“Why be vigilant when I have you?”

“’Cause if you ain’t, you be dead.”

I stopped at the landing outside my office building. “You do have a point.”

“Where to?” Hawk asked.

“Did the car have a federal plate?” I asked.

“Yes, suh.”

“A little joyride around town,” I said. “After we lose them, I figured we might want to see what Moon and Red are up to.”

“Not Gerry and ole Jumpin’ Jack?”

“Nope,” I said. “Foot soldiers do the work. They’ll trip up while Broz and Flynn pick their teeth and count their money.”

“And my breakfast?”

“You work up an appetite?”

“You bet,” Hawk said. He grinned very wide.

“Lunch at Legal?” I asked.

Hawk nodded.

I pulled out into traffic. Two lights down Boylston, I made the Feds’ car behind me. I kept my eyes on the rearview mirror.

“On a full stomach, we ditch these turkeys.”

I nodded and headed downtown.

41

We played cat and mouse with the Feds for a while. We ate oysters and drank draft Sam Adams at Legal Sea Foods by the Custom House Tower. Afterward, we indeed ditched the Feds in the South End and looped up to Fenway just to make sure. We drove around for a long while until we headed into Southie and Gerry Broz’s sports bar.

On the way, I told him about Theresa Donovan.

“She dead,” Hawk said.

“You don’t know that.”

“Woman don’t show up for work, leave a plate of food half eaten, and clothes half packed,” Hawk said. “Don’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to figure that shit out. Larry Holmes coulda figured that shit out.”

“The Easton Assassin,” I said.

“Only man to defend the belt more was Joe Louis.”

“Doesn’t mean he’d make a good detective,” I said.

Hawk agreed.

We parked in another alley with a good view of Playmates and the wrecking ball facing the Old Colony Housing Projects. A chain-link fence surrounded the property. The day was cold and colorless, the trees bare and stark against gray skies.

“They supposed to tear down all this shit last year,” Hawk said.

“Takes a long time to break it down,” I said. “Built with quality.”

“Lot a bad shit happened in those walls.”

I nodded.

“‘Go, nigger, go,’” Hawk said. “I can still hear them shouts.”

“That was not good for Boston.”

“No,” Hawk said. “Irish got some hard heads. Must be all the potatoes you eat.”

“Or the beer we drink.”

Hawk grinned.

“You think Broz did the shooting in Dorchester?” I asked.

“Yep,” Hawk said. “Course, he didn’t pull the trigger. You think Gerry knows one end of the gun from the other?”

“Probably not.”

“Leaves us with Red and Moon.”

“Bad guys,” I said.

“We been up against much badder,” Hawk said. “Those boys still minor-league.”

“And Jack Flynn?”

“Jack Flynn is on the thug all-star team.”

Hawk reclined in the passenger seat. His eyes were half closed. He’d always been able to calm himself. I’d known him since we were seventeen and remembered how he’d nearly fall asleep before he’d step into the ring. He could come alive with violence as fast as he could nap. He was on shut-down mode now, waiting for Red or Moon. Or both.

“Heard Red was a good fighter,” Hawk said. “Trained down at McDonough’s.”

“Not much future for old fighters.”

“Man makes his way with his fists got few options.”

“You ever think about selling insurance?” I asked.

“I am the reason for insurance, babe.”

At five, I cranked the car engine. Hawk lifted up the passenger seat.

We watched as Red Cahill and Moon Murphy piled into a green Range Rover and made a series of turns before cutting onto Broadway. Hawk and I did not speak as we drove.

I watched my tail in the rearview. No suits.

Red stopped off at a dry cleaner. We had to park too far away to see what was going on inside. We didn’t want Moon to spot us.

Red climbed back in the Range Rover and headed west. We passed over D Street and a Catholic Charities Labor Center. Red circled into a Burger King parking lot. A black Chevy Blazer pulled alongside, headed the opposite way.

Something passed between the cars.

“Pay that piper,” Hawk said.

I nodded. Red wheeled back onto Broadway and stopped in at a liquor store and a gas station. He cut up Dorchester Avenue at the T station.

“Since when they got a goddamn yoga studio in Southie?”

“World’s going to hell,” I said.

We followed Red north toward downtown on Dorchester Avenue, passing the old Gillette plant. We crossed over the channel bridge and passed the post office distribution site. We turned north on Summer Street, near the bridge, and made our way up the waterfront.

Red turned into the Boston Harbor Hotel. He and Moon both got out.

He tossed the keys to the valet.

“Red gone upscale,” Hawk said. “Shall I?”

“Please do.”

Hawk got out and walked inside the Boston Harbor Hotel. I stayed on the street for about twenty minutes.

I watched the valet stand until Red and Moon reappeared. Hawk opened the passenger door and got back inside.

“Taking a piece of the book from the bartender?”

“Passing some drugs off to some preppie kids,” he said. “Drugs ain’t got no social class.”

I nodded.

“Vinnie know about all this?” Hawk asked. “Gettin’ close to Gino’s turf.”

I nodded, careful to keep about four cars back. Red and Moon turned into the city.

For the next two hours, Hawk and I counted twelve more shakedowns. Mostly bookies. They also visited two strip clubs just off the Common. Hawk volunteered twice for surveillance inside the clubs.

My stomach told me dinnertime approached as Red dipped south again and headed back over the Summer Street Bridge and to the three-decker off G Street.

They parked and went inside.

“You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?”

“On my last stakeout, I enjoyed a sub sandwich downed with a pot of motor oil.”

“We can do better,” Hawk said.

“One would hope.”

“How long we wait?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Kind of hoped something would come to me.”

“How’s that workin’?”

“Give it time. Give it time.”

A sedan headed toward us on G Street. I slowed to a stop nearly nose to nose. The headlights clicked to bright, blinding us.

Hawk was out of the car. I was out of the car.

I had my .357, and Hawk had a Mossberg pump.

Two figures crawled out. The two young agents who arrested me two days ago.

They put their hands up. But they did not smile as they did it.

Hawk dropped the shotgun to his side. I lowered the .357.

“Nice night,” one of the men said. I believe it was Tweedledee. In the dark, it was hard to tell. “You looking for something?” said Tweedledum. His breath was a cloud.

“Looking for a couple pencil-dick motherfuckers,” Hawk said.

“Oh, look,” I said. “We’re in luck.”

“Get lost,” Tweedledee said.

“Public street,” I said. “Or do you want to arrest me again?”

One agent looked to the other. They got back into the car. They dimmed their lights. They just sat there for a while.

“You still call it a Mexican standoff if we in Southie?” Hawk asked.

“If Red and Moon come out, we’re blown,” I said. “They know it. Doesn’t do us any good. They probably know the Feds, but they don’t know my car.”

Hawk tilted his head from side to side. His neck popped.

“You want to start fresh tomorrow?” he asked. “Woman with the sheets just shot me a text message.”

“Two-timer,” I said.

“Who say they just two?”

“Hawk, you give us all hope,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. “I sure as hell do.”

42