“No,” I said. “I don’t think they’ve ever seen a medicine ball before.”

“Good thing Henry keeps one for us.”

“Nostalgia,” I said.

After a fat guy in swim trunks left us in the steam room, I told Hawk about Mattie Sullivan and Moon and Red “Pepper” Cahill. Gerry Broz, too.

“Just where’d you shoot him?” he asked.

“Right in the Public Garden.”

Hawk grinned and shook his head.

“Leg,” I said.

“You saved the motherfucker’s life,” Hawk said. “Joe Broz knew that.”

“Joe thought I’d have to kill him,” I said. “But he wanted Gerry to try for me anyway. Thought it would make him a man.”

“That’s love,” Hawk said.

I nodded and wiped my face with a towel, leaving it over my eyes and settling back into the cedarwood bench.

“Feds been lookin’ for Joe Broz’s ass for ten years,” Hawk said. “I see him on America’s Most Wanted.”

“I think he’s dead.”

“Men like Joe Broz don’t die, man,” Hawk said. “He down in Florida givin’ it to some old widow.”

“You know Gerry was back into the rackets?”

“Figure he be back,” Hawk said. “He don’t possess many skills.”

“He ain’t Joe Broz.”

“No,” Hawk said. “He ain’t.”

“Vinnie says Gerry was behind that shooting in Dorchester.”

“You goin’ straight ahead at this?” Hawk said. “If so, a brother might need to consult his schedule.”

I took the towel from my face and wiped my eyes. “Not yet,” I said. “I want to poke around it. See what jumps out.”

“You gonna use your red-skinned protégé?”

“Z’s in Montana,” I said. “Business with his family.”

“So you gonna screw around and then call me when your ass in a sling?”

“Exactly.”

“Be good to talk to this guy, Mickey Green,” Hawk said. “See what he know.”

“Thought had crossed my mind.”

“Maybe he was neck-deep in this shit, too.”

“Probably.”

“Where she live in Southie?”

I told him.

“Never been real fond of black folk there.”

“You know it’s not the same,” I said. “It’s black and white and Asian. Gay and straight. Yuppies moving into condos on the harbor.”

“Still a tough place to grow up.”

“You think Mickey Green will agree to see me?”

“What else he got to do at Cedar Junction,” Hawk said, “besides play with himself?”

“I still want to call it Walpole.”

“Don’t have the same ring,” Hawk said. “Walpole sounds tough. Cedar Junction sound like a peckerwood jamboree.”

After the workout, I showered and shaved and dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. I slipped my running shoes back on and clipped my .38 Chief’s Special onto the rear of my belt. I slid into my leather jacket with the zip-in liner and reached for my Boston Braves cap.

I felt calm. My breathing had slowed. My heart beat at an easy rhythm, and my head was clear. I now needed only coffee and some corn muffins to fuel my day.

When I returned to my car, I found the little red light blinking on my cell phone, so I called my voice mail. Spenser, master of technology.

“I need to see you,” Mattie Sullivan said. “Don’t freak out or nothin’, but they won’t let me leave the counselor’s office. I told them I’m fine, but a couple douchebags tried to run me over this morning. I ripped my pants. No big deal, but thought you should know.”

I circled back to Southie.

10

Mattie told the school counselor I was her uncle, and the counselor bought it. I’d like to think it was the wisdom in my eyes or the deep calm resonance of my voice. Or maybe the counselor just thought Mattie could use a day off. She’d shown up for science class in torn khakis, her knees and elbows skinned and bloody.

We found a Dunkin’ Donuts on Perkins Square where Broadway and Dorchester Street converge. We sat at a stand-up bar overlooking Broadway, watching people line up at the check-cashing business. Next door was a hardware store, and across the street was a pizzeria called McGoo’s in the bottom of a three-decker. There was also a bank, a barbershop, and a Goodwill in the little shopping district. The skies hinted at a cold rain.

I chose two corn muffins and a black coffee. Mattie chose a grape-jelly-filled. The folly of youth.

“Did you see these guys?” I asked.

“Sort of.”

“Was it Pepper and Moon?”

“Nope,” she said.

“How do you know?”

“Do I look stupid?”

“What’d they look like?”

“The guy driving was older,” she said. “Gray hair and kinda scruffy. Other guy I couldn’t see so well. He mighta been black. Or maybe Mexican or somethin’.”

“How do you know they were trying to hurt you?”

“I figured that out about the time the car’s grille nipped at my ass.”

“Excellent point,” I said. “Then what?”

“What do you think?” Mattie asked. “I jumped into a fucking ditch.”

“What kind of car was it?”

“I don’t know. Car was blue or silver.”

“You see the license plate?”

“As I was jumping into the ditch?”

“Wouldn’t matter,” I said. “Probably stolen. What did they do after they passed?”

“They braked real hard and doubled back,” she said. “Ditch was outside a construction site on Dorchester, and I ran like hell through it. I cut over to G Street through some people’s backyards, and that’s how come I tore my pants.”

“And still made school on time.”

“Yep.”

“That’s dedication,” I said.

We sat quietly for a while. A homeless man in an Army jacket wandered in and shelled out dimes and pennies for an old-fashioned and two donut holes. Several city buses passed the big plate-glass window, spewing black smoke and churning slush. The teenage girl at the counter looked bored until a couple teen boys walked up to the counter.

“How’s Grandma?”

“She didn’t come home last night.”

“That okay with you?” I asked.

“Sometimes it’s better when she’s gone.”

“You got other family?”

“Sure.”

“Anyone who can help?”

“Help with what?”

“You and your sisters.”

“I don’t need any help.”

“You raising them?”

“I don’t raise them,” Mattie said. “I look out for them.”

“What’s the difference?”

“I’m their big sister,” she said. “It’s what you do. I don’t really have a lot of time to think about it. You just do it.”

I watched her finish the donut. I sipped some more coffee. One of the boys at the counter was trying to make time with the girl selling donuts. He said he’d love to have her number in his cell. She turned him down flat.

Mattie was listening and grinned a bit. She was a very good listener, aware of everything around her.

“How do you guys make do?” I asked.

“We get a government check,” Mattie said. “Grandma cleans houses and offices some.”

“Has she always been a drunk?”

“Not like now,” Mattie said. “She didn’t drink so much after my mom died. We had social workers dropping in and stuff. People from church bringing food and whatever. She can dry out if she wants.”

“What happened to them?”

Mattie shrugged. We watched more cars pass by the window and the homeless guy artfully begging for more change. The kid at the counter would not give the donut girl a rest. She finally gave up her number. Persistence.

“What do you do for fun?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You like sports or going to Mass? You belong to any clubs? Do you have a boyfriend?”

She made a snort that could almost have been a laugh. I smiled at her.

“No boyfriend?”

Her pudgy face colored a bit as she readjusted her elbows on the counter. She reached up to chew a black nail.

“But you do like the Sox?”

“Sure.”

“What do you think about Adrian Gonzalez?”

“For a hundred and fifty mil, he better pull his weight.”

“You ever been to Fenway?”