Double Deuce (3 page)

Kilroy was here.

There was almost no noise. Occasionally a child would wail.

“This is your plan?” I said to Hawk.

“You got a better idea?” Hawk said.

“No.”

“Me either.”

“So we sit here and await developments,” I said.

“Un huh.”

We sat. The wind shifted. The Styrofoam cup skittered slowly back across the blacktop.

“You got any thought on what developments we might be awaiting?” I said.

“No.”

A rat appeared around the corner of one of the buildings and went swiftly to an overturned trash barrel. It plunged its upper body into the litter. Only its tail showed. The tail moved a little, back and forth, slowly. Then the rat backed out of the trash barrel and went away.

“Maybe we can keep the peace by sitting here in the middle of the project. And maybe we can find out who killed the two kids, mother and daughter,” I said. “I doubt it, but maybe we can. Then what? We can’t sit here twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, until the social order changes. No matter how much fun we’re having.”

Hawk nodded. He was slouched in the driver’s seat, his eyes half shut, at rest. He was perfectly capable of staying still for hours, and feeling rested, and missing nothing.

“Something will develop,” Hawk said.

“Because we’re here,” I said.

“Un huh.”

“They won’t be able to tolerate us sitting here,” I said.

Hawk grinned.

“We an affront to their dignity,” he said.

“So they’ll finally have to do something.”

“Un huh.”

“Which is what we’re sitting here waiting for,” I said.

“Un huh.”

“Sort of like bait,” I said.

“Exactly,” Hawk said.

“What a dandy plan!”

“You got a better idea?” Hawk said.

“No.”

“Me either.”

“And the baby,” Susan said. I kissed Pearl.

“There’s some supper waiting for you in the refrigerator,” she said.

“Good,” I said.

“Why don’t you get it and bring it up and we’ll eat together and you can tell me about your day.”

“I can tell you about my day now. Hawk and I sat for thirteen hours in the middle of Twenty-two Hobart Street.”

“And?”

“And nothing. We just sat there.”

“How boring,” Susan said. “Well, get your supper and we can talk.”

I took my gun off my belt and put it on the night-table next to my side of the bed. I took a shower. Then I went downstairs to the kitchen and found supper, a large bowl of cold pasta and chicken. I tasted it. There was raw broccoli in it, and raw carrots, and some sort of fat-free salad dressing that tasted like an analgesic balm. Susan admitted it tasted like an analgesic balm, but she said that with a little fat-free yogurt and some lemon juice and a dash of celery seed mixed in, it was good. I had never agreed with this. I put it back in the refrigerator. When I’d moved in I had brought with me a six-pack of Catamount Beer. I opened one.

In Susan’s refrigerator was a half-used cellophane bag of shredded cabbage, some carrots, some broccoli, half a red pepper, half a yellow pepper, and half a green pepper, some skimmed milk, most of a loaf of seven-grain bread, and a package containing two boneless skinless chicken breasts. I sliced up both the chicken breasts on an angle, cut up the peppers, sprinkled everything with some fines herbes that I found in the back of Susan’s cupboard, and put it in a fry pan on high. It was a pretty fry pan, a mauve color with a design on it, that went perfectly with the pillows on the love seat in the kitchen. As an instrument for sauteeing it was nearly useless. I splashed a little beer in with the chicken and peppers and when it cooked away, I took the pan off the stove and made up a couple of sandwiches on the sevengrain bread. I put the sandwiches on a plate, got another beer, and took my supper upstairs.

“Oh, I left some pasta salad for you,” Susan said.

“I sort of felt like a sandwich,” I said.

Susan smiled and nodded. I sat on the edge of the bed and balanced the plate on the edge of the night-table. Pearl shifted on the bed and nosed at it. I told her not to and she withdrew nearly a quarter of an inch. I drank some beer and hunched over the plate, keeping my body between Pearl and the sandwich, and ate. It was not a neat sandwich and some of it fell on the night-table. I picked it up and gave it to Pearl.

The movie was some sort of love story between an elegant rich woman from Beverly Hills, who appeared to be 5’10“, and a roughneck ironworker from Queens, who appeared to be 5’6”. They were as convincing as Dan Quayle.

I finished my sandwich and got under the covers. Pearl got under the covers when I did, and stretched out between me and Susan.

“There appears to be a German Short Haired Pointer in bed with us,” I said.

“That’s where she sleeps,” Susan said. “You know that.”

I took the Globe from the floor beside the bed and opened it. The ironworker and the elegant lady were playing a love scene on the tube. I glanced at it. In the close-ups he was much taller than she was. I went back to the paper. I noted in the TV listings that the Bulls were playing the Pistons on TNT.

“Why did you sit for all that time in the middle of the project?” Susan said.

