“Everybody needs some,” I said.
The whiskey was nearly vaporous when I sipped it, less liquid than a kind of warm miasma in the mouth. It was warm in my office, and dry, and in the quiet light the two of us were comfortable.
“Where do you get yours?” I said.
“Nurturance?” She sipped her whiskey again, bending toward the glass a little as she drank. Then she raised her head and smiled at me. “From the kids, I suppose. I guess the gangs provide me meaning and belonging and emotional sustenance.”
“Whatever works,” I said.
We were quiet briefly while the rain fell and the whiskey worked. There was no uneasiness in the silence. Either of us would talk when we had something to say. Neither of us felt the need to talk when we didn’t.
“Do you know Maslow’s hierarchy of needs?” Erin said.
“Don’t even know Maslow,” I said.
“Maslow’s studies indicate that humans have a descending order of fundamental needs: physical fulfillment, food, warmth, that sort of thing; then safety, love, and belonging; and self-esteem. Whoever—or whatever—provides for those needs will command loyalty and love.”
“Which the gangs do.”
“Yes,” Erin said. “They do.”
Again we were quiet. Erin finished her whiskey and held her glass out. I poured her another drink. Me too.
“There’s even a girls’ gang,” Erin said. “Really vicious, hostile.”
“I will make no remark about the female of the species,” I said.
“Ghetto life is sexist in the extreme,” Erin said. “Among the gangs, women are second-class citizens. Good for sex and little else. Maybe it has to do with a matriarchal society. Maybe all sexism does—the struggle between son and mother over son’s freedom. I have no theories on it—I have no theories on anything. I haven’t time.”
She drank again and seemed lost for a moment in thoughts I had no access to.
“You were talking about a female gang,” I said.
Erin shook her head, half smiling. “The Crockettes. More macho than anyone. One of the girls, name was Whistle, I don’t know why, stabbed her mother and put out a contract on her stepfather.”
“And then demanded leniency because she was an orphan.”
“It is almost like a joke, isn’t it?” Erin said. “She paid off the contract with sex. Even in the toughest of female gangs, that’s their edge: they pay for what they want by fucking.”
Erin’s voice was hard. I knew she’d chosen the word carefully.
“So finally, no matter what else they do, they perpetuate their status,” I said.
Erin nodded slowly, gazing past me at the dark vertical rain.
“The only thing that can save them, boys or girls, the only thing that works,” she said, “is if they can get some sort of positive relationship with an adult. They have no role models, nobody to demonstrate a way of life better than the one they’re in . . . or the church. I know it sounds silly, but if these kids get religion, they have something. The Muslims have saved a lot.”
“Another kind of gang.”
“Sure—Muslims, Baptists, the Marine Corps. Anybody, anything that can provide for Maslow’s hierarchy, that can show them that they are part of something, that they matter.”
She was leaning forward in her chair, the whiskey held in two hands in her lap and forgotten. I raised my glass toward her and gestured and took a drink.
“What I hope for you, Sister Macklin, is that you never lose this . . . but you get something else too.”
She smiled at me.
“That would be nice,” she said.
CHAPTER
31
I got home just after Susan’s last patient had departed. Susan was on the phone. Which she was a lot. She knew more people than Ivana Trump, and she talked to all of them, nearly every day, after work. Pearl was eating some dry dog food mixed with water in the kitchen and was profoundly ambivalent whether to greet me or keep eating. She made one fast dash at me and then returned to her supper. But she wagged her tail vigorously as she ate. Good enough. Susan waved at me but stayed on the phone. I didn’t mind. I liked listening to her talk on the phone. It was a performance—animated, intimate, compelling, rich with overtones, radiant with interest. I didn’t even know to whom she was talking, or about what. I just liked the sound of it, the way I like the sound of music.
I got a pork tenderloin out and brushed it with honey and sprinkled it with rosemary and put it in the oven. While it roasted I mixed up some corn flour biscuits and let them sit while I tossed a salad of white beans and peppers and doused it with some olive oil and cilantro. When the pork was done I took it out and let it rest while I baked the biscuits. I put some boysenberry jam out to have with the biscuits and sat down to eat.
I had already put away a biscuit when Susan hung up the phone and walked across the kitchen and gave me a kiss. She pursed her lips slightly and then nodded.
“Boysenberry,” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
“We got it last fall at that stand in Belfast, Maine.”
“Sensitive palate and good memory,” I said.
“And great kisser?”
“Everyone says so,” I said. “You want a little supper?”
She smiled and shook her head.
“I’ll have something later,” she said. “I still have to go to the club.”
“Aerobics?”
“Yes. I’m taking a step class and then I’ll probably do some weights. You eat much too early for me.”
I nodded.
“Any progress today?” Susan said.
“Some,” I said. “We got the name of Devona’s boyfriend.”
“Can you find him?” Susan said.
“He can run,” I said. “But he can’t hide.”
