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.”