Robert B. Parker’s Cheap Shot

66

I never knew, nor ever asked, if the bounty was delivered. It took more than two months for my invoice to be paid in full by Steve Rosen Enterprises. I searched within his envelope for a thank-you card or hair-styling tips but came up empty.

It was late November, Thanksgiving week, and I left my office for the Harbor Health Club. I changed in the locker room and walked out to find Z and Henry Cimoli wearing identical white golf shirts with the club logo.

I smiled.

“Don’t say shit, Spenser,” Henry said.

I lifted up my hands. I wore an old pair of blue running shorts and a gray sweatshirt cut off at the elbows and neck. “I was about to compliment you both on the professional attire,” I said.

“Screw you.”

Z was cleaning off a lat pull-down machine and oiling the chain attached to the weights. He looked up at me and just shook his head.

“Women go crazy for Z in the uniform,” Henry said. “I got twenty new members in the last couple months. Housewives and divorcees who act like they don’t know how to use the machines. Jesus.”

“If he asks you to wear the white satin,” I said, turning to Z, “run.”

Z continued to clean off and oil the equipment as a handful of people ran on treadmills. Some local businessmen on their lunch break talking more than pumping iron. On the other side of the wide picture window facing the harbor, snow flurries twirled and whirled about, dusting across the wharves and melting on impact.

I made my way to the new-and-improved boxing room and went about wrapping my hands and wrists. The walls were mirrored, and I started off with three rounds of shadow-boxing before sliding into the gloves and attacking the heavy bags. On my third round with the bag, Hawk strolled into the room carrying a paper cup of coffee. He set the coffee on a window ledge and watched as I finished up. I took on the bag with an added ferocity, making the bag dance and jangle on the chains.

“No need to show off,” Hawk said.

“Showing you how it’s done.”

“Ha.”

“You want to spar a bit?” I said. “I have time.”

Hawk shook his head. He raised his eyebrows. “You remember our pal, Papa B?”

“Sure.”

“Motherfucker is dead.”

“DeVeiga?”

“My guess,” Hawk said. “But DeVeiga the one who told me. Said he’d been looking for Papa B since his sister got killed. Seemed upset that he wasn’t the one to finish him off.”

“Where?” I said, trying to catch my breath.

“Gone to New York,” Hawk said. “Live large.”

“What’s it to us?”

“DeVeiga wants to talk. He says someone else in on this.”

“Does it matter?”

“Matters to DeVeiga,” Hawk said. “Might matter to us. Depends on what he’s got to say.”

“Akira said there were three of them,” I said. “All dead. Victor Lima. Lela Lopes and now Papa B.”

“Real name is Pasco Barros.”

“I like Papa B better.”

“God rest his soul.”

I walked to the corner and found a pair of heavy mitts. I tossed the mitts to Hawk. He removed his black duster but not his sunglasses. He slipped the mitts onto his hands and I practiced combos for the next three three-minute rounds. Hawk told me several times that my left hook needed some work. I was breathing very heavily and sweating when I walked over to the water cooler.

“Okay,” I said.

“Figure we at least hear what the man have to say.”

“Sure.”

“And good to know a man like DeVeiga down in Glocksbury.”

“A gangbanging drug dealer?”

“You rather know someone with the Rotary Club?”

I took off my gloves and unwrapped my hands. In fifteen minutes, I was showered and changed back into my street clothes and riding in style with Hawk to meet Jesus DeVeiga.