“Nice to see you,” I said.

“Congrats. You’re number one on Gino’s shit list.”

“With or without a bullet?”

“That’s up to you,” Vinnie said. “Reason I’m here.”

Vinnie was dressed, as was most often the case, like Ralph Lauren’s oft-neglected Italian cousin. He wore a trim-fitting blue blazer over a crisp yellow dress shirt and pink tie, with lightweight charcoal pants and buffed wingtips. His hair had been recently barbered and swept back with a light sheen. His nails were manicured. The pink tie was knotted with a single Windsor at his throat.

“I’m sorry about Gino’s nephew.”

“We’ll get to that in a second,” Vinnie said. “How the fuck did you get involved in this casino crap?”

“Would you believe sheer luck?”

Vinnie rubbed an invisible dirt spot off his wingtips. Z and I both wore sweaty workout clothes. I hadn’t been able to sleep, and I had run steps at Harvard Stadium while Z had walked the track. My thighs felt like Jell-O, but my breathing was calm. Relaxed. I folded my arms across my chest and leaned back in my chair. “Some sluggers were trying to push Henry Cimoli around.”

“That didn’t have shit to do with Gino.”

“Says who?”

“Says me,” Vinnie said.

I looked over Vinnie’s shoulder. Z lay back relaxed on the couch. He took a sip of coffee, listening but silent. Sunlight slanted across my wooden floor and over half of Vinnie’s face.

“Jimmy and Tommy were just trying to scare the broad,” Vinnie said. “Not kill her.”

“Attempted kidnapping.”

Vinnie shrugged.

“Why?” I said.

Vinnie kind of laughed, mainly just blew some air out of his nose. He sat erect in my client chair and leaned back to stare at the ceiling. I again glanced over at Z. Z patted Pearl’s head with one hand; the other hand put down the coffee and disappeared at his side. Z did not know Vinnie Morris.

“Gino wanted me to tell you to back off,” Vinnie said. “I told him that was a waste of breath. But he wanted to say it anyway. So there you go. I fucking said it.”

“What’s Gino say about Rick Weinberg being smoked?”

“The headless horseman?”

I nodded.

“Not our business,” Vinnie said. “Gino said you’d ask. And I said I’d tell you we were not involved.”

“You saying that or Gino?”

“Me.”

Vinnie widened his eyes. He shuffled in my client chair. He scratched his cheek.

“I’m sort of working for Rick Weinberg’s widow,” I said.

“What the fuck does ‘sort of’ mean?”

“I was asked to help, but now she’s being evasive.”

“Lot of that going around,” Vinnie said. “Big money makes people cautious.”

“Where has Gino put his money?”

Vinnie shrugged and yanked his head back. “That the big fucking Indian I keep hearing about?”

I nodded.

“A real-life fucking Indian,” Vinnie said.

“Say hello, Z.”

Z said: “How.”

“Fucking funny,” Vinnie said. “Is being a smartass part of the training?”

“Just a fortunate side effect,” I said.

“Are we clear now?”

“What about Gino’s nephew?” I said.

Vinnie stood and straightened the sleeves on his blazer. He found a bit of fuzz on his lapel and flicked it away with his finger. “He’s not taking this thing personally,” he said. “Between us, he never liked the numbnuts anyway. But on the business end, he says it was an unfortunate misunderstanding.”

“Why did Gino want Jemma Fraser?”

Vinnie shrugged. “Who shot first?” he said. “Just curious.”

“Not my gun,” I said.

Vinnie nodded.

“You know I won’t back off.”

“No fucking kidding,” Vinnie said.

“I need to see Gino.”

“Like I said, he doesn’t blame you for what happened, but he doesn’t want to talk to you, either. How the fuck would that look?”

“I am interested in why someone wanted to clip me.”

“He didn’t know you were involved.”

“Now he does,” I said. “Police think he may have aced Weinberg as a message.”

“You really think that’s his style?”

“To be honest, I’ve never really thought Gino had much of a style.”

Vinnie walked to the door and set his hand on the knob. “I told Gino if something goes down between you and him, it’s between you and him. I’m on the fucking sidelines.”

“I appreciate that, Vinnie.”

“But I’d consider it a personal favor not to put me in a bind and to back the fuck off,” Vinnie said. “You got to realize this is about shit tons of money. Lots of big-time players want a piece.”

“You ever meet Rick Weinberg?” I said.

“See you around, Spenser.”

“Or Harvey Rose?”

“Nice name.”

He opened the door halfway. He looked down at the place where the sunlight spilled across the office floor. “No matter what you do, things will shake out the same,” Vinnie said. “That’s what I came here to tell you.”

“And that if I stop poking around, Gino won’t turn me into a hunk of Swiss cheese for shooting his beloved nephew.”

Vinnie looked over to Z and grinned. “Stick close to this one. He’s quick.”

He closed the door with a light click. I propped my running shoes on the edge of the desk and leaned back in thought. Z’s hand came back out from under a pillow. He set a .44 by his leg and nodded. “You better watch your back with that guy.”

“Wait till you meet my enemies.”

44

JEMMA HAD TRIPLE-LOCKED the door and it took a moment of assurance before she let me into my apartment. Pearl trotted in first. I followed triumphantly with breakfast. I had stopped off at the Flour on Washington and bought some cinnamon-cream brioche and lemon-ginger scones. I filled a bowl of water for Pearl and set about making coffee.

“Do you feel better?” she said.

“Nothing like running steps to sweat off guilt.”

“He pulled the gun on us.”

I nodded.

“I borrowed one of your T-shirts,” she said. “I hope that’s okay.”

“Just don’t take the one from Karl’s Sausage Kitchen.”

Pearl lapped up all of her water. I again refilled the bowl. I waited for the water to boil and measured out eight heaping spoonfuls of coffee into the press. When the water started to bubble, I poured it over the grounds. While it steeped, I squeezed some oranges and set the juice on the kitchen counter.

“First-rate,” she said.

“How’s your head?”

“Horrific.”

I went to the bathroom and returned with two aspirin. I mashed the plunger on the press and poured us both some coffee. Brioche and scones were set in the toaster oven on low while I stirred just a little cream and sugar into my mug.

“I apologize for last night,” she said. “Quite embarrassing.”

“Don’t apologize,” I said. “Blame Kentucky’s finest.”

“I’m sure you saw more than you were bargaining for.”

“I averted my eyes.”

Jemma smiled and took a sip of her coffee. “Quite embarrassing.”

“You had a lot to drink,” I said. “Attempted kidnapping often leads to anxiety.”

She smiled. I drank some orange juice and took the scones and brioche from the toaster. I set them into a gingham cloth napkin and then into a basket.

“Truly first-rate,” she said.

“But there is a price to be paid,” I said.

She put down her coffee and set her elbow on the edge of my kitchen counter. Pearl sat at my feet and stared up at me, waiting for a sampling of goodies from Flour.

“I need you to explain in as much detail as possible exactly what the hell is going on,” I said. “I feel as if I’m in a maze.”

She nodded. She let out a long breath, looking as elegant as possible in a BU T-shirt and cut-off sweatpants. “You more than deserve it,” she said. Her face flushed. “More now, knowing that you weren’t willing to take any of the other spoils.”