Robert B. Parker’s Cheap Shot

5

The next day, I followed Kinjo away from Foxboro and into the city. Akira was to spend the weekend with his mother, and both had agreed to meet at the Quincy Market. This was not my decision, only a stroke of luck, as I had not eaten since early that morning. The Pats had not invited me to partake in their training table for carbo-loading or fruit smoothies.

We parked side by side at a garage with a nice view of the North End. I hung back as Kinjo followed the sidewalk with Akira, the son a little moody about the exchange. He wore an oversized Pats jersey with HEYWOOD written above number 57.

There were a few whispers and sideways glances as they made their way into the market. A couple of people stopped him for an autograph. Akira seemed used to all this. He’d smile up as his father signed a piece of paper or someone’s hat. Inside, I bought a turkey sub and sat down with them at a table in the common area under the rotunda.

“Shit,” Kinjo said. “Nicole’s always late. She can’t help it.”

I unwrapped the sandwich and offered Akira half. He declined. He said his mother was going to take him to the Five Guys in Medford. As I ate, two unsavory-looking men in leather coats walked from the Faneuil Hall entrance. I watched them move past our table, not a flick of recognition, as they headed toward a pizza vendor.

“You ever shoot anybody?” Akira said.

I looked to Kinjo. Kinjo nodded back.

“Yep.”

“Dead?” Akira said.

“As a doornail.”

The kid nodded with that, liking what he’d heard. He was smallish, even for eight, with bright eyes and a warm smile.

“Why’d you kill them?” Akira said.

“Akira,” Kinjo said. “Hush.”

“I just want to know.”

“They were very unpleasant people,” I said.

“Bad men,” Akira said.

“You might say that.”

“And they needed to be dead?”

I looked to Kinjo again. He nodded. I looked to the bright-eyed little boy and shrugged. “It’s a little more complicated than that.”

Akira nodded.

“Akira goes to Beaver Country Day,” Kinjo said. “Every student got their own iPad. School where I went in Georgia was just a bunch of trailers. Teachers did the best they could. But they couldn’t do much.”

I lifted my eyes and nodded at his flat-billed baseball hat. “What’s that R with the squiggles mean?”

Akira looked at his dad as if I were simple. Kinjo continued to look at the crowded space filled with people eating and talking, coming and going, carrying food from the long food court. I ate more of my sub.

“It’s Rocawear,” Kinjo said.

“Of course,” I said. “Rocawear.”

“Jay-Z,” Akira said. “He owns it.”

“Hat cost a hundred damn dollars,” Kinjo said.

“Daddy never ate in a restaurant till he was in high school.”

Kinjo shrugged.

“And he had three jobs after school when he wasn’t playing ball.”

Kinjo grinned. “Actually, just two.”

“Shining shoes and loading shelves at the Piggly Wiggly.”

Kinjo nodded and put an arm around his son, pulling him tight. “Akira’s gonna work training camp next year. Learn what it’s like to make money.”

“I don’t want to shine shoes.”

Kinjo nodded, grabbed Akira’s sneaker and dusted off some dirt. Akira laughed, but Kinjo looked away and shook his head. “Okay. Here we go. Here comes trouble.”

A woman had walked in from the south end of Quincy Market, splitting the tourists like Moses and the Red Sea. She was diminutive but moved with purpose. Kinjo’s former wife was dark-skinned, with short black hair reminiscent of Audrey Hepburn’s. She wore a blue-and-white vertical-striped sleeveless blouse and navy pencil skirt. Her heels were brown and tall and her jewelry was simple. As she walked closer I noted a tiny silver necklace with a diamond pendant on her long neck.

She smiled at Akira. She ignored both me and Kinjo. I put down the sub.

“I’ve been waiting for you outside for fifteen minutes,” she said. “What the hell?”

“I told you we’d be inside,” Kinjo said. “It’s getting cold. Damn.”

She turned back to her son. “Don’t you have anything else to wear besides football jerseys?”

Akira shrugged. Nicole looked to me. I wrapped up my sub and stood. Her eyes were big and almond-shaped. She had full lips and fine features. I smiled at her. She did not return the gesture.

“Why’d you bring a coach?” she said.

“He ain’t a coach,” Kinjo said. “He does security.”

“And why is he here?” she said.

Kinjo’s eyes shifted from me to Akira and back to Nicole. Kinjo offered his palms and said, “He’s doing some security work for me.” Akira slowly moved away from his father and hugged his mother around the waist. He was content. His mother glared at me.

I smiled some more. My cheeks started to hurt. A young Hispanic man in a do-rag and a skinny young white man with shoulder-length red hair watched us from a long table on the far side of the rotunda. They spoke back and forth, eyes on Kinjo and Nicole. One of them nodded. The Hispanic man continued to watch.

I asked Nicole if she’d like to sit.

She shook her head. Akira unwrapped his arms from her and took his backpack from his father. The kid watched the ground as his parents talked to each other.

“You get straight with the lawyer?” he said. “You see we doing things right?”

Nicole looked at Kinjo, eyes flicking across his face. “Sorry I didn’t trust you,” she said. “Don’t know why that is.”

She turned. I smiled at Akira and winked at him. He returned with a weak smile and looked away.

I sat back down. I returned to my sub. The Hispanic man and Eric the Red continued to watch us. They watched Nicole and Akira as they passed, hand in hand. I started to follow, but their gaze hung back on Kinjo. The Hispanic man picked at his teeth with his small finger, eyes unwavering.

“You recognize those two?” I said.

“Where?”

I ate a bit. I motioned slightly with my head.

“Nope.”

Eric the Red started to stand. He had a matching mustache and goatee, red hair long and curly.

“So how the Falcons look this week?” I said.

“Okay.”

“You okay?”

“She shouldn’t talk like that in front of the kid.”

“I noted a trace of hostility.”

“Shit,” he said. “She’d be glad if someone did kill me.”

Kinjo shook his head. Akira and Nicole had disappeared into the long, narrow space of the mall. The Hispanic man joined Eric the Red, and they walked toward us. The Hispanic man had his hand at hip level. Both eyes were serious and intent. Eric the Red licked his lips. His Celtics T-shirt hung nearly to his knees.

I had one bite to go but steeled myself.

The men approached the table. The Hispanic man reached into his jacket.

Kinjo jumped up fast and threw a right hand at the man’s face. I caught his fist in my palm. The man ducked, yelping, “What the fuck?”

A pen fell to the floor. Eric the Red ducked and covered.

Kinjo breathed hard out of his nose. His face twitched.

I let go of Kinjo’s fist. My palm smarted as I picked up the pen and handed it to him. “Sorry about that.” Kinjo took it and forced a smile. “What’s your name, man?”