“So, you ever hear of them.”
“They are a domestic group,” Ives said. “We concern ourselves with international issues. Have you consulted our counterintelligence cousins at the Bureau?”
“There seems to be a missing file.”
Ives smiled again. “Ahhh!” he said.
“Ahhh?”
Ives began to nod his head slowly as he spoke.
“How do you know it exists?” he said.
“It was mentioned in a police report. Said an FBI intelligence file was coming.”
“And it wasn’t there.”
“No.”
“And the FBI can’t find it.”
“No.”
“What does that tell you?” he said.
“Two possibilities,” I said.
“One being that they are sloppy filers,” Ives said.
“And the other that something is being covered up.”
Ives rocked in his chair for a moment. “While the terms FBI and Intelligence are oddly disparate,” he said, “I have not found them to be sloppy filers.”
We were both quiet. Below us the harbor was gray and choppy in the May sunshine. One of the water shuttle boats from Rowe’s Wharf was trudging toward the airport.
“You’re telling me something,” I said.
“I am a member of a highly secretive government agency,” Ives said. “We tell no one anything.”
“Of course,” I said.
9
Hawk and I were running intervals on the red composite track in back of Harvard Stadium. The sun was shining. The temperature was about 65. I was wearing a cutoff sweatshirt that was black with sweat. Hawk seemed calm. We would do a couple 220s, a couple 440s, and a couple 880s, and then walk a 440. We were walking again.
“Maybe we should walk an extra two-twenty,” I said.
“Ain’t two-twenties anymore,” Hawk said. “I keep telling you. They two hundred meters, four hundred meters, and eight hundred meters.”
“How do you know,” I said.
“Ah is an African-American,” Hawk said. “We know shit like that. You see a lot of European Americans running those races?”
“European Americans?” I said.
Hawk grinned.
“I can always tell,” I said, “when you’re sleeping with some theorist from one of the colleges.”
“Abby,” Hawk said. “She teach at Brandeis.”
“I’ll bet she does,” I said.
“She a feminist, too,” Hawk said.
“Of course she is,” I said. “You want to walk another two-twenty.”
“Sure,” Hawk said. “I know you need it.”
“I was thinking of you,” I said.
Some of the Harvard track kids flashed by us, running their own training sprints. I was glad we were walking. I had the feeling they’d have flashed past us even if we’d been running. Some of them were women.
“You ever hear of a group back in the seventies,” I said, “called itself the Dread Scott Brigade?
“Nope.”
“Part of the radical movement,” I said. “They held up a bank in Audubon Circle in 1974, killed a woman.”
“I remember that,” Hawk said. “I believe there was a brother in on it.”
“Yes.”
“Lotta brothers in radical movements then,” Hawk said.
“Ungrateful bastards,” I said. “We rescue their ancestors from ignorance, teach them to chop cotton. And that’s the thanks we get?”
“Good works don’t always get rewarded,” Hawk said, without any hint of a ghetto accent. His speech flowed in and out of Standard English for reasons known only to him. Most things about Hawk were known only to him.
“How come you weren’t a radical?” I said.
“I was into crime?”
“Oh yeah.”
“So how come you interested?”
I told him about Paul and Daryl and the missing FBI report. Then we ran some 220s and some 440s and some 880s. I kept up pretty well for a European American.
When we were walking again, Hawk said, “Quirk know about this missing report?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And the FBI guy?”
“Epstein,” I said. “Yeah, he knows.”
“But neither one of them can find it.”
“They haven’t yet.”
Both of us paused to watch a pair of young Harvard women jog past. As we watched them I said to Hawk, “You think staring at them is sexist behavior?”
“Yes,” Hawk said.
I nodded.
“That’s what I thought,” I said.
Hawk was silent for maybe twenty yards. The Harvard women were halfway around the turn.
Then he said, “Quirk wants to find something, he usually do.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Don’t know Epstein. But he don’t get to be SAC ’cause he a good old Irish Catholic boy.”
“No.”
“So he might be pretty good, too.”
“Be my guess,” I said.
Hawk was wearing black satiny polyester running pants and a sleeveless mesh shirt. From the far turn the two Harvard women looked back at him.
“We think he good. We know Quirk be good,” Hawk said. “So there a reason they don’t find this report?”
I shrugged.
“Maybe there’s a reason they can’t look,” I said.
“And maybe they hoping you’ll do the looking for them.”
“That occurred to me,” I said.
Hawk looked at me for a minute. His expression was as unfathomable as it always was.
“Good,” Hawk said.
10
Pearl lay at full length between Susan and me.
“It’s odd,” Susan said. “Being in bed with a strange dog.”
“That describes my life before I met you,” I said.
“Oh, oink!” Susan said.
“Sexism again?” I said.
“In the extreme,” Susan said.
“You chicks are so sensitive,” I said.
“You too, big guy,” Susan said.
We were quiet, listening to the faint breathing sound Pearl made as she slept.