“Hawk figures that it will make the gang react,” I said.

“Isn’t that sort of like being the bait in a trap?” Susan said.

“I raised that point,” I said.

“And?”

“It is sort of like being bait,” I said.

Susan was silent. Her eyes stayed on the movie. I read the paper some more.

“It is what you do,” Susan said.

“Yeah.”

“But it scares me,” Susan said.

“Hell, it scares me too,” I said.

Quirk was wearing a beige corduroy jacket today, with a tattersall shirt and a maroon knit tie. His dark thick hair was cut very short and his thick hands were nicely manicured. He was sitting at his desk so I couldn’t see his pants, but I knew they’d be creased and his shoes would gleam with polish and would match his belt. His desk was empty except for a picture of his wife, children, and dog.

“You are the neatest bastard I ever saw,” I said. “Except maybe Hawk.”

“So?” Quirk said.

“And the gabbiest.”

Quirk didn’t say anything. He merely sat, his hands quiet on the bare desk top.

“You called me,” I said.

“How you doing on the killing outside Double Deuce?” Quirk said.

“We’re hanging around awaiting developments,” I said.

“And?”

“Hobarts have noticed us.”

“And?”

“And nothing much. Kid named Major Johnson seems to run things.”

“They make a run at you yet?”

“Nothing serious,” I said. Quirk nodded.

“Will be,” Quirk said. “They buzz the kid and her baby?”

“Probably,” I said. “They seem to be the force in Double Deuce.”

“You doing any investigating or are you just sitting around scaring the Homies?”

“Mostly sitting,” I said.

“Anybody in the project talk with you?”

“Nearly as much as they talk with you,” I said. Quirk nodded.

“Tillis got a line on anything?”

“He thinks I’m the white Satan.”

“He thinks whatever will get his face on television,” Quirk said. “Just happens to be right this time.”

“Be more photo opportunities if the kids were white.”

Quirk shrugged.

“You got any problem with us looking into this?” I said.

“No,” Quirk said. “I hope you find out who did it and Hawk kills him. What’s he doing in this?”

“Hard to say about Hawk,” I said.

“We won’t bother you,” Quirk said. “I want someone to go down for killing the kid and her baby. We got the slugs. We can identify the gun if we find it.”

“I know,” I said. “Nine millimeter. I’ll keep an eye out.”

“Not hard to find on Hobart Street,” Quirk said. “We can help, we will. Hawk wants to handle it his way, be fine with me.”

“Me too,” I said.

“Jackie’s going to sit with us today,” Hawk said. He put the Jag in gear and we slid away from the curb in front of Susan’s place and headed down Linnaean Street.

“Good,” I said. “I was getting really sick of you.”

“I’m a producer,” Jackie said. “For The Marge Eagen Show.”

“Television?” I said.

“My God, yes,” Jackie said. “It’s the most successful local talk show in the country.”

“Un huh,” I said.

“Not a fan?” Jackie said.

“Mostly I only watch television if there’s a ball involved, or maybe horses.”

“Well, Marge wants to do a major, week-long, five-part series on the gangs in Boston,” Jackie said. “And she spoke to me about it. She thought we’d be best to focus on an event related to one gang, in one locale. We knew of course about the murder and the problems at Double Deuce, so I spoke to Hawk.”

“Of course,” I said.

“I thought if anyone could help those people it would be Hawk, and I could tag along and get my story. And we could get it on in time for sweeps period.”

I smiled.

“That sounds swell,” I said. “Have you and Hawk known one another for long?”

“I’ve known Jackie most of my life,” Hawk said. Jackie put her hand lightly on his thigh.

“I hadn’t seen Hawk for years, and then, after my divorce, I ran into him again.”

“Gee whiz, Hawkster,” I said. “You forgot to mention Jackie when you hired me to solve the murders and save all the poor folks at Double Deuce. How’d you happen to hear about the problems at Double Deuce, Jackie?”

“The local minister, man named Orestes Tillis,” Jackie said. “He wants to be a state senator.”

“Anyone would,” I said. “So Hawk and I are going to clean up Double Deuce and you’re going to cover it, and Marge Eagen is going to be able to charge more for commercial time on her show. And Rev Tillis will get elected.”

“I know you’re being cynical, but I guess, in fact, that’s the truth. On the other hand, if you do clean up Double Deuce, it really will be good for the people there. Regardless of Marge Eagen or Orestes Tillis. And whoever killed that child and her baby… ”

“Sure,” I said.

“He’s just mad,” Hawk said, “because he likes to think he’s a catcher in the rye.”

“I’m disappointed that I didn’t figure it out something was up.”

“I don’t follow this,” Jackie said.

