Robert B. Parker’s Cheap Shot

28

South Station was busy at five minutes until six. Kinjo was already seated at the table by the Au Bon Pain as I perused a copy of Radio My Way by Ron Della Chiesa at Barbara’s Bookstore. I could see Kinjo from where I stood, my elbow resting atop a bookshelf, the brim of my ball cap low in my eyes. In the opposite direction, through the mire of travelers and commuters, Z lingered by the escalators down into the T station. If we had wanted to detain the courier, the number of MTBA cops milling about would have made the task difficult.

The loudspeakers announced train departures from various tracks. The big train board clicked and whirred with the latest updates. Early gray light flooded high windows as the station pulsed with brisk energy. I had just got to a profile on Ruby Braff when I saw a thick-necked guy with bleached-blond hair step up to Kinjo’s table and lean in to speak.

There wasn’t any reason to think this was our guy. Our guy had a knack for not showing. And this could be one of Kinjo’s many fans. Working a kidnapping exchange was more difficult with a guy who’s been on the cover of Sports Illustrated and ESPN magazine. But the guy lingered at the table, and Kinjo’s body language indicated something other than a casual chat with a fan. His body was tense, leaning into the table. The bleached blond snatched the bag and walked toward the open-air bookstore.

Kinjo stood, walking in a daze into the crowd, lifting his chin at the man but not pointing and calling attention as we had discussed.

The man was tall, maybe six-three, broad-shouldered, and wearing an old-fashioned buffalo-check mackinaw with blue jeans and work boots. I got a good look at him as he passed me. Early thirties, chiseled face, thin lips, pale blue eyes. The hair was a color not found in nature. He had the workout bag tossed over his shoulder and wore a smug grin as he strutted through the crowd. I called Hawk on my cell.

The man headed toward a chocolate shop and a bank of ATMs. Z picked him up at the escalator. I told Hawk he was headed to the front doors that met at the corner of Atlantic and Summer.

I increased my pace, passing the escalator and the ATMs and catching Z as the guy crossed over Summer, dodging traffic. Horns blared and cars swerved around him as he made his way to the Federal Reserve Plaza. He began to jog through the open plaza as Hawk braked in front of us at the curb.

I jumped in. Z ran back to his car parked at the station.

Hawk’s car was not familiar to me.

“Trading up?” I said.

“Yeah,” Hawk said. “Every black man wants a ten-year-old Olds with bad brakes.”

“Borrowed?”

“Something like that.”

Hawk zipped down Atlantic and slowed as we passed the guy jogging toward Congress. Hawk pulled to the curb, motor idling, until we saw him run across Congress to a burgundy SUV and jump in. We accelerated from the curb past the Tea Party museum and north along the waterfront.

I called Kinjo and told him to head home. He tried to argue the point, but I’d already hung up.

Atlantic became Commercial, and soon we were in the narrow brick buildings of the North End. They’d spotted us. The SUV took a very hard left, squealing tires, onto Hanover as Hawk hit the accelerator.

“No use in pussyfooting,” Hawk said.

“Nope.”

“They tryin’ to get over the bridge,” Hawk said.

“Makes sense.”

“Tell Z to wait there.”

I called Z and told him to go ahead and drive over to Charlestown.

“Should’ve figured them for Charlestown,” Hawk said.

“Or Roxbury or Dorchester or Southie,” I said. “We mustn’t generalize a hood’s home turf.”

“Charlestown got more criminals per capita.”

“Per capita?” I said.

“I heard it on the television once,” he said. “Don’t know what it means.”

We raced down Hanover toward the statue of Paul Revere. The burgundy SUV squealed right up onto Charter Street. We followed.

“Yep,” Hawk said.

“You sure?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Then back off,” I said. “Let Z take it.”

“You trust him?” Hawk said.

“He was trained by us,” I said.

Hawk took his foot off the accelerator. We passed the crooked headstones of Copps Hill burying ground where Charter came into the curve at Commercial. At the corner of Prince, we waited and watched the SUV run through a red light and race onto the Charlestown Bridge.

I called Z again.

“Good to have three of us,” Hawk said.

“Knew the kid would come in handy.”

“Especially now that you pissed off Vinnie,” Hawk said.

“That was inevitable.”

“Inevitable that he’s gonna take over Gino Fish’s territory and we all be screwed.”

“You think?” I said.

Hawk nodded. We idled at the stoplight. A car behind us honked its horn. We turned left onto Commercial and took our time driving over the river into Charlestown.

“You call Vinnie about this?” I said.

“’Cause you can’t?”

I nodded.

“He got his own troubles,” Hawk said. “New crew moving into Eastie on account of that casino being built.”

“Shocking,” I said.

“Mmm-hmm.”

We made it over the bridge and drove slowly along the old Navy Yard where the Constitution lay anchored. Actually, it wasn’t anchored. The proper term was berthed. Or maybe it was moored.

Hawk parked along a row of old brick buildings once in official use by the shipyards. Some of them had been turned into luxury condos and restaurants. Others lay dormant. The street was empty. It had started to rain again.

Hawk leaned back into his seat. We sat there maybe ten minutes when my phone rang.

“Charlestown,” Z said. “Ludlow and Mead. I parked next to the basketball court. There’s two of them. Just went into a triple-decker.”

Hawk started the borrowed car and headed out of the Navy Yard.