She smiled at Akira. She ignored both me and Kinjo. I put down the sub.

“I’ve been waiting for you outside for fifteen minutes,” she said. “What the hell?”

“I told you we’d be inside,” Kinjo said. “It’s getting cold. Damn.”

She turned back to her son. “Don’t you have anything else to wear besides football jerseys?”

Akira shrugged. Nicole looked to me. I wrapped up my sub and stood. Her eyes were big and almond-shaped. She had full lips and fine features. I smiled at her. She did not return the gesture.

“Why’d you bring a coach?” she said.

“He ain’t a coach,” Kinjo said. “He does security.”

“And why is he here?” she said.

Kinjo’s eyes shifted from me to Akira and back to Nicole. Kinjo offered his palms and said, “He’s doing some security work for me.” Akira slowly moved away from his father and hugged his mother around the waist. He was content. His mother glared at me.

I smiled some more. My cheeks started to hurt. A young Hispanic man in a do-rag and a skinny young white man with shoulder-length red hair watched us from a long table on the far side of the rotunda. They spoke back and forth, eyes on Kinjo and Nicole. One of them nodded. The Hispanic man continued to watch.

I asked Nicole if she’d like to sit.

She shook her head. Akira unwrapped his arms from her and took his backpack from his father. The kid watched the ground as his parents talked to each other.

“You get straight with the lawyer?” he said. “You see we doing things right?”

Nicole looked at Kinjo, eyes flicking across his face. “Sorry I didn’t trust you,” she said. “Don’t know why that is.”

She turned. I smiled at Akira and winked at him. He returned with a weak smile and looked away.

I sat back down. I returned to my sub. The Hispanic man and Eric the Red continued to watch us. They watched Nicole and Akira as they passed, hand in hand. I started to follow, but their gaze hung back on Kinjo. The Hispanic man picked at his teeth with his small finger, eyes unwavering.

“You recognize those two?” I said.

“Where?”

I ate a bit. I motioned slightly with my head.

“Nope.”

Eric the Red started to stand. He had a matching mustache and goatee, red hair long and curly.

“So how the Falcons look this week?” I said.

“Okay.”

“You okay?”

“She shouldn’t talk like that in front of the kid.”

“I noted a trace of hostility.”

“Shit,” he said. “She’d be glad if someone did kill me.”

Kinjo shook his head. Akira and Nicole had disappeared into the long, narrow space of the mall. The Hispanic man joined Eric the Red, and they walked toward us. The Hispanic man had his hand at hip level. Both eyes were serious and intent. Eric the Red licked his lips. His Celtics T-shirt hung nearly to his knees.

I had one bite to go but steeled myself.

The men approached the table. The Hispanic man reached into his jacket.

Kinjo jumped up fast and threw a right hand at the man’s face. I caught his fist in my palm. The man ducked, yelping, “What the fuck?”

A pen fell to the floor. Eric the Red ducked and covered.

Kinjo breathed hard out of his nose. His face twitched.

I let go of Kinjo’s fist. My palm smarted as I picked up the pen and handed it to him. “Sorry about that.” Kinjo took it and forced a smile. “What’s your name, man?”

6

The Pats flew out to Atlanta the next morning. Kinjo was now under the watch of Jeff Barnes. I told Kinjo to give him my best.

As I had a couple days to sleuth, I drove to the Harbor Health Club to search for some company. I found Z and Hawk sparring in Henry’s newly expanded boxing room. Hawk and I had taken turns coaching Z that summer.

Z wore cut-off gray sweats, a pair of eighteen-ounce gloves, and leather headgear. Hawk wore a black satin Adidas getup with red stripes, focus mitts, and no headgear. Hawk’s head was made of steel and Teflon and shone black and smooth in the harbor’s morning light.

Hawk played James Brown on the sound system. He had been telling Z he moved more white than red or black, and he needed rhythm.

“Keep yourself bladed, move, come on, duck, okay, two, three, two. Slip. Up on that toe. Breathe like you live. Don’t breathe to punch. You do that in the ring and you get killed.”

I stood next to the heavy bag. The new section of plate glass provided a commanding view of the harbor. The boxing room had more than doubled in size, which, at first, Hawk and I thought came from Henry’s undying gratitude. Then we noted the flyers around the gym for kickboxing and something called Punch Fit classes. It didn’t matter. We now had two heavy bags, two speed bags, and a big mirrored room to shadow-box and to offer classes to promising young thugs.

“Where’s the snap?” Hawk said. “You pushing a punch. Don’t push it. Snap that jab out there. Come on in. Make me back the fuck up.”

The three-minute timer buzzed. Z was drenched. He winked at me and made his way to the water fountain.

“As a white man, I am deeply offended by your comments on rhythm.”

“Only white man could move was Gene Kelly,” Hawk said. “Only white man who could move and fight was Hollywood fantasy.”

“Besides being part of the Big Brothers program,” I said, “what else do you have going on?”

“Besides lookin’ good and pleasin’ the ladies?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Besides that.”

Hawk shook his head. “Nothing that interest me.”

“I thought I had something,” I said. “Good pay, too.”

“Fella offered me a job in a grocery store,” Hawk said, grinning. “Said I’d make a crackerjack clerk.”

“Crackerjack,” I said.

“What happened to the job?”

“Still on it,” I said. “But starting to think it’s all in the client’s mind.”

“Sounds like Susan’s kind of work,” he said.

“Maybe.”

Hawk removed the focus mitts. Without looking at his watch, he told Z to take on the heavy bag. Within two seconds, the buzzer sounded. “So, if it is real,” Hawk said, “what’s the job?”

“Shooing flies off a man who just may be tougher than you.”

Hawk raised his eyebrows. He doubted it.

“Kinjo Heywood,” I said. “Pats linebacker.”

“Playing a game ain’t the same, babe.”

“No,” I said. “It’s not.”

“’Course millions of people don’t pay to watch us kick the shit out of people, either.”

“True.”

“They should,” Hawk said. “We good at it.”

“And Z is getting better.”

Hawk shrugged. Z worked on the heavy bag. Despite his injuries from a few months ago, his body had healed and his punches had become even more substantial. The bag hopped and bounced on the heavy chains. Z’s breathing was smooth and easy, his muscles bulging from his cut-off sweatshirt. He had cut his long, black hair as short as mine.

“Full-time job for Z to unlearn all your bad habits.”

“Thank God you stepped in when you did,” I said.

“Another month with you, and he’d be ready for the Ziegfeld Follies.”

“Shall I serenade you with ‘There’s Beauty Everywhere’?”

“How about I teach Z to fight, and you teach all the useless shit you know.”

“We each have our calling.”

7

Susan and I had dinner at Casablanca. Everything was the same: the polished wood, the gleaming brass rails, the churning ceiling fans, and the colorful murals of Bogart and scenes from Rick’s Café. Even Sari, the restaurant’s owner, kept his place at a back table and whispered in conspiratorial tones with Catherine Boyle, another loyal customer and one of Susan’s friends. I’d never have guessed the restaurant’s days were numbered.