Robert B. Parker’s Cheap Shot

41

I took Susan to Gillette Stadium that afternoon. As she strolled across the parking lot in a form-fitting navy sweater, jeans, and riding boots, I decided she looked too good for the super-fans in their oversized jerseys and painted faces. Her designer sunglasses were on top of her head and she wore a light scarf around her neck. The brisk wind smelled of hot wings and kielbasa. Susan preferred neither. I, on the other hand, appreciated both.

“Would you like me to buy you some pom-poms?” I said.

“Would this be for use now or later?”

“Probably later.”

“Then yes.”

“May have to work late,” I said.

“I certainly hope so,” she said. “At least the family would know where they stand.”

I walked with her through the growing crowd. Kickoff wasn’t for another hour, but according to sports radio, attendance promised to be a record day for regular season. I kept on wanting to call it opening day, but I knew that term applied only to baseball. Besides the standard satellite trucks from ESPN, there were droves of news crews, local, national, and cable. The disappearance of Akira Heywood and his famous dad taking the field was too good to pass up.

“So there’s no telling how the demands will be issued?” Susan said.

“Nope.”

“Do you think the kidnappers would show here?”

“Can’t imagine why they would,” I said. “It will be a phone call, text, or an e-mail. I don’t think these people wish to be infamous. I think they want to get his money and slide into obscurity.”

We had our tickets scanned, waited in line at concessions, and found our seats on the club level. They were good seats, almost directly on the fifty-yard line, with a view of the Patriots’ bench.

I ate a hot dog and drank some beer. Susan nibbled on fresh fruit. I had been unaware you could buy fruit at any stadium.

After a short while, we stood for the national anthem and watched as the starting players for the Pats were introduced. The roar from the crowd for Kinjo rattled the stadium seats. He raised a fist as he ran onto midfield and joined his teammates. And after a few more were announced, there was a kickoff and the violence began.

I particularly liked when Kinjo took the field. Not only because he was my client but because I preferred watching defense. I had been a defensive player many moons ago and liked to watch the dismantling of an offensive attack. Kinjo did a lot of dismantling in the first quarter, with five tackles and one sack. He played with a lot of rage, disguised as passion. I drank my beer slowly. If something were to happen, I needed to be alert, focused, and ready.

“Do you think Hawk is cheering?” Susan said.

“Nope.”

“Do you think Z is cheering?” she said.

“Nope.”

“You’re cheering,” she said. “Does that mean it’s okay for me to cheer?”

“I’m not cheering,” I said. “I’m yelling positive encouragement for Kinjo.”

“To knock the quarterback’s fucking head off?”

“In a matter of speaking?” I said. “Yes.”

Susan had her sunglasses down and leaned forward in her seat. Not long into the second quarter, her right leg tapped up and down with excitement. And she stood twice as Kinjo ran after the Bills’ quarterback, getting close to a sack. The quarterback let go of the ball just as Kinjo slammed into him, sending him flying. After the play, Kinjo helped him to his feet.

“I never knew you were such a football fan.”

“Lot faster than watching baseball,” she said.

“True.”

“I have to admit, I like the speed.”

“Perhaps dealing with some pent-up aggression?” I said.

Susan stayed focused on the game but smiled. The Bills punted and Kinjo trotted off the field. I checked my phone again. Nothing.

With a minute left in the second quarter, Jeff Barnes appeared at the end of the row. He looked at me and crooked a finger toward the aisle. I did not like when anyone crooked a finger at me. In fact, I had broken many fingers that had performed similar actions.

After Brady threw an incompletion, Susan caught me staring.

“Who’s that?”

“Head of security.”

“Friend?”

“Foe.”

“A casualty of your charm?”

“I’m a casualty of his.”

“Perhaps he has some news?”

I finished my beer and stowed the cup under my seat. “Perhaps.”

I made my way to the steps. I smiled at Barnes and told him what a wonderful surprise it was to see him.

“Cut the shit, Spenser,” he said. “Kinjo told me you were coming. That’s his business, we can’t stop him. But I wanted to let you know my team is aware you’re here and to be on your best behavior.”

The row was narrow, and a Coke vendor had to do some considerable acrobatics to get past our pissing contest.

“What’s the penalty for sticking chewing gum under my seat?”

Barnes flared his nostrils. He was dressed as he’d been dressed every time I’d seen him. Charcoal pin-striped suit, red tie, and a nifty NFL pin on his lapel. I smiled at him some more. His cheek twitched.

“Can you walk up the steps for a moment?” he said.

I turned to Susan. I winked at her and then followed.

We stood out of the sun and in the shadow of the narrow tunnel leading to the second level. Barnes’s steel-gray hair looked as if it had been barbered two hours ago. His face was clean-shaven, with a ruddy glow.

“Listen,” he said. “I want you to know I don’t give a damn who does what. I just want Heywood to get his kid back.”

I nodded.

“So if something happens,” he said, “and you can help...”

I nodded again.

“It seems Mr. Kraft is friends with an individual you helped out in the past.”

“And Mr. Kraft, being Grand Pooh-bah of this organization, has changed your mind about me.”

Barnes just stared at me. I smiled. He shook his head and looked away. Something big had happened on the field and the stadium erupted in wild enthusiasm. “The kid used to follow me around at practice,” Barnes said. “He pretended like he was a secret agent or something. Thought what I did was cool.”

I had a comment for that. But I kept it to myself.

“Okay,” I said.

“Six days of this shit,” Barnes said. “Silence? I couldn’t fucking leave my house. And he’s out there playing his guts out.”

The first half was almost over and the fans started to fill the tunnel, pouring past us to the bathrooms and concessions. Barnes turned his back and left without another word.

I returned to my seat just in time to see Kinjo knock a short pass from the tight end’s hands. He gathered the defense before the next play, calling the shots, seeing what’s going to happen before the offense lined up. If only I could do the same.