"What the fuck are you talking about."
"Your attorneys," I said. "Duda and Husak."
Podolak was a tall, bony man with a sparse gray crew cut, and a thin gray 1930s movie villain moustache. He wore rimless glasses, and his arms were long. He was narrow and hard-looking. He wore no coat, and under his tan cardigan sweater an incongruous potbelly pressed out, as if he was hiding a soccer ball.
"In the office," he said, and stepped aside so Hawk and I could walk through the door. Podolak shut the door behind us and walked the length of the vast office and sat behind a vast desk. There were four other men sitting around at the near end of the office. Podolak didn't say anything to them, nor did he introduce anyone. He took a long, thin cigar from a leather humidor and got it lit, turning it slowly in the flame of a pigskin-covered desk lighter. Hawk and I sat in a couple of chairs near his desk and watched the operation. When he was happy with the way it was burning, Boots looked at us through the cigar smoke.
"So what's this shit about Duda-dooda?" he said.
"You hired him and Husak to represent some Ukrainians with names I can't pronounce," Hawk said. "If I could remember them. And you tell them, make sure nobody rolls on nobody."
"You think so, huh."
"We do," Hawk said. "And we want to know why."
Boots puffed his cigar for a moment, looking at Hawk, then at me.
"Where'd you get him?" Boots said to me.
"Bought him from a guy in Louisiana," I said. "Then came emancipation and I'm stuck with him."
If Boots thought I was funny, he didn't show it. Which happens to me a lot.
"So who told you I hired Duda and whatsis?" Boots said.
The four men in the far corner of the room had stood up and were watching us.
"Whatsis," Hawk said.
"Well, he's full of shit, whoever he is. I need a lawyer, I don't need to go into Boston."
"Why you think they from Boston?" Hawk said.
Boots pulled on his cigar for a moment. Then he took it out and admired it. Then he looked straight at Hawk.
"What I don't need," he said, "is some smart-ass fucking nigger coming in here and talking to me like he's white."
Hawk smiled at him warmly.
"Ah know," he said. "Ah know… and yet, here ah is. You got something going with Tony Marcus?"
"Who the fuck is Tony Marcus?" Boots said.
Hawk made a dismissive gesture with his hand.
"Lemme ask you this," Hawk said. "You don't know anybody named Duda and Husak. You don't know nobody named Tony Marcus. You don't want us here. You the mayor. You got four, ah, retainers standing around down the other end of the room, lookin' terrifying. Whyn't you just throw us out?"
"These men are Marshport police officers," Podolak said with dignity.
"Oh, good," Hawk said. "I was afraid for a minute they be real cops."
"You want to go to jail?" Podolak said.
Hawk looked at me. Then he looked down the room at the four men. Then he looked at Podolak, and stood and walked down the room and stopped in front of the four men, standing very close to them.
"I don't think so," he said.
No one moved. The air in the room seemed to thicken. I could feel the pressure of it.
Looking at the four men, Hawk was still talking to Boots.
"You let us in here," he said, " 'cause you hoping to find out what we knew 'bout you hiring Duda and Husak. And then I say something 'bout Tony Marcus and you want to know what we know 'bout him."
Nobody moved. Podolak and the four cops were giving Hawk the steely stare, and he was, I thought, bearing up very well under it. Hawk kept looking at the four cops as he talked to Podolak.
"Tha's one reason you ain't thrown us out," Hawk said.
"What's the other reason?" Podolak said.
He was trying to look at ease and in control. I thought he was struggling with it a little.
"Other reason bein'," Hawk said, "that there only five of you and there two of us, which means we got you outnumbered."
The cop closest to Hawk was a big, shambling guy with grayish hair and a lot of broken veins in his face.
"Enough," he said.
He took a leather sap out of his right hip pocket, and put a big left hand flat on Hawk's chest. Hawk smiled at him. And then something happened and Hawk had the sap and the cop was on the floor with blood running from his nose. I had my gun in my hand. For the occasion I had shelved the usual S&W.38. I was carrying my Browning nine-millimeter, which I pointed at the cops.
