The bar was attracting a lot of business on a Tuesday night. Of course, I didn’t think there was a hell of a lot to do on the south end of Southie. This section of the neighborhood wouldn’t be reached by gentrification for another decade.

“How ’bout we kick in the door, grab Gerry by the neck, and say, ‘Give it up, motherfucker.’”

“Or,” I said, “we walk into the bar, ask to speak to Mr. Broz, and try to talk it out.”

“Like I told the kid,” Hawk said, “you the brains.”

“God help us.”

“Can I still say ‘Give it up, motherfucker’?”

“Only if it makes you happy.”

We dodged traffic and walked across Old Colony. Hawk hid the shotgun under the edge of his trench as we made our way into the bar.

The bottom floor of the building was filled with dark wood booths, a long stretch of polished bar down the center. There were a lot of framed jerseys from the Sox, the Pats, the Celtics, and Bruins. Autographed pictures of sports stars and Boston actors who made movies about Boston hung on the walls. Throughout the bar, Gerry had rigged up a dozen flat-screen televisions, which glowed with dozens of different sports stations.

A sign at the hostess stand noted that tonight was MARGARITA MADNESS.

We bypassed the bar and found the stairwell leading upstairs. Both of us took two steps at a time to a metal door. The door was unlocked.

We found a hallway. And another door.

I went in first. Hawk covered me with the Mossberg pump.

Five nerdy-looking guys sat at a long conference table, studying laptop computers. I thought it a little shameful. Back in the day, we would have found five toughs with bazookas.

They squinted up at us like coal miners seeing the sun after a long absence. A large stack of cash sat on the edge of the table with two money counters. I waited for one to flick through its final count.

I asked, “Is this the Broz School of Business Management?”

Hawk put down the shotgun. He was disappointed, too.

Instead of thugs, we got the math club.

No one spoke. Two of the men snapped shut their computers. They looked to each other. One of the men, a young kid about twenty or so with slick hair and an off-the-rack suit, swept the cash off the table and into a gym bag. Another started for the door.

“Sit your ass down,” Hawk said.

Hawk spoke with authority. The kid sat his ass back down.

“That goes for all you Gerry’s kids,” he said.

“Where is he?” I asked.

A fat kid in an XXXL T-shirt shot his eyes toward the back door. I walked to the door while Hawk covered the little conference table. Nearly out of earshot, I heard him ask, “So what’s the line on Philadelphia?”

Through the door, in the back room, Gerry Broz was feeding his fish.

“Gerry, don’t you know it’s a cliché for bad guys to have a fish tank?” I said. “It’s a metaphor for a guy who likes to be in control. Power over his guppies.”

He just stared at me. He put down the little green net and the fish food. He tilted his head at me like I was a hallucination.

“Spenser?”

Gerry had aged a hell of a lot in a decade. He looked beefy, like a guy who worked out with weights but still liked to eat and drink too much. His black hair was dyed, and he sported a spray tan that gave his face an orangey glow. He wore one of those slick dress shirts that middle-aged men wear untucked in an effort to be hip. His was purple. Gerry did not look hip.

“I’d hoped to find those guys you sent for me.”

“Huh?”

“Well said.”

“What the fuck do you want?”

“Even better.”

“Christ,” Gerry said. “Do you want me to call the cops?”

“For what?”

“Harassment,” he said. “I’m a respected business owner.”

“I think respect is on the Broz family crest.”

“Fuck you, Spenser.”

“I want to talk to a couple of your boys.”

He studied me. He put his hands on his hips. His shoes were black crocodile and very pointy. When I first met Gerry, his father had gotten him into Georgetown in an effort to class him up. Instead, he majored in coke dealing and blackmail.

“Moon Murphy and Red Cahill.”

“What about them?”

“I want to have a sit-down,” I said. “I want you to make that happen.”

Gerry laughed. He reached for a pack of cigarettes and shook one loose. He smoked and studied me. He noticed the eye and smiled.

“You look like a raccoon.”

“You look like an Oompa-Loompa.”

Gerry stopped smiling.

With the same hand that held his cigarette, he scratched his cheek. He smiled. He smoked some more. “They don’t work for me.”

“C’mon, now,” I said. “Don’t lie to an old friend.”

“Are you fuckin’ nuts?” he said. “I missed you like a case of the piles.”

“I guess that’s why I hang out with assholes.”

Broz shrugged, walked over to a big glass desk, and sat down. I pulled up a leather wingback chair and joined him. I put up my work boots on the edge of the desk. He did not seem to appreciate my casual approach.

“That Hawk out there with you?”

“Yep.”

“Jesus Christ,” he said. “Can’t believe nobody’s killed you two yet.”

“That’s a hurtful thing to say, Ger. So much history. A lifetime of friendship.”

He nodded as if considering the importance. He placed his hands behind his head and leaned back in his leather office chair.

Gerry looked at me. I looked at him.

He nodded some more.

“You think too much and you’ll blow a gasket.”

“Trying to figure why you want to shake me down.”

“All I want is Red and Moon.”

“To talk.”

“To talk,” I said.

“Or what?”

“Or I make some calls to the Boston police about your little betting operation.”

“Go ahead,” Gerry said. “Those dorks can run the operation from their mom’s basement.”

I shrugged. “Maybe not.”

“I can ask,” Gerry said. “But they don’t work for me.”

“Sure, Gerry.”

“You still at that craphole at Berkeley and Boylston?”

“The sign says ‘luxury office space.’”

“We see the world different, you and me.”

“Thank God.”

“Let me give you some advice, Spenser.”

“I’m breathless.”

“Don’t bust a man’s nuts when you come asking for a favor.”

“This isn’t a favor,” I said. “It’s a request with muscle.”

I did not hear Hawk. But I felt him standing over my shoulder. Gerry’s eyes raised from me to above my head.

“And I’s the muscle.”

“You fucking guys make me laugh,” Gerry said. “My dad used to call you Deano and Sammy. Okay. Okay. I’ll make some calls.”

I stood. Hawk had the shotgun hanging loose by his leg.

“Which one of us is Sammy?” I asked.

We walked out past the dorks and their laptops and the big stacks of cash. I looked at my watch and told them curfew was coming up.

“Kids today,” I said.

We made our way out of Playmates and across Old Colony and back to Hawk’s Jaguar. Our coffee was still warm.

“He playin’ nice guy?” Hawk asked.

“Yep.”

“You believe it?”

“Nope.”

“You think those boys will meet with you?”

“I would request neutral ground.”

“We could call Vinnie in on this.”

I shook my head. Hawk cranked the engine. The stereo played Brubeck, “Take Five.”

“Vinnie won’t be a part of anything to do with that family,” I said. “Joe Broz raised Vinnie like a son.”

“Like the son he never had.”

“He won’t go against Joe’s kid.”

“So it’s little ole me and the Great White Hope.”

“Everybody’s got to have a dream.”

Hawk drove north. He dropped me on Marlborough Street.

I dropped my useless car keys on the kitchen counter and poured out a thick measure of Wild Turkey over ice. The streetlamps cast the slick street in a fine yellow glow. I studied the patterns of shadow and light as I drank.

I turned in to sleep.

I knew I’d need my rest.