IT’S SATURDAY AROUND NOON. ERICA grabbed an early flight to Boston, then she cabbed over to Charlestown. At first glance the Gem Spa looks interchangeable with a thousand other small convenience stores in Boston—surviving on sugary sodas and lottery tickets and cigarettes. But then you notice that the shelves are barely stocked and that the refrigerator case is home to some sad-looking potato salad and coleslaw and a couple of blocks of meat and cheese—they’ll make you a sandwich if you ask nicely. The place smells like stale coffee, fresh cigarettes, and timeless venality. They’re clearly selling a lot more than sugar, smoke, and scratch-off dreams.
A young kid is behind the counter, he’s wicked skinny and jumpy, with greasy hair and eyes that are permanently averted.
“I’m looking for Pete Nichols.”
The kid narrows his eyes in semirecognition. He doesn’t look like a news junkie. “I don’t know no Pete Nichols.”
“Yes, you do.”
“You telling me what I do and don’t know, lady?”
“Yes.”
The kid sort of leaps back, like a jittery cricket. He looks down and grimaces. “You on TV?”
“Erica Sparks.”
“Oh yeah, I heard of you.”
From the back of the store Erica hears whistling and then a good-looking guy in his thirties, muscular but going to seed, with a gut and dark circles under his eyes, appears. “Erica!” He comes over, and before she can step back he enfolds her in a hug. He smells like sweat with a metallic, chemical afternote. “I thought we might see ya.”
Erica breaks away. “Have you seen Desmond Riley?”
“Whoa. Where you rushing to, the grave? Relax a minute, enjoy some hospitality. How about a nice piece of jerky and a slushie? Sean, get the lady a snack.”
Sean grabs a couple of candy bars, a can of Mountain Dew, and a vacuum-packed rope of mozzarella. He presents them to Erica. She puts the candy and cheese down on the counter, cracks the soda, and takes a sip. Pete whistles during this dance.
“I’m looking for Desmond Riley.”
“Oh, Desmond’s in the back. He’s looking forward to seeing you again . . . Kidding!” Then he laughs and then Sean laughs in support, like one of those sidekicks on the late-night talk shows.
Erica is losing her patience with this jokester. “Where is he?”
Nichols makes a great show of taking out a vape pipe and taking a long pull. He exhales the “smoke,” and Erica realizes where his metallic smell comes from—those vape fumes smell like an aluminum factory on the outskirts of Bogota. Then he takes out his phone and scrolls through with exaggerated nonchalance, whistling away. He finds what he’s looking for and turns the phone to Erica. “Recognize your pal?”
And there’s Desmond Riley sitting on a beach, sipping a bright blue cocktail and grinning at the camera.
“I hope he’s not overdoing it. You Irish burn so easily,” Erica says.
“Do we?”
“You push your luck and then it runs out.”
“I think you might have us confused with nosy reporters.”
“Where is he?”
“Puerto Vallarta. Cheap hotels, cheap drinks, cheap women. It’s like Vegas—what happens there, stays there. Unless it’s the clap.” He laughs, and Sean does his sidekick bit.
“Was he working for you?”
“I’m not going to answer that question.”
“You just did. And who were you working for? Who paid to have me kidnapped?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He takes another vape and smiles. “I just run my little store here, mind my own business.”
“Someone is minding mine, and I don’t like it.”
“Nowadays we’re all being watched.”
“Just know this—I’m watching you.”
As Erica turns and walks out of the Gem Spa, Nichols gives her a sly, almost conspiratorial look and whistles her on her way.