Tyler didn’t wear a uniform, only baggy jeans and a dirty white T-shirt. He had on a green, flat-crowned Sox cap over his greasy hair. He was rangy, with a pockmarked face and a tattoo of some sort on the back of his neck. Even with the Canon zoom, it was hard to tell what the tattoo said. Perhaps it was a smiley face reading HAVE A NICE DAY. Or GIVE PEACE A CHANCE.
At noon, I drove down 1-A toward Revere, parked along the beach, and did a hundred push-ups and sit-ups. After I got my blood flowing, I doubled back and parked one block from King’s at a convenience store. I sat there for another three hours. I listened to Ella Fitzgerald sing her way through the Johnny Mercer songbook, checked messages, and watched Tyler and his dear old dad change tires.
At one point, I mentally cataloged the great fighters from Massachusetts. I started with Marvin Hagler, Rocky Marciano, and worked my way back in time to John L. Sullivan. I had not forgotten Willie Pep. If I’d started with the best, I might’ve started with Pep.
At almost four, Tyler King got in a black Toyota Celica, wheeled out on 1-A, and U-turned south. I started the Explorer and followed. He veered off onto Bremen Street, past several triple-deckers with billboards on their roofs, gas stations, and more garages, and stopped off at a white-brick building surrounded by concertina wire. Planes buzzed the neighborhood, shaking my windows. A sign read PAUL’S AIRPORT PARKING.
It didn’t appear as though anyone but Paul had used it since the mid-1970s. Tall weeds grew from many cracks. After about five minutes, King got back into his car and headed south, rejoining 1-A.
Before we hit the tollbooth to the Sumner Tunnel, I spotted a black SUV make an inelegant turn off Porter Street and duck in two cars behind me. I kept the car in my rearview as we dipped into the tunnel. Tyler sped ahead as I hung back, keeping the SUV in my rearview mirror. I dallied a bit and the SUV made no attempt to pass. Halfway through the tunnel, the driver was only a few car lengths back.
At the tunnel exit, traffic slowed and I caught up with Tyler and the Celica by Haymarket Station. He turned left onto Congress and again onto North Street, where he drove up into a parking garage near Faneuil Hall. I kept on driving into the North End. The black SUV followed.
I picked up my phone and called the Harbor Health Club. Within two minutes, I doubled back onto Hanover and was on the phone with Hawk. I rattled off a few details.
I was back on Union and then back on North, passing the parking deck where Tyler had disappeared. At Blackstone Street, the Greenway Market was in full force. I parked along the street and joined a jumble of shoppers carrying seafood and local produce. The stalls were filled with bins of fish and oysters on ice, spinach, and carrots.
As I checked on the price of haddock, I noted two thick-necked men tailing me. Bunches of asparagus were two for five bucks. The red peppers were huge and smelled the way peppers should smell. There were onions and zucchini and more fruits de mer.
Under a white tent, I stopped to ask about today’s scallops. The men kept walking my way.
On the Greenway, a carousel turned to calliope music. The two men approached me. They tried to act like they were shopping, but they were as unobtrusive as a couple of linebackers at a Céline Dion concert.
One of the men was built like a Bulgarian powerlifter. He had an abnormally thick bald head and a closely trimmed black beard. He wore a navy pin-striped suit with a light blue silk shirt. The suit had to be tailored because off-the-rack would have been impossible. The other wore jeans and a white T-shirt with a mustache-goatee combo and two earrings in his left ear.
He had mean, sleepy eyes and wore a long black jacket on this particularly hot day. He looked at the powerlifter and nodded.
23
They braced me as I attempted to turn down Blackstone.
“Forget about King,” Mean Eyes said. He spoke through gritted teeth. “Or we’ll fuck you up bad.”
I turned to him. “Is it possible to get fucked up good?”
I noted the powerlifter’s head was the exact same size as some of the round watermelons at the market. Although he looked like he could bench-press a Mercedes, his communication skills were lacking. He grunted an affirmation.
The carousel turned. Children played. The calliope piped.
I preferred not to make a scene in public. But now that Tyler King was on to me, I thought we might have a chat. The two men blocked the way back to the parking garage.
“How is it, working for Jackie?” I said. “Does he provide dental?”
The guy with mean, sleepy eyes smiled. Many teeth were yellow. The others were gold.
“Guess not.”
“Buzz off.”
“I’m sure Killer Kowalski can try to clean and jerk me over to the Navy Yard,” I said. “But here isn’t the place.”
Mean Eyes stepped to me and grabbed my arm. I punched him right in his bad dental work, causing his head to snap back, and he faltered a bit. Killer Kowalski stepped forward and wrapped my body in a bear hug. His strength was substantial. A short Hispanic man ran in front of his scallops and oysters in an effort to protect them.