Z and I could hear the broadcast from a stale waiting room outside the studio.

“I never liked to discuss sports,” Z said. “I’d rather just play.”

“Depends on who’s talking.” I shrugged. “A Paulie and a Gooch probably don’t equal a Frank Deford.”

When the show went to a commercial break to advertise a Honda dealership, the producer, Cindy DeLuca, came out to meet us. She was a short woman in jeans, a faded green flannel shirt, and a Bruins hat. From a distance Cindy DeLuca might resemble a fifteen-year-old boy. “How long will this thing take?”

“Quick and painless,” I said. “We want to hear the clip.”

“Police already heard it.”

“I’m not the police.”

Cindy scrunched up her nose as if we didn’t pass the sniff test. But then she just threw up her hands and shrugged. “Ray Heywood called us,” she said. “He said you work for his brother. Ray’s a good guy. We need signed jerseys for sick kids? He comes through every time. We need Kinjo to stop by the studio? He’s there on time.”

Cindy ushered us through a long hall lined with various local awards for charitable events, certificates of big ratings, and framed photos of great moments in Boston sports: Damon’s World Series home run against the Cards, the Larry Bird baseline jumper against Portland, Brady celebrating a Super Bowl touchdown against Carolina. We soon found a small closetlike room with an oblong window facing the hall. Paulie and the Gooch wore headphones and were in a heated exchange with someone over why the Bruins blew the Stanley Cup. The caller referred to the radio journalists as a couple of douchebag morons. Both laughed it off right before they cut to a commercial.

“Rotten bastard,” Cindy said.

Paulie was thin and bald and wearing a Celtics hoodie zipped to the chin, jeans, and flip-flops. The Gooch was stockier, with a graying goatee, wearing a Dropkick Murphys sweatshirt. Neither had been born anywhere near Boston but had made the smart choice to go native.

We made small talk. I introduced them to Z.

“Wasn’t there a football player in California named Sixkill?” Paulie said.

Z shrugged.

“He grew up on a reservation and played fullback,” Gooch said. “You know? He was on the cover of Sports Illustrated. Great player, but got all fucked up with drugs and got booted before his senior year.”

Z remained impassive. He leaned against the door.

Paulie walked over to the console and began to cue up the call. The room was kept very cold and dim. The dials and switches glowed red and green as he worked. “We burned a copy for the cops,” Paulie said. “I think it’s just a crank. What says the Gooch?”

“Some nutbag.”

“If it’s good enough for the Gooch,” I said.

Gooch smiled and stroked his goatee. “Then again,” he said. “Nutbags pay our salaries.”

I smiled. “Sometimes mine, too.”

The commercial faded into the recorded voice of the hosts taking their next call. The voice had been run through some kind of electric voice changer, making the caller sound somewhere between Barry White and Robby the Robot. “I have Heywood’s kid. He’s safe and got shit to eat. We got demands and will let Heywood know when we’re ready.”

Paulie ran it back and played it again. There was a long silence before the hosts began to speak, and he shut off the recording.

“That’s it?” I said.

Paulie and the Gooch nodded. Cindy DeLuca showed up in the window and held up two fingers.

“Caller ID?” I said.

“Sure,” Paulie said. “But I thought the state police said it wasn’t any good?”

“They can run down where the phone was bought,” I said. “But it’s doubtful they’ll get a credit card or any video surveillance. They probably bought it from a third party.”

“Kinjo’s had a rough time lately,” Gooch said. “Screwed up his ankle in mini-camp. Looked like he was loafing it in the last two exhibition games. I don’t know, it’s like his heart isn’t in it.”

“I don’t know,” Paulie said. “He’s not going to give it all in preseason. To be honest, I was shocked he got selected to the Pro Bowl. I mean, he missed some key tackles in that last game against Atlanta. There’s definitely some slipping in his intensity and focus.”

The Gooch belched as if to punctuate his colleague’s point. There was an open bag of Utz chips by the microphone and two open bottles of Diet Coke.

“I’ve got Kinjo on my fantasy football team,” Gooch said. “Hope this thing doesn’t rattle him too bad. Regular season starts next week.”

“Yeah,” I said. “That would be inconvenient.”

Z grinned.

“Shit, I don’t mean it like that,” Gooch said. “It’s just that Kinjo is something special. He keeps it up, even half-ass, and they’ll be taking his measurements for a gold coat in Canton. I hate to hear shit like this happening to him right now. It’s really messed up.”

“You think this kidnapping could be just to rattle his play?”

“During preseason?” Paulie said.

I shrugged. “Anyone else ever call the station mad at him?” I said. “Anyone lately having an extreme hatred for any Pats players?”

The men shrugged in tandem. The Gooch looked to Paulie. Paulie said, “Sometimes people get kind of nuts on Brady or Belichick, like they control it all. But hate? I don’t know. I mean, people get pissed. But that’s the Boston way. You got to hate your team to love it.”

The producer leaned in through the doorway and held up a single finger. Paulie handed me a disc and I thanked him. We all shook hands and headed for the door. The men began to slip their headphones back on.

“You sure you never heard of that guy also named Sixkill?” the Gooch said to Z.

“Nope,” Z said. “But who knows? All us Indians look the same.”

22

I dropped Z at my office and soon found Logan Wheeler in the weight room inside Gillette. He was squatting what must have equaled a tractor-trailer truck on his shoulders. As he cranked out the reps, deep and slow, he showed little sign of strain. He racked the weight with a small grunt. A coach stood nearby and tracked Wheeler’s progress on an iPad.

As more weight was added to an already bending Olympic bar, Ray Heywood stepped up and introduced me to Wheeler. Wheeler had been with Kinjo at Chrome. I’d read his interview on the train back to Boston.

“I don’t know what to tell you.”

“I work for the Heywoods,” I said. “And this isn’t about two years ago. It’s about now.”

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” Wheeler said. “Kinjo didn’t do jack shit, man. He’s a good guy. When I think about what happened to Akira, I want to throw up.”

Ray, dressed in a leather jacket and a scally cap, hung back a little. He told Wheeler that I was cool. I tried my best to look cool as I waited for Wheeler to add some.

“Like I told the police,” Wheeler said. “That guy, whatever his name is—”

“Antonio Lima.”

“Yeah, Lima,” Wheeler said. “He was drunk and tried to start some shit with Kinjo, which was stupid. And then he tried to start some shit with me, which was even more stupid.”

Wheeler was six-foot-six and well over three hundred pounds. He had a lot of blond hair and a stubbled beard and wore a gray T-shirt and gray sweatpants. His eyes were brown and tiny in his large head.

“And then?”

“And then nothing,” Wheeler said. “The bouncers broke it up and we went back to the Trump. We ordered up some ice cream and cake and laughed about the whole thing. The next thing I know the cops are pounding on our goddamn door, wanting to talk to Kinjo. At first, I thought it was a practical joke.”

“Not a good one.”

“We all like to screw with each other,” Wheeler said. “A couple weeks ago, we had these bumper stickers made up for the rookies. They said Small Penis On Board. The dummies didn’t notice until people started honking at them and laughing. It was funny as shit.”