Текст книги "Robert B. Parker's Cheap Shot"

Автор книги: Ace Atkins

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4

The next morning, I picked up Kinjo Heywood and drove him to Foxboro.

The Patriots kept their training facilities, offices, and practice fields in and around Gillette. Up the hill from the stadium, a sprawling entertainment complex called Patriot Place had recently opened to make sure every dime stayed within a quarter-mile radius. There were shops, outdoor cafés, and a movie theater. Bass Pro Shops, a Renaissance Hotel, and even Toby Keith’s I Love This Bar & Grill made Patriot Place about as unique as a trip to suburban Ohio.

On the south end of the complex, I watched Kinjo go through a series of warm-up drills, stretching and running with the team. They had dressed out in half-pads, helmets, and shorts. It was still early and gray, a misty rain falling. I stood, watching, next to Kinjo’s brother, Ray, who was also his business manager.

“They shouldn’t practice in the rain,” Ray Heywood said. “Somebody is going to get hurt.”

“But if you don’t practice in the elements, how will you play in them?”

“You sound like Coach Belichick,” Ray said. “You see that big metal building behind us? Cost something like twenty million and he’s used it maybe two times. Rain, sleet, snow, the players’ asses are out here.”

“Might ruin Tom Brady’s hair.”

Ray Heywood laughed.

If Kinjo hadn’t introduced me to Ray, I would have never figured them for brothers. Ray Heywood stood a little under six feet and was short-legged and thick around the waist. He had shaved his hair and beard very short and had an earring in his right ear. He wore a pink oxford cloth shirt hanging out over designer jeans and designer sneakers.

“You like working for your brother?”

“I work for him but don’t work for him,” Ray said. “I just look out for his business affairs.”

“So you’re his other agent?”

Ray shook his head. “Un-uh,” he said. “Kinjo has the same agent he’s always had. I only take care of his money while he keeps his mind right. I handle investments, off-season appearances, and endorsement deals. A life in the NFL ain’t forever. He’s got to make that hard cash now and see how it can grow.”

“What did you do before?”

Ray ran a hand over the back of his thick neck and smiled. “Sold cars,” he said. “I know what you’re thinking. But it was a dealership in Atlanta, and I am very good with money.”

I nodded and stuck my hands in the pockets of my A-2 bomber jacket. I wore a navy Lowell Spinners ball cap, since I didn’t own anything with an NFL logo. Maybe if I caught the bad guys and forced them to talk, the Pats would comp me a cap.

“You have any theories as to who’s been following your brother?” I said.

Ray shook his head.

The misting rain kept on falling. Kinjo had joined up with the other linebackers and was running his feet with great speed over a row of red blocking dummies. When his foot hit the grass after the last dummy, he darted toward his coach, who zinged him the ball. He ran the ball upfield. The coach blew a whistle.

“Kinjo said you think it has something to do with that shooting?”

“Nope,” I said. “I just asked him what he thought.”

“Two years ago.”

I nodded.

“He didn’t have nothing to do with that.”

“Have no reason to think he did.”

There were maybe twenty or thirty people perched around the aluminum stands where we now sat. The practice was closed to the public, and most looked to be sportswriters or family of the players. A couple news stations for film at eleven.

“He seemed to think it was a player for another team,” I said. “Maybe wants to rattle him before the season.”

“You read that SI piece?”

“Yep.”

“Calling him the league’s hit man?” Ray said. “That’s some bullshit. They had coaches and players saying he took cheap shots. Someone said he wasn’t no different from the guys on the Saints who worked for a bounty. What’s a linebacker supposed to do to a quarterback? Hug and kiss him?”

“Hardly appropriate.”

“You running at a quarterback on a blitz full-out, man,” he said. “If he let go of the ball a tenth of a second before, how you supposed to put on the brakes? Kinjo start doing that and he’ll fuck up his knees and hips. That story’s told by people who never played the game. Most sportswriters hate athletes ’cause they know they’d shit their pants if they ever stepped on the field.”

Kinjo and the other linebackers had joined up with the rest of the defense and were going through different alignments. The Patriots, like most pro teams, ran a four-three defense, four down linemen and three linebackers roaming the mid-ground. Kinjo was the middle linebacker, the Mike, who was pretty much the quarterback of the defense. He could rush the passer or drop back and cover a receiver.

I’d seen some highlight film of Kinjo. He had aided many players to early retirement. But I saw nothing dirty about his play. No dirtier than a fighter who had a hell of a right.

“So you gonna follow him to and from practice and see who’s tailing him?” Ray said.

“That’s the plan.”

“What you do if you find out who they are and where they live?”

