“Nope.”

“I’m hungry,” I said. “It’s late. I’ll start again Monday.”

“I got school Monday.”

“I don’t,” I said. “Being an adult has its privileges.”

We followed Old Colony, passing check-cashing businesses and liquor stores and secondhand car dealers. I turned onto Monsignor O’Callaghan Way and slowed by the front gate of the housing projects. The old brick buildings looked to be built from the same design as Depression-era hospitals and mental asylums. In the last decade or so, someone had added a few murals and a modern-looking sculpture. Neither did much to dress up the place.

I stopped the car and offered her my hand.

Mattie removed her ball cap and shook my hand. She tucked her reddish hair behind her ears and slipped the cap back on.

“I wasn’t tryin’ to screw with you,” she said.

“Never dream of it.”

“Theresa was just trying to give you the same bullshit she gave my ma.”

“Maybe she told me some things.”

“What things?”

“I got stuff to check out,” I said. “Leads to follow. Hoodlums to rough up.”

Mattie rubbed her cold nose and nodded. She reached for the door handle. “You call me tomorrow?”

I smiled. “You bet, kid.”

“Spenser?”

“Yep?”

“Please don’t call me ‘kid.’”

She pushed the door open and stepped onto the curb. I turned up the collar on my leather jacket and put my hands in front of the heating vent. I watched Mattie Sullivan open a spiked gate with a key and walk down a path lined with skinny leafless trees. A group of teenagers were lounging on a playground in their parkas and puffy coats. Five or six of them blocked Mattie’s path.

She busted through them like Gale Sayers, splitting the group in half, and kept walking with her head down and her hands in her pockets.

I smiled.

I cranked the engine and drove north on the expressway to the Back Bay, where the boutiques on Newbury Street were still full of shoppers and the dinner crowd was heading out for cocktails in their cashmere coats and hats. The trees of the Public Garden were still strung with white Christmas lights. Tonight was Susan’s night to volunteer at a women’s shelter in Charlestown, and she’d left me a message to expect a very important houseguest at my apartment.

I parked on Marlborough Street and headed up the steps to find Pearl the Wonder Dog waiting for me with a squeaky rubber chicken in her mouth.

I scratched behind her ears and gave her a cookie. Peanut butter and bacon sounded like a terrific combo to me.

“What’s for dinner?” I asked.

Pearl didn’t answer. She panted.

Seeing I was on my own, I opened the refrigerator. I pulled out a sweet potato, a yellow onion, and some andouille sausage we’d bought at Savenor’s in Beacon Hill. Since Susan wouldn’t be dining with me, I reached for a bottle of Tabasco.

“First things first,” I said to Pearl. She looked at me earnestly and tilted her head.

I went to the bar and poured myself a measure of scotch and then added a lot of ice and a lot of soda. I flicked on the stereo and sipped the drink while listening to a Tony Bennett LP, “I’m Always Chasing Rainbows.”

I placed the sweet potato in the oven and tried Vinnie Morris. He didn’t pick up.

I asked his voice mail about Red Cahill and a heavy named Moon. His voice mail did not respond.

I listened to Tony for a while, then put on a pot of stone-ground grits. I sliced the andouille and chopped the onion and cooked them both in some olive oil. I added a splash of Tabasco and some salt and a lot of black pepper. When the sweet potato was done, I peeled and chopped it and added it into the mix. I found some maple syrup from Vermont and drizzled some into the pan, along with a dash of brown sugar.

I lowered the heat and checked on the grits.

I set a single place at the table with good china and gave Pearl another cookie as I dolloped the andouille-and-sweet-potato mixture on top of the steaming grits.

Tony sang a sad song. But he sang it with hope.

I was halfway finished when the phone rang.

“Excuse me,” I said to Pearl. Pearl eyed the grits.

I picked up the phone.

“Do you go out looking for flaming piles of shit, or do people leave them at your door?”

“Hello, Vinnie.”

“Jesus.”

I reached over the table and finished the scotch.

“What you got?” I asked.

“Red Cahill and some guy named Moon. Right?”

“Red likes to be called Pepper,” I said. “Like red pepper. It’s cute, right?”

“There isn’t shit cute about Red Cahill,” Vinnie said. “Whatta you want with these animals?”

“Coming from you, that is high praise.”

“I ain’t the man I used to be.”

“Me and you both,” I said.

“Since Joe got old, the city is a little screwy,” Vinnie said.

“It was screwier with Joe Broz.”

“Maybe, but he consolidated.”

“Big word,” I said.

“I try,” Vinnie said.

“And now?”

“You read about that shooting in Dorchester last month?”

“Five men,” I said.

“Yep.”

“Town is changing again,” I said.

“Yep.”

“And hot Pepper has something to do with this?” I asked.

“Bingo.”

“He a shooter?”

“Maybe better than me,” Vinnie said.

“Nobody is better than you.”

“I’m just saying.”

“So who’s in charge?” I asked.

“You’re not gonna believe this.”

“I hate stories that start out that way,” I said. “Will this give me indigestion? Because I’ve got a top-notch meal waiting for me.”

“Gerry Broz is reclaiming his old man’s territory.”

“Red Cahill works for Gerry Broz?”

“And Gerry Broz is no friend to you,” Vinnie said.

“He may hold a grudge,” I said.

“He’s been wanting you dead for a couple decades.”

“I may have shot him.”

“There is that,” Vinnie said.

“Indeed,” I said.

9

Monday morning, I dressed in a pair of gray sweats and laced up my New Balance running shoes, taking along some street clothes in a gym bag. At eight a.m., I met Hawk at Henry Cimoli’s place on the waterfront. We waited until the yoga class had finished their meditation and deep breathing and then took over the back room. Hawk hung the speed bag, and I lifted the heavy bag, Hawk hooking the chains onto the swivel.

We turned on the lights.

“You ever think about takin’ up yoga?” Hawk asked. “Deep breathing, meditation. All that shit.”

“No,” I said. “You?”

“I am the model of inner peace.”

“Even when kicking the crap out of someone?”

Hawk grinned. “Especially then.”

The yoga teacher was young and slim, with long red hair wrapped into a bun. She shut off the meditation music and carried the CD player out with her. On her way out the door, she and Hawk exchanged smiles.

“Why didn’t she smile at me?” I asked.

“You an acquired taste,” Hawk said. “My sexual energy is recognizable and immediate.”

“Of course.”

“How many rounds?”

“Let’s hit six,” I said. “We take turns on the speed and heavy. Maybe some shadow work.”

“You still talkin’?” he asked.

I nodded, and we slid into the rhythm we’d developed over the years. I found the punching, footwork, and breathing to be a kind of music. Hawk’s hands worked on a speed bag like Gene Krupa on drums. My hands weren’t quite as fast, but my punches were solid. By the third round, I was sweating. Hawk glistened.

His bald black head shone. His biceps and forearms swelled from his T-shirt. But I did not hear a grunt. Hawk was effortless in both speed and violence.

We finished the workout with some bench presses and arm work. Hawk and I tossed around the medicine ball, quick passes back and forth. Some of the young ladies watched as we worked.

“Poetry in motion,” Hawk said.