“Got some buckshot in my arm,” Hawk said. “I was wearing a vest.”

“Hawk’s not happy right now,” I said. “Flynn and his boys snatched a fourteen-year-old girl. We like her a great deal. We intend to get her back.”

Vinnie shook his head. He drank some of the coffee.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.”

I held up my hand. “We need to get to Gerry Broz,” I said. “And we need you to tell us how to flip him.”

Vinnie shook his head. With his free hand, he turned up the collar on his camel-hair overcoat.

“I like you guys,” Vinnie said. “I like you guys a lot. But I can’t rat on Joe’s boy. I told you that from the start. If I knew how to get to Flynn, I would. But I can’t have Gerry killed for this.”

“I won’t kill Gerry,” Hawk said. He took a deep breath. “Unless he get in the way.”

“It’s talk like that that makes me shut my fucking mouth.”

“This ain’t a request, Vinnie,” Hawk said.

“I can’t,” Vinnie said. “I’m sorry. You know how this goes.”

Hawk stepped up close to Vinnie and stared out at the dark ocean. The wind was very brisk and very cold off the water. He lowered his voice and leaned into Vinnie’s ear. “Don’t play that honky bullshit code with me. You kill a woman, you kidnap a little girl, there’s nothin’ left. Ain’t no code.”

“Gerry knows,” I said. “How do we get to Gerry?”

Hawk stepped back.

“Gerry is afraid of Flynn,” Vinnie said. “You’d have to kill him, and then you still won’t know. I’m sorry. I can’t let that happen.”

“Flynn will kill that little girl,” I said. “I’m asking for a favor here. You don’t owe the Broz family anymore. The old man is long gone.”

Vinnie nodded in agreement, finished the coffee, and walked toward a trash can. He threw it away and placed his gloved hands in his pockets. Hawk remained quiet, staring at Vinnie.

“You got to promise not to dust Gerry,” Vinnie said.

“Okay,” I said.

I looked to Hawk. Hawk shrugged.

“Okay? I seen that look in your eye, Hawk, plenty of times. And it never leads to good things.”

“How do we get to Gerry?” Hawk said.

Vinnie reached into his coat and pulled out a notepad and a pen. He carefully wrote out an address in Somerville and drew out a cross street. Like everything else about him, Vinnie Morris had very fine, exact handwriting.

“This is how you get to the kid,” Vinnie said. He shook his head with disappointment.

“Again with ‘the kid’?” I asked.

“He’ll always be a kid,” Vinnie said. “I don’t want him hurt. But you go here and you’ll understand.”

“I don’t get it,” I said.

I passed the paper to Hawk. Hawk studied it and shrugged.

“I ain’t into riddles,” Hawk said. “Ain’t in the fucking mood.”

“It’s all I got,” Vinnie said. He shrugged. “What you do from here is your own business. But I got to sit this one out, fellas.”

We both watched Vinnie walk away. We headed back to Commercial Street, where I’d parked my rental. The rental was still warm when we got inside. Hawk had stashed two loaded shotguns in the trunk.

“You think Gerry will give it up?” I asked.

“Vinnie better be playin’ straight,” Hawk said. “We called in a favor. He Italian and knows just what that shit means.”

“Against his father?” I cranked the car.

“That Godfather bullshit don’t apply tonight,” Hawk said. “No sleep till Mattie safe.”

56

The address Vinnie gave us led to a three-story red-brick building off Summer Avenue. The slanted roof was thick with snow. A walkway with a wrought-iron fence zigzagged to a front entrance where an empty flagpole stood between two bare young trees. A small wooden sign by the parking lot read THE SUMMER HOUSE. A man pushed a snow shovel by the sign. He stopped to rest and smoke a cigarette.

“Hospital?” Hawk asked.

“Hospice,” I said.

“People on borrowed time.”

“Yep.”

“Think Gerry doin’ charity work?” Hawk said.

“Somehow I doubt it.”

At ten minutes after nine a.m., a silver Hummer wheeled into the Summer House parking lot. Gerry Broz stepped out in an ankle-length tan suede coat, black cowboy boots, and narrow wraparound sunglasses. He studied his reflection in the driver’s window, tousled the hair over his brow, and shuffled up the zigzagging steps.

He pressed a button. Gerry opened the door and walked inside.

“You ever notice Gerry Broz is a weird dude?” I asked.

“’Cause how he dress?”

“By what he wears, the way he walks, what comes out of his mouth. Just about everything about him is weird.”

“He ain’t right.”

“An understatement,” I said.

“Shall we?” Hawk asked, reaching for the door handle.

“We shall,” I said.

We followed the same path. We punched the same intercom button. The door buzzed, and we both walked into a large, empty lobby. The gray linoleum floors had been buffed to a high shine. A grease board proudly listed today’s specials as chicken pot pie, cooked carrots, and caramel pudding cup.

“Maybe we should stick around for lunch,” Hawk said.

A large dining room with yellowed lace curtains opened up to the left. Pink carnations adorned every table. Pink tablecloths covered every table. Motel art of Cape Cod sunsets and fruit bowls lined the walls. The air smelled of bacon, weak coffee, and heavy doses of Pine-Sol.

There was music while we walked. Several families sat in a large open TV room catching an episode of The Lawrence Welk Show. Small children sat on laps of frail, colorless people. Some were old. Some weren’t. The ones dying weren’t hard to spot. I didn’t see peace on their faces, only a grudging bit of understanding. Lawrence conducted on the new modern television. Children giggled and laughed, zipping through legs. They jumped from lap to lap.

From behind a desk, a woman in an orange dress looked us over. She appeared to be in her late fifties or early sixties and wore a lot of blue shadow as once had been the style. Her hair was dyed red and had been recently done. She wore many bright gold chains and rings.

She asked, “Yes?”

“We came with Mr. Broz,” I said. “We’re his fashion coordinators, Mr. Salt and Mr. Pepper.”

Hawk looked at me and raised a single eyebrow. The woman stared at us for a moment.

“Room three-oh-eight,” she said.

I nodded. She went back to her computer screen.

We took the elevator to the third floor and quickly found the room. The door was open. More lacy curtains covered a single window. A plush red leather chair and a small chest of drawers sat in a corner. The chest was covered with an old-fashioned lace doily, as if it could make the room feel less like a hospital. The walls were cinder block. Stainless-steel railings had been strategically placed along the way for support. A wooden cross with a golden Christ hung over the washbasin.

The floor was very quiet. There was the smell of sickness and decay that no cleaner could ever remove. A weak winter light bled through the window as we walked inside.

Gerry Broz sat on a small chair with his hands tented in prayer. A shriveled man with tubes up his nose slept on the bed before him.

I knew the old man.

When I’d first met Joe Broz, he’d been full of balls and bluster. I recalled him wearing a white suit, a white vest, a dark blue shirt, and a white tie. He’d sported a gold chain across the vest and a large diamond ring on his little finger. He’d called me a wiseass punk.

Broz was once the most feared man in Boston and the state of Massachusetts. He was petty, greedy, and violent. At the top of his game, he had state senators and police officials in his pocket. He owned the city.

We had an unusual relationship until he disappeared. He kept his word. Often, he tried to have me killed. At least once, he’d expected Vinnie to do it.