Robert B. Parker’s Cheap Shot

4

The next morning, I picked up Kinjo Heywood and drove him to Foxboro.

The Patriots kept their training facilities, offices, and practice fields in and around Gillette. Up the hill from the stadium, a sprawling entertainment complex called Patriot Place had recently opened to make sure every dime stayed within a quarter-mile radius. There were shops, outdoor cafés, and a movie theater. Bass Pro Shops, a Renaissance Hotel, and even Toby Keith’s I Love This Bar & Grill made Patriot Place about as unique as a trip to suburban Ohio.

On the south end of the complex, I watched Kinjo go through a series of warm-up drills, stretching and running with the team. They had dressed out in half-pads, helmets, and shorts. It was still early and gray, a misty rain falling. I stood, watching, next to Kinjo’s brother, Ray, who was also his business manager.

“They shouldn’t practice in the rain,” Ray Heywood said. “Somebody is going to get hurt.”

“But if you don’t practice in the elements, how will you play in them?”

“You sound like Coach Belichick,” Ray said. “You see that big metal building behind us? Cost something like twenty million and he’s used it maybe two times. Rain, sleet, snow, the players’ asses are out here.”

“Might ruin Tom Brady’s hair.”

Ray Heywood laughed.

If Kinjo hadn’t introduced me to Ray, I would have never figured them for brothers. Ray Heywood stood a little under six feet and was short-legged and thick around the waist. He had shaved his hair and beard very short and had an earring in his right ear. He wore a pink oxford cloth shirt hanging out over designer jeans and designer sneakers.

“You like working for your brother?”

“I work for him but don’t work for him,” Ray said. “I just look out for his business affairs.”

“So you’re his other agent?”

Ray shook his head. “Un-uh,” he said. “Kinjo has the same agent he’s always had. I only take care of his money while he keeps his mind right. I handle investments, off-season appearances, and endorsement deals. A life in the NFL ain’t forever. He’s got to make that hard cash now and see how it can grow.”

“What did you do before?”

Ray ran a hand over the back of his thick neck and smiled. “Sold cars,” he said. “I know what you’re thinking. But it was a dealership in Atlanta, and I am very good with money.”

I nodded and stuck my hands in the pockets of my A-2 bomber jacket. I wore a navy Lowell Spinners ball cap, since I didn’t own anything with an NFL logo. Maybe if I caught the bad guys and forced them to talk, the Pats would comp me a cap.

“You have any theories as to who’s been following your brother?” I said.

Ray shook his head.

The misting rain kept on falling. Kinjo had joined up with the other linebackers and was running his feet with great speed over a row of red blocking dummies. When his foot hit the grass after the last dummy, he darted toward his coach, who zinged him the ball. He ran the ball upfield. The coach blew a whistle.

“Kinjo said you think it has something to do with that shooting?”

“Nope,” I said. “I just asked him what he thought.”

“Two years ago.”

I nodded.

“He didn’t have nothing to do with that.”

“Have no reason to think he did.”

There were maybe twenty or thirty people perched around the aluminum stands where we now sat. The practice was closed to the public, and most looked to be sportswriters or family of the players. A couple news stations for film at eleven.

“He seemed to think it was a player for another team,” I said. “Maybe wants to rattle him before the season.”

“You read that SI piece?”

“Yep.”

“Calling him the league’s hit man?” Ray said. “That’s some bullshit. They had coaches and players saying he took cheap shots. Someone said he wasn’t no different from the guys on the Saints who worked for a bounty. What’s a linebacker supposed to do to a quarterback? Hug and kiss him?”

“Hardly appropriate.”

“You running at a quarterback on a blitz full-out, man,” he said. “If he let go of the ball a tenth of a second before, how you supposed to put on the brakes? Kinjo start doing that and he’ll fuck up his knees and hips. That story’s told by people who never played the game. Most sportswriters hate athletes ’cause they know they’d shit their pants if they ever stepped on the field.”

