Sunday morning started off the same. I had spent the night with Susan in Cambridge and again had a fine spring in my step. I hit the stairs to my office with a bounce and a smile. Hawk arrived a short time later. He brought donuts and two large coffees.

He did not say a word. He opened the box and sat in my client chair. He sipped and grinned.

“You burn a hole in those sheets yet?” I asked.

“At the height of passion, Teddy Pendergrass on the stereo, she gone and tell me she love me.”

“Hazard of the job.”

“Can you believe that shit?”

“And Hawk loves no one.”

“I love myself,” he said.

“How could you not?” I said. “And you loved Cecile.”

Hawk did not speak. He sipped some coffee. He leaned my client’s chair back on two legs and crossed his boots onto my desk.

Then he said, “You gonna eat or go all Dr. Phil this morning?”

I shrugged before choosing a cinnamon. I thought it a bold yet solid decision.

“We gonna drive around again today?” Hawk asked. “Follow Red and Fat Boy to hell and back?”

“You have a better idea?”

“I do.”

“And?”

“You wanna find out what’s what,” Hawk said. “We go see Tony. Tony will know.”

I nodded.

“Does Tony work Sundays?” I asked.

“After church,” Hawk said. “Somebody got to run the whores.”

“I like a man with priorities.”

We both polished off three more donuts and walked down the steps to Berkeley with the rest of our coffee. We agreed to take my rental again.

“You think a black man in a Jag is conspicuous?”

“Only in Southie,” I said. “South End is another story.”

We drove to the bottom of the South End to Tony’s bar. The parking lot across the street was empty, as were many of the storefronts that lined it.

A few years ago Tony had a marketing consultant rename the bar Ebony and Ivory. Hawk and I had a lot of fun with the name. Not a lot of ivory drank at Tony’s bar. But since I’d last seen him, he’d gone back to the original name, Buddy’s Fox.

A new neon sign spelled it out in neat cursive letters. We crossed the street and found the front door open.

Junior and Ty-Bop, Tony’s muscle, looked up from a game of pool in the barren bar.

Ty-Bop nodded to us. Junior ignored us. Ty-Bop hammered off a shot that sounded like bones cracking.

Red vinyl booths lined each side of the room, with a bar at the far end. A door beside the bar led to Tony’s back office. The bar had not changed in decades. In a strange way, I liked that.

Had we not been so well respected by Tony, Ty-Bop and Junior might have stalled us. But they kept playing. We kept walking.

The door to Tony’s office was open. He sat behind his desk.

Tony was dressed in an immaculate gray pin-striped suit with a purple tie. Boston’s most successful pimp looked just like an aging CEO, down to the soft neck and graying temples. His mustache was neatly trimmed.

“Look what the motherfuckin’ cat dragged in.”

“Tony,” I said.

“Spenser,” he said. “Hawk, my man.”

Hawk nodded at Tony. Tony grinned and rubbed his chin. He smiled, taking us both in like we were auditioning for a comedy act. I was not sure if I was Martin or Lewis.

“What y’all want?”

“Information,” Hawk said.

“I should start chargin’ for that shit,” Tony said. “Do I look like goddamn four-one-one?”

“You owe me,” I said.

“How long till that tab run out?”

“Long time,” Hawk said.

Tony nodded. He knew Hawk was correct.

Tony lit a fat dark cigar and leaned into the padded leather desk chair. His lighter was bright gold. He smoked the cigar in an expert fashion as he snapped the lighter shut.

“Y’all want a drink?”

“I don’t drink on Sunday,” I said.

“Now, I know that’s some bullshit.”

Tony pressed a button on his desk and told Junior to bring in three glasses of Crown Royal. In a few moments, Junior lumbered in with three glasses of whiskey rattling on a tray. He left the whiskeys on Tony’s desk without a word.

Hawk and I drank. Tony left his on his desk while he smoked.

“Y’all want to sit?”

Both of us shook our heads.

“Okay,” Tony said. “Tell me what you want to know.”

“What’s Gerry Broz doing with Jumpin’ Jack Flynn?” I asked.

“Oh, shit.”

“‘Oh, shit’?” I asked.

Tony smoothed down his neatly trimmed mustache. “Seems like me and you have a similar pain in the ass.”

“They cutting in on your turf?” I asked.

“Just starting,” Tony said. “Joe’s kid got some kind of ambition.”

“You know Gerry’s in his forties,” I said. “Why’s everyone call him a kid?”

“That motherfucker got back into it last year,” Tony said. “I thought it was a joke. Don’t think it’s a joke no more. Especially now he thrown in with Flynn.”

“Dorchester.”

“Five people dead.”

“What was it over?” I asked.

“What the hell you think?” Tony asked. “Drugs.”

I nodded and Hawk nodded. He removed his sunglasses.

“What’s Flynn’s deal in this?” Hawk asked.

“You know Jack Flynn?” Tony asked.

I nodded.

“He been out of the joint a few years,” Tony said. “Figure he out of the life till I heard about him openin’ that bar in Southie with Broz’s kid. One got more money than sense. Other bring a lifetime of respect and fear.”

“Partners?”

“You got to ask them that,” Tony said. “Didn’t study their got-damn business plan. And I don’t give a shit. I just know I can’t have any of you Irish motherfuckers thinkin’ you gonna run some skin, too. You see?”

“Jack Flynn is not my people,” I said.

Tony leaned in. He threw back his whiskey. “How long I been in the life?”

“Long time,” Hawk said.

“Yep,” Tony said. “And I’ll say this. Jumpin’ Jack Flynn is the craziest, most fucked-up son of a bitch I ever known. That a thing, ain’t it?”

Hawk nodded.

“Your problems may be over soon,” I said. “The Feds are all over Broz and Flynn.”

“They been all over me for years. Doesn’t change shit. Whores need to be run. I know how to do the runnin’.”

“They want to shut down Broz,” I said. “And close the case on the old man.”

“That what you heard?” Tony asked. His mouth pursed into a tight smile.

I nodded.

“Well, you wrong,” Tony said. “They ain’t after Broz. They after the Italians and Gino Fish.”

I looked to Hawk. Hawk looked back to me. He lifted his eyebrows.

“Jack Flynn did five years for one murder,” Tony said. “I know for a fact that sociopath killed at least fifty. I ain’t shittin’ you, man.”

“You think he cut a deal?” I asked.

“What’s it look like to you, Irish?”

“You got proof?”

“Man, I just counting my money and taking it day by day,” Tony said. “God willing.”

I nodded.

“What if they come for you next, Tony?” Hawk asked.

“Reason I got Ty-Bop and Junior,” Tony said. “Nobody likes no gang war. But they happen from time to time. I got other people, too. I hold my fucking ground.”

“Gino know about this?” I asked.

“Since that shooting, the territory’s been up for grabs,” Tony said. “You better believe ole Gino is holding on to his nuts. Or having someone hold them for him.”

I nodded. Hawk looked to me. He put his sunglasses back on.

“I’m glad you got back the bar’s original name,” I said. “It’s what kids today call retro.”

“Glad you like it, man,” Tony said. “Ain’t nothin’ like the real thing.”

Tony did not stand. He did not shake hands with us. He just kept that look of humor on his face as we exited from the darkness of Buddy’s Fox.

43

Since when does Tony go to church?” I asked.

“Tony always go to church.”