“You and Hawk walk away?” Gerry said.

“My word.”

“Your word means shit to my family.”

“Meant something to your old man,” I said.

Gerry studied my face. He nodded some more in secret Gerry Broz thoughts. Something rattled around in there, and a gumball finally popped out. “Why should I feel bad for rattin’ on a rat?”

“There you go.”

“Bastard never respected me.”

“The shame of it.”

“You tryin’ to make fun of me?”

“Never.”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on,” I said. “What was in it for you? You’re too smart for this.”

Having to say that last part pained me.

“We were gonna take down the Albanians and Gino Fish,” Gerry said, all in a big rush of air. “And then he goes psycho and fucks me in the ass.”

“How lovely,” I said. “Where’s Flynn?”

Gerry stood up. He looked down at his old man. Joe Broz’s chest, as thin and delicate as a bird’s wrapped in hospital paper, rose and fell.

“Still in Southie,” Gerry said. “He’s keepin’ the girl at this old office building on West Broadway. That’s where he keeps his guns. He’s got a fuckin’ arsenal.”

“Good to know.”

“You better buckle the fuck up.”

“Will he know we’re coming for him?” I asked.

Gerry shook his head. “Didn’t I say we had a goddamn deal?”

I nodded. I stood.

I reached my hand over what was left of Joe Broz and shook hands with his kid.

His grip was wet and limp.

58

You know, we could turn all this shit over to Quirk and have a late breakfast at the Russell House Tavern,” Hawk said.

“We could.”

“Brioche French toast with a big Mescal Mary on the side.”

I nodded.

“But we won’t.”

“That what you want to do?”

“Hell, no.”

“Let’s check out what Gerry said,” I said. “We find Flynn, we hit him hard.”

“Plant your feet, bite down on your mouthpiece, and say let’s go.”

Hawk steered us toward the Mystic River and 93 South. We caught the interstate for a few miles, crossing the channel, and snaked down to the exit in South Boston. The winter light was weak and hazy; snow flurries dissolved against the windshield.

Hawk slowed in front of a long row of three- and four-story brick storefronts that lined West Broadway. He parked across the street from a defunct bar with a FOR SALE sign hung from a second-floor window. The bar was abandoned. Shades and file cabinets covered most of the windows in the building.

Snow was coming down harder now. It had started to stick.

“How come Flynn does business in plain sight and no one says shit to him?”

“Must have something to do with charisma.”

A patrol car pulled right onto the curb by the defunct bar. Officer Bobby Barrett got out and adjusted his cap on his head. He craned his neck up to the second floor and dialed a phone in his hand. A door at street level opened, and he waddled inside.

“Nice to have the law on your side,” Hawk said.

“That’s the officer who caught Mickey Green washing down the car,” I said. “His testimony put Green away.”

“Ain’t that a coincidence,” Hawk said.

Ten minutes later, the side door opened. Barrett walked out alone, got into his patrol car, and drove off.

“He one of the officers watching Mattie’s family?”

“One of ’em.”

“Nice choice,” Hawk said.

“Maybe we should call Quirk.”

“Maybe,” Hawk said. “Or maybe Flynn see that SWAT team on his ass and starts to clean house. Bein’ the psycho we think he is.”

I nodded. “Keep it clean and simple.”

“If Mattie inside,” Hawk said, “time is tight. And we the best she got.”

“And if we’re the best she’s got, that’s not too shabby.”

“No, it ain’t.”

“How’s the arm?”

“Cool.”

“How’s the chest?”

“Sore.”

“How many men do you think Flynn has?”

“Does it fucking matter?” Hawk said.

“Nope,” I said. “Just thinking out loud.”

59

The door to the stairwell was metal and well worn and locked. Someone had scrawled some graffiti in big diagonal letters that said BLACK NEVER. SOUTHIE FOREVER. Hawk craned his neck to read it. He turned back to me and shook his head. Snow drifted down along the cracked sidewalks of Broadway. Across the street, thickly bundled people hustled into the T station.

Hawk looked both ways, stepped back, and kicked in the door.

The door slammed open, and light shone into a narrow stairwell covered in dirty red carpet. The light was very dim, burning from a couple of bare bulbs. We moved quickly to the second floor and curved up to the third. Dust motes twirled in the soft gray light.

The third-floor hall seemed to stretch out forever in the dim light. The old building shifted in the darkness; its loose windows battered and thumped against the sills.

I nodded to Hawk. I took the lead.

If Mattie was with Flynn, a pistol was much more precise.

We moved through the hall, checking the first two small offices fronting Broadway. Hawk watched my back, eyeing the length of the hallway, looking for opening doors and waiting for footsteps behind us.

Down the hall, we heard the creak of an office chair.

“Spenser?” a voice called out.

I turned to Hawk. Hawk looked to me. He fitted the stock of the Mossberg into his shoulder. Agent Tom Connor stepped out into the long hallway and lifted his hands. He was dressed in a blue wool suit and red power tie. He held his hands up, smiling in a patronizing way.

“Come on in,” Connor said. “We need to have a powwow.”

“And you wonder why Native Americans don’t like the Feds.”

“Let’s talk.”

“Where’s your buddy, Jumpin’ Jack?” I asked.

I kept the gun aimed at Connor. Hawk did not lower the shotgun as we walked down the hall. The office was empty except for two rolling office chairs and a file cabinet turned on its side, spilling paper onto the floor. Connor stood, lit a cigarette, and stared out at the snow falling on a pleasant winter afternoon.

People always smoked when trying to look pensive. Connor was very pensive.

“This is a mess, Spenser,” Connor said. “What can you say? You’ve burned a major source of mine. You’ve scared poor Gerry Broz senseless. He doesn’t know which way is up.”

“Gerry has often had that problem.”

“I don’t think you get what’s going on here.”

“It’s become pretty clear.”

“No, it’s not,” Connor said. He blew smoke out of his nostrils. He shook his head like a befuddled parent. “I look out for this entire city, and in doing so, you got to make compromises. I’m not going to lecture a thick-headed guy like you. Or your spook sidekick.”

Hawk had not lowered his weapon. It was unwise to call Hawk a spook. Especially when Hawk was armed. Of course, it was an unwise move to call Hawk a spook anytime.

“Where’s Flynn?” I said. “Where’s the girl?”

“You want to talk about this city’s greater good,” Connor said. He shifted his weight, placed his right hand into his pants pocket. I felt for the trigger. But he only jingled the coins or keys inside. “You know what this case means to us?”

Hawk leaned forward with his shotgun.

“Easy there, Hawk,” Connor said. “Down, boy.”

“I takin’ an instant dislike to this motherfucker,” Hawk said.

“Yeah,” I said. “He’s got a kind of reverse charisma.”

“You can never imagine the filth and violent shitbags I have to deal with every day.”

“My apologies,” I said.

“Sad,” Hawk said.

“I have to compromise.”

“You said that.”

“Jack Flynn goes to jail, this whole thing goes bust.”

“Kind of fucked-up logic, Tom.”