“Your dog?” Susan said.
“Yes,” she said. “Otto.”
“Mine is Pearl,” Susan said. “They seem to be getting along.”
The woman smiled.
“Or would if they slowed down,” she said.
We watched as the flirtation continued. The two dogs began to roll on the ground, mouthing each other in make-believe bites, unsuccessfully trying to pin each other down with a front paw.
“Do you bring Pearl here regularly?” Otto’s mom said.
“Quite often,” Susan said.
“We’re in from New York, staying across the park.”
Otto’s mom nodded toward the Four Seasons.
“They seem so taken with each other,” she said. “Do you have a card or something? I could call you. Maybe they could meet again while we’re here?”
“Please,” Susan said. “Pearl will be thrilled.”
Susan gave her a card.
“Otto doesn’t mind that Pearl is spayed?” I said.
“Otto’s been neutered,” his mom said.
“Men!” Susan said to me. “This is love, not sex.”
“Both are nice,” I said.
The two dogs stood, panting, tails wagging, looking at each other.
“You should know,” Susan said.
3
Today, Prince had on a gray tweed suit and a polka-dot bow tie.
“We’re supposed to go west on Route Two,” he said when I got in his car. “They’ll call me on my cell phone and tell me where to go next.”
The car was an entry-level Volvo sedan, which was a little tight for me.
“Do they know I’m along?” I said.
“I told them I was bringing a friend because I was afraid to come alone,” he said.
“And?”
“They said you’d have to stay in the car and not get in the way.”
I nodded.
“Do you have a gun?” he said.
“Of course,” I said.
“Have you ever used it?” he said.
“Yes.”
“To shoot somebody?”
“Mostly I use the front sight to pick my teeth,” I said.
He smiled a little.
We drove west on Storrow along the river. It was bright today, and pretty chilly. But the boat crews were hard at it, as they would be until the river froze. To our left, we passed the former Braves Field, now a BU athletic field. The old stucco entrance was still there on Gaffney Street, and maybe vestiges of the right-field Jury Box. An elevated section of the Mass Pike ran above the railroad tracks outside of left field.
“When the Braves played there,” I said, “an outfielder named Danny Litwhiler is alleged to have hit a ball that cleared the left-field wall and landed in a freight car headed to Buffalo, thus hitting the longest measurable home run in baseball history.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t believe I understand what you’re saying,” Prince said.
“Never mind,” I said.
No one was tailing us as we went west on Route 2. Or if they were, they were better than I was. Which seemed unlikely to me. Probably had somebody set up to spot us when we got to a certain point, and then they’d call. I looked for a spotter. But I didn’t see one.
We were approaching Route 128, which in this section was also known to be Interstate Route 95. The phone rang. Prince answered and listened.
After a minute of listening he said, “Okay.”
He looked at me.
“Cross the overpass on One twenty-eight and turn around on the other side and start back, driving slowly,” he said.
I glanced back. The spotter was probably standing on one of the cross-street overpasses. We crossed above 128 and drove on into Lincoln until we found a place to turn around, and then we drove toward where we’d been. Prince had the cell phone to his ear. He nodded.
“Stop under the first overpass we come to,” he said. “Okay . . . I get out with the money . . . Okay . . . And climb up with it and stand in the middle of the bridge.”
Prince looked at me.
“You’re to stay in the car or there’s no deal.”
I nodded.
We pulled over to the side under the first overpass. He swallowed audibly and got out of the car. I reached in back and got the suitcase full of money, and handed it out to Prince.
“Break a leg,” I said.
He nodded and turned and lugged the big suitcase slowly up the ramp behind us. A suitcase full of money is heavy.
From where I sat, directly beneath the overpass, I couldn’t even see the swap. I put the windows down and shut off the engine, and listened intently. Cars went by on Route 2. Above me I thought I heard one. Maybe it stopped in the middle. Maybe its door opened. About thirty seconds later, maybe it shut. And maybe the car drove off. I waited. Silence. I looked back at the slope that supported the down ramp. In a moment I saw Prince scrambling down, carrying a surprisingly small paper-wrapped square. Maybe this was going to work out.
It didn’t. Just as he came into sight, the package exploded and blew him and itself into a mess.
4
I was sitting in the backseat of Captain Healy’s unmarked Mass State police cruiser. Healy sat in front behind the wheel, and beside him was an assistant DA from Middlesex named Kate Quaggliosi. Kate had a fine body and olive skin. Her hair was blond.
“Weren’t too useful, were you?” Kate said.
“I didn’t actually help them,” I said.
“Didn’t do much to hinder them,” Kate said.
“Don’t overstate,” I said.
“Okay,” she said. “You did nothing to hinder them.”
“That’s more accurate,” I said.
“Good,” Kate said. “Glad we got that settled.”
She looked at Healy.
“You know this guy?” she said.
“I do,” he said. “He’s very annoying.”
“I noticed,” Kate said.
“But if he couldn’t have saved this situation, no one could have.”
“Gee, Captain,” I said.
Healy looked at me.
“Shut up,” he said.
He looked back at Kate.
“And trust me,” Healy said to her, “he does not like it that this went down this way on his watch. And he won’t let it go until he makes it right.”
“In whose opinion,” she said.
“His,” Healy said. “Only one matters to him.”
“Susan’s opinion matters,” I said.
“Who?” Kate said.
“Girl of my dreams,” I said.
“So you might as well learn to deal with him now,” Healy said. “Because everywhere we turn on this, from here on in, we’re going to bump into him.”
“Well,” she said. “Annoying and persistent.”
“And sometimes helpful,” I said.
She looked at Healy. He nodded.
“I find it’s better to work with him than fight him,” Healy said.
“You’ve told us everything you know,” she said to me.
“Yep.”
“It’s not very much,” she said.
“I don’t know very much,” I said.
She smiled slightly.
“In this case?” she said. “Or are you speaking more generally.”
“Probably both,” I said.
“Modest, too,” she said.
“I have much to be modest about,” I said.
“Certainly true,” she said, “since I’ve known you. You have any questions for us?”
“You really blonde?” I said.
“With a name like Quaggliosi?” she said.
“I thought maybe it was your married name.”
“My husband’s name is Henderson. Henderson, Lake, Taylor, and Caldwell, attorneys at law. He makes money; I do good.”