“Absolutely,” said Tolevi.
As he left the building, he found a burly man blocking his way. Tolevi was by no means short, but the man in front of him loomed over him. His T-shirt strained with his arm and chest muscles; he looked twice the size of a professional wrestler.
Three other men, all as big, stood behind him.
“You were in that car,” said the man.
“You’re the jerk that cut me off?” snapped Tolevi. It wasn’t exactly the most politic answer, but if he was going to get beaten up, he might as well go down with dignity.
“I wanted to apologize,” said the man. “I’m sorry, Mr. Tolevi.”
Tolevi was sure this was some sort of trick. One of the men nudged the trucker, and he stuck out his hand to shake.
Doubtful but seeing no other choice, Tolevi extended his own. To his great surprise, the man gripped it gently and they shook.
“I really am sorry, sir,” said the trucker.
“It’s not a problem,” said Tolevi, flabbergasted. “Don’t worry about it. It’s forgotten. I don’t even remember hearing anything, except ‘good morning.’”
“Anything we can do for you, Mr. Tolevi,” said the man who’d nudged the trucker, “just let us know.”
Tolevi nodded, then walked quickly to his car.
24
The clerk frowned. “Let’s see the paper.”
Chelsea took it from her pocket and slid it onto the counter. The clerk picked it up and examined it closely.
“All right, so you have a gun license,” he said. “What do you want?”
“Show me the SIG.”
“You’d really probably be more comfortable with something smaller,” he said.
“I want stopping power,” she told him.
The man’s moustache twitched. He was older, midsixties, she guessed. Though that wasn’t an excuse for his chauvinism.
“Look, I’m an ex-trooper and gun instructor,” he told her. “I’ve seen a lot of girls—”
“I’m not a girl. Are you not going to even show me the gun?”
“A small automatic—”
“If I wanted that, I’d ask for it.”
“Old-fashioned shotguns are the best weapon for home defense. There’s nothing like that sound in the middle of the night.”
“I have one. I need something to carry.”
The clerk removed the gun from the display. He made sure it wasn’t chambered, then handed it to her. Chelsea inspected it carefully, knowing he was watching her.
“A lot of people are worried because of the ISIS attacks,” he said gently. “I get it. Believe me. And I’m not trying to give you a hard time—”
“You are giving me a hard time.”
“I just want to make sure you’re getting the right weapon,” he said. “Believe me, I know what I’m talking about.”
“You think I’m a woman and can’t handle a gun.”
“What do you weigh? A hundred pounds?”
“I’ve used 1911s without a problem. I know it’s not a toy. You want to come down the street to the police range and see?”
“I’m just trying to help.”
The SIG 226 felt heavy in her hand. Chambered in .40 S&W, it was the same gun used by many police officers and even some special-operations soldiers. It could hold fifteen bullets in its magazine.
“You know, if you like SIGs,” suggested the clerk, “you might think about a 229 or even a 224. The 224 is really compact. It would fit easier in your purse.”
“I don’t carry a purse,” said Chelsea.
“There’s no manual safety,” he said.
“No shit.”
Chelsea put the gun down on the counter.
“You want a case?” asked the clerk.
“Absolutely,” she said, taking out her credit card. “And three boxes of ammo.”
25
Ordinarily, Massina would have blown off the fund-raising reception for the New Millennium Advancement Project. He had no connection to the foundation or its board and plenty of other things to do. But in the aftermath of the attacks, he felt almost obligated to attend. The cocktail party was being held at the Windhaven Hotel, across the street from the Patriot, where so many people had been murdered. Windhaven had opened its doors to its erstwhile rival, providing rooms at no charge to some of the displaced guests following the assaults and even lending its own employees. Attending the reception was a small gesture of thanks — and an opportunity to reclaim some of the area soiled by savages.
In the aftermath of the Easter attacks, there was a general consensus that life had to go on. Amid the sorrow and the cleanup efforts, under the watchful eye of National Guardsmen and state police reinforcements, Boston made an effort to push ahead. The citizens didn’t ignore what had happened, let alone hide their grief, but many went out of their way to stick to their old routines. Even with a significant part of the Orange Line closed for emergency repairs, ridership on the T approached record levels, as if residents had decided taking the subway was a good way to give the terrorists the finger. Restaurants were overbooked. If the atmosphere throughout the city wasn’t quite St. Patrick’s Day happy — a bit too warm for that — it was definitely Boston Proud: F-U to all and any that messed with us.
Defiance ran deep, from skin to bones and back. But there were other things beneath the surface: wariness, queasy suspicion, distrust. There was ugliness as well. A handful of Arab Americans had been beaten in the wake of the attacks; there were threats and graffiti.
There was also fear. People glanced over their shoulders as they walked. Many rehearsed what they would do if something nearby exploded.
Massina passed through the security check, then waited for Johnny, who had to explain who he was and why he needed his weapon even though he’d been precleared for the event as Massina’s bodyguard. The screener’s supervisor came over and gave him a small red pin to wear on his lapel.
“Red Badge of Courage,” remarked Massina.
The former FBI agent gave him a confused look.
“Stephen Crane. Book,” said Massina, turning to greet one of the board members as she came forward to peck him on the cheek.
He peeked at her name tag, unable to place the face.
“Delilah, how are you?” he asked.
“Fab-u-lous.” She was a sketch out of Saturday Night Live. “And you, Lou-is?”
“Just looking for a drink,” said Massina, excusing himself.
He made his way toward the bar at the far end of the room. Along the way he shook a few hands, received three or four air kisses, and nodded a lot. When he made it to the bartender, he asked for a pair of seltzers. Stuffing a five in the cup, he took the drinks and slid sideways toward Johnny, who was watching the crowd. Bozzone insisted he go everywhere these days with a bodyguard, and aside from Bozzone himself, he felt most comfortable with Johnny.
He handed Johnny the cup. “It’s seltzer,” he told him.
“Thanks.”
Massina passed through the crowd, nodding and smiling, occasionally stopping to chat. He knew a good number of the people at the reception, though he wasn’t very close to any of them. The crowd was a bit too artsy for his taste.
A half hour later, he nudged Johnny aside and glanced at his watch. “I think we’ll call it a night.”
“Your party, boss.”
“Party is too strong a word.”
Massina headed to a side door, smiled at two people he didn’t know, and pushed through. He walked down a short hall to a door that opened onto a side terrace. To his surprise, there was a small group of men there smoking cigars. He started to pass through — there was a gate at the far end to the street — when someone called his name.