“Hawk seemed to be helping people for no good reason. Hawk doesn’t do that.”

“Except you,” Hawk said.

“Except me,” I said. “And Susan, and probably Henry Cimoli.”

“Who’s Susan?” Jackie said.

“She’s with me,” I said.

“I thought of money, or getting even, or paying something off. I never thought of you.”

“Me?”

“He’s doing it for you.”

Jackie looked at Hawk. Her hand still rested quietly on his thigh.

“That why you’re doing it, Hawk?” she said.

“Sure,” Hawk said.

She smiled at him, as good a smile as I’d seen in a while except for Susan’s-and patted his thigh.

“That’s very heartwarming,” she said.

Hawk smiled back at her and put one hand on top of her hand as it rested on his thigh.

Good heavens!

“This is Mrs. Brown,” Tillis said. “She has a complaint about the Hobarts.”

Hawk smiled at her and nodded his head once. “Go ahead,” Tillis said to her.

“They been messing with my boy,” the woman said. “He going to school and they take his books away from him and they take his lunch money. I saved out that lunch money and they took it. And one of them push him down and tell him he better get some protection for himself.”

The woman put both hands on her hips as she talked and her face was raised at Hawk as if she were expecting him to challenge her and she was ready to fight back.

“Where’s your son?” Hawk said.

She shook her head and looked down. “Boy’s afraid to come,” Tillis said. Hawk nodded.

“Which one pushed him down?”

The woman raised her head defiantly. “My boy won’t say.”

“You know where I can find them?” Hawk said.

“They hanging on the corner, Hobart and McCrory,” she said. “That where they be hassling my boy.”

Hawk nodded again. I got out of the car on Hawk’s side. Jackie got out the other.

“What you planning on?” Tillis said to Hawk.

“I tell you how to write sermons?” Hawk said.

“I represent these people,” Tillis said. “I got a right to ask.”

“Sure,” Hawk said. “You know Jackie, I guess.”

Tillis nodded and put out his hand. “Jackie. Working on that show?”

“Tagging along,” she said.

“Figure this is for us?” I said.

“See what we do,” Hawk said. “Otherwise no point to it. It ain’t exactly the crime of the century.”

“Mrs. Brown, I think you and I should allow Hawk to deal with this,” Reverend Tillis said, making it sound regretful. Hawk grinned to himself.

There was no one in sight as we walked across the project. Jackie stayed with us. I looked at Hawk. He made no sign. It was warm for April. Nothing moved. The sun shone down. No wind stirred. Jackie took a small tape recorder out of her shoulder bag.

Ahead of us was a loud radio. The sound of it came from a van, parked at the corner. A couple kids were sitting in the van with the doors open. Major leaned against a lamppost. The big kid that Hawk had nailed last time was standing near him. The others were fanned out around. There were eighteen of them. I didn’t see any weapons. The music abruptly shut off. The sound of Jackie’s heels was suddenly loud on the hot top.

Major smiled at us as we stopped in front of him. I heard Jackie’s tape recorder click on.

“What’s you got the wiggle for, Fro?” Major said. “She for backup?”

The kids fanned out around him laughed.

“Which one of you hassled the Brown kid?” Hawk said.

“We all brown kids here, Fro,” Major said. Again laughter from the gang.

Hawk waited. Still no sign of weapons. I was betting on the van. It had a pair of doors on the side that open out. One of them was open maybe six inches. It would come from there. I wasn’t wearing a jacket. The gun on my hip was apparent. It didn’t matter. They all knew I had one, anyway. Hawk’s gun was still out of sight under a black silk windbreaker he wore unzipped. That didn’t matter either, they knew he had one too.

“What you going to do, Fro, you find the hobo that hassed him?” Major said.

“One way to find out,” Hawk said.

Major turned and grinned at the audience. Then he looked at the big kid next to him. “John Porter, you do that?”

John Porter said “Ya,” which was probably half the things John Porter could say. From his small dark eyes no gleam of intelligence shone.

“There be your man, Fro,” Major said. “Lass time you mace him, he say you sucker him. He ain’t ready, he say.”

Hawk grinned. “That right, John Porter?”

The cork was going to pop. There was no way that it wouldn’t. Without moving my head I kept a peripheral fix on the van door.

John Porter said, “Ya.”

“You ready now, John Porter?” Hawk said.

John Porter obviously was ready now. His knees were flexed, his shoulders hunched up a little. He had his chin tucked in behind his left shoulder. There was some scar tissue around his right eye. There was the scar along his jawline, and his nose looked as if it had thickened. Maybe boxed a little. Probably a lot of fights in prison.

“Care to even things up for the sucker punch?” Hawk said.

“John Porter say he gon whang yo ass, Fro,” Major said. “First chance he get.”

