“As Mr. X?”
“Have you seen that shit?”
I shook my head. I tried a seasonal pickle. It went well with the prosciutto. “But my associate combed the archives.”
“Looking for me?”
I nodded.
“You won’t find it,” she said, ripping her third drink from the bartender’s hand. “That was from like four years ago. It’s old news.”
“Did Kinjo see it?”
“Hell, yes,” she said. “That’s how we met. He saw me in a movie and wanted to meet me. Fell in love with my body.”
“He told me he met you at a club in Chelsea.”
“He came to the club to watch me dance,” she said. “All the Pats hung out there. Some Bruins, too. I used to be into hockey players. But they’re all Canadian and crazy. You know, for a hotshot private detective, you really don’t know jack shit.”
I shrugged and tried a nice slice of hard cheese as consolation.
“Kinjo said you were only a waitress.”
“I did that, too,” she said. “I only made four movies, anyway. Kinjo has seen them. Sometimes I catch him watching them when he’s not watching that Japanese stuff.”
“Doesn’t bother him?” I said.
“He said it would bother him if I was with a man, but since it’s just with girls, he’s cool with it.”
“Ah,” I said. “And what about Mr. X?”
“Kevin didn’t start doing Mr. X until I was gone,” she said. “Back then, we used to have this fake sorority house where we made up stories. Pillow fights and all that crap. Sold a ton on DVD.”
I nodded. “Kind of a homemade Linda Lovelace.”
She looked confused and drank even more. I worked on the charcuterie plate. I offered a bite, but she turned up her nose. She seemed immune to her cocktails, talking without a noticeable change.
“So, your ex-boyfriend is a self-made pornographer and has several prior arrests.”
“Those arrests were nothing,” she said. “Drugs and all that. I think he beat up some girl one time because she laughed at his thingy.”
“Not impressive.”
“Hardly,” she said. She picked up one of my pickles and held it up as exhibit A. “I heard he uses a double for close shots.”
“When’s the last time you talked to him?” I said.
She looked up and tapped at her chin. Many of her movements were like that, practiced for effect. “A year?”
“Has he ever threatened you?” I said.
“Nope.”
“Has he ever come to your home?”
“Nope.”
“Has he ever approached Kinjo?”
“He tried,” she said. “But he got his ass kicked.”
“Has he ever asked you for money?” I said.
She again made the practiced tilt of the head. She tapped at her chin. And then she nodded. “Yeah.”
“How much?”
“He wanted fifty grand or said he’d make a big thing about my movies,” she said. “He wanted to package it like The Players’ Wives Club or some shit.”
“And what?”
“Kinjo and I laughed at him,” she said. “I think it just kind of fell through. Who cares if people know I did porn? You think I’m the only NFL wife with a sex tape? Big deal.”
I nodded. I pushed the plate away, although there was still some sausage and cheese left. I watched more cars pass by the big window facing the intersection of Washington and Beacon. I lifted my chin and tapped at it. I liked it.
“I think I’d very much like to talk to Kevin.”
“Are you not even listening to me?” she said. She stood up, mad, straight, and tall in her Roman sandals. She pointed hard at my chest.
Three drinks with no effect. If I had three double tequilas, I’d be singing José Feliciano tunes.
We all have our talents.
I paid the tab and drove her home.
39
I returned to relieve Z at four-thirty that morning.
To show my gratitude, I brought him two corn muffins and a large cup of coffee.
As I crawled into his Mustang, he peered into the bag and then up at me. “No donuts?”
“You’re an Indian,” I said. “Your people love corn.”
“For the record,” he said, “I prefer a Boston cream.”
“You’re officially off duty,” I said. “Get some sleep.”
“What about you?” he said. He reached into the bag for a corn muffin.
“Be good to switch it up,” I said. “New man. New vehicle. The spice of life.”
“I don’t think they’re paying attention to us,” Z said, nodding up to the second-floor window above the store. “I think they’re in production.”
“You spot Murphy?”
“Yep,” he said. “Came upstairs about an hour ago with a big white guy with a crew cut. Maybe thirty minutes ago, a young girl in a raincoat and rubber boots walked up the stairwell and knocked on the door. Big guy came out a little later and walked out to a van. Brought up C-stands and lighting rigs.”
“Hooray for Hollywood,” I said.
Z nodded. He drank some coffee and ate some of the corn muffin. We watched the upstairs window. The blinds were closed, with light burning bright behind them. I told him about the great Cheesecake Factory standoff and my later conversation with Cristal Heywood.
“Three tequilas?” he said.
“Yep.”
Z nodded as he listened. “What else do we know about Murphy?”
“Besides him being a creep?”
“Besides that.”
“He’s dealt drugs, sold stolen televisions, and got caught carrying a pistol without a permit. He has twice been convicted of domestic violence and once been charged with having sex with a minor.”
“How minor?” Z said.
“Does it matter?” I said.
Z shook his head. “I’ll head back to the gym, get cleaned up, and get some breakfast.”
“Sleep,” I said. “Get some rest. This might be a very long day.”
“And this creep?”
“I’ll stick here,” I said. “See if I detect anything interesting.”
“Maybe he’ll bring in some farm animals,” he said. “Maybe a chicken or a donkey.”
“That would be interesting for Dorchester.”
Z gave me a look as if he wasn’t too sure. I got out and walked back to the Explorer. He started the Mustang and headed north. I got in behind the wheel, where I’d left my own coffee, and watched the street for what seemed like a very long time.
A rusted train trestle loomed behind me and the storefronts stretched north toward Fields Corner. Along Dot Ave, some minor improvements had been made, a few new iron streetlamps lit up the road, a few trees had been planted. There were also plenty of places to cash your paycheck early, get your hair and nails done, and go for some Vietnamese or a slice of pizza.
The only vehicle close to the trestle was an old moving van parked in front of an insurance company. The rear door had been secured with a big padlock.
I sipped the coffee and sat in stillness. A cop passed me patrolling south, not even slowing. Two Asian kids wearing leather jackets and carrying brown bags of beer walked past the Explorer. They craned their heads to see inside and I gave them a polite two-finger wave. They kept walking and did not offer me any beer.
If I stayed here long enough, I’d get to see Murphy and his pals. And if I got to see Murphy and his pals, I still had nothing. I wondered if Lundquist had spoken to Murphy. I could call him and ask, but after the exchange at South Station and the entry of Connor and the Feds, he might not be so glad to hear from me. I probably could accomplish just as much sitting at my desk. But sitting at my desk did not offer such a fantastic view of Dorchester, and sitting at my desk wouldn’t tell me about the movements of Kevin Murphy and associates known and unknown.