“Come again?”

“His conviction feels like an injustice to her. She’s built him up in her head—with a little prompting from him—as the only man who cared about her mother. She could identify with his plight, and in turn as a father.”

“I would hope she’d pick a better role model.”

“She may be pissed at you because you’re challenging that,” she said. “You are probably very different from Mickey Green.”

“God, I hope so.”

“Does he stand a chance?”

“I got Rita to take his case.”

“That’s a hell of a favor for someone you don’t like,” Susan said.

I shrugged. I ate more of the sandwich. I found another bottle of Amstel.

“The kid’s damn sure Green didn’t do it,” I said. “Cops never asked her what she saw that night.”

“At this point, are we sure he’s innocent?”

I sighed. “Not really. He knows more than he’s telling. And he’s definitely no heroic father figure. Mattie deserves a lot more than Mickey Green.”

Susan nodded. I stood there and drank and ate. I studied her long, shapely legs and was quiet for a moment.

“Oh, God,” Susan said. “You don’t have plans to take her in? The way you did with Paul?”

“Nope.”

“Or mentor her.”

“Mattie doesn’t need anyone to teach her how to fight,” I said. “She could bring Mike Tyson to tears.”

“Or be self-sufficient.”

“Nope.”

“Is that frustrating?”

“That she’s so damn self-sufficient?”

“That you can’t teach her anything the way you taught Paul how to dress and how to act and how to be a man? Or what you did for Z.”

“Perhaps,” I said. “She can’t see anything beyond freeing Mickey Green and nailing her mom’s killers.”

“You may not be able to make it all better,” she said.

“The thought had crossed my mind.”

“You understand, her unhappiness is a form of self-flagellation,” she said. “That doesn’t just go away.”

“I figured that,” I said. “I told her I’d take her to a ball game this spring. Hard to flagellate at Fenway. You’d get arrested.”

“Momentary happiness, enjoyment of life, may be the only thing you can teach her.”

“Tall order, but I’m trying.”

“Who better?” Susan said. “You choose to work in an ugly, violent world yet find enjoyment.”

“Sometimes I whistle while I beat people up.”

“Even if you free Mickey Green and put those men in jail, Mattie will continue to beat herself up.”

I nodded.

“It could help initially,” she said. “But she’ll need some help. And a lot of time.”

I nodded again.

“You ready for that?” Susan asked.

“A work in progress?”

“Yes.”

“She’s worth it.”

“Why?”

“I respect her sense of justice.”

“And you will teach her how to live until she finds it.”

I nodded.

Both of us found a place on my couch to watch the fire. Pearl ambled into the room and jumped between us.

“She missed you,” Susan said.

“She tell you that?”

“Doesn’t she talk to you?”

“Depends on how much I drink.”

“I suppose you’re going to keep at this all weekend?” Susan asked. She tucked her bare feet up under her.

“Yep.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Start from the beginning,” I said. “Follow Red and Moon.”

“Can you take Hawk with you?”

“If Hawk is available.”

“Hawk will make time,” she said. “As always.”

I nodded.

“You made time for him when he was shot.”

I nodded.

“Take Hawk.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

My old sweatshirt rode up above Susan’s taut waist and very tasteful panties.

“I like those panties,” I said.

“I don’t think they’d fit you.”

“Lace isn’t my thing.”

“What is your thing?”

“Extra-large boxers with red hearts.”

“Sexy.”

“In some cultures.”

“So I’ve waited around for you long enough,” Susan said. She sipped at her wine. “Disrobe.”

“Twist my arm.”

40

Susan and I breakfasted at the Paramount in Beacon Hill. I had hash and eggs and black coffee. She had an egg-white omelet with fruit on the side. The pain in my ass was gone. I had a spring in my step as we followed the Public Garden back to my apartment. Susan and Pearl headed to Cambridge. I went back to work.

I parked, bought another cup of coffee across Boylston, and opened up my office.

A stack of mail had spilled through the slot and onto the floor. I threw away all but a rent notice and a card from Paris. Paul was touring with his dance troupe. He wrote me in French. Paul was very aware I did not speak French.

He was a grown man now, and a successful human. But when he’d been Mattie’s age, he had no one. His existence centered on soap operas and game shows. I’d taken him up to Maine to work on a cabin. I taught him to lift weights, box, and drink beer. I was afraid if I taught Mattie how to box, I would unleash a loaded weapon on Gavin Middle School. I wondered if trying to think of an equivalent plan for a girl was sexist. Probably. And Mattie was not the typical girl. In the movies, teen girls solved all their problems through a makeover. I could only do what Mattie had asked of me. I could offer shrinkage from Susan, but she would probably wholeheartedly decline. What I wanted more than anything was to return some sense of childhood to her. Finding her mom’s killer was the first step. A makeover was lower on the list.

I sat at my desk and used my computer to check the weather and play Ella singing “Angel Eyes.” I called my answering service. And then I called Hawk.

Hawk said to give him fifteen minutes.

“I got to say goodbye to the lady.”

“The woman with the silk sheets?”

“Don’t know what kinda sheets this one got,” Hawk said. “Didn’t make it to the bed.”

I sipped some more coffee and looked down at the building across Berkeley. The lights were off in the insurance offices. It seemed I was the only one who enjoyed working Saturdays. At street level, Shreve, Crump & Low enjoyed a brisk business. They sold fancy jewelry, and for a long while had a display for something they called The Gurgling Cod. It was a fancy pitcher shaped like a fish. New England chic.

I was halfway done with the coffee when I heard Hawk’s heavy footsteps. You always know when it is Hawk walking. He walks with authority.

“For your troubles, I’ll buy you a gurgling cod.”

“What the fuck’s that?” Hawk asked.

I told him.

“White people got more money than sense,” Hawk said.

“No arguments here.”

“What’s for breakfast?” Hawk asked.

“I ate with Susan.”

“Didn’t bring me nothin’?”

“I didn’t know you’d be available.”

“Am I not a faithful sidekick?”

“I consider myself a first among equals.”

“No shit,” Hawk said, pondering the statement. “I just consider myself first.”

“They got scones across the street.”

“I don’t want no doorstop,” Hawk said. “I said breakfast.”

Hawk was wearing a brown suede sport coat and a black silk shirt opened wide at the neck. His jeans were properly faded and frayed in the current style, and his cowboy boots were made from ostrich hides.

He caught me staring at his boots.

“What’d an ostrich ever do to you?” I asked.

“Bird died with pride knowin’ it be on my feet.”

I grabbed my peacoat, and the .357 out of my desk drawer.

“Double gunnin’?” Hawk asked.

“Always be prepared,” I said brightly.

“Boy Scouts?”

“Genghis Khan,” I said.

I locked the door behind us. We walked side by side down the flight of steps in a pattern and rhythm we’d developed running Harvard Stadium.

“You did notice the suits parked by the Arlington Street Church?” Hawk asked.

“I didn’t walk that way,” I said. “I walked from my place. I had a spring in my step.”

“Well, Easter Bunny,” Hawk said, “since people are looking to do you in, you might want to be more vigilant.”