“Reason with them.”

Ray laughed. “You don’t look like the kind of man with many reasoning skills.”

“I am a man of many talents.”

An air horn sounded and Belichick called the entire team together to scrimmage. The hitting was very light on the line and the offense went through a series of plays while the linebackers shot the gaps in the line or went into pass coverage. Passes were thrown and caught, the orchestra of the defense and offense working with speed and efficiency.

As the special teams ran onto the field, a man in a dark suit approached us.

“Oh, shit,” Ray said. “This dickhead runs the security for the Pats.”

“Lovely.”

When the man got closer, Ray stood up and said, “Spenser, this is Jeff Barnes.”

We shook hands while the players scrimmaged. The misty rain seemed to make the practice field glow an intense green.

Barnes smiled without warmth, eyes wandering over me. He was a compact man, blue-suited and red-tied, with chiseled features and thick white hair. His lips were thin and his nose hawkish, and he had a superior posture that reminded me of a rooster.

“Nice to meet you,” Barnes said, shaking my hand. “Can’t say I was excited that Steve Rosen didn’t tell me about you.”

“Not everyone can sing my praises.”

“I’m not familiar with some of the local cops, but I did call up a friend with the FBI,” Barnes said, still gripping my hand. “His remarks weren’t kind.”

“Are you taking my fingerprints right now?”

Barnes let go of my hand. A smile remained frozen on his face.

“You must be quite a hot dog to draw the ire of the special agent in charge of the city.”

I wavered my hand in a so-so gesture.

Barnes’s face reddened. His cheek twitched just a bit. The air horn sounded on the field and Belichick called in all the players. Ray stared down at the field where the team had gathered, but Barnes remained splayfooted and cocksure.

“Rosen is a hot-shit agent,” he said. “But I can pull you off the tit fast. When you’re on this property, I am in charge.”

“Yikes.”

“What?”

“I said, ‘Yikes.’ It means my knees won’t stop knocking.”

“If you see anything, suspect anything, or spot anyone in or around Gillette, you call me first. Connor said you’re overly fond of your weapon.”

I let that one go and simply shrugged.

“These kids out there don’t have normal problems like you and me,” he said. “Kinjo is probably being followed by a carload of sorority girls who just want to bang him. You make a mistake, and this team looks bad and my entire job is in question. You understand?”

“Un-uh. Go back to the sorority girls.”

“Christ,” Barnes said, shaking his head. He walked away.

I sat back down with Ray. He studied the field and the players fanning out on one knee and listening to the coach talk about their opponent. His chin was lifted as if he hadn’t heard a word. Not looking away, Ray said, “Looks like they got the right guy,” he said.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t let that prick get in the way of protecting my brother,” he said. “Kinjo’s a good man. He never wanted Akira to grow up like we did. It’s important to have a father, not just around, but in his life. We never had that. He and that kid go to the zoo, the mall, to movies. Disney World twice a year. That’s why the bad stuff hurts Kinjo. Because that ain’t him. You can talk shit about him on the field, but anyone who tarnishes who he is as a man, that’s about his family honor.”

“A Southern man’s code?”

“And all that Japanese shit he’s into. Man loves his family and he takes care of his people. Look at me. I may be good with money, but I never deserved all this.”

I nodded. “You think it’s really just a carload of girls?”

“Tell you what,” Ray said. “If it is, I’d better be the one you call first.”

5

The next day, I followed Kinjo away from Foxboro and into the city. Akira was to spend the weekend with his mother, and both had agreed to meet at the Quincy Market. This was not my decision, only a stroke of luck, as I had not eaten since early that morning. The Pats had not invited me to partake in their training table for carbo-loading or fruit smoothies.

We parked side by side at a garage with a nice view of the North End. I hung back as Kinjo followed the sidewalk with Akira, the son a little moody about the exchange. He wore an oversized Pats jersey with HEYWOOD written above number 57.

There were a few whispers and sideways glances as they made their way into the market. A couple of people stopped him for an autograph. Akira seemed used to all this. He’d smile up as his father signed a piece of paper or someone’s hat. Inside, I bought a turkey sub and sat down with them at a table in the common area under the rotunda.

“Shit,” Kinjo said. “Nicole’s always late. She can’t help it.”

I unwrapped the sandwich and offered Akira half. He declined. He said his mother was going to take him to the Five Guys in Medford. As I ate, two unsavory-looking men in leather coats walked from the Faneuil Hall entrance. I watched them move past our table, not a flick of recognition, as they headed toward a pizza vendor.

“You ever shoot anybody?” Akira said.

I looked to Kinjo. Kinjo nodded back.

