I waved to the young woman. She lifted her head and then quickly shut the blinds. Ah, realize your youth while you have it.
I finished the coffee and poured another half-cup. I thought about reading back through the file. Or perhaps cleaning my .38 or the .357 I kept in my right-hand drawer. I could open up a bottle of Bushmills. Or I could go to the gym and sweat.
I chose the latter, and within thirty minutes, I was sparring with Z at Henry’s. We wore protective gear with eighteen-ounce gloves. We forwent the groin padding. That’s how much I trusted Zebulon Sixkill.
He rocked a couple shots to my ribs. Even through the padding, I felt them.
“The force is strong with you,” I said. “But you’re not a Jedi yet.”
“I will be soon,” he said. “With the paper to prove it.”
We circled each other in the ring. I stepped forward and jabbed while he sidestepped the punch. I leveled a solid right against his head. His head reeled back.
“He’s still got it,” he said.
“You bet.”
He took the opportunity to work out a nice combo on my body and went for the head. I ducked it and came up with a glancing blow in his stomach.
“What will Boston do without you?” I said.
“The women of Los Angeles need me,” Z said. “But I’ll finish what we started.”
“And what if Hawk and I ever need you?” I said.
“Let’s call L.A. a branch office,” Z said. “I’m under the impression there’s crime and corruption on the West Coast, too.”
“Yes,” I said. “I’ve heard rumors to that effect.”
Z dropped his gloves a bit. Jab, cross, left uppercut, cross. The second cross connected with his head. Harder than he or I had expected. He stumbled back a couple steps. I backed up and circled. He smiled, shook his head, and came back for me. We’d trained for years and I’d miss him a great deal.
“Hawk said if you can’t beat ’em, shoot ’em,” Z said.
“Maybe,” I said. “However, I’ve never known anyone who could beat Hawk.”
“Or you?”
“Living?”
“Yeah.”
“Nope.”
“So when do you use a gun instead of your fists?” Z said.
“Only when necessary,” I said. “Don’t pull your gun if you’re not willing to kill.”
Z nodded. He stepped in and jabbed twice, shot a cross, and then followed with a hook. The hook shaved my ribs but, had it connected, might have proved painful.
“Sell the punch,” I said. “Always sell the punch.”
The timer buzzed, and we both grabbed the water bottles where we’d left them. We were both breathing hard and our T-shirts were soaked in sweat. Z took off his headgear and poured water over his black hair. He spit in a bucket and we both waited for the buzzer.
“One more round,” I said. “Keep your hands up.”
“I know,” he said.
“The hardest lessons are the easiest to forget.”
The buzzer sounded and again we circled each other.
They’d been burning shit for months now. What surprised them was how easy it had been. Of course, they had rules. You can’t set a fire closer than fifty feet from a building. You can’t set a fire near an occupied building. Nobody wanted to hurt anyone or do any real damage. They basically piled up junk in weedy lots and poured on the gasoline. Dumpsters were fun because they were self-contained and burned big and bold. At the end of January, they’d lit up the alleys off Storrow Drive and drove over the river to watch them burn. A nice orange glow off the trash every few blocks.
For Kevin, it’d been better than the Fourth of July.
“This is chickenshit stuff,” Johnny said one night at the Scandinavian Pastry shop.
“It’s what we wanted.”
“This is like Halloween pranks,” Johnny said. “I know this building in Mattapan. It’s perfect.”
This was back in the winter, and the idea of a nice big fire had sounded just about perfect. The building was an old triple-decker maybe a quarter-mile down from Norfolk Hardware and Home, where Kevin had worked in high school. Johnny brought a crowbar and they whacked themselves inside. Ray found them a couple threadbare tires to lean up against a wall. The whole place was like a spook house, like the Mickey Mouse cartoon where they were ghost catchers.
This was the night they’d come up with La Bomba. The idea for it was part Kevin’s and part Johnny’s. But what came of it was simple, basic, and beautiful. You fill a freaking Ziploc bag with kerosene, slip it into a brown paper bag, attach a matchbook with tape, and slide in a lit cigarette. The cigarette works like the fuse and you can make it long or short. By the time La Bomba went, they were halfway back to the donut shop. By the time the scanners went nuts, they were all tucked in at the back booth, munching on some plain glazed.