“Wonder what they up to?” Hawk asked.

“Maybe it’s a book-of-the-month club.”

“Crime and Punishment?” Hawk said.

“Lil’ Abner,” I said.

Red and Moon walked out of the side door thirty minutes later. Moon carried two black duffel bags. Red opened the rear hatch, and Moon tossed them both inside. Red lit a cigarette. He finished and they both climbed back in the car.

Hawk cranked the Jaguar.

“Hold on,” I said.

The Range Rover made a quick U-turn on Old Colony and headed north. The taillights disappeared.

“They got the shit with ’em,” Hawk said. “Now or never.”

“Stick with Broz.”

Hawk shook his head and switched off the ignition. Snow continued to fall, light and shiftless. I stretched my legs.

We did not talk for some time.

Hawk had no need to fill the silence. We had nothing more to discuss.

A half hour later, Gerry Broz came out wearing a black satin baseball jacket and a matching Kangol hat. He kept his right hand in his pocket and held a lit cigarette with his left. From across the street, I could see the smoke leaking from his mouth.

He must’ve pressed the button on his keychain. The lights of a black Lexus flicked twice. Broz stood there smoking, his head tilting to the door, waiting for a man to join him on the street.

He locked up behind the man. And the two men stood there talking for a second.

The other man was a good head taller that Gerry. He was much older, with a ruddy face and thick, curly blond hair. His eyes were small and closely set, his face pale and deeply weathered. He wore a long black overcoat with the collar up. He smoked a cigar, his hands covered with fingerless gloves.

The man nodded at Gerry’s words while checking out the bottom of his shoe.

We were parked in shadow. But the larger man turned and stared into the straight shot of alley. Hawk placed his hands on the keychain.

“Man sees us,” Hawk said.

“He can’t.”

“He do.”

“Okay.”

Hawk started the engine and turned north on Old Colony. The Jaguar purred. Hawk started to laugh.

“The Irish Connection,” I said.

“Jumpin’ Jack Flynn.”

“Maybe Gerry’s boy isn’t the boss.”

“Nope.”

“I thought Flynn got life.”

“Guess they didn’t expect him to live so long,” Hawk said. “Evil don’t die.”

I nodded.

“And now he’s doing business with Gerry and your boys, Red and Moon,” he said. “Hmm.”

“Would you call that a clue?”

“Yas-suh.”

“Interesting.”

“You want to talk to Vinnie about this thing?” Hawk asked, steering the car with two fingers.

“Yep.”

“Vinnie don’t like Flynn,” Hawk said. “Hate him the way Gerry Broz hates you.”

“Curiouser and curiouser.”

“Plain fucked up,” Hawk said.

“That, too.”

29

I met Vinnie Morris early the next morning at a Starbucks across Boylston. I felt slightly guilty for not supporting my hometown Dunkin’ Donuts. But it was within a baseball toss from my office, and at last count, Dunkin’ Donuts still outnumbered the boys from Seattle in the greater Boston area. I added a lot of milk and sugar to combat the bitter taste.

“You see the tatas on that coffee girl?” Vinnie asked.

“I believe the proper term in barista.”

“She got a great set of tits in any language,” he said. “So what’s up?”

Vinnie wore a navy cashmere topcoat with a glen plaid suit underneath. His dress shirt was a blue-and-white stripe, and his tie a light purple. He carried an umbrella, and his cordovan wingtips were protected by a pair of black rubbers.

We stood at a small counter against the window facing Boylston.

“I saw Gerry Broz last night,” I said.

“Sorry to hear that.”

“He was conversing with Jack Flynn.”

“Oh, shit.”

“That’s all you have to say?”

“‘Oh, shit’ pretty much says it all.”

“Can you enlighten me?” I asked.

Vinnie nodded.

He took a sip of coffee. I think he needed a moment to think. He was a medium-sized guy of dark complexion, his dark hair swept back in executive style. But I didn’t know many executives who could shoot a hole through a nickel at a hundred yards.

“I’d heard some rumors,” Vinnie said. “But I thought it was bullshit. I don’t like this picture. Not at all. You’ve just fucked up my morning, Spenser.”

“Glad to be of service.”

The office workers walking down Boylston were bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. The sidewalks had been swept and salted. The banks of snow were dwindling just a bit but were still high enough to cover the parking meters. Parking meters were best covered. I had tickets going back a few decades.

“You know about Joe Broz and Flynn?” Vinnie asked.

“I know they used to be in cahoots.”

“‘Cahoots’?”

“Technical term,” I said.

“If cahoots means shaking down loan sharks, busting up bookies, and killing people that got in their way, then yeah, I’d say they was in cahoots.”

“How long was he part of Joe’s crew?”

“He was never part of Joe’s operation,” Vinnie said. “He wasn’t really part of no one’s operation. Jack Flynn did for Jack Flynn. If working with Joe meant more for Jack, then, well, good for everyone. They had kind of a, I don’t know what.”

“Mutual admiration society?”

“Yeah.”

I drank some coffee. I watched a young lady stroll in front of the big plate-glass window facing my office building. She must’ve been nearly six feet tall in her high-heeled riding boots and a smart wool coat. Her hair was in a neat bun, and she wore big Holly Golightly sunglasses. She was very put together.

“You see that?” Vinnie asked.

“Yep.”

“Nice.”

“Well groomed.”

“So, yeah. Jack and Joe were tight before my time,” Vinnie said. “Back during the gang wars, they took out a lot of people who tried to buck the system. I know personally that Jack took out two boys from his own crew to keep the peace.”

“That was mighty big of him.”

“Last man standing,” Vinnie said.

Another woman passed by the window. She wore a bright red coat and walked a small rat terrier on a long leather leash. She also was wearing tall riding boots and wearing large sunglasses. I sensed a trend. Her ears were plugged with buds to an iPod.

“What about during the Vinnie era?” I asked.

“He did jobs for us,” Vinnie said. “But Joe never trusted him. Said that Flynn liked killing too much. Like he’d send Jack to take care of something, you know, just to scare the shit out of someone, and the fucking guy would end up dead. Kind of screwed up the extortion process.”

“A man who loves his work.”

“He’s a fucking sociopath.”

“You’ve killed a lot of people.”

“Yeah, sure. But I don’t get off on it or anything. It’s a goddamn job same as any other. Lots of guys in Southie were last seen in the company of Jumpin’ Jack Flynn.”

“Women?”

“I don’t think he’d kill a woman,” Vinnie said. “You don’t just whack a broad. Unless it’s business. I mean, it’s got to be a real good reason. You kill a woman and your reputation goes in the shitter.”

I rubbed my jaw. I turned back to the barista. She was serving up a couple of scones. I contemplated returning to my office with more coffee and scones. I wondered if they were blueberry. Vinnie joined me in staring. But I don’t think he was looking at the scones.

“Can you see what’s what?”

“I can talk to the kid,” he said.

“Gerry is a middle-aged man.”

“In the head, he’s still a fuckin’ kid,” Vinnie said. “Joe wouldn’t like him bringing in Flynn for anything. The kid should know that.”

I finished my coffee. I decided to get one to go, with scones on the side.

I reached for my gloves and my ball cap.