“Thank you,” I said. “I do a lot of squats.”

“I wasn’t talking to you, buddy,” he said. He took a dramatic sip of his wine. He turned his steely gaze back to Jemma. He was a bit wobbly on his feet, closing time his specialty. I stood close to him and whispered sweet nothings in his ear. He took his white wine and left.

“God,” Jemma said. “What did you say to him?”

“It would only make you think less of me.”

“Profane?”

“Extremely.”

She reached for the fresh martini on the bar. Legal, like all the Legals I have dined in, was a lot of dark wood and brass. They had a nifty neon sign shaped like a cod. I ordered a Sam Adams to keep with the program. Jemma’s hand shook enough that she needed them both to steady the glass.

“Where are they?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “When I walked in here, they didn’t follow me.”

“I know all the best late-night spots.”

“I am scared shitless.”

“Why do things like that sound better with an accent?”

“They were waiting for me,” she said. “They were the men who came for Rick.”

“How do you know?”

She sipped the martini. It was served dirty, with extra olives. The bartender brought me my beer.

“I don’t know,” she said. “How would I know?”

“You said you saw Weinberg before he was abducted.”

“I did,” she said. “But I don’t know where he went or when he left the hotel.”

“What time did you see him and where?”

“He came to my room,” she said. “He was drunk.”

“Time?”

“Early,” she said. “Right after dinner. Maybe nine?”

“Where was Blanchard?”

“Obviously not with him,” she said. “Of course.”

“But of course.”

I drank some beer. “Are you hungry?”

“God, no,” she said. “I’m shaking like a leaf.”

“There is a feast in the King Suite at the Four Seasons,” I said. “Maybe we should stop back by.”

“You’re kidding.”

She shook her head. She drank a sizable portion of the martini. She looked at me for a moment and then at the neatly aligned bottles of vodka. When she finished the drink, I signaled the bartender.

“Why did Weinberg come to see you?” I said.

“Why do you suppose?”

“To further his discussion on talking rabbits and disappearing cats?”

“He wanted to get into my knickers.”

“I guess that would hold more interest,” I said. I judiciously took another sip.

“Were you and he . . . ?” I said.

“Can’t you say it?”

“I don’t want to be indiscreet.”

“Were we fucking?”

I inhaled and held my words.

“Rick and I enjoyed each other’s company,” she said.

“But that night?”

“No,” she said. “No. Not that night.”

“And why would he make a pass after firing you?” I said.

“He said he was sorry,” she said. “He wanted to explain his decision to me.”

The martini was served. I sipped my beer and studied the scene. I saw no one sauntering out in the mall carrying Thompsons.

“What did these men look like?”

“Swarthy,” she said. “Young.”

“Sounds like the title of a Mexican soap opera,” I said. “Had you seen them before?”

“I said no.”

I took another small sip. I put down the glass and lightly tapped the bar top with my fingers. “So, going back,” I said. “When you thwarted Rick’s advances, how did he react?”

“He put on his pants and left.”

“Did he arrive pantsless?” I said.

“He took them off when he walked in.”

“Quite an entrance.”

“He was very drunk,” she said.

“Did he say where he was going?”

“No.”

“You said there is a lot I don’t know,” I said. “Like what? Besides Weinberg needed tips on seduction.”

“I promise to tell you,” she said. “But by all means, please get me out of here.”

I studied the room again. Silver Hair had paid his tab and was escorting a new friend from the room. A man eating a lobster roll finished and dabbed his greasy lips with a napkin. He turned his attention to key lime pie and coffee. I did not see a single individual who was young, swarthy, or menacing. The waiter announced that the kitchen was closed and it would be last call.

My night was going well.

“So where to?”

“I have no money.”

“I will pay.”

“I have nowhere to stay.”

“Will you help me?” I said.

“Yes,” Jemma Fraser said. Her eyes were big and brown and pleading. She had freckles across her cheeks, giving her a kidlike quality up close. I signed the check and she grabbed for her purse.

“If you come with me,” I said, “I can promise to keep my pants on.”

40

MARLBOROUGH WAS VERY QUIET and pocketed in shadows and squares of light from the red-brick buildings and brownstones. The orange-white light of the streetlamps glowed intermittently from Arlington onward, toward Dartmouth and beyond.

I looked east to west and did not hear a sound. A black sedan of some type passed and continued down the one-way street. I watched as the taillight glowed and the car hung a right on Berkeley. I took a breath and opened the passenger-side door. Jemma was silent and a bit wobbly on her tall heels as she got out of the Explorer. Cars lined nearly every inch of the street.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“Can you walk on your own?”

Nod. I helped her anyway.

There was a light click of a door opening. And then another. I nearly did not hear it. I reached for Jemma’s hand and hustled her across the street as two men approached us. They were both young and swarthy and blocked the steps to my apartment. They both wore dark suits with dark dress shirts and no ties. The word “eek” came to mind but did not feel appropriate. I could ask them if they would let us through or comment on the nice spring night. Or we could turn tail and run. Unfortunately, I did not think Jemma could get far in six-inch heels and full of three vodka martinis.

No one said anything.

One of the men walked down two steps and shoved me with the heel of his right hand. He was thick and muscular, like a competitive weight lifter. But I had expected it and widened my stance. The other reached for Jemma and grabbed her by the elbow, dragging her to the open door of a sedan. I reached for her wrist with my left hand and clocked the young man with an overhand right. He wavered. Jemma screamed. His pal jumped on my back and started to pound my head using the bottom of his fist as a hammer. I spun him toward the glass door and rammed him against it. The glass shattered and he fell halfway into the vestibule. The other man had reached out for Jemma again, pulling her into the car by a handful of hair. He threw her inside and slammed the door shut. He was halfway around the hood of his car when I slipped a forearm around his throat and pounded his head with my left hand. He fell to the ground and I got a knee in the base of his skull, pushing his face flush to the street. I grabbed a handful of his hair and knocked his head against the bumper of the sedan.

When I looked up, his partner was over me, holding a .45 automatic.

He had narrow black eyes, a dumb stare, and hair artfully gelled to look like he’d just woken up. I let go of his partner’s hair and stood. He stepped carefully around me, shards of glass tinkling from his suit jacket to the ground. He was bleeding. His narrow dumb eyes watched me as we circled, trading places. Do-si-do.

His friend was having a hard time standing. Dumb Eyes watched me, unsure what to do, keeping the gun outstretched in both hands. He held the .45 like cops in the movies did. It was so close I could touch it. And I did. I pulled forward and twisted it away from my body just as he fired. The sound of the gunshot elicited another scream inside the car from Jemma and caused her to honk the horn repeatedly. I tried to twist the gun from his grip, the barrel turning away from me, muscling it enough to keep it pointed away but unable to pull it from his hands. Lights clicked on up and down Marlborough. The horn kept honking.