“Yep.”

“Dead?” Akira said.

“As a doornail.”

The kid nodded with that, liking what he’d heard. He was smallish, even for eight, with bright eyes and a warm smile.

“Why’d you kill them?” Akira said.

“Akira,” Kinjo said. “Hush.”

“I just want to know.”

“They were very unpleasant people,” I said.

“Bad men,” Akira said.

“You might say that.”

“And they needed to be dead?”

I looked to Kinjo again. He nodded. I looked to the bright-eyed little boy and shrugged. “It’s a little more complicated than that.”

Akira nodded.

“Akira goes to Beaver Country Day,” Kinjo said. “Every student got their own iPad. School where I went in Georgia was just a bunch of trailers. Teachers did the best they could. But they couldn’t do much.”

I lifted my eyes and nodded at his flat-billed baseball hat. “What’s that R with the squiggles mean?”

Akira looked at his dad as if I were simple. Kinjo continued to look at the crowded space filled with people eating and talking, coming and going, carrying food from the long food court. I ate more of my sub.

“It’s Rocawear,” Kinjo said.

“Of course,” I said. “Rocawear.”

“Jay-Z,” Akira said. “He owns it.”

“Hat cost a hundred damn dollars,” Kinjo said.

“Daddy never ate in a restaurant till he was in high school.”

Kinjo shrugged.

“And he had three jobs after school when he wasn’t playing ball.”

Kinjo grinned. “Actually, just two.”

“Shining shoes and loading shelves at the Piggly Wiggly.”

Kinjo nodded and put an arm around his son, pulling him tight. “Akira’s gonna work training camp next year. Learn what it’s like to make money.”

“I don’t want to shine shoes.”

Kinjo nodded, grabbed Akira’s sneaker and dusted off some dirt. Akira laughed, but Kinjo looked away and shook his head. “Okay. Here we go. Here comes trouble.”

A woman had walked in from the south end of Quincy Market, splitting the tourists like Moses and the Red Sea. She was diminutive but moved with purpose. Kinjo’s former wife was dark-skinned, with short black hair reminiscent of Audrey Hepburn’s. She wore a blue-and-white vertical-striped sleeveless blouse and navy pencil skirt. Her heels were brown and tall and her jewelry was simple. As she walked closer I noted a tiny silver necklace with a diamond pendant on her long neck.

She smiled at Akira. She ignored both me and Kinjo. I put down the sub.

“I’ve been waiting for you outside for fifteen minutes,” she said. “What the hell?”

“I told you we’d be inside,” Kinjo said. “It’s getting cold. Damn.”

She turned back to her son. “Don’t you have anything else to wear besides football jerseys?”

Akira shrugged. Nicole looked to me. I wrapped up my sub and stood. Her eyes were big and almond-shaped. She had full lips and fine features. I smiled at her. She did not return the gesture.

“Why’d you bring a coach?” she said.

“He ain’t a coach,” Kinjo said. “He does security.”

“And why is he here?” she said.

Kinjo’s eyes shifted from me to Akira and back to Nicole. Kinjo offered his palms and said, “He’s doing some security work for me.” Akira slowly moved away from his father and hugged his mother around the waist. He was content. His mother glared at me.

I smiled some more. My cheeks started to hurt. A young Hispanic man in a do-rag and a skinny young white man with shoulder-length red hair watched us from a long table on the far side of the rotunda. They spoke back and forth, eyes on Kinjo and Nicole. One of them nodded. The Hispanic man continued to watch.

I asked Nicole if she’d like to sit.

She shook her head. Akira unwrapped his arms from her and took his backpack from his father. The kid watched the ground as his parents talked to each other.

“You get straight with the lawyer?” he said. “You see we doing things right?”

Nicole looked at Kinjo, eyes flicking across his face. “Sorry I didn’t trust you,” she said. “Don’t know why that is.”

She turned. I smiled at Akira and winked at him. He returned with a weak smile and looked away.

I sat back down. I returned to my sub. The Hispanic man and Eric the Red continued to watch us. They watched Nicole and Akira as they passed, hand in hand. I started to follow, but their gaze hung back on Kinjo. The Hispanic man picked at his teeth with his small finger, eyes unwavering.

“You recognize those two?” I said.

“Where?”

I ate a bit. I motioned slightly with my head.

“Nope.”

Eric the Red started to stand. He had a matching mustache and goatee, red hair long and curly.

“So how the Falcons look this week?” I said.

“Okay.”

“You okay?”

“She shouldn’t talk like that in front of the kid.”

“I noted a trace of hostility.”

“Shit,” he said. “She’d be glad if someone did kill me.”

