Robert B. Parker’s Cheap Shot

36

Kevin Murphy made art above a corner store just south of Adams and just north of an elevated train trestle in Fields Corner. The convenience store windows were covered in posters for Keno and Mega Millions tickets, while the neighboring storefronts were covered over in plywood. Z and I sat across the street eating Chinese takeout from what may have been the very best Chinese restaurant in all of Dorchester.

There wasn’t much to do. Or see. In the last hour, we watched one guy, who was not Murphy, walk upstairs and turn on the lights above the store. I ate chicken fried rice direct from the carton. Elegant. After we finished, Z took the trash, tossed it into a barrel down the way, and wandered back to the car with his hands in his pockets.

“Fine meal,” I said.

“Maybe we should’ve eaten the carton?”

“Probably,” I said.

“More nutrition,” he said.

“Hot sauce,” I said. “Hot sauce makes everything palatable.”

I leaned back into the seat of the Explorer and stretched out my legs. Z remained silent. He was nearly as chatty as Hawk.

I turned on the radio and found Paulie & the Gooch. The guys were engaged in a heated debate about Kinjo Heywood. And if the call was real, which we have no reason to believe he is, should in fact Kinjo play in tomorrow’s game? Next caller.

I turned up the volume. Z turned away from the window and listened.

Hey, it’s Bobby from Dedham. You don’t think that guy’s real. Holy crap. That sounded like business to me. If I were Kinjo, I wouldn’t do crap until my kid was safe. But you know, I’m not Kinjo. He loves his teammates and the Pats and is doing the best he can. I think he’ll play his heart out every moment until his kid is safe. Like he said, he’s sick with worry and it helps. I think he’s a freakin’ hero.

Paulie and the Gooch chewed on that for a bit and then teased the listeners by replaying the call-in from earlier. A muted voice announced he, or she, was the real kidnapper of the Heywood kid and they’d be announcing demands during Sunday’s game. The veteran broadcasters did not discuss. They instead ran a commercial for penis-enlargement pills being shilled by the former head coach of the Cowboys.

I turned down the volume.

“During the game?” Z said.

“Probably doesn’t want Kinjo at the drop.”

“If there is a drop,” Z said. “Could be electronic.”

“Could be,” I said. “Real money makes it easier on us.”

Z nodded. “How long you want to stick with this Murphy guy?”

“Long as it takes to see his routine,” I said.

“And to annoy the shit out of him.”

“Yes,” I said. “That is my most successful tactic.”

A Hispanic man walked past us, carrying a grocery bag in one arm and a small boy in the other. He didn’t even glance at us as he balanced the load in his arm. He wore blue coveralls covered in dirt, the legs too long and frayed at the bottom. The ragged material dragged the ground over his work boots. I turned up the radio again.

I think Heywood is a liability to the Pats. I think he needs to quit being selfish and sit out until this thing with his kid is over. It’s a distraction for everyone in the organization. He’s a great player and I feel sorry about his kid. But are you telling me this don’t have something to do with his off-field stuff? You know? You wait and see, this whole mess has something to do with the way the man lives his life.

“Wisdom of the masses,” I said.

“Fickle,” Z said. “College alumni are worse. Pro teams have fans. Alumni who give money think they own you.”

“And know more about the sport than you,” I said.

Z craned his neck and stared up at the lights burning over the corner store. “Probably same in the porn business,” Z said. “Murphy makes the movies and sometimes stars in them, too.”

“Performance pressure,” I said.

“His whole business is online. You get a membership to watch girls get interviewed by Murphy and then do the deed.”

“So the casting couch is his show?”

“Murphy goes by the name Mr. X. He never shows his face but is very proud of his equipment,” Z said. “It all takes place on his couch. Sometimes on his desk.”

“Few sets.”

“Most of the girls don’t look eighteen,” Z said. “Reminded me of when I was in L.A. Girls looked stoned. Need the money for food.”

“Hmm,” I said.

“He likes to make the girls hurt,” Z said. “He likes to demean them.”

The mindless chatter of Paulie & the Gooch filled the car. Wind blew grit and loose flyers across the road. Rain tapped absently on the windshield.

“If I see him, perhaps he should hurt, too.”

“So many shitbags,” I said. “So little time.”

Z nodded.

“You see any girls who might have been Cristal?” I said.

“No,” he said. “But he had maybe four hundred, five hundred films.”

Our prayers are with the entire Heywood family and with the brave men and women of law enforcement looking for Akira. The Gooch and I both have spent a lot of time with the Heywood family, including Akira, and I promise our listeners that there is no more devoted father than Kinjo Heywood. If anyone out there knows anything about these kidnappers or where they might have this child, you can call a special hotline we’ve set up through the Sports Monstah network.

“No prayers for us?” Z said.

I shook my head.

“Damn.”

The lights continued to burn on the second floor above the corner store. A half-hour later, Hawk called. We spoke all of ten seconds and then I hung up.

“I’m needed,” I said.

“Trouble?”

“Nicole is trying to force Cristal to talk,” I said. “I’ll drop you at your car.”

“And I’ll circle back here.”

“Murphy may not even be up there,” I said. “May be a waste of time.”

“It’s such a lovely night in Dorchester,” Z said. “I’ll wait and see.”