Kinjo and the other linebackers had joined up with the rest of the defense and were going through different alignments. The Patriots, like most pro teams, ran a four-three defense, four down linemen and three linebackers roaming the mid-ground. Kinjo was the middle linebacker, the Mike, who was pretty much the quarterback of the defense. He could rush the passer or drop back and cover a receiver.

I’d seen some highlight film of Kinjo. He had aided many players to early retirement. But I saw nothing dirty about his play. No dirtier than a fighter who had a hell of a right.

“So you gonna follow him to and from practice and see who’s tailing him?” Ray said.

“That’s the plan.”

“What you do if you find out who they are and where they live?”

“Reason with them.”

Ray laughed. “You don’t look like the kind of man with many reasoning skills.”

“I am a man of many talents.”

An air horn sounded and Belichick called the entire team together to scrimmage. The hitting was very light on the line and the offense went through a series of plays while the linebackers shot the gaps in the line or went into pass coverage. Passes were thrown and caught, the orchestra of the defense and offense working with speed and efficiency.

As the special teams ran onto the field, a man in a dark suit approached us.

“Oh, shit,” Ray said. “This dickhead runs the security for the Pats.”

“Lovely.”

When the man got closer, Ray stood up and said, “Spenser, this is Jeff Barnes.”

We shook hands while the players scrimmaged. The misty rain seemed to make the practice field glow an intense green.

Barnes smiled without warmth, eyes wandering over me. He was a compact man, blue-suited and red-tied, with chiseled features and thick white hair. His lips were thin and his nose hawkish, and he had a superior posture that reminded me of a rooster.

“Nice to meet you,” Barnes said, shaking my hand. “Can’t say I was excited that Steve Rosen didn’t tell me about you.”

“Not everyone can sing my praises.”

“I’m not familiar with some of the local cops, but I did call up a friend with the FBI,” Barnes said, still gripping my hand. “His remarks weren’t kind.”

“Are you taking my fingerprints right now?”

Barnes let go of my hand. A smile remained frozen on his face.

“You must be quite a hot dog to draw the ire of the special agent in charge of the city.”

I wavered my hand in a so-so gesture.

Barnes’s face reddened. His cheek twitched just a bit. The air horn sounded on the field and Belichick called in all the players. Ray stared down at the field where the team had gathered, but Barnes remained splayfooted and cocksure.

“Rosen is a hot-shit agent,” he said. “But I can pull you off the tit fast. When you’re on this property, I am in charge.”

“Yikes.”

“What?”

“I said, ‘Yikes.’ It means my knees won’t stop knocking.”

“If you see anything, suspect anything, or spot anyone in or around Gillette, you call me first. Connor said you’re overly fond of your weapon.”

I let that one go and simply shrugged.

“These kids out there don’t have normal problems like you and me,” he said. “Kinjo is probably being followed by a carload of sorority girls who just want to bang him. You make a mistake, and this team looks bad and my entire job is in question. You understand?”

“Un-uh. Go back to the sorority girls.”

“Christ,” Barnes said, shaking his head. He walked away.

I sat back down with Ray. He studied the field and the players fanning out on one knee and listening to the coach talk about their opponent. His chin was lifted as if he hadn’t heard a word. Not looking away, Ray said, “Looks like they got the right guy,” he said.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t let that prick get in the way of protecting my brother,” he said. “Kinjo’s a good man. He never wanted Akira to grow up like we did. It’s important to have a father, not just around, but in his life. We never had that. He and that kid go to the zoo, the mall, to movies. Disney World twice a year. That’s why the bad stuff hurts Kinjo. Because that ain’t him. You can talk shit about him on the field, but anyone who tarnishes who he is as a man, that’s about his family honor.”

“A Southern man’s code?”

“And all that Japanese shit he’s into. Man loves his family and he takes care of his people. Look at me. I may be good with money, but I never deserved all this.”

I nodded. “You think it’s really just a carload of girls?”

“Tell you what,” Ray said. “If it is, I’d better be the one you call first.”