“I don’t love her yet,” Susan said. “Like I did the first Pearl.”
“Not yet,” I said.
“But we will,” Susan said.
“Yes.”
The room was nearly dark, lit faintly by the ambient illumination of the outside city.
“It’s fascinating to see her beginning to morph into Pearl,” Susan said.
“She’s doing that,” I said. “Isn’t she.”
“I know it’s me, of course,” Susan said. “I know she’s not really changing.”
“Maybe she is,” I said.
“You think?”
“There are more things in this world than in all your philosophies, Horatio.”
“I think you might have somewhat mangled the quote,” Susan said.
“Is there a copy of Hamlet in the house?” I said.
“I don’t think so.”
“Then I stand by my quote,” I said.
Pearl stood up and turned around several times and settled back down with her feet sticking into my stomach.
“You’re lying on her side of the bed,” Susan said.
“I prefer to think of it as her lying on my side.”
“Well, at least she’s the only one.”
“Oh, good,” I said.
“She does present something of an obstacle,” Susan said.
“You feel that if I were to press my pulsating maleness upon you,” I said, “she might react?”
“Pulsating maleness?”
“Throbbing masculinity?” I said.
“My God,” Susan said. “And yes, I think she’d bark and snuffle and paw at us and probably try to become part of the festivities.”
“And if we put her in another room?”
“She’ll yowl,” Susan said.
“W
e could pretend it’s you,” I said.
“We could run cold water on your pulsating maleness,” Susan said.
“She’s pretty used to the car,” I said. “I could take her out and put her in it.”
“Yes,” Susan said. “That would work, I think.”
“I could even give her a ride around the block so she’d think she actually was going someplace.”
“Even better,” Susan said.
“While I’m gone you could take off those pajamas,” I said.
“I bought these pajamas for you.”
“When I complained about the sweatpants?”
“Yes. They even had the word ‘enticing’ on the package,” Susan said.
“ ‘Better than sweatpants’ doesn’t look as good on a label,” I said.
I put on my pants and shoes and took Pearl on her short leash downstairs to the driveway. I let her jump into the backseat and drove once around the block and back into the driveway.
“I’ll be back soon,” I said.
And she fell for it.
11
It wasn’t quite a play Paul had written, nor exactly a dance that he’d choreographed, nor precisely an evening of cabaret, though it had all those elements. It was called “Poins.” And it integrated Shakespearean characters, songs from 1950s musicals, and choreography which referenced both eras. I had always liked watching the kid perform, but over the years some of the things he’d performed in had made me tired. But that had been other people’s stuff. Doing his own stuff, Paul was touching, smart, and funny. If I weren’t so hard-bitten, I’d have been thrilled. When the play was over, Paul and Daryl came back to Susan’s place to meet Pearl.
“My God,” Paul said when Pearl got off the couch, came over carefully, and sniffed him with considerable reserve. “She’s really beautiful.”
Susan said, “Pearl, say hello to your brother, Paul.”
Daryl looked a little cautious, and when Pearl sniffed her I could see her tense. This did not bode well.
“I have sandwiches,” Susan said. “Let me set the table while you have a drink.”
“We can eat at the counter,” Paul said.
“No, no,” Susan said. “It will only take me a minute.”
Paul smiled at me. “Why did I say that?”
“Because you’re a slow learner,” I said. “You knew what the answer would be.”
“Good china,” Paul said. “And many glasses and two spoons each and linen napkins in napkin rings.”
“Should I help?” Daryl said.
She was still alert to any false moves Pearl might make.
“No,” Paul said.
Paul drank a couple beers in what appeared to be one continuous swallow. His performance had been exhaustingly physical, and even when it wasn’t, it always took him some time to come down. I knew he’d be quiet for awhile.
“Does your aunt still live in Boston?” I said.
“She retired,” Daryl said. “Someplace up in Maine.”
“Have you seen her since you’ve been here?”
“No. We weren’t really close after my mother died.”
“So you went back to La Jolla.”
“Yes.”
“And lived with your father?”
“Yes.”
“When did you start performing?”
She shrugged. “My mom used to take me to the children’s program at the La Jolla Playhouse,” she said. “Both my parents were very supportive. My mom and dad never missed anything I was in.”
“Your father still in La Jolla?” I said.
“Yes,” Daryl said. “I had an unusually wonderful childhood, before . . .” she made a little rolling gesture with her right hand. “We were a really close-knit family. We did everything together.”
“Siblings?” I said.
“No. Just Mom, and Dad, and me.”
“Where in Maine does your aunt live?”
“I don’t know, a funny name. I think it’s the place where that ex-president lives.”
“George Bush?”
“Yes.”
“Kennebunkport,” I said.
“That sounds right.”
Paul was watching me.
“What’s your aunt’s name?” I said.
“I think it’s Sybil Pritchard now,” Daryl said. “Why?”
“I thought maybe I’d talk with her,” I said.
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
Paul was frowning a little.
