“If she wants money from you,” I said, “seems like she’d want you healthy.”

“Yeah, I guess,” he said.

Kinjo continued to stroke his mustache and goatee. Behind him was an expansive bank of windows. Beyond the glass, there was an elaborate play fort made of reddish wood and fashioned like something for the U.S. Cavalry. There were four turrets at each corner topped in a lookout point. In the far-left corner, I spotted a young kid, maybe seven or eight, watching us with binoculars.

I lifted a hand and waved.

The child disappeared.

Kinjo peered over his shoulder and then turned back to me. “My kid,” he said. “Akira. We work things out with games and my schedule.”

“Your ex lives in Mass?”

He nodded. “Akira my heart, man,” Kinjo said. “Everything I do is for him. Nicole never liked the name, wanted to name the kid after her uncle George or some shit. But I wanted him to stand out, the way my momma wanted for me. We love anything Japanese. Movies, comics, sushi. How many kids like raw fish?”

Kinjo turned back to see if his son was still watching us. Rosen drank his coffee, waiting for the right moment to cut the conversation short. Cristal Heywood entered the room with another big red drink in a martini glass. I would have guessed a Manhattan, but it was too red, too fruity to be an authentic cocktail. It was the kind of drink that needed the shade of a tiny umbrella.

“Nicole’s a fucking nightmare,” Cristal said, taking a seat beside Kinjo. She took a quick sip, holding up her hand to continue her thoughts. “I can’t even stand being in the same room with her. She talks down to me. Looks at me like I’m trashy or something.”

Cristal slurped her cocktail and giggled.

Kinjo gave a hard sideways glance at his wife. Cristal wore a bright pink bra under the white tank top. She giggled again and pulled up a single pink strap.

“Anyone else I should know?” I said.

“Nope.”

There was a long silence. Cristal sipped her drink. I held my coffee mug and smiled.

“When can you get started?” Rosen said.

I shrugged. “Are we going to talk about the nightclub shooting in New York?” I said. “Or pretend it didn’t happen?”

Rosen looked to Kinjo. Kinjo did not look pleased I subscribed to Sports Illustrated, watched ESPN, and that I even knew how to use Google. His jaw clenched and eyes flattened.

“I was acquitted,” he said. “I wasn’t even there.”

I nodded. “But the man’s family sued you in civil.”

“Digging for money.”

“Sure,” I said. “But don’t you think you might have listed them under the heading of people who would like to do you harm? Probably more than some jilted girlfriends.”

“That’s bullshit,” Cristal said. “Just because Kinjo is tough doesn’t mean he’s a thug.”

“I’m not being hired to investigate that,” I said. “But you told me that you believe these men want to do you harm. If you want me to find them, you need to help me with a list. I start with a list and then narrow it down. Unless it’s some nuts, and then we just wait till they follow you again.”

Kinjo nodded. Cristal swigged a bit more.

“Kinjo needs this thing settled,” Rosen said. “Regular season starts in two weeks.”

“I understand,” I said. “But I need to know if you think these men might be connected to what happened in New York.”

“No,” Kinjo said. “No fucking way.”

“A man was shot to death,” I said. “The family blamed you.”

“The family knew I was at the club,” Kinjo said. “The family wanted money.”

“Then who else would you guess?”

He looked to Rosen and then nodded along with his thoughts. “I swear to you I think it’s another player messin’ with my head.”

“For the Pats?”

“Hell, no,” he said. “Not a teammate. Somebody I hurt. They want my ass taken out before the season.”

“Who?” I said.

“You better get some paper and a pen,” he said. “’Cause I had a good season last year. People call me dirty. What’s my job but to take people out? That doesn’t make me a hit man.”

“That hatchet piece in Sports Illustrated about Kinjo being the NFL bad boy was a lot of crap,” Rosen said. “They barely mentioned his recent marriage or relationship with Akira. I thought the piece was completely racist. We will never work with that reporter again.”

“So it’s messing with your head?” I said. “And to play, you need to be relaxed and loose.”

“Yeah, that’s right.” Kinjo looked up from his hands. He met my eye and nodded. He studied me again, as if I’d reentered the room. “You play?”

“A couple years in college,” I said.

“Where?”

I told him.

“That what happened to your nose and around the eyes?”

“Nope,” I said. “We had face guards back then. Leather helmets had just gone out of style.”

“Fight?”

“Boxing,” I said.

“Pro?”

I nodded.

“Boxing?” Cristal said. “Wow? Like Rocky?”

“Yep,” I said. “Just like Rocky. I used to have pet turtles and everything.”

Rosen rolled his eyes. Kinjo stood and walked to the bank of windows. Akira had moved onto another turret, another wall to be protected from the enemy. He was a skinny kid with short hair and a mischievous smile. A bright red Under Armour sweatshirt swallowed him to the knees.

The child looked at us through the binoculars. When I smiled directly at him, he ran away. A strong wind rustled tree branches overhead. A bright sun shone across the tree fort, creating small pockets and insignificant shadows. Leaves fell and fluttered to the ground.

Cristal made another drink. I finished my coffee and said my good-byes.

I would start tomorrow.

3

I made corn muffins from scratch for Susan.

I had not planned to make corn muffins but had decided today’s brisk fall wind called for chili. And to me, chili always seemed lonely without corn muffins. Or perhaps I made them because I had stocked a six-pack of Bohemia in Susan’s refrigerator. Truth be told, it was very difficult to know the meal’s catalyst. Probably the beer.

I had let myself in shortly before five and took Pearl for a short walk. Susan was in session, so as silently as possible I crept up to the second floor and helped myself to a Bohemia. I had bought the corn meal, flour, eggs, and ingredients for the chili at the Whole Foods on River Street. I drank while I chopped some peppers, garlic, and onions and browned some ground buffalo. Pearl showed a lot of interest in the sizzling buffalo.

I added the peppers, garlic, and onions to the browning meat, and then a couple dashes of the beer. Some chili powder, kosher salt, cumin, and black pepper. More beer. I played some Mel Tormé at a volume low enough not to disrupt psychotherapy. Pearl tilted her head and I scratched her ears.

“Mel Tormé?” Susan said, walking in.

“The velvet frog himself.”

“‘Goody Goody’ is very odd to hear after talking with a patient who wishes to be impregnated by her husband while conducting an extramarital affair.”

“Better odds?”

“She has no desire to be impregnated by her lover.”

“Must draw a line in the sand somewhere.”

“Yes.”

“How hot is too hot?” I said.

“Is this a trick question?”

“Yep,” I said.

I turned on the oven and found her lonely mixing bowl and measured the corn meal, flour, salt, baking powder, and sugar, and then added the eggs, butter, and some milk and whisked it all to the proper smoothness. I searched for the muffin tin I had stowed in a secret location. When I added the sautéed mix of meat and onions to a large pot of bubbling tomatoes and beans, Pearl lost interest and trotted over to a window facing Linnaean. The branch of an oak tapped at the glass.

I added more beer with the simmering chili. And a quart of water so as not to waste more beer.