“The toughest and loneliest sport in the world,” I said.
“Breathe,” Z said to Jemma. “Don’t hold your breath.”
Jemma took a deep breath and did not turn. She kept on attacking the bag with sloppy yet significant punches. Z smiled and walked toward me. His hands were expertly wrapped in red tape.
“I tried to call,” I said.
“She wanted to leave the hotel,” Z said. “And she wanted to learn some self-defense stuff.”
I was still dressed in street clothes with my Everlast workout bag over my shoulder. Today was a day for weights, not boxing. I needed to put some thought on the recent developments.
“Henry wants to see you,” Z said. He canted his head toward the office and turned back to Jemma. She had yet to acknowledge my presence as she worked out a simple left jab over and over. Her brown hair was tied up in a high ponytail. Z had forced her into a steady, even sweat. She had her breath working and her concentration was all on the bag.
I strolled into Henry’s office, dropped my bag at my feet, and said, “What’s the haps?”
Henry was paying bills, half-glasses down on the end of his nose. There was a stack of envelopes on his desk and an old-fashioned ledger bearing Henry’s distinctive scrawl.
“You see Z is working with Mata Hari?” Henry said.
“He says she needed to learn some self-defense.”
“Z’s the one who needs to watch out.”
“He’s a smart kid,” I said. “He’ll keep it professional.”
“At that age, I couldn’t even spell ‘professional.’”
I sat down. I had once counted nearly sixty framed photos of boxers, wrestlers, and weight lifters on the wall of Henry Cimoli’s office. Many of them were long gone, and the pictures were bent and faded. Henry took off his glasses and tossed them on the table. He rubbed his eyes. “Got to say, Z looks better.”
I nodded.
“He’s lost the limp,” he said. “Got real zing and pop in the punches.”
“Maybe he’s showing off.”
“Nah,” Henry said. “He’s back on center.”
“Just what did you say to him after the beating?”
“I told him when a fight is over, it’s over.”
“He carried that rage with him.”
“He doesn’t think what happened to him is finished,” Henry said. “I told him to put it on the shelf for a bit. Use it when you need it. Being mad all the time screws up your head and tires you out.”
Henry walked to a shelf by his lone window and rattled some vitamins into his hand. “You know, I boxed for twenty-nine years and never hated nobody.”
“Never?”
“Nope.”
“Different on the street.”
“It is, but it isn’t,” Henry said. “Throw out the rules. But a fight is a fight. Bein’ mad clouds your brain.”
I changed into my workout clothes and launched into a circuit on the machines. I started off with my upper body, shoulders, chest, triceps, and then onto back and biceps. I jumped from one exercise to the next, giving myself no rest or downtime. I finished off working my legs and lower back. I counted off two minutes on the clock and repeated the circuit two more times. I used heavy weights, taking it up to twelve to fourteen reps on most exercises. On the last cycle, I felt fatigued but strong. I was past the point of showing off in the gym or maxing out with weight. I was interested in endurance and strength. Someone may be stronger or faster, but they couldn’t outlast me. Nobody could outlast me. Except maybe Hawk. Hawk could outlast Atlas.
As I headed to the shower, I glanced into the boxing room. Z was still there with Jemma. He was teaching her to throw a hook, hands on her hips, showing how they should flow loose and easy. He rotated her hips again and again. She smiled and giggled.
I dressed in my street clothes and left without a word. I was driving back to my office when Healy called.
“I got something I want to show you.”
“I have been warned about conversations that start that way.”
“We got two shitbirds we’re pulling out of a Dodge Charger parked in Chelsea,” Healy said. “Both shot in the head. Whoever it was got close enough to whisper in their ear with a .22 pistol.”
“Anyone we know?”
“Seems these guys are from out of town,” Healy said. “Tourists in from Las Vegas. Both of them with records as long as your arm.”
“Lovely,” I said.
53
I SAT WITH HEALY in the passenger seat of his unmarked unit. We had a pretty good vantage point to watch the detectives and crime scene techs work. I was never really sure what the techs did these days, but Rita Fiore assured me they focused mainly on confusing juries. The coroner had already removed the bodies by the time I arrived. Now there were several yellow cones placed in spots where evidence had been found.
“No shells, of course,” he said. “But we should find a nice .22 short bouncing around in their skulls.”
“Who are they?”
“James Congiusti and Anton Nelson,” Healy said. “AKA Jimmy Aspirins and the Angel of Mercy.”
“Inspired.”
“Jimmy Aspirins because he takes care of the Mob’s headaches—”
“Naturally.”
“And Angel of Mercy because who the fuck knows. Nelson is a demolitions guy. Federal agent I called in Vegas says Nelson once blew up a dentist’s office because he pulled the wrong tooth.”
“What was Jimmy’s specialty?” I said.
“Crazy son of a bitch used a cordless drill into people’s heads.”
“And what were their ties with our beloved Commonwealth?”
“Zip,” Healy said. “This looks like an encroachment.”
“Of which someone was extremely resentful.”
Healy nodded. We had the windows down in the sedan. Parked along Shawmut Street, we had a lovely view of an endless row of sagging and paint-deficient triple-deckers. Empty trash cans, busted and turned upside down, lay along the curbs. Chain-link fences guarded front yards as big as area rugs. Another gorgeous day in Chelsea.
“What are you hearing?”
I shrugged.
“May I remind you that I have saved your ass on many occasions?”
“My ass is eternally grateful.”
“I’m getting a lot of pressure from the hill on this one,” Healy said. “I can’t turn something on Weinberg and I start hearing whispers of my retirement.”
“And then what do you do?”
“Watch soaps with the wife and drink light beer.”
“Did I not put you in touch with Weinberg’s second in command?”
“Belson put us in touch after the shooting.”
“A mere technicality.”
“Didn’t get us anywhere.”
“At least we know this thing is being stoked from Vegas,” I said. “But I’m not sure who is allied with whom.”
“Whom?”
I nodded. “Have you spoken to Harvey Rose?”
“This ain’t my first day on the job, Spenser.”
“What did you think?”
“I think he’s a schlub,” Healy said. “I think he resented Weinberg, but I don’t think he’s the kind of guy who knows people like Jimmy Aspirins exist.”
“Maybe.”
“What do you know?”
“I know the Sox are sucking this year,” I said. “And that Charles Mingus is the finest double bass player that ever lived.”
“I’ll tell you what I think,” Healy said. “I think there is a whole group of hoods in Boston who don’t want a casino to ever happen. They can’t get it into their thick heads that it’s happening whether they like it or not. But every day they continue to screw with the process is another day of big profits.”
I shrugged again.
“Jesus. What?”
“Or maybe they want a piece of the action,” I said. “And they are not evolved individuals when it comes to business negotiations.”