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to be certain Mo was not about to destroy what was the last chance Jake had to prove himself.
    “What’s this?” Jake asked, throwing the note at Mo.
    Mo watched the balled-up paper fall to the floor. Righted his six-foot-two, 230-pound frame, hitching up his trousers. Jake’s former mentor had developed a beer gut over the years. The flab protruded from his midsection, fell over his belt, tightened his shirt—a pillowcase full of sand.
    “Sit down, Jake. Good to see you.” Smugness. Jake had a short fuse for it.
    “What’s up with you, Mo?” A pang of the unknown smacked Jake’s comfort zone. He paced in front of Mo’s desk, feeling that angst well up. Here was his chance to show brass and all those naysayers he wasn’t some burned-out cop, and Mo was messing with it. As a young patrol officer, during the heyday of the Big Dig construction project downtown (a three-and-a-half-mile re-routing of Interstate 93, changing it into a $15 billion tunnel under the city), it wasn’t as if Jake knew what he was doing all those times Mo had asked him to deliver a package here, an envelope there. Favors . Every cop had debts. Was Jake a bit naïve about it? Sure. But back then he wanted what Mo had. And ignorance was a trait every great cop needed to master. The code of the successful: Never question . No one figured the Big Dig would go over budget by tens of millions and be the focus of a media frenzy and an internal investigation.
    “Close the damn door before you speak, Jake, okay.” Mo turned serious. “Have I not taught you anything .”
    Jake slammed it shut with his foot. “Hot case here, Mo. I don’t need you fucking with it. Keep your damn nose out of this. Do your time. Leave with your pension. Be grateful for that, man. Whatever’s up between you and brass and Matikas, it’s not my thing. You and I, we’re even.”
    “That Public Garden vic was mine, Jake. I’m the senior in this unit! Don’t ever forget that.” Mo had thought Matikas was going to use him. At the last minute Matikas decided on Jake, telling Mo he was done for good out in the field. He would never investigate a case a again.
    “Come on. Give me a break. Ray was never going to allow you back out, Mo. You blew it. Accept that and be happy you still have a chance to get out of the department without being indicted.”
    Mo’s computer stared at both of them, the screen saver set on 3D Pipes. As he sat down on the couch in Mo’s office, Jake focused on the Etch-A-Sketch-like image of the pipes crawling around the screen.
    Mo took a breath, sat. “How ya been, Jake? How’s Dawn and Bren?”
    “Don’t go there. You lost that right to ask about them.” Jake noticed Mo’s hands shaking. “Haven’t hit it yet today, I see.”
    “I can help you with this case, Jake—”
    “No fucking way.” Jake stood. Stabbed a forefinger into the top of Mo’s desk, accenting each word. “No, Mo. Not in a million years. Don’t do this to me. Shit, man. Come on.”
    “That’s all I want. This one last dance. Forget all that bullshit about you showing brass you still got what it takes. You won’t be able to do this without me, Jake. I taught you what you know.”
    “Even if I wanted you in, Ray would never allow it.”
    “Well, my former student, I’m confident you’ll find a way to get around that little problem, won’t you?” Mo sat back in his chair. Smirked. Twirled his cigar. Squinted.
    Jake felt the juxtaposition of the past and present converging in front of him as if two blurry images had become one in the same. What am I doing? I’m in over my head . How long had it been? What, twelve years? No, fifteen, actually. He remembered meeting Mo that first time on Dorchester Street in Southie. Mo was working the Caddy’s Liquor Store beat. He was like a fun uncle. The one you waited all year to see at Thanksgiving. He took Jake under his wing. Jake was just a punk kid then. Running “errands” for Bulger soldiers as part of his