. I knew it was late, but I called anyway. He picked up on the third ring.

“What?” Epstein asked. “You want me to talk dirty to you?”

“Is the bingo game over already?”

“If it wasn’t for bingo and a trip to the deli, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.”

“If only there was crime in Miami.”

“If only,” he said.

“Still at the office?”

“I’ve taken a cot by my desk.”

“Got a problem.”

Epstein laughed. I heard the squeak of a desk chair as he settled in to hear the problem. “Name it.”

“Tom Connor.”

Epstein didn’t say anything. I heard him let out a long, uneasy breath.

“He accused me this morning of being a mule for a Puerto Rican drug-smuggling ring.”

Epstein laughed. He laughed so hard he nearly choked.

“I’m honored to have brightened your day.”

“How in the hell did that happen?”

“Connor says they found two pounds of heroin in my car.”

“And you don’t usually keep two pounds of heroin in your car?”

“I keep it under my bed, like normal people.”

Epstein laughed some more. “Have you been fucking with him?”

“He stopped by my office yesterday to tell me to back off an operation in Southie.”

“Mmm.”

“You sound like you agree?” I asked.

“I don’t agree, but it sounds like Connor,” Epstein said. “He was in the Boston field office a long time before I got there. Passed over many a moon for promotion. He’s the kind of agent who uses the policy memos for coasters.”

“Or perhaps toilet paper.”

“You want me to call the new SAC?” Epstein asked. “I can help you through the complaint process.”