"Okay," I said. "Everybody sit tight."
Podolak was outraged.
"You can't shoot up the fucking mayor's office, for crissake," he said.
The office door opened and one of the blue-haired secretaries peered in.
She said, "Is there anything you need, Mr. Mayor?"
Hawk walked back toward Podolak, slapping the sap lightly against his thigh. When he reached the desk he looked at Podolak for a moment. Then he tossed the sap on Podolak's desk and with a very fast, fluid motion produced a big.44 Mag from inside his coat.
The secretary said, "Oh my God," and backed out the door and closed it.
Hawk didn't even glance at her. He cocked the revolver. The noise of the hammer going back was loud in the brittle silence. Then a loud alarm horn began to blare from somewhere in City Hall. If Hawk heard it, he showed no sign.
"Gimme something I can use," Hawk said.
He pressed the barrel of the cocked revolver against the bridge of Podolak's nose.
"Now," Hawk said.
The three cops left standing shuffled a little. But nobody made any decisive movements. Podolak's body was rigid. His face looked moist. And quite pale. His throat moved as he swallowed.
"Quick," Hawk said.
"Ask Tony about his daughter," Podolak said.
Hawk smiled and nodded. With the gun still pressed against the bridge of Podolak's nose, he let the hammer down slowly on the.44. Podolak let out a little sound. Hawk nodded his head at me and went to the door, carrying the.44 comfortably by his side, the barrel pointing at the floor. I backed toward the door after him.
"Door's open," Hawk said.
I backed through it. Hawk closed it and grinned at me, and we both sprinted out of the mayor's office, which had been deserted by the blue-haired staff, down the grand staircase where a number of City Hall staffers mingled in uncertain anxiety, and out the front door. I could hear a siren sounding somewhere. As we rounded the corner, I spotted a police car pulling up in front of City Hall. Then we were in Hawk's car and rolling.
There was very little traffic in the desolate city. What there was was outbound, like us. Maybe nobody drove into Marshport. We headed back to Boston on 1A without hearing any more of the siren. And without seeing a cop.
I said to Hawk, "I don't sense hot pursuit."
"Probably didn't chase us," Hawk said.
"Because?"
"They afraid they might catch us," Hawk said.
17
THE FOUR UKRAINIANS all had the same address in a ratty duplex off Market Street in a neighborhood that was downscale even for Marshport. The house was rented to Vanko Tsyklins'kyj. Hawk and I sat in the car for a while and looked at it. "Podolak'll never think of looking for us here," I said.
Hawk didn't answer. He stared at the house.
"Lower half of the windows," Hawk said, "boarded up."
I nodded.
"Cellar windows are entirely covered."
Hawk nodded.
"Lets go ring the bell," he said.
We got out of the car and walked toward the house. I was wearing my Smith & Wesson.38, butt forward, on the left side of my belt, and carrying a Browning nine-millimeter, with a round in the chamber on my right hip. I felt like Wild Bill Hickok. Nothing moved in the house that we could see as we walked across the street. The front door had a peephole. Hawk rang the bell. After a moment, the door opened two inches on a security bolt. A face appeared in the
opening. The face didn't speak.
"Vanko," Hawk said.
"Not home."
"You're Vanko," Hawk said.
"Not home."
"You speak English?" Hawk said.
"No."
Hawk looked at the face for a time.
"It's not over, Vanko," Hawk said. "It's just starting."
The face didn't show any reaction. Nor did it move. Hawk turned and walked away. I followed him. I heard the door close behind us. My back felt as if someone had painted a bull's-eye on it. We got in Hawk's car and sat some more.
"Door's metal," I said.
"Yes."
"We can sit," I said. "They have to come out sometime."
Hawk shook his head.
"I done what I wanted to do," he said.
"They know you're back," I said.
"Un-huh."
"Which means they'll probably feel obligated to have another run at you."
"Wouldn't you?" Hawk said. "I come calling?"