Kinjo shook his head. Akira and Nicole had disappeared into the long, narrow space of the mall. The Hispanic man joined Eric the Red, and they walked toward us. The Hispanic man had his hand at hip level. Both eyes were serious and intent. Eric the Red licked his lips. His Celtics T-shirt hung nearly to his knees.

I had one bite to go but steeled myself.

The men approached the table. The Hispanic man reached into his jacket.

Kinjo jumped up fast and threw a right hand at the man’s face. I caught his fist in my palm. The man ducked, yelping, “What the fuck?”

A pen fell to the floor. Eric the Red ducked and covered.

Kinjo breathed hard out of his nose. His face twitched.

I let go of Kinjo’s fist. My palm smarted as I picked up the pen and handed it to him. “Sorry about that.” Kinjo took it and forced a smile. “What’s your name, man?”

6

The Pats flew out to Atlanta the next morning. Kinjo was now under the watch of Jeff Barnes. I told Kinjo to give him my best.

As I had a couple days to sleuth, I drove to the Harbor Health Club to search for some company. I found Z and Hawk sparring in Henry’s newly expanded boxing room. Hawk and I had taken turns coaching Z that summer.

Z wore cut-off gray sweats, a pair of eighteen-ounce gloves, and leather headgear. Hawk wore a black satin Adidas getup with red stripes, focus mitts, and no headgear. Hawk’s head was made of steel and Teflon and shone black and smooth in the harbor’s morning light.

Hawk played James Brown on the sound system. He had been telling Z he moved more white than red or black, and he needed rhythm.

“Keep yourself bladed, move, come on, duck, okay, two, three, two. Slip. Up on that toe. Breathe like you live. Don’t breathe to punch. You do that in the ring and you get killed.”

I stood next to the heavy bag. The new section of plate glass provided a commanding view of the harbor. The boxing room had more than doubled in size, which, at first, Hawk and I thought came from Henry’s undying gratitude. Then we noted the flyers around the gym for kickboxing and something called Punch Fit classes. It didn’t matter. We now had two heavy bags, two speed bags, and a big mirrored room to shadow-box and to offer classes to promising young thugs.

“Where’s the snap?” Hawk said. “You pushing a punch. Don’t push it. Snap that jab out there. Come on in. Make me back the fuck up.”

The three-minute timer buzzed. Z was drenched. He winked at me and made his way to the water fountain.

“As a white man, I am deeply offended by your comments on rhythm.”

“Only white man could move was Gene Kelly,” Hawk said. “Only white man who could move and fight was Hollywood fantasy.”

“Besides being part of the Big Brothers program,” I said, “what else do you have going on?”

“Besides lookin’ good and pleasin’ the ladies?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Besides that.”

Hawk shook his head. “Nothing that interest me.”

“I thought I had something,” I said. “Good pay, too.”

“Fella offered me a job in a grocery store,” Hawk said, grinning. “Said I’d make a crackerjack clerk.”

“Crackerjack,” I said.

“What happened to the job?”

“Still on it,” I said. “But starting to think it’s all in the client’s mind.”

“Sounds like Susan’s kind of work,” he said.

“Maybe.”

Hawk removed the focus mitts. Without looking at his watch, he told Z to take on the heavy bag. Within two seconds, the buzzer sounded. “So, if it is real,” Hawk said, “what’s the job?”

“Shooing flies off a man who just may be tougher than you.”

Hawk raised his eyebrows. He doubted it.

“Kinjo Heywood,” I said. “Pats linebacker.”

“Playing a game ain’t the same, babe.”

“No,” I said. “It’s not.”

“’Course millions of people don’t pay to watch us kick the shit out of people, either.”

“True.”

“They should,” Hawk said. “We good at it.”

“And Z is getting better.”

Hawk shrugged. Z worked on the heavy bag. Despite his injuries from a few months ago, his body had healed and his punches had become even more substantial. The bag hopped and bounced on the heavy chains. Z’s breathing was smooth and easy, his muscles bulging from his cut-off sweatshirt. He had cut his long, black hair as short as mine.

“Full-time job for Z to unlearn all your bad habits.”

“Thank God you stepped in when you did,” I said.

“Another month with you, and he’d be ready for the Ziegfeld Follies.”

“Shall I serenade you with ‘There’s Beauty Everywhere’?”

“How about I teach Z to fight, and you teach all the useless shit you know.”

“We each have our calling.”

