by Ace Atkins
Kinjo turned back to see if his son was still watching us. Rosen drank his coffee, waiting for the right moment to cut the conversation short. Cristal Heywood entered the room with another big red drink in a martini glass. I would have guessed a Manhattan, but it was too red, too fruity to be an authentic cocktail. It was the kind of drink that needed the shade of a tiny umbrella.
“Nicole’s a fucking nightmare,” Cristal said, taking a seat beside Kinjo. She took a quick sip, holding up her hand to continue her thoughts. “I can’t even stand being in the same room with her. She talks down to me. Looks at me like I’m trashy or something.”
Cristal slurped her cocktail and giggled.
Kinjo gave a hard sideways glance at his wife. Cristal wore a bright pink bra under the white tank top. She giggled again and pulled up a single pink strap.
“Anyone else I should know?” I said.
“Nope.”
There was a long silence. Cristal sipped her drink. I held my coffee mug and smiled.
“When can you get started?” Rosen said.
I shrugged. “Are we going to talk about the nightclub shooting in New York?” I said. “Or pretend it didn’t happen?”
Rosen looked to Kinjo. Kinjo did not look pleased I subscribed to Sports Illustrated, watched ESPN, and that I even knew how to use Google. His jaw clenched and eyes flattened.
“I was acquitted,” he said. “I wasn’t even there.”
I nodded. “But the man’s family sued you in civil.”
“Digging for money.”
“Sure,” I said. “But don’t you think you might have listed them under the heading of people who would like to do you harm? Probably more than some jilted girlfriends.”
“That’s bullshit,” Cristal said. “Just because Kinjo is tough doesn’t mean he’s a thug.”
“I’m not being hired to investigate that,” I said. “But you told me that you believe these men want to do you harm. If you want me to find them, you need to help me with a list. I start with a list and then narrow it down. Unless it’s some nuts, and then we just wait till they follow you again.”
Kinjo nodded. Cristal swigged a bit more.
“Kinjo needs this thing settled,” Rosen said. “Regular season starts in two weeks.”
“I understand,” I said. “But I need to know if you think these men might be connected to what happened in New York.”
“No,” Kinjo said. “No fucking way.”
“A man was shot to death,” I said. “The family blamed you.”
“The family knew I was at the club,” Kinjo said. “The family wanted money.”
“Then who else would you guess?”
He looked to Rosen and then nodded along with his thoughts. “I swear to you I think it’s another player messin’ with my head.”
“For the Pats?”
“Hell, no,” he said. “Not a teammate. Somebody I hurt. They want my ass taken out before the season.”
“Who?” I said.
“You better get some paper and a pen,” he said. “’Cause I had a good season last year. People call me dirty. What’s my job but to take people out? That doesn’t make me a hit man.”
“That hatchet piece in Sports Illustrated about Kinjo being the NFL bad boy was a lot of crap,” Rosen said. “They barely mentioned his recent marriage or relationship with Akira. I thought the piece was completely racist. We will never work with that reporter again.”
“So it’s messing with your head?” I said. “And to play, you need to be relaxed and loose.”
“Yeah, that’s right.” Kinjo looked up from his hands. He met my eye and nodded. He studied me again, as if I’d reentered the room. “You play?”
“A couple years in college,” I said.
“Where?”
I told him.
“That what happened to your nose and around the eyes?”
“Nope,” I said. “We had face guards back then. Leather helmets had just gone out of style.”
“Fight?”
“Boxing,” I said.
“Pro?”
I nodded.
“Boxing?” Cristal said. “Wow? Like Rocky?”
“Yep,” I said. “Just like Rocky. I used to have pet turtles and everything.”
Rosen rolled his eyes. Kinjo stood and walked to the bank of windows. Akira had moved onto another turret, another wall to be protected from the enemy. He was a skinny kid with short hair and a mischievous smile. A bright red Under Armour sweatshirt swallowed him to the knees.
The child looked at us through the binoculars. When I smiled directly at him, he ran away. A strong wind rustled tree branches overhead. A bright sun shone across the tree fort, creating small pockets and insignificant shadows. Leaves fell and fluttered to the ground.
Cristal made another drink. I finished my coffee and said my good-byes.
I would start tomorrow.
3
I made corn muffins from scratch for Susan.
