She did not lower the very large gun. She thumbed back the hammer and pressed it to the back of his skull.

“God I’m so sorry,” Mattie said. “I’m so goddamn sorry, Ma.”

Flynn rolled over to his side, head thumping against a burnished rail. I knew he was either dead or damn near close to it. She dropped the gun. I smiled at her. But Mattie’s eyes rolled up into her head and she fell like a limp rag doll.

I pocketed the gun and knelt down, scooping her up in my arms. I had to grit my teeth a fair amount while I walked toward the light. Transit cops scattered down around the edges of the train, coming for us. Guns out, talking on radios.

Little white lights scattered off and on, feathers from her coat flitting in the cavernous draft.

63

Some months later, Boston thawed, and I found myself sitting with Mattie Sullivan right behind home plate at Fenway, as promised. I treated myself to a hot dog and a cold Budweiser. Salted peanuts waited on deck. Miracles never cease.

“Sweet seats,” Mattie said. “Too bad the Sox are sucking this year.”

“A true fan weathers every game.”

“With all the money these guys make, I got a right to complain.”

“Glad I don’t make much money.”

“You did good,” Mattie said.

“I bummed the tickets from a fancy law firm.”

“You know what I mean.”

I toasted her with the half beer that was left.

It was May, and the ballpark was packed despite the gray skies and rain. Lots of people wore ponchos and held umbrellas. The rain fell in soft, gentle waves. What the Irish called a soft day.

I wore my Boston Braves cap. Mattie wore an official fitted Sox cap I insisted on buying her at the team store. It wasn’t pink. She balanced the box score sheet on her knee.

“You think you’d see some hustle,” Mattie said. “It looks like they got lead in their ass. And against the fucking Halos. Jesus.”

“Sometimes a ball game can be enjoyed just for the rhythm of it all,” I said. I took a sip of my third beer. “You watch the little details, and it gives the same feeling as listening to good jazz.”

“Whatever,” Mattie said.

I ate my hot dog. I drank some beer. I opened the sack of peanuts. I wondered if that would be too gluttonous. Since I was on the mend, I figured I needed the nutrition.

We watched Wakefield strike out two Angels.

“How’s the shoulder?” Mattie asked.

“Better,” I said. “I’m gonna try some heavy-bag work today with Hawk. Slow going.”

Mattie’s arm was still in a sling. The doctors had inserted pins into the shattered bone, and it would take some time to heal. There had been a lot of ugly damage and two surgeries, but she kept the arm. Like me, she was on the mend.

“Why don’t you come along,” I said. “I can teach you how to box.”

She laughed and shook her head. Wake struck out the third batter. The crowd cheered. She penciled in the out.

“I’m gonna take a bus out to Walpole and see Mickey.”

“I’ll drive you,” I said. “I promise not to sing anything that’s not in the Great American Songbook.”

“Rather go myself,” she said. “Besides, Mickey doesn’t care too much for you.”

“I got him a sexy and tough attorney,” I said. “She got him a new trial based on DNA evidence and a witness I found.”

“Mickey thinks it’s bullshit that he hasn’t been sprung,” Mattie said. She blew a large pink bubble. “Shit, they got Flynn’s DNA under my mom’s nails.”

I nodded. “The wheels of justice turn slowly.”

“It’s a bunch of crap,” she said. “What if Theresa bolts again?”

“I’ll track her down.”

“What if someone finds her first?”

“Flynn is quite dead.”

“Ain’t that a shame.” She chewed her gum. She studied the box score.

“You worry about it?”

“Not shooting the bastard myself?”

“Yeah.”

“Sometimes,” she said. “I guess sometimes I wish I’d had the stuff.”

“You got the stuff,” I said. “You made a choice that he wasn’t worth it. Think on that.”

“Figured that’s why you wanted me to go shoppin’ with Susan,” Mattie said. “You wanted her to talk to me about my feelings and shit.”

“Talking about feelings and shit can often be therapeutic.”

“I don’t go for frilly dresses and tea,” Mattie said. “Not with Mickey still screwed. There’s still a lot to do.”

“Mickey will get out,” I said. “But it takes time.”

“And that crooked Fed?” she asked.

I watched Pedroia loosen up on deck. I felt my face burn. “He’s under investigation,” I said. “I have a friend who’s got him in his sights. He believes me. But he’s the only Fed who believes me.”

“So this douchebag skates.”

“As does Gerry Broz.” I sipped the beer. “In my line of work, douchebags often skate.”

The rain came down a little harder.

“Bullshit,” Mattie said, again. “Just bullshit.”

“’Tis.”

Ellsbury struck out. Pedroia sauntered up to the plate. He studied the big Green Monster in left field. I just hoped he connected.

I contemplated another beer. The rain started to fall harder, and the ground crew stood at the ready near the tarp. Pedroia stepped back from the plate and watched the umpire. The game continued.

On the second pitch, Pedroia nicked a line drive past third, making it to first. Adrian Gonzalez was up. Mattie leaned forward. We both liked Gonzalez, curious about what he’d do for us this season. The rain came in a steady, solid patter.

The first pitch was wide. The second a strike. But Gonzalez hammered the next one far into left field. Pedroia made it to third and rounded toward home. Gonzalez rounded second but doubled back, as did Pedroia.

The bottom fell out of the sky.

The umpire held up his hand. The crews hustled out with the tarp.

Mattie and I ran for cover. Inside Fenway, the ballpark smelled of musty old wood, hot dogs, and stale beer. Heaven.

We walked to the gate and waited for the rain to stop.

“Thanks for all you’ve done,” she said. “We’ll get square on those donuts.”

“Six cinnamon, six chocolate frosted.”

“And a tall coffee. I know. I know.”

“Cream. Two sugars.”

“Quit bustin’ my ass. Okay?”

I bought her an umbrella. We walked to my car, and I drove her back to the Mary Ellen McCormack. We sat for a while, waiting for the rain to let up.

“How was that?”

“Nice,” Mattie said. “Thanks.”

“You do much thinking?”

“I watched the game.”

“And now?”

“I’ll see Mickey.”

“But maybe you give yourself another break soon.”

“Like a vacation.”

“Yep,” I said. “You keep giving yourself breaks, and the time between them will grow shorter. You get into a new normal. Not the same, but not bad, either.”

“Guess it’s nice knockin’ boots with a shrink.”

“It is.”

“You need breaks sometime, too?”

I nodded.

“Is that how you deal with all the bastards?”

“No harm in being good to yourself,” I said. “I know what it’s like to show everyone you’re tough. It’s a form of self-protection. Keeps people from messing with you.”

“Is that you or Susan talking?”

“A little of both.”

Mattie reached for the door handle.

“I’m always here,” I said. “We can always mooch off the firm. Long season this year.”

“Maybe the Sox can right things,” she said.

“They got time.”

I watched her walk away, a lot older and a lot younger than fourteen. I started the car and headed toward the waterfront, knowing lasting change takes time.

At Harbor Health Club, I changed into shorts and running shoes. I pulled on a navy sweatshirt cut off at the elbows and met Hawk in the boxing room, where he had started without me. He’d already worked himself into a shimmering sweat with a leather jump rope.

Hawk could jump rope the way Fred Astaire could dance. He crossed and switched feet as delicately and quickly as he had when he was a teenager.