“He just showin’ off,” Hawk said. “Besides, those two wouldn’t know if they was bein’ followed by the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile.”

“You saying they’re dumb?” Mattie asked.

“If those boys any dumber, someone need to water ’em,” Hawk said.

We followed them onto Storrow Drive along the river. Red left Storrow and headed south, back to the Fenway. He slowed in the neighborhood around Boston University. I was caught at a stoplight as he turned onto Kenmore Square. The huge Citgo sign stood proud over the red-brick bookstore on Beacon.

Pedestrians navigated the ankle-deep mess, umbrellas in hand, huddled under their hoods and ball caps. The light turned. I followed and caught up.

“Lovely day,” Hawk said.

“Just why do we live here?”

“To appreciate the full beauty of the seasons,” Hawk said. “But if they hoof it, you follow. Can’t ruin my new boots.”

“That may be the most unthuggish thing you’ve ever said.”

“Shit,” Hawk said. “These boots cost more than everything you got in your closet.”

“Over there,” Mattie said.

The Range Rover U-turned on Beacon and pulled in front of a sad-looking bar advertising two-for-one chicken wings. Green paint molted from the old wooden façade. A half-dozen neon beer signs blazed from the window. Busted-up metal garbage cans sat on the curb.

Red and Moon got out of the car. Moon stretched and scratched his fat butt.

We parked off Yawkey Way near the big Sox team store that was larger than the stadium. Hawk had his eyes closed. Mattie leaned up between us, and I heard her breathing against my neck.

She was popping her gum. The windshield wipers swiped every few seconds.

I folded my arms over my chest and watched the bar. I left the car running. After ten minutes, I killed the engine.

Everything grew very quiet. Sleet and rain tapped at the windows.

“I can take you home if you like,” I said.

“No, this is cool.”

“Got school tomorrow.”

“You trying to get rid of me?” she asked.

“Nope,” I said.

Hawk grinned.

A few minutes later, Red and Moon hustled out of the old bar. They dragged a very short, very skinny gray-haired man behind them. I thought I knew him. I elbowed Hawk to confirm.

Hawk leaned up to the windshield. He did not speak. He stared and then nodded.

“Right?” I asked.

“It’s him.”

“It’s who?” Mattie asked. “You two always speak in code?”

“Chico Hirsch.”

“Who the hell is Chico Hirsch?” she asked.

“Big-time bookie,” I said. “Been around since the Braves were in Boston. Jesus. How old is Chico?”

“Got to be around ninety,” Hawk said. “I thought that motherfucker was long dead.”

Moon gripped Chico’s upper arm and shoved him roughly into the back of the Range Rover. He said something harsh and unpleasant, and then slammed the door. Red and Moon piled into the Range Rover and took off.

We followed. Mattie was absolutely hooked.

In the rearview, I saw an honest-to-God smile.

Good judgment be damned.

45

They didn’t drive back to Red’s three-decker. Red and Moon hustled Chico Hirsch into a pleasant two-story house on Third Street in Southie. It was getting dark and very cold. Sleet fell in the failing light.

“Shoulda got some of them chicken wings,” Hawk said.

“Two for one,” I said.

“I could go for food,” Mattie said. “There’s a corner store close across the street.”

She pointed to a convenience store within sight, so I gave her some money for some sandwiches and coffee. The sleet tapped harder against the windshield. Streets were icing. Melting snow banks solidified.

“What you think they doin’ with Chico?” Hawk asked.

“Asking him about the good ole days,” I said. “They want to learn from the wealth of his experience.”

“Bullshit pickin’ on an old man,” Hawk said.

“It is.”

“What we gonna do?”

“I could knock on the door and shame them to death.”

“Or we could bust in the front door and say, ‘Give it up, motherfuckers.’”

“You’re dying to try that out, aren’t you?”

Hawk grinned. “Yep.”

Mattie returned with the coffee and sandwiches. The sandwiches were the premade kind, wrapped tightly in cellophane for long life. I think King Tut was wrapped in the same manner. The mustard pack was the only nourishing part of the meal.

“You owe me,” Hawk said, checking out what was between the bread.

“You are not enjoying the bounty we have provided for you?” I asked.

“Sitting in a Ford sedan, drinkin’ bad coffee, and eating a shit sandwich ain’t exactly my idea of heaven.”

“Where’s Chico?” Mattie asked.

We didn’t answer. Hawk leaned forward and rolled his shoulders. He lolled his neck until it cracked. His Mossberg pump lay against his right leg.

“Where is he?” Mattie asked.

“Hasn’t come out,” I said.

“What are we gonna do?”

“Natural selection,” Hawk said. “Chico is a bookie. Bookies got to play the game.”

“He’s an old man,” Mattie said. “They’re gonna kill him.”

“Chico know what it’s about,” Hawk said. “This ain’t his first shakedown.”

“Well, you got to do something,” Mattie said. “Call the cops. Or something.”

I took a deep breath. I wadded up the rest of my sandwich. I opened the door and tossed out the remaining coffee onto the street. Steam rose from the asphalt. I closed the door and looked to Hawk.

“We take you home,” I said to Mattie. “Then we’ll do something.”

“That’ll take too much time,” she said.

We didn’t say anything.

“I won’t get out of the car,” she said. “I swear. If something happens, I’ll call the cops. Can’t you just check? Please just check.”

“This isn’t why we’re here,” I said. “We check on some bookie, we might not find Theresa.”

I turned around and looked at Mattie. She said please again. The please wasn’t something that came naturally to her.

Hawk and I climbed out of the car. Mattie moved into the front passenger seat and closed the door. I checked the load on the .357. I absently felt for the .38 clipped to my belt.

We walked side by side down the street, empty except for the cars and trucks packed tight against the curbs. No people, just the quiet and stillness of sleet. The air felt thin, with a silent patter of the tiny ice pellets.

“Can’t say no to the kid,” Hawk said.

“It’s part of her therapy,” I said. “Watching masters at their trade.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Don’t you miss having hair in this weather?” I asked.

“I am bulletproof.”

“Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound?”

“Yeah,” Hawk said. “All that shit.”

Hawk moved ahead, Mossberg in his right hand, and skirted the edge of the pleasant two-story house. The house was painted a light green, with black shutters. From the driveway, you could see a picket fence surrounding a small backyard.

I watched the street. Mattie watched us from the car.

Hawk looped back around the house and met me out front.

“Got Chico in the kitchen,” he said. “Lot of blood in that old man.”

“Any others?”

“Only see the two.”

“Back door?”

“It’s one of those wrought-iron security jobs,” he said. “Locked.”

I nodded. We walked to the front door.

I tried the knob, and it turned loose in my hands.

“Shit. I wanted to kick it in,” Hawk said. He peered in a side window and moved close to my shoulder.

With the .357 extended, I turned the knob and Hawk pushed in the door. I moved into the room fast. Hawk followed and scanned the corners and staircase. We hit the kitchen within three seconds of getting in the house.

Red was screaming at Chico. Chico was telling Red to go fuck himself.

I had the .357 on them. Hawk stood at my side with the pump.