Z looked as if he might fall asleep. His sizable arms were crossed over his chest, straining the fabric of his black T-shirt. That morning, he seemed more present but more silent than before.

Weinberg recognized Lou Coffone, board president, who sat beside him. Coffone stood and hiked up a pair of powder-blue pants toward his armpits with pride. Weinberg had the touch of making everyone he met feel important. A knowing smile. The two-handed handshake. Buddy, the old man who had lamented his keyed Cadillac days before, seemed to be fine with the world. His dyed black hair gleamed in the fluorescent light. He had his arm around his portly wife, who had exchanged the leopard-print muumuu for a blue pantsuit.

I leaned in to Rita. “Funny how a hundred grand can change attitudes.”

“A hundred grand extra for every blue hair in this shitbox,” Rita said.

“Worth Cone, Oakes, and Baldwin’s time?”

“We are the biggest and best in Boston,” Rita said. “Do you think I came here for the cheese and crackers?” She crossed her legs with a huff.

After the meeting ended, Coffone and Buddy braced me at the cheese table.

“It’s unanimous,” Coffone said.

“Yep,” I said.

“Sweetheart of a deal,” said Buddy Cadillac.

I nodded.

“You want some cheese?” Coffone said. “We got some of those good Ritz crackers.”

“You guys are too good to me.”

“Henry said we don’t owe you nothin’,” Buddy said.

“He’s right.”

“But the board feels like you need to be paid,” Coffone said. He hiked up his pants as he spoke. “We knew you’d pull it off. Never doubted it for a moment.”

“That’s what kept me going during dark times.”

“Weinberg, what a guy,” Buddy said. “It’s a sweetheart of a deal.”

Coffone offered his hand. I shook it. What the hell. Buddy did the same, and I shook his, too. Henry looked at me from the far corner of the room. He stood tall, pointed to me, and winked. I made a gun with my thumb and forefinger and dropped the hammer.

Z stood by silently. His face registered nothing.

I walked outside and found Blanchard next to the black Lincoln, its motor running. He reached into a summer plaid jacket for a pack of Marlboros and thumped the box like a pro.

“Ever hear of the surgeon general?” I said.

Blanchard grinned and set fire to the cigarette with a stainless-steel Zippo. The lighter was engraved with the Marine Corps insignia. His buzzed gray hair showed pink scalp in the portico lights. He blew smoke out of his nose.

“How long were you in the Corps?”

“Twenty years.”

“How’d you get into this?”

“Buddy of mine had a security firm in Vegas,” he said. “Good hours. Get to carry a gun. You?”

“I like working for myself.”

“I work for Weinberg because I trust him,” Blanchard said. “Son of a bitch is charismatic as hell.”

“Is he really going to pay girls to dress up like Alice?” I said.

“Why?”

“Thinking of investing in white pantyhose.”

Blanchard exhaled. “Lots of stuff planned.”

Z emerged from the front doors of the Ocean View.

Blanchard stared out at the weak light across the waves. He turned and watched Z walk with a limp.

“Sorry about the kid,” Blanchard said. “That was not Rick Weinberg’s doing. Or my doing.”

I caught his eye for a good long moment. He held the stare and nodded. I nodded back.

Weinberg walked out the front doors of Ocean View. Blanchard scanned the parking lot and the cars parked along Beach Boulevard. Two other men, one on each side of the circular drive, stood guard. Both wore sunglasses and pressed tan suits. Blanchard nodded to his boss. Weinberg walked on.

“You guys put on a nice show,” I said.

“It’s no show,” Blanchard said. “Two years ago, a couple ex-cons kidnapped the Weinbergs’ daughter. They wanted five million.”

“And what did they get instead?”

Blanchard tossed the spent cigarette onto the asphalt. He ground it with the heel of his shoe. Wind kicked up off the sound, and gulls floated in the soft gold light of the beach. “Five mil.”

“Catch ’em?” I asked.

“Nope.”

“Know who did it?”

“Part of the deal,” Blanchard said. “Money was delivered and he got his kid back. No questions asked.”

“I would have had some questions.”

“Not Mr. Weinberg,” Blanchard said.

“How about now?”

“There’s always something,” Blanchard said. “He is a very wealthy man. And in case you haven’t noticed, Mr. Weinberg cultivates attention.”

“Really?”

“He once had a helicopter drop him off on the highest point of this construction site in Vegas. There wasn’t jack shit up there. Barely enough room to sit. But he wanted to show everyone he sat on the highest spot in the city. Even if it killed him. Shot the commercial intro from the copter.”

“Sometimes I get woozy walking up Beacon Hill.”

“Guy like you doesn’t get woozy for shit.”

Blanchard grinned. I shook his hand.

“See you around,” I said.

Weinberg blocked my path to Rita and Z. He did not speak. He looked at me for a long moment, broke into a grin, and opened his arms wide. “Thank you,” he said, and reached out to give me a bear hug. The hug was awkward, but Weinberg did not seem to notice.

27

TWO NIGHTS LATER, at four in the morning, some unpleasant knocking at my door woke Pearl and me from a restful sleep. Pearl rushed to the door to bark loudly as I groaned and followed. I peered into the peephole to see two state troopers. Holding Pearl back by her collar, I opened the door. “I’ve paid most of those parking tickets.”

“Commander Healy wants to see you,” one of the troopers said. He wore the Smokey the Bear hat tilted across his nose. The other stood at the same height in the identical uniform of the Mass state police. Both were muscular, with square jaws and humorless faces.

“Sure,” I said. “Want some coffee?”

“Healy wants to see you now.”

I held on to Pearl’s collar with two fingers. She showed her teeth. I didn’t blame her. We both needed our beauty rest.

“Would you mind if I put on pants first?” I said.

Ten minutes later, I sat in the back of a state cruiser that headed east on Storrow and then turned north into the tunnel. The intermittent false light scattered over the windshield, down deep under the earth, and then up into the gaping mouth on the other side.

“I can think of a better route to the DA’s office,” I said.

“Headed to Revere,” said the driver. Neither trooper had introduced himself. “Healy is there now.”

“So someone is dead,” I said.

The driver was silent and kept on heading north on 1A.

“Does this have anything to do with Mr. Cimoli?”

“Don’t know the name,” the other trooper said.

I sat back and watched both sides of the highway wedged by the docks along the Chelsea River and the low hills facing the ocean. The crisp, artificial lights along the hills glinted in the black night. When we turned off 1A onto Veterans, the flashing red-and-blue lights led us the rest of the way, on into the wide expanse of the old dog track parking lot. Dozens of state police and locals from Revere crowded the lot. There was an endless ribbon of yellow crime scene tape from the main entrance stretching all the way across the lot. Two crime scene tech vans were parked nearby, with television news camera crews shooting their every step.

One of the troopers opened the back door. He pointed across the hoods of the hundreds of parked cars I had seen the other day.

A gathering of Revere cops were the gatekeepers of the tape. I pointed to the troopers. A skinny woman wearing a Revere PD badge let me through without a trace of excitement. I guessed she had not been notified of my appearance.