“You’re looking good, Jacky,” I said. “Get that suit off the back of a truck?”

“This is fucking Gucci,” he said. “Cut by a tailor with the hands of a surgeon.”

“This is Mr. Sixkill,” I said. “My associate.”

Jacky did not take his eyes off me. “I heard you was dead.”

“Maybe your watch had stopped.”

“Funny,” Jacky said. He took his eyes off me for a moment to look in the birdcage. He nodded with approval. “So what brings you to the Banana? Lose another whore?”

“The Fine Arts Museum was closed,” I said.

“Ha,” Jacky said. He crossed his legs as a waitress brought him a drink that looked like grenadine and club soda.

“Looking for Jemma Fraser,” I said.

“Who?”

I leaned in. “The woman who needed a few thugs for a shakedown.”

Jacky scratched his cheek.

“You need me to call Mr. Milo?” I said.

“Oh, that Jemma.”

Z grinned.

“You know that many?” I said.

“I was just trying to help the broad.”

“How do you know her?”

“Came recommended.”

“By whom?”

Jacky shook his head.

A couple of girls walked over to Z. One massaged his shoulders. Both wore bras and panties and high fishnets. He told them he was broke. They scattered.

“Associate?” Jacky said.

“Yep.”

“You getting old?” he said. “Need someone to pick up the slack?”

“Nope.”

Jacky shrugged, then rolled his shoulders. “Don’t know what to tell you. Ain’t my problem if you got it in for the broad.”

“Come again.”

“When she come to me the second time, she was shitting a brick.”

“Why?”

“Protection,” Jacky said. “She said someone was trying to fucking kill her.”

“They may have succeeded.”

“Not my problem,” he said. “Not now.”

Z turned from the stage and leaned forward to listen. The acoustics were not grand in the Purple Banana.

“She say who wanted to hurt her?” I said.

“Say, I could use a big guy like that,” Jacky said, looking at Z. “Work the door. Scare the knuckleheads who try and hump the furniture.”

“Not my kind of work,” Z said.

“What is?” Jacky said.

Z nodded toward me.

“Too bad,” Jacky said. “You looked smarter than that.”

Jacky studied Z. He then turned his attention back on me, slowly smiling. “I heard Hawk was out of town.”

“Maybe.”

“I’d watch your back if I were you,” he said. “These ain’t nice people.”

Jacky looked over Z’s shoulder. He then craned his neck behind him to another stage, another girl. He looked me up and down, took a deep breath, and leaned in. I met him halfway. “This ain’t nothing like the local crews you’re used to,” Jacky said, whispering. “I don’t want no part of this crap.”

“Why’s that?”

“’Cause I prefer to keep on breathing,” he said. “Too much money. Too many guns.”

“From Vegas?”

Jacky snorted. He shook his head with pity and walked away.

33

“Z BEEN IN ANOTHER fight?” Henry said. “His knuckles were busted again.”

“Yeah,” I said. “But this time he came out on top.”

“Good,” Henry said. “Good.”

“If I hadn’t pulled him off the guy, I think Z would have killed him.”

“Not good.”

“Nope,” I said. We both stood outside our own cars at the Ocean View. The storm had brought in a heavy surf. And even in the diminished rain, the waves rocked across Revere Beach. Henry locked his car and we walked toward the condo.

“Where’s Z now?”

“Looking for the woman who sent the thugs,” I said.

“Not satisfied?”

“Not in the least.”

“You think this broad killed Mr. Weinberg?”

“I’d like to find out what she knows,” I said. “So would the staties.”

We reached the glass doors to the condo. I held one open for him.

“Might’ve finally expanded the boxing room,” Henry said.

“And a sauna?”

“Don’t push it,” Henry said. He smiled.

“The fight today wasn’t much of one,” I said.

“Then what the hell was it?” Henry said.

We stood in the empty lobby together on the silent terrazzo floor. I searched for the word. “Rage,” I said.

“What’s wrong with being pissed off?” Henry said. “If it works.”

I shook my head.

“’Cause it’s what you think made him drink before?”

I nodded.

“Because of what happened before he ended up here?”

I nodded.

“No family, people that he knew wiped their ass with him?”

“Yep.”

“But he’s not drinking?” Henry said.

“Susan said he needed to work,” I said. “So we’re working. He’s handling things.”

“But you’re concerned about the after?”

“I am.”

Henry nodded. He walked to the elevator and pushed the up button.

“But how long can you look out for the kid?” Henry said.

I tilted my head. “Long as it takes.”

“Yeah,” Henry said. “Me, too.”

The elevator dinged and the door opened. Henry walked inside. I stayed in the lobby.

“’Cause he’s one of us now,” Henry said, pressing the button to his floor.

“Yep.”

34

WHEN I RETURNED to my apartment, Wayne Cosgrove was waiting at the front door. I unlocked the door, and without a word, Wayne followed me up to the second floor. I went to the kitchen, Pearl curiously sniffing at Wayne, and reached for a couple beers in the back of the refrigerator. I popped the tops. I handed Wayne one. He did not say thank you, only took a sip and said, “Okay, what the hell’s going on?”

“I left you a message.”

“Wasn’t much of a message,” Wayne said. “You said you would be in touch when you can.”

“Ta-da.”

“I have editors breathing down my neck while all the television stations are doing live shots in Revere,” Wayne said. “And the one guy who can shed some light decides to get shy on me.”

“You seem annoyed.”

“I have two whole file cabinets marked ‘Favors for Spenser.’”

I sat at a bar stool where a long counter separated the cooking from the dining. Pearl sat at Wayne’s feet. She tilted her head and waited for him to speak. I drank some beer and nodded. “I promise to tell you the whole story when I can,” I said. “But right now I’m really not sure I have anything for you. I can’t prove any of it. And what I think I know doesn’t make sense.”

“How about off the record?”

I nodded. I got up and poured out some morsels for Pearl. She sniffed the bowl and walked back to Wayne. “Have you eaten?”

“I’ve been waiting for you for the last four hours.”

“Nice to be in demand.”

“The last time we spoke, you wanted to know about casinos in Revere,” he said. “You asked me about Rick Weinberg buying up condos on Revere Beach.”

“True.”

“And now someone has cut off Rick Weinberg’s head and left it in Revere.”

“Yes.”

“And now I hear you’re working for Rachel Weinberg?”

“How about some fried chicken? You being a Southerner and everything. I have some kale, too. I can sauté it in sesame oil with some lemon.”

“That might get you arrested down south.”

I pulled out some chicken parts from the refrigerator and patted them dry with some paper towels. I reached for some black pepper, kosher salt, and garlic powder. I found a well-seasoned cast-iron skillet Susan had given me and filled it with peanut oil to set on the stove.

“You should feel honored,” I said. “I don’t fry chicken for just anyone.”

“I bet you’d be frying it for yourself just the same.”