Mattie acted like she didn’t hear him and saddled up to the bar. “I’ll have a Coke, please,” she said with a big fake smile.

“Didn’t I say no kids?” the bartender said.

“Just give me a soda and shut up,” Mattie said.

He looked at me. I shrugged and offered my palms. “I’d do what she says. She just beat me twice in arm wrestling.”

Tattoo Boy looked me over and shook his head. His T-shirt read DROPKICK MURPHYS. “Whatta you want?”

“I’d like a gimlet that’s half gin and half Rose’s lime juice,” I said. “It beats martinis hollow.”

“I got whiskies and Popov vodka, I got Guinness, and I got Sam Adams, I got—”

I held up my hand and stopped him there and asked for a beer and a shot, a soda for Mattie. He poured Mattie a Coke over ice, making a big deal about adding two straws and wrapping the glass with a napkin. Mattie rolled her eyes when he walked away. “What a dick,” she said.

“It’s just an act,” I said. “Deep down, he’s insecure.”

Mattie shrugged.

“So this was your mom’s place?” I asked.

“Yep.”

“You know Tattoo Boy?”

“Nope.”

I called for the bartender. Tattoo Boy looked up from the cutting, letting us know we were a real distraction. I wondered if he could chew gum and walk at the same time. I decided not to inquire.

“When you get a second, sir.”

He sliced up one more lemon and walked slowly from the end of the bar. The drunk never looked up from his coffee mug. He was old, weathered and whiskered, and wore a filthy brown coat that may have been blue once upon a time. Or perhaps red.

“You want something?” he asked.

“Besides world peace and greater harmony with my fellow man?”

He sucked on a tooth and crossed his arms over his chest.

I slid a four-by-six photo of Julie Sullivan across the bar. She had her arm around a pudgy guy in a slick black shirt. He had a fat neck and a doughy, smooth face. The man’s hair looked as if it had been shellacked. Julie Sullivan’s eyes were glassy, the guy’s meaty paw resting on her breast. Good times.

“You know her?”

He leaned in a little, stared for a second, and shook his head.

“What about the guy?”

He shook his head again. “Looks like a real douche.”

“You’ve got a keen eye,” I said.

“How long you been working here?” Mattie asked.

“What’s this about?” Tattoo Boy asked.

“I’m looking to add captions to my photo album,” I said. “This is my partner, Annie Leibovitz.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“He’s a detective, numb nuts,” Mattie said. “And that’s a picture of my ma. She used to make happy hour at this shithole, every day from the time she was out of high school. You know her or not?”

“I’ll be the good cop,” I said.

Tattoo Boy reached for the photo and held it against the green-and-white neon of the Guinness sign. He shook his head and gave it back to Mattie. He was very good at shaking his head.

“She leave you?” he asked.

“You could say that,” Mattie said.

“My mom, too,” the bartender said. “She left us a box of Frosted Flakes and a bottle of sour milk and said she’d be home by supper. She moved to fucking Florida.”

“Thank God you turned out all right,” I said.

He nodded at me with great understanding.

“Who’s worked here the longest?” I asked.

“Shirley,” he said. “She’s been here for like thirty years.”

“When does Shirley get in?” I asked.

“She’s on Monday nights,” the bartender said. “But don’t piss her off. She keeps a Louisville Slugger under the cash register for smart-mouth types.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

He frowned at me.

“You know a couple locals named Pepper and Moon?” I asked.

He shook his head, but his gaze wandered. His lips pursed in thought.

“You sure?”

“Lots of folks come in here,” he said. “I don’t know all of them. I mean, Jesus.”

“Seems like you’d recall those names.”

“Everyone has fucked-up names in Southie.”

“What’s your name?”

“Ted.”

“Well, there you go.”

Ted returned to his lemons, slowly slicing away. The old bum at the bar lifted his mug. I was glad to see the movement, since I was beginning to think he might be a figment of my imagination.

“Where to, Princess?” I asked.

“Don’t get cute with that,” she said. “I was babysitting.”

“I can’t help but be cute,” I said. “It’s part of my genetic code.”

“How about being a detective?”

“Okay. Your mom got any friends who still live around here?”

“Sure.”

“Aha.” I reached for a cocktail napkin and a pen. “In my business, we call those leads. You want another Coke?”

“Nope.” She leaned in to her straw and then turned to me. She narrowed her eyes. “How old are you anyway?”

“Methuselah was my kid brother.”

“Who’s that?”

“Methuselah played ball with Branch Rickey.”

When I was a teenager, anyone who’d graduated high school seemed ancient. I tapped the pen to the napkin. “Tell me about your mom’s friends.”

She did.

The bar was very long and very quiet as I wrote. The sounds of the freight trucks barreling down the road shook the bar. Tattoo Boy occasionally looked up and gave me the stink eye.

I winked back.

7

The fourth person on Mattie’s list was Theresa Donovan. We chose to meet with her first through a highly selective process: The first person on the list wasn’t home, and Mattie didn’t know where the next two lived. Theresa worked at a corner convenience store on Old Colony not far from Joe Moakley Park. The store was a small brick building with a glass front that offered great deals on both cigarettes and lottery tickets. Beer was on sale, too. Yippee.

We had to talk to Theresa from behind bulletproof glass while she rang up customers. After a few minutes things slowed, and she unlocked her cage and came out and gave Mattie a hug, being careful not to burn her with her newly lit cigarette.

“This is Spenser,” Mattie said. “He’s helping me find out who killed my ma.”

“Whatta you mean?” she asked. “Mickey Green killed her.”

“That’s bullshit, and you know it.”

Theresa looked at a wall clock and then back to Mattie and then back to me. She blew out some smoke from the side of her mouth. “Don’t be a smart-ass, kid. Your ma wouldn’t’ve liked that. Why are you digging that up now?”

“If you were such great friends, why don’t you try and help?” Mattie asked. “You know Mickey Green wouldn’t hurt anyone. Tell the truth instead of spewing bullshit on him.”

I shrugged. “She has a true gift,” I said.

Theresa took the cigarette out of her mouth and pointed the red end at me. “You payin’ this guy?”

“Yeah,” Mattie said.

“You a lawyer?”

“Do I look like a lawyer?”

“You look like a pro wrestler.”

I nodded. She had me there.

“I’m a private detective,” I said. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

Theresa eyed me and shook her head with disgust. She wore a pair of gold hoops that went nicely with her threadbare blue sweatshirt, well-worn knockoff designer jeans, and dirty Nikes. She was a good-looking girl who’d probably been much better-looking before all the junk food and beer. Her hips had grown wide and her skin was uneven and blemished. She’d quit bleaching her hair some time back, and a good inch of her roots had started to show. But her face remained sharp, set off with a nice pair of sleepy blue eyes. Her eyes had a smart sexiness to them, studying me as I studied her.

“You were a friend of Julie’s?” I asked.

“I was Jules’s best friend.”

“School?”

“All the way through Southie High,” she said. “Our families went to Gate of Heaven.”

“You know Mickey Green, too?”

“Everybody knew Mickey.”