Robert B. Parker’s Cheap Shot

9

“If they were letting you go,” Z said, “why follow through watching the house?”

“I was paid until today,” I said. “If I didn’t follow through, then I might start padding expenses, billing extra hours, charging to drink on the job. The whole thing would get shot to hell.”

“The code?”

“Maybe the code,” I said. “Or maybe it’s valuing my own self-worth.”

“But you don’t feel guilt about me buying the sandwiches?”

“I bought last time,” I said. “And I wish to value your self-worth.”

“Sandwiches are very good.”

“That they are.”

Z had stopped off in Chinatown for an early lunch of Vietnamese bánh mì sandwiches and two hot Vietnamese coffees. Shredded pork, cilantro, jalapeños, and pickled carrots on a baguette. The coffee was milky and strong and sweet.

“If the Vietnamese outnumber the Chinese in Chinatown,” I said, “perhaps a name change is due.”

“Or you might be overthinking the sandwich.”

“Perhaps.”

It was brisk and cool. Z wore a black motorcycle jacket over a gray T-shirt with old jeans and cowboy boots, true to his heritage on a Montana rez. His face still showed the scars of a savage beating. The face had mostly healed, but a large swath of skin from his left eye and cheek was mottled with scar tissue. He had spent weeks in the hospital and there had been a lot of rehab. He did not like to discuss it.

“I don’t know how much work I’ll have,” I said.

“Henry got me extra hours at the gym,” Z said. “And I got an offer to work as bouncer on Fridays and Saturdays at the Black Rose. Good pay.”

“You mind being around the booze?”

“Nope,” he said. “I like to be in control. I like to see everything around me.”

I ate the rest of my sandwich and sipped the sweet coffee. I swung around in my office chair and planted my feet on a window ledge. The bay window of my second-floor office composed a nice view of Berkeley Street. Shreve, Crump & Low had moved out. I had wished for a good restaurant to replace it but instead got a Bank of America.

“So what does a trained investigator do when business is slow?”

“Live deliberately and front only the essential aspects of life.”

“Such as sandwiches.”

I nodded and picked up the morning Globe. I tossed Z the front page and kept the sports and comics for myself. As he started to read, I furtively reached into my desk for a pair of reading glasses. Once in focus, Arlo & Janis were at it again.

The phone rang.

“Spenser? It’s Kinjo, I need you quick.” His voice sounded tight and high-pitched. I took my feet off the windowsill and cradled the phone to my ear. Z put down the paper and stared at me.

“They got him,” he said. “They fucking snatched him, man.”

“Who?”

“Whoever was following me took Akira.”

I waited a beat, my eyes lifting to Z. He listened with intent.

“Could he be with Nicole?”

“I know when my kid is gone. Cristal was taking him to school and two men with guns jacked her at a red light and took him. Nicole blames me. She’s coming over right now.”

“Did you call the police?”

“Hell, yes, I called the police,” he said. “Spenser, help me. That kid is everything. I don’t care what it costs. I don’t care. I want these motherfuckers dead.”