The laughter still skittered around the edges of everything Major said. But his voice was tauter now than it had been.

“Right, John Porter?” Major said.

John Porter nodded. His eyes reminded me of the eyes of a Cape buffalo I’d seen once in the San Diego Zoo. He kept his stare on Hawk. It was what the gang kids called mad-dogging. Hawk’s grin got wider and friendlier.

“Well, John Porter,” Hawk said, friendly as a Bible salesman. “You right ‘bout that sucker punch. And being as how you a brother and all, I’ll let you sucker me. Go on ahead and lay one upside my head, and that way we start out even, should anything, ah, develop.”

John Porter looked at Major.

“Go on, John Porter, do what the man say. Put a charge on his head, Homes.”

John Porter was giving this some thought, which was clearly hard for him. Was there some sort of trickery here?

“Come on, John Porter,” Major said. “Man, you can’t fickle on me now. You tol me you going to crate this Thompson first chance. You tol me that, Homes.” In everything Major said there was derision.

John Porter put out a decent overhand left at Hawk, which missed. Hawk didn’t seem to do anything, but the punch missed his chin by a quarter of an inch. John Porter had done some boxing. He shuffled in behind the left with a right cross, which also missed by a quarter of an inch. John Porter began to lose form. He lunged and Hawk stepped aside and John Porter had to scramble to keep his balance.

“See, the thing is,” Hawk said, “you’re in over your head, John Porter. You don’t know what you are dealing with here.”

John Porter rushed at Hawk this time, and Hawk moved effortlessly out of the way. John Porter was starting to puff. He wasn’t quite chasing Hawk yet. He had enough ring savvy left to know that you could get your clock cleaned by a Boy Scout if you started chasing him incautiously. But chasing Hawk cautiously wasn’t working. John Porter had been trained, probably in some jailhouse boxing program, in the way to fight with his fists. And it wasn’t working. It had probably nearly always worked. He was 6’2“ and probably weighed 240, and all of it muscle. He might not have lost a fight since the fourth grade. Maybe never. But he was losing this one and the guy wasn’t even fighting. John Porter didn’t get it. He stopped, his hands still up, puffing a little, and squinted at Hawk.

“What you doing?” he said.

Major stepped behind John Porter and kicked him in the butt.

“You fry him, John Porter, and you do it now,” Major said.

There was no derision in Major’s voice.

“He can’t,” Hawk said, not unkindly.

John Porter made a sudden sweep at Hawk with his right hand and missed. The side door of the van slid an inch and I jumped at it and rammed it shut with my shoulder on someone’s hand, someone yelled in pain, something clattered on the street. I kept my back against the door and came up with the Browning and leveled it sort of inclusively at the group. Hawk had a left handful of John Porter’s hair. He held John Porter’s head down in front of him, and with his right hand, pressed the muzzle of a Sig Sauer automatic into John Porter’s left ear. Jackie had dropped flat to the pavement and was trying with her left hand to smooth her skirt down over her backside, while her right hand pushed the tape recorder as far forward toward the action as she could.

Somewhere on the other side of McCrory Street a couple of birds chirped. Inside the truck someone was grunting with pain. I could feel him struggle to get his arm out of the door. A couple of gang members were frozen in midreach toward inside pockets or under jackets.

“Now this time,” Hawk was saying, “we all going to walk away from this.”

No one moved. Major stood with no expression on his face, as if he were watching an event that didn’t interest him.

“Next time some of you will be gone for good,” Hawk said. “Spenser, bring him out of the truck.”

I kept my eyes on the gang and slid my back off the door. It swung open and a small quick-looking kid no more than fourteen, in a black Adidas sweatsuit, came out clutching his right wrist against him. In the gutter by the curb, below the open door, was an automatic pistol. I picked it up and stuck it in my belt.

“You all walk away from here, now,” Hawk said. No one moved.

“Do what I say,” Hawk said. There was no anger in his voice. Hawk pursed his lips as he looked at the gang members standing stolidly in place. Behind him Jackie was on her feet again, her tape recorder still running, some sand clinging to the front of her dress.

Hawk smiled suddenly. “Sure,” he said.

He looked at me.

“They won’t leave without him,” Hawk said.

I nodded. Hawk released his grip on John Porter’s hair and Porter straightened. He walked away from Hawk with his head down.

“You fucked yourself,” Major said without any particular emotion. “You dead, motherfucker.”

“Not likely,” Hawk said.

Major stood silently for a moment, looking at Hawk, then he looked at me.

“Enjoy yourself, slut,” he said to Jackie. And his face broke into a wide smile.

Then he turned and nodded at the gang. They followed him, and in a moment they were gone and all there was, was the two birds across the street, chirping.