Moose looked to Murphy, his mouth hanging open. He turned back to me, trying to tighten his jaw and appear mean. The girl wrapped her arms around herself and bit her lower lip. Her mascara had run down her eyes and her forehead was shiny with sweat.

“So, yes,” I said.

“Where’s the kid?” Hawk said.

“What?”

Hawk slapped Murphy across the face and then punched him in the gut. Murphy fell to his knees. Hawk gripped a lot of his greasy hair and tilted his chin upward. “Where’s the kid?”

Moose and the girl stared, openmouthed. Moose probably always had an open mouth. He looked as if you’d need a shovel to find his IQ.

“So the fuck what?” Murphy said from his knees. “So the fuck what if I was following my old girlfriend? That doesn’t mean jack shit.”

“It means jack shit when her stepson is missing a week later.”

“I don’t know nothing about that.”

“You never turn on the TV, the radio, or look at your phone?” I said. “Yes, Kevin. You’re the only one in Boston that hasn’t heard the news.”

“I didn’t take the kid.”

“But you followed Cristal,” I said.

“That’s between me and Cristal.”

Hawk lifted a hand. Murphy flinched.

Hawk stepped back and smiled.

“It looks like you have a first-class operation here, Kevin,” I said. “The glamour is overwhelming. Cecil B. DeMille of Dot Ave.”

He pushed up off his knees and stood. We let him. “I make more money in one day than you probably do all year,” Murphy said.

“Probably,” I said. “But then again, if I had talent the size of a gherkin, I wouldn’t want to broadcast it.”

The distraught girl snorted. Kevin’s face turned bright red. He rubbed at the tuft of hair under his chin and sucked in his gut.

“You want me to throw ’em out, Kev?” Moose said.

“Yeah, you do that, Moose,” I said.

“Anytime,” Hawk said.

Moose wiped his face and nodded at us. His toughness had dissipated.

We all stood together in a tightly knit group under the hot stage lights. Kevin nodded to the camera. “It’s all there, dumbasses,” he said. “Trespassing, harassment. I’ll own Kinjo Heywood’s fucking black ass.”

“And a bigot, too.”

Hawk took a short breath and exhaled. Bored, he held the .44 at belt level.

“And now destruction of property,” I said. I walked over to the tripod and ripped out the SIM card from the camera. If it had been the old days, I would have ripped the film from the camera and torn the strips from the canister. Pulling a SIM card had less gravitas.

“That’s a night’s worth of work,” Murphy said. “Do you know what this means?”

“I have spared many perverts the horror of seeing you naked?” I said. “Perhaps I have inspired them to recant and shut down the computer for the night.”

“I’m a star.”

Hawk laughed.

Moose put an arm around the young actress. She tilted her eyes up at him and tore away her shoulder. She did not seem impressed with the studio security.

“I don’t know why you’re even here,” Murphy said. “Two state cops came to see me a couple days ago. I told them the same thing. You come to me and fuck with me? That doesn’t change that I don’t know anything about Kinjo’s kid.”

“Why were you following them?” I said.

“Cristal owes me money.”

“For what?”

Murphy put a finger to the side of his nose and sniffed.

“Recent?” I said.

“Oh, yes,” he said.

“If you’re holding the kid,” I said, “it’s better to deal with us than the Feds. Kinjo might even make you a deal to walk away.”

“Do you not speak English?” Murphy said, scratching his neck. “I make flicks and do my thing. I don’t steal kids.”

“Man got to have ethics,” Hawk said.

“Yep.”

“I don’t have the kid,” Murphy said. “You see him around anywhere? You want to follow me for a while? Go check under my bed at the house? Ask my neighbors? Go ahead. You won’t find shit. I’m just trying to do my thing.”

I walked in close to Kevin Murphy. He smelled like someone had knocked over a piña colada in a locker room. His pupils were dilated to the size of quarters.

“If you’re connected, Kev,” I said. “You better hope the Feds get to you first.”

His shapeless, doughy chest had been shaved, as had his arms. Only the silly patch under his chin remained. It quivered a bit as he tried to stare me down.

I looked to the girl.

“You want to stay?”

She stared at us for a moment and then nodded. We took their movie but left.

41

I took Susan to Gillette Stadium that afternoon. As she strolled across the parking lot in a form-fitting navy sweater, jeans, and riding boots, I decided she looked too good for the super-fans in their oversized jerseys and painted faces. Her designer sunglasses were on top of her head and she wore a light scarf around her neck. The brisk wind smelled of hot wings and kielbasa. Susan preferred neither. I, on the other hand, appreciated both.

“Would you like me to buy you some pom-poms?” I said.

“Would this be for use now or later?”

“Probably later.”

“Then yes.”

“May have to work late,” I said.

“I certainly hope so,” she said. “At least the family would know where they stand.”

I walked with her through the growing crowd. Kickoff wasn’t for another hour, but according to sports radio, attendance promised to be a record day for regular season. I kept on wanting to call it opening day, but I knew that term applied only to baseball. Besides the standard satellite trucks from ESPN, there were droves of news crews, local, national, and cable. The disappearance of Akira Heywood and his famous dad taking the field was too good to pass up.

“So there’s no telling how the demands will be issued?” Susan said.

“Nope.”

“Do you think the kidnappers would show here?”

“Can’t imagine why they would,” I said. “It will be a phone call, text, or an e-mail. I don’t think these people wish to be infamous. I think they want to get his money and slide into obscurity.”

We had our tickets scanned, waited in line at concessions, and found our seats on the club level. They were good seats, almost directly on the fifty-yard line, with a view of the Patriots’ bench.

I ate a hot dog and drank some beer. Susan nibbled on fresh fruit. I had been unaware you could buy fruit at any stadium.

After a short while, we stood for the national anthem and watched as the starting players for the Pats were introduced. The roar from the crowd for Kinjo rattled the stadium seats. He raised a fist as he ran onto midfield and joined his teammates. And after a few more were announced, there was a kickoff and the violence began.

I particularly liked when Kinjo took the field. Not only because he was my client but because I preferred watching defense. I had been a defensive player many moons ago and liked to watch the dismantling of an offensive attack. Kinjo did a lot of dismantling in the first quarter, with five tackles and one sack. He played with a lot of rage, disguised as passion. I drank my beer slowly. If something were to happen, I needed to be alert, focused, and ready.

“Do you think Hawk is cheering?” Susan said.

“Nope.”

“Do you think Z is cheering?” she said.

“Nope.”

“You’re cheering,” she said. “Does that mean it’s okay for me to cheer?”

“I’m not cheering,” I said. “I’m yelling positive encouragement for Kinjo.”

“To knock the quarterback’s fucking head off?”

“In a matter of speaking?” I said. “Yes.”

Susan had her sunglasses down and leaned forward in her seat. Not long into the second quarter, her right leg tapped up and down with excitement. And she stood twice as Kinjo ran after the Bills’ quarterback, getting close to a sack. The quarterback let go of the ball just as Kinjo slammed into him, sending him flying. After the play, Kinjo helped him to his feet.