“Cristal.”

“I ain’t gonna lie,” Kinjo said. “She wasn’t the first.”

“Did you try and make it work with Nicole?”

“You mean after she found out?”

“Yeah.”

“Hard to talk with dishes and glasses flying at your head.”

“Imagine so.”

Kinjo was silent. Again, I had overstepped. Spenser, master of diplomacy. We drove due north on the empty interstate, my eyes darting up the rearview. All clear. I switched lanes. No boogeymen out tonight.

“I read that piece in Sports Illustrated,” I said. “I don’t see the big deal. What bothered you about it?”

“Man fucked up some of my quotes,” he said. “And quoted some quarterbacks who said I took cheap shots.”

“Still didn’t see anyone mad enough to hurt you.”

Kinjo didn’t answer. “I didn’t like how the man implied that my relationship with Akira was a show,” he said. “That reporter hung out with us, and so we did what we always do. Man wrote it in a way like it was an unnatural weekend to be with my boy. That I was an unnatural person trying to play dad.”

“Slighted your honor.”

“Damn right.”

“As did someone trying to follow you and scare you.”

“Yeah.”

“No insults swallowed down South?”

“Hell, no.”

“Not many where I grew up, either.”

Kinjo sighed. “Maybe my head is a little messed up right now.”

“Maybe someone was following you,” I said. “But not to hurt you.”

“You weren’t there,” he said. “You didn’t see the look the man had. He was going for a gun and I pulled mine.”

“What did he look like?”

Kinjo described him as big, white, and ugly.

“Lots of that going around these days,” I said.

“When I was a kid, I always thought it would be cool to be known,” he said. “I grew up in this town down in Georgia where most everything had been logged out. Just red clay everywhere. That red clay got all over your clothes and under your fingernails. My mother worked three jobs to take care of me and Ray, wash that mud out our shirts. Year I signed with the NFL, she died of a heart attack. That make any sense to you?”

I shook my head. I drove. I listened. Failed marriage. Check. Abandonment issues. Check. Irrational behavior. You bet. I asked him a few more questions from what I’d read.

“It ain’t that nightclub thing, man,” he said. “That’s all over.”

“How do you know?”

“Because they ain’t nothing to it.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Listen, if you’re going to help me, you got to believe in me,” Kinjo said. “I never shot and killed no one. Someone is trying to do that to me. Someone try to take what I have and I got to step in.”

“But for me to work, I need to know all there is to know,” I said. “Sometimes something shakes loose that might not make sense to you.”

“Like reading an offense?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Exactly. I need to step back and see exactly what’s developing.”

“Okay.”

“I read that a couple of your teammates were there that night.”

He nodded.

“Can I speak with them?”

He nodded again. “Sure. Whatever, man.”

The highway lights scattered strobed patterns across the interior of the SUV. I got off at the exit for Route 9. A few miles down, we stopped at a red light at the Hammond intersection. There was an all-night CVS pharmacy, a liquor store, and, across the road, the Longwood Cricket Club. Inside the gates were fifty tennis courts for Brahmins to work out their deepest frustrations.

“Ever think of taking up tennis?” I said.

“You kidding me?”

The light turned green. I turned left on Hammond and on into Chestnut Hill.

“Shit, I only moved out here for Akira,” he said. “A few of my teammates moved out here. Brady moving out from downtown. I thought, why the hell not? Good schools. Good restaurants. Make his life into something right. He’s a good kid. Smart as hell. If I was smart as him, I wouldn’t need football.”

“Do you want him to play?”

“If he wants to play, I’ll help him,” Kinjo said. “He don’t want to play, that’s fine by me. Kid is special. He can draw. He can sing. He can memorize whole songs after hearing them once. Seems like a waste just to do something that’s expected.”

I nodded. We rolled up onto Heath Street and I turned toward Kinjo’s house. I pulled in, killed the engine, and sat there. The engine made hot ticking sounds as I waited for him to get out. But he just sat there, looking at his stone house lit up like a birthday cake in the night. A few leaves twirled down from the oaks.

“Steve Rosen is going to call you tomorrow,” he said. “Says whatever was going on isn’t going on anymore.”

I nodded.

“So he’s going to fire you.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“What do you think?” Kinjo said. “You think you can get these guys?”

“‘Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet.’”

“Who said that?”

“Some old Greek guy.”

“I’d pay you for as long as it takes, but the front office has spoken to Steve, and now Steve isn’t so sure if it’s a good thing for you to be hanging around.”

“And you have promised to be more selective in the discharging of your weapon.”

Kinjo smiled. “Yeah,” he said. “Something like that.”

“Well, okay,” I said. “It’s been a pleasure.”

I offered my hand and he took it.

We got out of the car, and I walked with him to the back of the Explorer to open the hatch. He reached in and got his travel bag. The front door opened and Akira came running out in blue pajamas and no shoes. He jumped up high into Kinjo’s arms and clung tight to Kinjo’s body. Kinjo didn’t miss a stride, walking with the boy held tight, travel bag in right hand and left hand on the child’s back. The kid didn’t even see me, his eyes shut tight as Kinjo opened the front door.

I parked down the hill and sat on the house until late. I had been paid for the week and might as well see it through. When nothing menacing appeared, I cranked my car and drove home.

9

If they were letting you go,” Z said, “why follow through watching the house?”

“I was paid until today,” I said. “If I didn’t follow through, then I might start padding expenses, billing extra hours, charging to drink on the job. The whole thing would get shot to hell.”

“The code?”

“Maybe the code,” I said. “Or maybe it’s valuing my own self-worth.”

“But you don’t feel guilt about me buying the sandwiches?”

“I bought last time,” I said. “And I wish to value your self-worth.”

“Sandwiches are very good.”

“That they are.”

Z had stopped off in Chinatown for an early lunch of Vietnamese bánh mì sandwiches and two hot Vietnamese coffees. Shredded pork, cilantro, jalapeños, and pickled carrots on a baguette. The coffee was milky and strong and sweet.

“If the Vietnamese outnumber the Chinese in Chinatown,” I said, “perhaps a name change is due.”

“Or you might be overthinking the sandwich.”

“Perhaps.”

It was brisk and cool. Z wore a black motorcycle jacket over a gray T-shirt with old jeans and cowboy boots, true to his heritage on a Montana rez. His face still showed the scars of a savage beating. The face had mostly healed, but a large swath of skin from his left eye and cheek was mottled with scar tissue. He had spent weeks in the hospital and there had been a lot of rehab. He did not like to discuss it.

“I don’t know how much work I’ll have,” I said.

“Henry got me extra hours at the gym,” Z said. “And I got an offer to work as bouncer on Fridays and Saturdays at the Black Rose. Good pay.”

“You mind being around the booze?”

“Nope,” he said. “I like to be in control. I like to see everything around me.”

I ate the rest of my sandwich and sipped the sweet coffee. I swung around in my office chair and planted my feet on a window ledge. The bay window of my second-floor office composed a nice view of Berkeley Street. Shreve, Crump & Low had moved out. I had wished for a good restaurant to replace it but instead got a Bank of America.