“Isn’t that a sports saying of some sort?”
“Yeah. Joe Louis said it about Billy Conn.”
“Do you think he had to do with killing her?”
“We find him,” I said, “we’ll ask.”
Susan nodded. She looked at my supper. “That looks good,” she said. “Well, I’ve got to get moving. I still have my revolting workout.”
“I know this is silly,” I said, “but if you find it revolting, why do you do it?”
“That’s silly,” Susan said.
“I knew it was when I said it. Well, it’s working great, anyway.”
“Thank you,” she said and hurried off to change.
As I ate my supper with the first round of the playoffs on the tube, I thought about how I had almost never seen Susan when she wasn’t in a hurry. I didn’t mind it exactly, but I had noticed it less when we lived apart.
CHAPTER
32
We were on Hafford Avenue, with the enduring rain coming steadily against the windshield and the wipers barely holding their own.
“I thought posses were Jamaican,” I said.
“Language changes very fast here. Now it just means a small gang. There are gangs with five or six kids in them if that’s all there are in the neighborhood,” Erin said.
We turned onto McCrory Street, a block from Double Deuce, and left onto Dillard Street and pulled up into the apron of an abandoned gas station. The pumps were gone, and the place where they had been torn out of the island looked like an open wound. The station windows had been replaced with plywood; and the plywood, and the walls of the station itself, were covered completely with fluorescent graffiti. The overhead door to the service bay was up and half a dozen kids sat in the bay on recycled furniture and looked at the rain. There was a thunderous rap group on at peak volume, and the kids were passing around a jug of white Concord grape wine.
“The one with the
wispy goatee is Tallboy,” Erin said.
He was sprawled on a broken chaise lounge: plumpish, and not very tall, wearing a red sweatshirt with the hood up.
“Tallboy?” I said.
“He usually drinks beer in the twenty-four-ounce cans,” Erin said. She rolled down the window and called to him.
“Tallboy, I need to talk with you.”
“Who you with, Miss Macklin?” Tallboy said.
He hadn’t moved but he’d tightened up. All of them had, and they gazed out at me in dark silence from their cave.
“A friend,” she said. “I need to talk. Can you come sit in the car?”
Tallboy got up slowly and came even more slowly toward the car. He walked with a kind of wide-legged swagger. He might have been a little drunk. When he was in the back he left the door open.
“What you need, Miss Macklin?”
“You knew Devona Jefferson,” she said.
“Yeah?”
“I know you did, Tallboy. She was your girlfriend.”
“So?”
“And she was killed.”
“Don’t know nothing about that,” he said. He looked hard at me. “Who you?” he said.
“Guy looking for the people killed your girlfriend.”
“You DT?”
“No.”
“So what you care who piped Devona?”
“They killed your baby, too,” I said.
“Hey, man, what you talking shit to me for? You don’t even know that my little girl.”
I waited. Tallboy glanced back toward the open garage where the jug was.
“She prob’ly was,” he said. “She look like me.”
He looked back toward the wine again. I reached under the front seat and brought out a bottle of Glenfiddich Single Malt Scotch Whiskey. It’s handy to have around, because there are times when it is a better bribe than money.
“Try a little of this,” I said.
Tallboy stared at it and then took the bottle and swallowed some.
“Damn,” he said, “that is some juke, man. That is some bad beverage.”
“You know who killed her?” I said.
His eyes slid away from mine and he took another pull on the Glenfiddich. Then he looked back at me and his eyes were tearing. He was drunker than I thought and the scotch was moving him along.
“Sure you do. But you don’t care. You want them to get away with it.”
He shifted his gaze to Erin.
“That ain’t so, Miss Macklin.”
“I know,” she said. “I know you don’t want them to get away with it.” She put her hand over the back of the seat and he took it and she held his hand. The tears were running down his face now. I was quiet. We waited. He drank again.
“Nine my fucking baby,” he said. “Motherfuckers.”
“Who?” Erin said.
“Motherfucking Hobarts.” He was mumbling. I had to listen hard. “Dealing some classic for them and I a little short, I gonna pay them. I just a little short that minute. And motherfuckers nine my little girl.”
“You sure?” I said.
“Who else it gonna be?” Tallboy said.
“You know which Hobart?” I said.
He shook his head.
“It ain’t over,” he said. “We gon take care of business. Can’t fuck with us and ride.” His head had sunk to his chest. He was talking into the bottle . . . and out of it. “Can’t dis a Dillard and ride, man.”
I looked at Erin and gestured with my head.
“Thank you, Tallboy,” she said. “You know how to call me up, don’t you?”
Tallboy nodded.
“If you want to talk about this any more, you call me,” she said.
“Yass, Miss Macklin.”
Tallboy lurched out of the car holding the bottle of Glenfiddich. He held it up in one hand and waved it at the rest of the posse.
“Fine,” he said and started to say something else, and didn’t seem able to and lurched on into the garage, out of the rain.
