Gerry looked up from vacuuming out a fish tank as large as my apartment.

He was wearing a custom T-shirt reading Broz Tropical Equipment and Supplies, old khaki pants, and knee-high rubber boots. His mouth hung open when he recognized me.

“Fuck me,” he said. “Out. Get out.”

“Gerry Broz, wow,” I said. “You work here?”

Broz put down the vacuum and turned off the pump. He wiped his wet hands on his khakis and stared at us.

“I’m in the market for two clown fish and some information on dirty deeds in Dorchester,” I said.

“Good luck with that,” Broz said. “I’m out of the life.”

“Sure you are,” Z said.

“Who the fuck are you?” Gerry said. “Do I fucking know you, kid?”

“Sorry, Gerry,” I said. “Gerry, this is Zebulon Sixkill. My associate. He’s named after Zebulon Pike. Of Pike’s Peak fame.”

“I don’t give two shits,” Gerry said. “I’m out of the life. You come around and harass me and talk about dirty shit and I’ll call the cops. I pay fucking taxes.”

“Fish,” I said. “Really?”

“I always been into fish, Spenser,” he said.

I tilted my head. He had me there.

“All I need is some direction,” I said. “You know a guy named Kevin Murphy?”

Gerry roamed his hand over his pudgy face. “Sure,” he said. “I’ll get right on it. Weren’t you the same guy who wanted to turn over my dad on his deathbed? Yeah, I’d love to help you.”

“Did I?”

“But you would have,” he said. “You forced me getting into a lot of shit that wasn’t my fucking business.”

Z wandered off along a row of fish tanks stacked five high. The warehouse was dim, but the aquariums were brightly lit with all manner of colorful fish. I couldn’t name any of them if a marine biologist put a gun to my head.

“What if I said I’ll owe you one?”

Broz dumped the vacuum and the hose in a stainless-steel work sink. He rinsed out the sludge and looked to be thinking. Of course, it was very hard to tell if Gerry Broz was thinking, as he did it so infrequently.

Z walked up the metal framework that balanced all the aquariums. He pushed at it lightly, as if testing its strength. Pushing with his arms and shoulders, leaning into it and stretching out his back. The metal and glass made the slightest cracking sounds.

“Hey,” Gerry said. “Hey.”

“A favor?” I said.

Z let go. He smiled and placed his hands back into his leather jacket.

“A favor,” I said. “Anytime. Within reason.”

Gerry shot an unpleasant look at Z. Z grinned back at him.

“Murphy,” I said. “Kevin.”

“Yeah, I know him,” Gerry said. “What do you want to know?”

“He used to be the main squeeze of a woman who is now married to my client,” I said. “I want to know if he’d be the kind of guy who might expand from making dirty pictures.”

“Into what?”

“Kidnapping,” I said. “Maybe murder. All kinds of good stuff.”

“Murphy is a fucking punk,” Gerry said. He scratched his neck and patted his pockets for a cigarette. He fished one out and lit it. “Man, I don’t know. He’s got a pretty decent deal going on, thinks he’s the Bob Guccione of the Internet. These young guys kill me with their macho bullshit.”

“Where?” I said.

“Why don’t you ask your cop pals?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“Couldn’t help.”

“Me, either,” he said. “Don’t know.”

“But can you find out?”

“That’s it?” he said.

“That’s it.”

“A favor?”

“To be named later,” I said.

Gerry squinted at us as he smoked. He stared hard at Z, to whom he had taken an instant dislike, and let out a long stream of smoke. “What are you? You sure ain’t from around here.”

“Cree Indian from Montana,” Z said.

“He’s running with you and Hawk?”

I nodded. There was a lot of noise from the pumps in the large, enclosed space. Gerry nodded and took another drag. “You putting together one of those Village People tribute bands? You guys would be great.”

“Keep thinking, Gerry,” I said. “That’s what you’re good at.”

“Okay,” he said. “Where can I get you?”

I told him my number. Twice.

36

Kevin Murphy made art above a corner store just south of Adams and just north of an elevated train trestle in Fields Corner. The convenience store windows were covered in posters for Keno and Mega Millions tickets, while the neighboring storefronts were covered over in plywood. Z and I sat across the street eating Chinese takeout from what may have been the very best Chinese restaurant in all of Dorchester.

There wasn’t much to do. Or see. In the last hour, we watched one guy, who was not Murphy, walk upstairs and turn on the lights above the store. I ate chicken fried rice direct from the carton. Elegant. After we finished, Z took the trash, tossed it into a barrel down the way, and wandered back to the car with his hands in his pockets.

“Fine meal,” I said.

“Maybe we should’ve eaten the carton?”

“Probably,” I said.

“More nutrition,” he said.

“Hot sauce,” I said. “Hot sauce makes everything palatable.”

I leaned back into the seat of the Explorer and stretched out my legs. Z remained silent. He was nearly as chatty as Hawk.

I turned on the radio and found Paulie & the Gooch. The guys were engaged in a heated debate about Kinjo Heywood. And if the call was real, which we have no reason to believe he is, should in fact Kinjo play in tomorrow’s game? Next caller.

I turned up the volume. Z turned away from the window and listened.

Hey, it’s Bobby from Dedham. You don’t think that guy’s real. Holy crap. That sounded like business to me. If I were Kinjo, I wouldn’t do crap until my kid was safe. But you know, I’m not Kinjo. He loves his teammates and the Pats and is doing the best he can. I think he’ll play his heart out every moment until his kid is safe. Like he said, he’s sick with worry and it helps. I think he’s a freakin’ hero.

Paulie and the Gooch chewed on that for a bit and then teased the listeners by replaying the call-in from earlier. A muted voice announced he, or she, was the real kidnapper of the Heywood kid and they’d be announcing demands during Sunday’s game. The veteran broadcasters did not discuss. They instead ran a commercial for penis-enlargement pills being shilled by the former head coach of the Cowboys.

I turned down the volume.

“During the game?” Z said.

“Probably doesn’t want Kinjo at the drop.”

“If there is a drop,” Z said. “Could be electronic.”

“Could be,” I said. “Real money makes it easier on us.”

Z nodded. “How long you want to stick with this Murphy guy?”

“Long as it takes to see his routine,” I said.

“And to annoy the shit out of him.”

“Yes,” I said. “That is my most successful tactic.”

A Hispanic man walked past us, carrying a grocery bag in one arm and a small boy in the other. He didn’t even glance at us as he balanced the load in his arm. He wore blue coveralls covered in dirt, the legs too long and frayed at the bottom. The ragged material dragged the ground over his work boots. I turned up the radio again.

I think Heywood is a liability to the Pats. I think he needs to quit being selfish and sit out until this thing with his kid is over. It’s a distraction for everyone in the organization. He’s a great player and I feel sorry about his kid. But are you telling me this don’t have something to do with his off-field stuff? You know? You wait and see, this whole mess has something to do with the way the man lives his life.

“Wisdom of the masses,” I said.

“Fickle,” Z said. “College alumni are worse. Pro teams have fans. Alumni who give money think they own you.”

“And know more about the sport than you,” I said.