“Can we do it later?” Jackie said. “I’m showing Spenser around right now.”

Pablo sat back down and looked at what I recognized was a QuickBooks program.

Jackie led me through the house. There was one big central space upstairs with several beds set up dormitory-style and six other bedrooms, along with three decent-looking bathrooms. Downstairs was a kitchen, where some men were cooking tortillas. The air was rich with their smell.

Another room held a small gym with a couple of stationary bikes, an ancient treadmill, and a couple of punching bags.

“These get much use?” I motioned to the bags.

“Some,” Jackie said. “I’ve been trying to get some guys around here to volunteer time to give the boys some pointers on boxing and wrestling, that sort of thing,” Jackie said.

“For sport, or protection?”

“Both,” Jackie said. “Some of the boys need to toughen up a bit. Others need their aggression channeled into something with rules and finesse.”

“Ever hear of Harbor Health Club, Henry Cimoli’s place? Henry’s a friend. He can probably get you some equipment, if that would help. Headgear, gloves, mitts, mouth guards, that kind of thing.”

“That would be terrific, Spenser.” Jackie looked sincere and enthusiastic, but it was hard for me to tell. He had an open, boyish face, which gave away little. “I’m guessing you did some boxing. You any good?”

“Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee,” I said. “Of course, the broken nose might tell you otherwise.”

Jackie grinned. “I wasn’t going to mention that.” He made a halfhearted jab at a speed bag. “Any chance I could convince you to come by sometime and show the boys how it’s done?”

“They probably already know how to get their noses broken,” I said. If I was to find out who was trying to close down Jackie’s business and why, spending some time on the premises might be a smart idea. And I liked Jackie’s spirit. Upbeat. Relentlessly so. “But I’d be happy to teach them how not to.”

“That would be great!” Jackie said.

We walked back into the front hall. The worn wooden floorboards creaked beneath our feet.

“No girls here?” I said.

“No,” said Jackie. “We’re trying to instill structure and discipline here. Boys reach a certain age, being around girls too much is counterproductive to the goal.”

“Boys need to learn how to act around girls sometime.”

“First things first, Spenser,” Jackie said. “A young man must learn to respect himself before he can learn to respect others.” His voice was solemn. I couldn’t tell if he was parroting a self-help book or recounting a painful experience.

He walked me to the door. A scruffy, heavy-set guy dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt stood just inside the open door, inhaling a cigarette. About thirty pounds of unnecessary stomach spilled over the jeans.

“This is Joe,” Jackie said. He sounded and looked as happy to see Joe as I did to hear “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.”

“Joe,” I said.

Joe didn’t speak. He exhaled enough smoke to double the carbon footprint of metropolitan Boston. Then he flicked his cigarette out the front door. It bounced off the steps and fell into the snow.

“You know I don’t allow smoking in this house,” Jackie said.

“Bite me,” Joe said. Wow, class act. The kind of guy you want around impressionable young boys.

“You’d better leave, Joe. I don’t want you around the kids. You’re nothing but trouble,” Jackie said.

“I ain’t your trouble,” Joe said. “I’m the one protecting you and your little kindergarten here. Might be better for you to thank me once in a while, instead of riding my ass.” He slouched off and out the door.

Jackie sighed as he watched Joe shamble down the stairs and fish a package of cigarettes out of his pants pocket.

“Sorry, Spenser,” Jackie said. “He’s one of Juan’s men. He sent him over here to protect us. Sometimes I wonder if he’s worse than no one at all.” He gave a short shake of his head, as if to erase Joe from his memory. Then he brightened. “Thanks for coming over to see the place,” he said. “Any progress yet on finding out who wants us gone?”

“Too soon to have much,” I said. “But I’ll let you know when I do.”

“Thanks, Spenser,” he said. “I need to make Street Business work. I don’t want to let the kids down. I don’t want . . .” His voice trailed off.

I gave him a wave and negotiated down the icy steps to my car. When I looked back, Jackie was bending over the side of the steps, fishing Joe’s cigarette butt out of a snowbank.

ONCE IN A GREAT WHILE, Susan asked me to escort her to one of her charity events. The most important one of the year was to take place ten days before Christmas and would be held at the Taj. The cause was Meals with Heart, which provided free food to those in Boston who had fallen through other social-program nets.

We were on our way to the Taj on the appointed night.

“You look stunning,” she said.

I was wearing a navy blue cashmere blazer she had given to me, made probably by hand by cloistered nuns on a remote Scottish isle. She had chosen a navy-and-red striped silk necktie, which I was told was Hermès but to my eye could have been Syms. A crisp white shirt, the neck a bit too snug for my liking, and dark gray slacks completed my ensemble. As a form of silent protest, I wore black loafers polished to a high gloss with no socks. Still, I felt like I was going off to dancing school. Susan was resplendent in a crimson satin gown that showed off her perfect skin. As she would be giving a speech at the dinner, she had sought the services of a professional makeup artist, though I thought it was gilding the lily. She sparkled.

“Brad and Angelina,” I said.

“Too many kids.”

“You’ve got a point.” We made our way to the elevator.

Though all eyes would be on her, I knew Susan liked having me there. Knowing it was only for her was all that made it worthwhile.

We came into the huge ballroom hung with Christmas decorations, where we got the sticky labels with our names on them to put on and therefore ruin our outfits, and place cards with our table number. Ours was predictably table one, right up front by the dance floor. The Beantown Swing Orchestra was performing Glenn Miller’s “Moonlight Serenade” as we found our seats.

“I detect a bar at the back of the room,” I said. “Can I get you something?”

“God, no,” Susan said. “Not until I’m done with my speech. I wouldn’t want to embarrass myself.” As self-possessed as she was in virtually all other situations, Susan was invariably nervous before giving speeches, and unfailingly flawless in her delivery.

“That would be an impossibility,” I said. “But I need a strong beverage to steel myself for this crowd.” I headed off toward the bar.

When I returned with my martini, others had joined our table. They stood, and we introduced ourselves. Everyone’s names matched their name tags. A tall, tanned Hispanic man in black tie bowed formally and said, “My name is Juan Alvarez. I’m happy to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Spenser.”

Susan put out her hand. “Dr. Susan Silverman. Nice to meet you, too.”