"Especially if I was really successful the first time."
"Thanks for remembering," Hawk said.
"I still think Vinnie might be helpful here," I said.
"Don't need no help," Hawk said.
He was looking steadily at the house.
"No," I said. "Of course not. But I do. Ukrainians might be colorblind and shoot me instead."
"Un-huh."
"He'd be protecting me," I said.
Hawk shrugged. He was still looking at the house. A few snowflakes began to skitter aimlessly.
"Long as he ain't protecting them," Hawk said.
18
THE LAST SNOWFALL of the season had started. The first serious snowflakes were falling purposefully down, past my office window onto Berkeley Street. The city seemed to hunch up a little and hurry a little, getting ready. I decided not to turn on the office television. As I matured, my taste for manufactured hysteria was beginning to decline. It was late winter. In late winter, it snowed in Boston. Sometimes it snowed in early spring. I had lived here all my adult life. I was starting to get used to it. Cecile came into my office, wearing a very incorrect fur coat, a few hints of melted snow gleaming in her thick, black hair. I stood and took her coat.
"A lot of beaver died for this coat," I said.
"Be very careful with the beaver remarks," Cecile said with a smile. "Besides, it's mink. And the little darlings died during orgasm."
"What better way," I said.
Cecile sat in a chair in front of my desk and crossed her splendid legs. She was wearing high-heeled leather boots, which would be almost as good as bare feet in a snowfall. I offered coffee. She accepted. I got it for her and some for myself. Who cares about sleeping. Then I sat behind my desk and admired her knees.
"Are you looking at my legs?" Cecile said.
"I am," I said. "I'm a firm believer in racial equality."
"And sexism," Cecile said.
"In its place," I said.
Cecile smiled.
"Hawk and I are seeing one another again," she said.
"Good," I said.
"How do you think he is?"
"Fine," I said.
"He seems just the same to me," she said.
"Yes," I said.
"But he shouldn't be," Cecile said.
"Because?"
"Because he was badly hurt, almost killed, and, what to call it, professionally compromised, I guess."
"Stuff happens," I said.
"But there's no sign that it affected him."
"It affected him," I said.
"And how would you know that?"
"It would affect me," I said.
"And you're just like him?"
"No one's just like Hawk," I said. "But I'm less unlike him than many."
"And you wouldn't have a moment or two of- why me?"
"You can't do what I do, let alone what Hawk does, and go around saying why me? You're a surgeon. You must know about dying."
Cecile nodded.
"What was it like for you?" she said.
"Well, the thing about almost dying," I said, "is that a lot of the time, you don't know that you almost died until a long time after you didn't. When Hawk came into the hospital, he was unconscious. He was in surgery for something like twelve hours. And in intensive care something like ten days. Most of that time he was unaware."
"Intensive care can be a very brutal experience," Cecile said.
"It is," I said. "But most of the time you don't know it. You wake up for a moment and something awful is going on that you'd rather not remember and then you're gone again. And even after you start being awake, you're so whacko that it's aimless to evaluate anything you might be thinking. I thought there were dioramas in the overhead lights."
"The nurses call it ICU syndrome," Cecile said. "Trauma, extended anesthesia, painkillers, sleep deprivation…" She waved her hand.
"I was paranoid delusional," I said, "even after I got out of ICU. I pulled all the hookups out one night, because I thought I was escaping something. Paul Giacomon was in from Chicago, and after that, he and Hawk and Susan took turns spending the night with me. They were the only ones I trusted not to be in on the conspiracy."
"Did you know you were crazy?"
"I did, I knew I was in the hospital. And I knew I was in a freezing cold railroad station in New Bedford, being stalked by somebody."
"Both realities equally," Cecile said.
"And simultaneously."
"So by the time you are awake and rational," she said, "you are pretty much out of danger. In effect, though you've had a miserable time, you did not experience almost dying. You only heard about it afterwards."
"That's exactly right," I said.
"Do you think that's Hawk's experience?"
