“What happened?”

“A big fat white cop whipped my ass with his gun belt,” he said. “Second time was much worse. Didn’t get out of that place for nearly a year. Those guards sho’ did love to watch us niggers kill each other.”

We drove out of the downtown, following a snowplow, until Hawk passed, and led us away and over the old metal bridge. He wore a long navy coat and a snug-fitting cashmere cap to match. His sunglasses had the Chanel insignia at the hinges. Big snowflakes hit the windshield before the wipers knocked them away.

“How much do I owe you?”

“Chump change,” Hawk said. “Unless you’re guilty.”

“Got to cost something.”

“I invest wisely.”

“Might take some time,” I said.

“You know where it’s all coming from?”

“I do.”

“But the bitch of it is in the proving.”

“Yep.”

Hawk turned south onto I-93 and we drove back toward Boston. Not long into the drive, Hawk stopped off at Dempsey’s at Medford. I ordered Irish eggs Benedict, home fries, and a pot of coffee as fast as anyone could.

Hawk had Texas French toast and fresh squeezed orange juice. “Susan said you had three sluggers stop by your office.”

I shrugged and cut off a bit of hash. The food was so good I could feel it in my toes. I wiggled them inside my boots as I chewed.

“You know who paid their bill?”

I shook my head. It was rude to talk with your mouth full.

“Any idea?”

I swallowed. “One of them recognized me,” I said. “Said he used to work for Broz.”

“And the other two?”

I described the older guy, Baldy, and the redheaded kid. Hawk cut up his French toast like a surgeon. An attractive waitress in a form-fitting uniform stopped by to refill our cups. Hawk thanked her and smiled as the wolf must’ve at Little Red Riding Hood.

“What sharp teeth you have,” I said.

Hawk smiled bigger. He ate a little more and then wiped his mouth with his napkin. “The older gentleman is Arty Leblanc,” he said.

“Arty Leblanc?”

“Yeah,” Hawk said. “Sound nicer than he is.”

“How bad?”

“Stupid and bad,” Hawk said. “He once gave a man an enema with a garden hose ’cause he late on his vig.”

“Inventive,” I said. The Irish eggs Benedict was excellent. I speared a bit of bread with a runny poached egg and a little hash. “How’s the Texas French toast?”

“Giddyup.”

“You had a run-in with Leblanc?”

“Worked two jobs with him,” Hawk said. “Never will again.”

“Can you find out who holds his leash?”

Hawk took another bite and thoughtfully chewed. Outside the plate-glass windows, the snow scattered and twirled in the bluing of the late morning. I hadn’t been in jail long but felt an ease in my back and shoulders with the freedom.

“I know a guy who can help,” he said. “But you won’t like it.”

I drank some more coffee and started into the last of the Benedict. “Like what?”

“The man in the know.”

“Ming the Merciless?”

“Only with more hair and a better suit.”

“Vinnie Morris.”

“Yep,” Hawk said. “Vinnie will know who Leblanc working for. You think he’s still pissed at you?”

28

Since he’d split with Gino Fish, Vinnie Morris had kept an office on the second floor of a bowling alley on the Concord Turnpike. When we walked in, a fat guy wearing a Hawaiian shirt and shiny shoes nodded us to an open staircase. I’d been there before. The alley hadn’t changed its décor since the Beatles appeared on Ed Sullivan. The upstairs promised an exciting lounge with nightly entertainment. Now it was a storage area filled floor-to-ceiling with boxes. I didn’t know what was inside the boxes, nor would I ask.

Vinnie waited for us at the landing.

He didn’t look pleased to see me. We’d had a falling-out the year before over a hidden interest in a casino slated for Revere. He nodded to me. I nodded back. Civil.

Vinnie looked good. He’d given up the baggy tracksuits for his preppy look of old. His salt-and-pepper hair had been expertly trimmed. He wore a three-piece gray suit and black tie that made him look more Beacon Hill than North End. A smile crept on his face as he tossed a half-dollar into the air and nodded.

“I thought George Raft was dead,” I said.

“Heard you were dead, too,” Vinnie said. “Some Puerto Rican gangbangers after you.”

“Cape Verdean,” I said.

“Whatever,” Vinnie said. “Hello, Hawk.”

“Vinnie.”

They shook hands. Vinnie didn’t offer to shake my hand. He turned his back and walked to an old-fashioned U-shaped bar. Stools had been put up upside down. The beer taps didn’t have handles. Neon signs for cheap beer flickered with delight.

“What time is the show?” I said.

“Up here?” Vinnie said.

“Yeah.”

“Nineteen sixty-five.”

“So noted.”

Vinnie reached up and pulled down three bar stools and righted them on the floor. The only light upstairs shone from the strategically placed neon beer signs. There was a painted mural on the far wall of a ball hitting a strike, pins flying in the air.

“I guess you ain’t here to talk about the old days.”

Hawk and I sat. Hawk on my right. Vinnie on my left.

“Arty Leblanc,” Hawk said.

“Oh, shit.”

“Is that a nickname or an alias?” I said.

“What the fuck are you guys doing with Arty Leblanc? He’s a freakin’ head case. Did you hear about the garden-hose thing?”

“His reputation has preceded him,” I said.

“Stuck it right up this guy’s keister and turned up the water pressure,” Vinnie said. “He’s nuts.”

“So he’s not your employee,” I said.

“Employee?” he said. “What kind of business am I running? The menswear department at Sears?”

“Not in that suit,” Hawk said.

“You like it?” Vinnie said, looking down at his sleeve, admiring the fabric.

Hawk shrugged. “Needs a better tie,” he said. “To make it pop.”

Vinnie walked behind the bar and uncorked a bottle of grappa.He pulled out three small glasses and lined them on top of the dusty bar.

“Feeling nostalgic?” I said.

Vinnie shrugged. “It’s a gesture,” he said. “Remember when that meant something?”

I nodded. Vinnie poured. He raised his glass. We did the same.

“Doesn’t mean we’re good,” Vinnie said, giving me the eye. “Unnerstand?”

“Arty,” I said. “Leblanc.”

Vinnie drank down the grappa. I sipped mine. It tasted like licorice-infused rocket fuel. I drank half and attempted to smile. Hawk downed the whole glass and set it down with a thud.

“He make a run at you?” Vinnie said.

“He made a request,” I said.

“Arty Leblanc doesn’t make no requests,” he said. “He insists.”

“I showed him and his two pals my .357 and insisted they leave.”

Vinnie nodded. The old lounge had a wide and sprawling dance floor made of parquet tiles. The tiles were old and scuffed and in need of a good waxing. I rested my elbows along the old bar. Someone had started a game downstairs. You could hear the roll of the ball and the explosion of pins. There was a nice rhythm to it all.

“You know the DeMarco family?” Vinnie said.

I nodded. Hawk did not respond. He stood completely still, relaxed, as he rolled the shot glass between the fingers of his right hand.

“They’re taking on new territory,” he said. “They’ve overrun Gino, squeezing out Fast Eddie Lee. They’re in tight with Providence.”

“The old gang is getting back together.”

“Everything was busted up before Joe Broz disappeared,” Vinnie said. “It’s not the same. But it’s a lot of the same people. Or their kids. You know.”