“Okay,” I said.
“And your father’s name is Gordon,” I said. “Like yours.”
“Yes.”
Susan came in wearing a small, clean apron that said BORN TO COOK across the front.
Paul looked at the apron and smiled. “That would be irony,” Paul said, “right?”
“It would,” Susan said. “Supper’s ready.”
There was a very big platter of finger sandwiches and composed salad plates with asparagus, cherry tomatoes, and artichoke hearts.
“My God, Susan,” Daryl said. “You put this all together while we were having a drink?”
Susan smiled modestly.
“What kind of sandwiches are they?” Daryl said. She seemed a little uneasy about Pearl’s nose resting on the edge of the table near her.
“Oh,” Susan said, “a lovely assortment.”
Paul looked at me and made a little sound that might have been a laugh, smothered.
“Are you laughing?” Daryl said. “I need to know what they are. There’s a lot of stuff I can’t eat.”
“I’m not laughing at you,” Paul said.
Susan said, “He’s laughing at me, Daryl. I have never actually made a sandwich, I believe, in my entire life.”
“So where’d you get these.”
“I have a caterer friend who has a key,” Susan said. “I called her on my cell phone.”
It was in fact a lovely assortment: tuna, smoked salmon, egg salad, cheese, turkey, cucumber with Boursin, and corned beef. Daryl carefully examined the contents of each one before she selected from the platter. She ate two sandwiches, both turkey, and ate the cherry tomatoes from her salad.
We talked about the play. We complimented both of them. We had no further conversations about Daryl’s aunt, whom she’d rather I not talk to, nor Daryl’s childhood, which had been idyllic.
12
Hawk and I were in Codman Square in a coffee shop eating grilled English muffins. A tall, thin, hard-faced black guy with a gray Afro, wearing a white dress shirt buttoned to the neck, walked in and came to our table. Several people in the coffee shop looked at him covertly.
“Hawk,” he said.
“Sawyer,” Hawk said.
The black man sat down next to Hawk.
“The blue-eyed devil is Spenser,” Hawk said. “Sawyer McCann, the last hippie.”
We nodded at each other. Sawyer made no attempt to shake hands.
“You notice how out of place you look here,” McCann said.
I was the only white person in the room. “I do,” I said.
“That is how it feels for us, much of the time.”
“I thought of that,” I said.
“So how’s it make you feel?” McCann said.
“Like clinging to Hawk, but I’m too proud.”
Hawk grinned. McCann’s face never changed.
“Well,” he said. “At least you don’t apologize for being white.”
“Not my fault,” I said.
“Sawyer know something about the Dread Scott Brigade,” Hawk said.
I nodded and looked at McCann and waited. The waitress came and refilled our coffee cups and poured one for McCann. McCann stirred in six spoonfuls of sugar, pouring it from the old-fashioned glass container into his spoon to measure, and then into the coffee.
McCann sipped some of his coffee, watching me as he did.
“I might help you,” he said. “But if I do, it’s because Hawk ask me.”
“Okay.”
“
I never met a white man I could trust,” McCann said.
I waited.
“I never met one I liked.”
I let that slide.
“I never met one wasn’t a racist motherfucker,” McCann said. “You a racist?”
Hawk watched quietly, his eyes bright with pleasant amusement.
“Not till now,” I said.
McCann’s tight face got tighter. “You fucking with me?” he said.
“I am,” I said.
McCann sat back in the booth a little and put his coffee mug down. “You ain’t scared of me,” he said. “Are you.”
“Nope.”
“Most white people you get in their face they get scared.”
“That’s a racist reaction,” I said.
Hawk didn’t say anything, but there was still a hint of amusement around his eyes.
“I usually count on it,” McCann said.
“Sorry,” I said.
“Okay,” McCann said.
He drank some more coffee.
“ ’Bout 1972,” he said. “They having a lotta problems between the black prisoners and the white prisoners in the various prison systems. So they invite a bunch of radical white kids from a bunch of, ah, liberal universities to come in and promote racial harmony. Workshops, seminars, that shit. You remember what it was like in 1972.”
I nodded.
“And it don’t work so well,” McCann almost smiled. “Kids decide the black prisoners are victims of white racism and they stir up more trouble than there was before.”
“You think the kids were right?” I said.
McCann had decided to accept me, for the moment at least, and most of the hard-case manner had sloughed off, though it hadn’t been replaced by anything resembling soft.
“Some of the brothers in jail were political prisoners,” McCann said. “Still are. Some of them were rapists and murderers and thieves and bullies, and the kids’ problem was they couldn’t tell which was which.”
“Because they were all black,” I said.
“Uh-huh.”
“Racism works in mysterious ways,” I said. “It’s wonders to perform.”
“So these kids decide to form the Dread Scott Brigade, which a sort of loose national network to help victims of white fascist oppression,” McCann said. “Kind of name college kids would think up. And they going to work for the freedom of the prisoners.”
“How’d that go?” I said.
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