"Yes."
"Have you talked about it with him?"
"No."
"And the weakness?" she said. "The dependence?"
"Don't they teach you this stuff in med school?" I said.
Cecile smiled.
"There might have been something one semester," she said, "sophomore year. It was an eight o'clock class, and it wasn't crucial, you know, like suturing, so a lot of us probably rested."
"You feel like shit for a long time. And if you're a big, strong, tough guy like Hawk, you're not used to it, and you hate it. And you hate being hooked up to the hat rack, and you hate that you can't walk to the bathroom alone. But you know that will pass. You know you'll get it back. All it takes is patience and work. And you know you can wait and you know you can work. So you know, in a while, you'll be what you were."
"So you shut up about it," Cecile said. "And do what you can and wait."
"I recall that I whined some to Susan," I said.
"And when you got well enough you put the matter right," Cecile said.
"Hawk and I."
"And then you were whole."
"Something like that."
"And that's what you and he are doing now," Cecile said.
"Yes."
Outside my office window the snow was coming fast now, swirling a little as the wind eddied down Berkeley Street. We both looked at it quietly for a while.
"He's never talked to me about this."
I nodded.
"Have you ever talked to Susan about this?"
"Yes."
"Why can't he talk to me about these things? For Christ's sake, I'm even a damned doctor."
"It's not a medical matter," I said. "My identity, if I may be permitted the tired phrase, is me and Susan. Hawk's is still Hawk."
"You're saying he doesn't love me."
"No. If I thought he didn't love you, I'd have said, 'He doesn't love you.' We talked about this before. Hawk and I grew up different. I grew up in Laramie, Wyoming, in a house where my father and my two uncles loved me and looked out for me. Hawk grew up on the streets in a ghetto, and for a long time he looked out for himself, until Bobby Nevins found him when Hawk was fifteen. He ever tell you about Bobb
y Nevins?"
"No."
"Ask him to. It's interesting."
"Are you actually explaining the black experience to me?" Cecile said.
"I'm explaining Hawk. Nevins trained him, but no one, as far as I know, ever loved him. Hawk is what he is because he has found a way to be faithful to what he is, since he was a kid."
"I love him," Cecile said.
"For him, that's a learning experience."
"And he won't change," Cecile said.
"If he changed he might cease to exist," I said. "He's with you now."
"Not all of him."
"Probably not."
"Do you think I'll ever have all of him?"
"Maybe not," I said.
"And if I want to be with him, I have to accept that possibility," Cecile said.
I smiled at her as encouragingly as I could and nodded my head. The snow was coming so hard now that it was difficult to see the FAO Schwarz store across the street.
"Yes," I said. "You do."
19
HAWK AND I sat with a State Police captain named Healy in his office at 1010 Commonwealth, talking about Marshport. "Bohunks run it since the Pilgrims," Healy said. "Then after the war it began to shift. All that's left is one Ukrainian neighborhood, where Boots is from. The rest is mostly black, mostly Caribbean black. We think of them all as Hispanic. Or black. But they don't. They think they're Puerto Rican, Jamaican, Haitian, Costa Rican, Dominican, Guatemalan."
"So even though they a majority, they don't have think so because they don't think they all the same."
Healy nodded.
"So the Bohunks still in charge," Hawk said.
"It's more specific than that," Healy said. "Boots Podolak is in charge."
"Tell us about Boots," I said.
"Boots's grandfather took Marshport away from the Yankees," Healy said. "And his father inherited it and passed it on to Boots."
"They control it."
"Completely," Healy said. "Cops, firemen, probation officers, district court judges, aldermen, state reps, congressmen, school superintendents, restaurant owners, car dealers, liquor distributors, junk dealers, dope, whores, numbers…" Healy spread his hands. "Everything."
"And you can't close him down."
"I can't because I'm the homicide commander and it ain't my job," Healy said. "But it's a closed corporation and nobody will talk. Witnesses die. Informants disappear. Undercover cops disappear. Judges get intimidated."
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