I slid the car into gear and pulled away.
“He isn’t even tough,” I said.
“Of course he isn’t,” Erin said. “He tries, but he’s not.”
“Tough is the only way to survive in here,” I said.
“I know,” Erin said. “Some of them are tougher than one would think possible . . . and some of them aren’t.”
CHAPTER
33
Erin and Hawk and I were nibbling at some Irish whiskey in my office. It was dark in the Back Bay. The rain had stopped, but everything was still wet and the streets gleamed blackly when I looked out the window.
“Say the Hobarts did it is saying Major did it,” Hawk said.
“If Tallboy’s right,” I said.
“Tallboy will never testify,” Erin said.
“No need,” Hawk said.
“Spenser said something like that,” Erin said. “I asked him if he might take action of his own. He said he might.”
Hawk smiled. He drank some whiskey. And rolled it a little on his tongue and swallowed. Then he stood and went to the sink in the corner and added a little tap water. He stood while he sampled it, nodded to himself, and came back to his chair.
Erin said, “What would you consider appropriate action?”
“We could kill him,” Hawk said.
Erin looked at me.
“You?” she said.
“Somebody is going to,” I said.
“I don’t think you would,” she said, “simply execute him yourself.”
I let that slide. There was nothing there for me.
She looked back at Hawk.
“You feel no sympathy for these kids, do you,” she said.
Hawk looked friendly but puzzled.
“Got nothing to do with sympathy,” Hawk said. “Got to do with work. Work I do you kill people sometimes. Major seems as good a person to kill as anybody.”
“When you were twenty,” Erin said, “you probably weren’t so different from Major.”
“Am now,” Hawk said. He drank another swallow of whiskey.
Erin was holding her whiskey glass in both hands. She stared into it quietly for a moment.
“You got out,” she said. “You were no better off than Major, probably, and you got out.”
Hawk looked at her pleasantly.
“Now you are a free man,” Erin said. “Autonomous, sure of yourself, unashamed, unafraid. Nobody’s nigger.”
Hawk listened politely. He seemed interested.
“And you’ve paid a terrible price,” she said.
“Worth the cost,” Hawk said.
“I know what you’re like,” she said. “I see young men who, were they stronger, or braver, or smarter, would grow up to be like you. Young men who have put away feelings. Who make a kind of Thoreauvian virtue out of stripping their emotional lives to the necessities.”
“Probably seem a good idea at the time,” Hawk said.
“Of course it does,” Erin said. “It is probably what they must do to live. But what a tragedy, to put aside, in order to live, the things that make it worth anything to live.”
“Worse,” Hawk said, “if you do that and don’t live anyway.”
“Yes,” Erin said.
We all sat for a while nursing the whiskey, listening to the damp traffic sounds from Berkeley Street, where it crosses Boylston. Erin was still staring down into her glass. When she raised her head, I could see that her eyes were moist.
“It’s not just Major that you mourn for,” I said.
She shook her head silently.
“If Hawk talked about things like this, which he doesn’t, he might
say that you misread him. That what you see as the absence of emotion is something rather more like calm.”
“Calm?”
I nodded.
“I worse than Major,” Hawk said quietly. “And I got better, and I got out, and I got out by myself.”
“And that makes you calm?”
“I know I can trust me,” Hawk said.
“And you’d kill Major?”
“Don’t know if I will, know I could.”
“And you wouldn’t mind,” Erin said. “I can’t understand that.”
Erin’s glance rested on Hawk. She wasn’t staring at her whiskey now.
“I can’t understand that.”
“I know,” Hawk said.
“I don’t want to understand that,” Erin said.
“I know that too,” Hawk said.
CHAPTER
34
The rain had paused, but it was still overcast, and cold for spring, when Hawk pulled his Jaguar into the quadrangle in front of Double Deuce. He stopped. In front of us, on the wet blacktop where we normally parked, was a body. Hawk let the car idle while we got out and looked. It was Tallboy, lying on his back, his mouth ajar, his eyes staring up at the rainclouds, one leg doubled under the other. No need to feel for a pulse, he was stiff with death. Hawk and I both knew it.
“Know him?” Hawk said.
“Name was Tallboy,” I said. “He was Devona Jefferson’s boyfriend and maybe the baby’s father.”
“You just talked to him.”
“Yeah.”
“So he here for us.”
“Yeah.”
Hawk nodded. He looked slowly around the project. Nothing moved. He looked back down at Tallboy.
“Don’t seem too tall,” he said.
“He liked the big beer cans,” I said.
Hawk nodded some more, still looking almost absently at the boy’s body. His clothes were wet, which meant he’d been left here while it was still raining. There was a dark patch of blood on the front of his sweatshirt, in the middle of his chest.
“Ain’t no trash can fire,” Hawk said.
Robert B. Parker: The Spencer Novels 1?6 Page 63
