Blanchard’s mouth opened and hung there for a few seconds.

“You really didn’t know.”

“Perotti had been elusive lately,” Blanchard said. “He was the main reason Mr. Weinberg was in Boston. He was trying to nail down Perotti on terms.”

“Percentages?”

“I don’t know the details,” Blanchard said. “Like we said, Mr. Weinberg preferred those terms to be worked out direct.”

“Did Rick ever say where this money would be funneled?”

“Nope.”

“Mention the name Gino Fish?”

“I know who he is,” Blanchard said. “I know he was the one person who had to get behind all this if it were to happen.”

“Did he?”

Blanchard shrugged. “Was yet to be determined.”

I leaned back. I drank some more beer. A man in a tuxedo and a woman in a sparkly dress sidled up to the bar. The woman was giggling. The man had a smug look as he patted her backside. If I patted Susan’s backside in public, I’d meet her left hook.

“What can you tell me about Jemma Fraser?”

Blanchard grinned. He leaned forward. He had recently cut his receding silver hair. The cuffs of his blue oxford had been rolled back to the elbows, showing off thick forearms. He looked like he’d broken his knuckles plenty of times. “What do you want to know?”

“Is she to be trusted?”

Blanchard grinned some more. “Hell, no.”

“You find her recent replacement as CEO a bit shady.”

“You don’t?”

“I find some of the family dynamics tricky.”

“You mean that Mr. Weinberg was shagging her while he got the board to approve the contingency clause.”

“That’s the one.”

Blanchard tilted his head. He crossed his legs. Two men having a nice business drink after a day making sales. The waitress returned and asked if we’d like another round. We did.

“Let me say I don’t think Jemma had Rick killed,” Blanchard said. “I think she had more to gain with Mr. Weinberg doing what he was doing.”

“What was that?”

“Taking care of Jemma.”

“And what if Harvey Rose is now taking care of Speaker Perotti?” I said.

“We’re fucked.”

“Officially speaking.”

“Yep,” Blanchard said. “He is the key to whoever gets the license.”

“You mind if I ask you something?”

“Shoot,” Blanchard said.

“Was it Jemma’s idea to send the leg-breakers to the condo?”

“Absolutely.”

“And Rick did not know.”

“He fired her, didn’t he?”

“Actually,” I said. “No, he didn’t.”

“Whatta you mean?”

“Jemma said they lied about the firing to keep the Ocean View board thinking in the right direction.”

“Shit, sounds like something she’d do,” Blanchard said. “She can’t stand not winning. Not at anything she does. Hell, she learned everything she knows from fucking Harvey Rose.”

“I know she used to work for him.”

“Not just work for him,” he said. “He was her mentor at Harvard. He fucking made her.”

“Holy smokes,” I said.

“Goes back a long time,” he said. “A really deep, twisted relationship. Mr. Weinberg said he hired Jemma because she thought just like Harvey Rose. But was a hell of a lot better-looking. He used to say things like that.”

52

WHEN I ARRIVED at the Harbor Health Club the next morning, Jemma Fraser was working out with Z. He had brought her into the boxing room to show her the fundamentals of the jab. Dressed in a white tank top and black satin shorts without shoes, she smiled attentively at her trainer. She looked to be very fit.

“The toughest and loneliest sport in the world,” I said.

“Breathe,” Z said to Jemma. “Don’t hold your breath.”

Jemma took a deep breath and did not turn. She kept on attacking the bag with sloppy yet significant punches. Z smiled and walked toward me. His hands were expertly wrapped in red tape.

“I tried to call,” I said.

“She wanted to leave the hotel,” Z said. “And she wanted to learn some self-defense stuff.”

I was still dressed in street clothes with my Everlast workout bag over my shoulder. Today was a day for weights, not boxing. I needed to put some thought on the recent developments.

“Henry wants to see you,” Z said. He canted his head toward the office and turned back to Jemma. She had yet to acknowledge my presence as she worked out a simple left jab over and over. Her brown hair was tied up in a high ponytail. Z had forced her into a steady, even sweat. She had her breath working and her concentration was all on the bag.

I strolled into Henry’s office, dropped my bag at my feet, and said, “What’s the haps?”

Henry was paying bills, half-glasses down on the end of his nose. There was a stack of envelopes on his desk and an old-fashioned ledger bearing Henry’s distinctive scrawl.

“You see Z is working with Mata Hari?” Henry said.

“He says she needed to learn some self-defense.”

“Z’s the one who needs to watch out.”

“He’s a smart kid,” I said. “He’ll keep it professional.”

“At that age, I couldn’t even spell ‘professional.’”

I sat down. I had once counted nearly sixty framed photos of boxers, wrestlers, and weight lifters on the wall of Henry Cimoli’s office. Many of them were long gone, and the pictures were bent and faded. Henry took off his glasses and tossed them on the table. He rubbed his eyes. “Got to say, Z looks better.”

I nodded.

“He’s lost the limp,” he said. “Got real zing and pop in the punches.”

“Maybe he’s showing off.”

“Nah,” Henry said. “He’s back on center.”

“Just what did you say to him after the beating?”

“I told him when a fight is over, it’s over.”

“He carried that rage with him.”

“He doesn’t think what happened to him is finished,” Henry said. “I told him to put it on the shelf for a bit. Use it when you need it. Being mad all the time screws up your head and tires you out.”

Henry walked to a shelf by his lone window and rattled some vitamins into his hand. “You know, I boxed for twenty-nine years and never hated nobody.”

“Never?”

“Nope.”

“Different on the street.”

“It is, but it isn’t,” Henry said. “Throw out the rules. But a fight is a fight. Bein’ mad clouds your brain.”

I changed into my workout clothes and launched into a circuit on the machines. I started off with my upper body, shoulders, chest, triceps, and then onto back and biceps. I jumped from one exercise to the next, giving myself no rest or downtime. I finished off working my legs and lower back. I counted off two minutes on the clock and repeated the circuit two more times. I used heavy weights, taking it up to twelve to fourteen reps on most exercises. On the last cycle, I felt fatigued but strong. I was past the point of showing off in the gym or maxing out with weight. I was interested in endurance and strength. Someone may be stronger or faster, but they couldn’t outlast me. Nobody could outlast me. Except maybe Hawk. Hawk could outlast Atlas.

As I headed to the shower, I glanced into the boxing room. Z was still there with Jemma. He was teaching her to throw a hook, hands on her hips, showing how they should flow loose and easy. He rotated her hips again and again. She smiled and giggled.

I dressed in my street clothes and left without a word. I was driving back to my office when Healy called.

“I got something I want to show you.”

“I have been warned about conversations that start that way.”

“We got two shitbirds we’re pulling out of a Dodge Charger parked in Chelsea,” Healy said. “Both shot in the head. Whoever it was got close enough to whisper in their ear with a .22 pistol.”

“Anyone we know?”

“Seems these guys are from out of town,” Healy said. “Tourists in from Las Vegas. Both of them with records as long as your arm.”