7

Susan and I had dinner at Casablanca. Everything was the same: the polished wood, the gleaming brass rails, the churning ceiling fans, and the colorful murals of Bogart and scenes from Rick’s Café. Even Sari, the restaurant’s owner, kept his place at a back table and whispered in conspiratorial tones with Catherine Boyle, another loyal customer and one of Susan’s friends. I’d never have guessed the restaurant’s days were numbered.

“How long?” Susan said.

We stood at the bar. I ordered a Blue Moon ale. Susan ordered a gin martini and waved at Catherine.

“Sari says the end of the year,” I said. “He says there will be a big going-away party.”

“Hard to envision Brattle Street without Casablanca.”

“Or downtown without Locke-Ober.”

Susan nodded and smiled a bit. The bartender served my beer. He started work on Susan’s concoction. I did not touch my beer.

She nudged me. “Go ahead, big guy.”

“I can wait,” I said. “Contrary to popular opinion, I don’t salivate at the sound of a cracking bottle top.”

“What do you think they’ll do with all the murals?” she said. “I’ll miss the murals.”

“They’ll be ripped out with the rest of it,” I said. “Progress.”

The bartender presented the martini. Susan lifted it in a toast and said, “May it pass us by.”

We clicked drinks. Sari nodded and waved to us. We waved back. Susan cocked a hip and leaned into the bar. She wore a pair of very tight dark jeans and a green scoop-necked cashmere sweater. Her shoes were high-heeled and très chic. I bet I could not pronounce their maker.

“Before we’re seated,” I said. “Do you mind talking shop?”

“Do you know how much you would owe me if you had to pay for my professional services?”

I smiled and tilted my head. “Perhaps I could work it off?”

“Shrinkage for sexual favors?” she said. “A slight ethical dilemma we have discussed many times before.”

“This is nothing solid,” I said. “Just some general advice.”

“On?”

“Paranoia.”

“That’s a very wide topic,” she said. “Aren’t you the one that said paranoia was very healthy in your business?”

“I said that?” I said. “My wisdom occasionally astounds me.”

Susan rolled her eyes. She toyed with her drink, taking a short sip.

“How might I recognize someone suffering from unhealthy paranoia?” I said. “When people come to me and need help, I often believe them. But what if the only trouble was in their head?”

“Something new with your client?”

I turned beside me to make sure no one was within earshot. I gave a small nod. I took a sip of beer. Sipping beer fueled the thinking. The thinking would lead to the right path.

I shrugged. “A couple of guys approached him at the Quincy Market for an autograph and he nearly ripped their heads off.”

“What did you think?”

“Maybe it’s contagious. I nearly slugged one of them.”

“What stopped you?”

“A Bic pen looks very different than a .44 Magnum.”

“How does Kinjo treat you?” Susan said. “Does he confide in you or is he standoffish?”

“Straight ahead.”

“Besides people following him,” she said, “has he said anything that seems irrational?”

“He thinks it may be another player who wants him hurt.”

“Is that plausible?”

“Sure.” I smiled. “Anything is plausible in the NFL.”

“Lots of money at stake.”

“Money, power, ego. Take your pick.”

I drank some beer. I thought. I drank some more beer and waited for enlightenment. “Something is off about what he’s told me. Something doesn’t ring true.”

“But he’s your client,” she said. “You’ve given your word to help, and you must trust his.”

“Yes.”

“Could he just want attention?” she said.

“Why would a football hero need more? His picture is on soda cups.”

“Maybe he has a head injury,” she said. “The man does use his head as a battering ram professionally.”

“I was told that would only hone your intellect.”

“Yes,” Susan said. “Of course.”

“Time will tell if someone is trying to kill him,” I said. “And I’ll try to protect both him and his reputation.”

“A noble goal.”

“If they don’t shoot me in the process.”

We clicked drinks. I took a swallow of beer.

“And what will you be having for our last supper?” I said.

“Tapas,” she said. “I’m very fond of their deviled eggs and fried green tomatoes.”

“Chicken seems fitting to me,” I said. “Fries, collard greens, and more beer.”

She nodded and turned back to the wide-open space of Casablanca. She looked at the Bogart mural and then up toward the staircase leading down from Brattle Street. “Have you confronted Kinjo with your doubts?”

“Nope.”

“But your normal bullshit detector has sounded, you’re just not sure why.”

“Don’t talk too shrinky to me,” I said. “All that medical jargon is confusing.”

“When does he get back?” Susan said.

“Sunday night after the game.”

“Is it football season already?” she said.

“Sort of,” I said. “Preseason.”

“And you are to guard the Emperor of the Gridiron all season, if that’s what it takes?”

“Or until he cracks.”

“The unknowing is frustration,” she said.

“Speaking from experience?”

She toasted me with the drink. “You better believe it.”