I stopped and glanced back. The third man was young and Hispanic. The man with him was white, with thinning black hair and a stubbled face. He wore a fake leather jacket advertising Marlboro cigarettes, the kind you win after collecting empty packs. Very stylish.

They all watched me. They nodded to one another, closing in.

I could stand and fight like Randolph Scott. But I did not figure a shootout near a playground was a good idea. I could turn back to them and give them the stink eye. The more I practiced, the more the stink eye worked. Practice made perfect. But I kept walking. I turned left on Devine.

The quartet followed. Perhaps they would assault me in song.

I reached for the .38 on my hip and slipped it into my peacoat pocket. I kept my hand there, walking. I began to whistle “Danny Boy.”

After a few minutes, I decided I sounded pretty good. The street was very quiet at midday. There was a hush that came in the old snow piles and ice. Long rows of cars sat humpbacked and buried in snow. Someone had used a pink pen to write a eulogy to a dead friend on a mailbox. I made it to Dorchester and turned north again. I was out of the projects and headed into a grouping of haggard storefronts and a brand-new Dunkin’ Donuts. The Dunkin’ Donuts shone like a beacon in the distance.

I passed an auto-repair school, a liquor shop, a travel agent. The Andrew Station stood at the corner of Dorchester Avenue and Dorchester Street. I walked inside and paid two bucks for a pass.

The quartet was inside the station. The two old guys were conversing. I bet they were conversing about me. I did not take it to be complimentary.

I slipped the pass into the turnstile and headed down the stairwell. The young Latin guy and balding man in the faux-leather Marlboro jacket followed.

I stood at the T platform with maybe twenty other people headed inbound to the city. It had been some time since I’d taken the T. I could take the T from my apartment to Fenway. But on really nice days I chose to walk down Commonwealth. I worked in a driving profession. It was hard to tail a person on the T.

The men stood back. They conversed some more. They looked like schoolgirls gossiping. The two older guys joined them.

A subway poster advertised a new exhibit at the Museum of Fine Arts. A new exhibit called “Art of the Americas.” George Washington stood proud on horseback. Washington wouldn’t have retreated into a T station. George would’ve charged right for them.

I heard the rumble of the T. I glanced over at the two men. They did not try to approach me. They looked confused about what to do next. I wondered why Red or Moon hadn’t come for me themselves.

I looked back at Washington. He had wooden teeth and a big set of brass balls. But muskets and swords were not .45s and .38s and Glocks. Four against one. Shooting it out on a crowded platform.

I stepped onto the T. The men stood dead-footed in the station. The doors closed with a hiss. Through the dirty glass, I smiled and waved to the quartet. They did not smile back.

I took the Red Line to South Station and got off. I walked upstairs to the large terminal where you could catch a bus to Logan or a train to New York. My cell phone was in my lost car. I found a bank of pay phones, glad to see they still existed.

I called Henry Cimoli’s gym to find Hawk.

19

You got it wrong, babe,” Hawk said. “You suppose to follow bad guys. Bad guys don’t follow you.”

“Perhaps I should have explained the rules.”

“Mighta shot you while you doin’ the explainin’.”

“That would’ve been poor form.”

“Bein’ a thug don’t have no form,” Hawk said. “Sometimes it got rules. Sometimes it don’t.”

Hawk and I sat at a corner table in the bar of the Long Wharf Marriott. The bar had a big bank of windows that looked onto a small marina dotted with sailboats covered up for the winter. Further out, you could see the choppy cold waters of the Atlantic and buoys being knocked to and fro. Hawk wore sunglasses.

“Never liked that car anyway,” Hawk said. “Whatever happened to your old convertible?”

“Susan said it was no longer practical.”

“She says the same about my Jaguar.”

I took a sip of Sam Adams. Hawk drank a glass of Iron Horse champagne. He topped himself off with the bottle.

“I could see you in a Mini Cooper,” I said.

“Ain’t nothin’ mini about me, kemosabe.”

Hawk was dressed like Johnny Cash today. Black boots, black pants, black shirt opened wide at the chest, and a black leather trench coat. A sterling-silver belt buckle with a turquoise center. Everyone in the bar turned to look at him when he made his entrance. Hawk was a pro at the entrance.

“This gonna be fun,” Hawk said.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Been awhile.”

“Since what?” I asked.

“Since we kicked some ass.”

I nodded.

“You disappeared on me this winter,” Hawk said, and sipped the champagne. “Me and you workin’ out at Henry’s was the first time I seen your white ass in a long time. Thought maybe you takin’ it easy. Hangin’ it up.”

“Nope,” I said.

“What else is there to do?” Hawk said.

“Yep.”

“Glad you’re back.” Hawk nodded.

I toasted him with half my beer. I drank.

Hawk turned to study the choppy waters in the Atlantic. “Good ol’ Gerry Broz. That motherfucker just don’t know when to quit.”

I signaled the bartender for another beer. Nothing against Southie, but I was happy to be on the waterfront. And I was happy to see Hawk. Although I never would admit I was happy to see Hawk. Nor would Hawk want me to admit the quartet had bothered me.

“If this boy Red or Broz sent four men for your Irish ass,” Hawk said, “that’s a compliment.”

I nodded. I drank some beer and finished my last bite of club sandwich.

“Kinda respectful.”

“I reported my car stolen,” I said. “But it’s gone. I’ll need a car.”

“Yep,” Hawk said. “But I ain’t no chauffeur. I got shit to do. Many high-class women to please. I can’t be driving your ass around Southie.”

“Red and Moon made their point,” I said. “I don’t know what Gerry’s deal is in all this.”

“What do you want with his boys?”

“Have a civil, polite conversation,” I said.

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that.”

“Julie Sullivan was last seen in their company.”

“And knowing they’re shitbag crackers makes you highly suspicious.”

“Just a little.”

“Man, you been making trouble for the Broz family since disco was cool.”

I nodded. “Maybe I should just go and talk to Gerry. Patch things up between pals.”

“He’d like that,” Hawk said. “Talk about that time you shot him. You know, the good ol’ days.”

“You heard anything about his old man?”

“Ain’t Joe dead?” Hawk poured the last bit of Iron Horse into his glass. Little bubbles rose to the top and spilled over the rim of the glass. He smiled with pleasure.

“If he is, they need to take down that picture of him in the post office.”

“This little girl,” Hawk said. “One who hired you?”

“Mattie.”

“Mattie saw Red and Moon snatch up her momma.”

I nodded.

“But they drug dealers and maybe shaking her down. How we know Mickey Green thing didn’t happen after?”

“Mattie says he’s not the type.”

“And how we know Mickey Green ain’t the type?”

“We don’t.”

“But you ain’t so sure after that fat boy come and try to whip your ass.”

“Yep.”

“And you hoping if you keep pissin’ people off, someone gonna slip up.”

“Yep.”

Hawk showed no expression behind the glasses. He took them off, neatly laid them on the table. “Notice I did not mention your eye.”

“What’s wrong with my eye?”

“Last time I saw your eye like that was after a warm-up bout with yours truly.”