I had not planned to make corn muffins but had decided today’s brisk fall wind called for chili. And to me, chili always seemed lonely without corn muffins. Or perhaps I made them because I had stocked a six-pack of Bohemia in Susan’s refrigerator. Truth be told, it was very difficult to know the meal’s catalyst. Probably the beer.
I had let myself in shortly before five and took Pearl for a short walk. Susan was in session, so as silently as possible I crept up to the second floor and helped myself to a Bohemia. I had bought the corn meal, flour, eggs, and ingredients for the chili at the Whole Foods on River Street. I drank while I chopped some peppers, garlic, and onions and browned some ground buffalo. Pearl showed a lot of interest in the sizzling buffalo.
I added the peppers, garlic, and onions to the browning meat, and then a couple dashes of the beer. Some chili powder, kosher salt, cumin, and black pepper. More beer. I played some Mel Tormé at a volume low enough not to disrupt psychotherapy. Pearl tilted her head and I scratched her ears.
“Mel Tormé?” Susan said, walking in.
“The velvet frog himself.”
“‘Goody Goody’ is very odd to hear after talking with a patient who wishes to be impregnated by her husband while conducting an extramarital affair.”
“Better odds?”
“She has no desire to be impregnated by her lover.”
“Must draw a line in the sand somewhere.”
“Yes.”
“How hot is too hot?” I said.
“Is this a trick question?”
“Yep,” I said.
I turned on the oven and found her lonely mixing bowl and measured the corn meal, flour, salt, baking powder, and sugar, and then added the eggs, butter, and some milk and whisked it all to the proper smoothness. I searched for the muffin tin I had stowed in a secret location. When I added the sautéed mix of meat and onions to a large pot of bubbling tomatoes and beans, Pearl lost interest and trotted over to a window facing Linnaean. The branch of an oak tapped at the glass.
I added more beer with the simmering chili. And a quart of water so as not to waste more beer.
“For fear of sounding too domestic, how was your day, dear?”
“I met with a professional football player named after a Japanese emperor,” I said. “His agent hired me to help him.”
“Protection?”
“In a roundabout way,” I said. “The Patriots organization thinks it’s a bad idea if their player shoots or beats up someone.”
“So you’ve been hired to protect the bad guys?”
I nodded. I stirred the chili. I waited to put the corn muffins in the oven. Mel sang “A Stranger in Town.”
“The team also wants me to find out who is following Kinjo and why.”
“Kinjo.”
“Emperor of the gridiron.”
/> I reached into the refrigerator for a bottle of sauvignon blanc. I poured Susan a modest glass.
“Should I know who this is?” she said.
“You should.”
“Did you?”
“Of course.”
“I thought you only paid attention to baseball and basketball?”
“Sometimes it’s on TV,” I said. “Sometimes I watch it. I played it once.”
“But you prefer baseball.”
“I prefer baseball for the skill and nuance,” I said. “I’m sure a damn good bit of sportswriters could talk to me about the elegant violence of football. But I like the pace of baseball.”
I greased the muffin tin, poured in the batter, and placed the tin into the oven. I finished the beer and opened another.
“How does an investigator, even one of your advanced skill, watch a client and sleuth at the same time?”
“I am hoping the watching will lead to a meeting with the bad guys.”
“As it often does.”
“And if not,” I said, “Z can watch while I sleuth.”
“Nice to have an understudy.”
I nodded. I set the timer. “Of course, I’m not even sure if there are any bad guys.”
“And how is that possible?”
“There is a distinct possibility that his celebrity status is making him a bit paranoid,” I said. “He’s a famous athlete. Some overzealous fans may just recognize him and see where he lives or what nightclub he prefers.”
“Did he seem paranoid to you?”
“You mean did he pace around with some metallic ball in hand and mutter about strawberries?”
“Or something more subtle,” she said. “Was he jittery or nervous? Did he seem on edge?”
“Nope.”
“Yet he felt threatened.”
“Yes,” I said. “But he couldn’t really define it.”
“Hmm.”
“What’s your diagnosis, Doc?”
“Time will tell?”
“What if he tells me the men following him are little and green and perhaps from another planet?”
“Give him my card,” she said. “I have people he should meet.”
I turned back to Susan, pulled her in close, and placed a hand against the flat of her back. I tilted my head toward her open bedroom door. I had missed her a great deal when she’d been away teaching that spring.
“Sometimes I think you use simmering for an excuse,” she said.
“But it’s such a damn good one.”
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.”
