"Tony Marcus," Hawk said.
"Right. He out yet?"
"Been out a year or so," Hawk said.
"Maybe he can help us out."
"Sure," Hawk said. "He been dying to ever since you put him in jail."
"You're a brother," I said. "You'll convince him."
"I believe I helped put him in jail."
"Well, maybe."
"And as they taking him off, I believe he say I a honkie sucking mother fucker."
"Yep."
"I'm sure Tony didn't mean anything personal," I said.
"When you want to see him?" Hawk said.
"He still in the South End?"
"Same place," Hawk said. "Backroom of Buddy's Fox."
"I'll bet he's a night person too," I said. "Let's go see him now."
Hawk glanced at me and shook his head, and made a right turn on Boylston Street.
"Lucky I'm brave," he said.
chapter thirty-nine
WE PARKED AT a hydrant near Buddy's Fox and went in. It was still long and narrow. There were still booths along both walls with a bar across the back. Tony Marcus still kept his office down the hall to the right of the bar past the rest rooms. There were people of several races eating ribs and brisket. The black bartender was new since the last time I'd been here. He was slope-shouldered and strong-looking with long arms and big hands. When we got close I could see that his nose was flat and the skin around his eyes was scar thickened. He had on a starched white shirt with the banded collar open and his cuffs rolled up over his forearms. "What can I get you gentlemen," he said.
"I'd like you to go back and tell Tony that Hawk is here to see him."
"You're Hawk?" the bartender said.
"I'm Hawk."
"Who's this?" The bartender nodded at me.
"Tonto," Hawk said.
The bartender nodded without smiling.
"Sure," he said.
He went to the end of the bar, flipped up the gate, and disappeared down the hall.
"Ever eat here?" I said.
"Sure," Hawk said. "Do some nice turnip greens."
The bartender came back. Hawk unbuttoned his jacket.
"Tony says have a drink on the house. Says he'll be out in a few minutes."
"Beer," Hawk said.
I nodded. The bartender pulled two draft beers. We leaned on the bar and sipped the beer. About halfway through the beer three black men came in together and sat in a booth near the door. None of them looked at us.
"Tall skinny kid with slick hair? Came in with the other two brothers? Name is Ty-Bop Tatum. He's Tony's shooter."
"Ty-Bop?" I said.
"What happens when you got thirteen-year-old girls naming babies," Hawk said.
"Think they just happened to stop by here for a helping of hush puppies."
"Sure," Hawk said.
"Think a big white bunny hops in every Easter and leaves eggs for the kids?"
"Sure," Hawk said.
We were nearly through our beer when Tony Marcus came down the hall with his bodyguard. Some people think a huge bodyguard will discourage people. Tony's would have discouraged the Marine Corps. He barely fit through the hallway.
"That's Junior," Hawk said. "He got his own zip code."
"Junior," I said.
Hawk shrugged.
Tony didn't speak to Hawk. He looked past him at me.
"Figured it was you," he said.
The group in the front booth had turned in their seats, and Ty-Bop had stepped out of the booth and was standing beside it. He had an earring. His longish hair was pomaded and slicked back against his skull. He was never quite still as he stood there, shifting his weight slightly from one foot to another, rocking back and forth a little on his heels, drumming with his finger against his thighs.
"How ya doing?" I said.
"You both got some fucking balls," Tony said. "Coming in here."
"Balls are us," I said. "We need a favor."
"A favor? A fucking favor?"
Hawk was looking at the bodyguard. His face had a look of benign amusement.
"What you feed him, Tony? Hay?"
If the bodyguard heard Hawk, he registered nothing. Probably too busy looming. A corner of Tony's mouth moved as if he were tempted to smile. His hair was grayer than it had been when I first knew him and his neck looked softer and his jawline was a little more blurred. But he was still a handsome man, expensive-looking, and very neat in his person.
"You sent me up," Tony said.
"Shoulda been life," Hawk said. "And you out in three years."
"I ain't some fucking street thug," Tony said. "What you want?"
"You know Haskell Wechsler?" I said.
"That prick?"
"That one," I said. "You owe him anything."
"I owe him a kick in the ass, I ever get the chance," Tony said.
"Here's your chance," I said.
"I'm waiting," Tony said.
"We want to take Haskell down," I said. "We do and it leaves all his loansharking business up for grabs. Broz is too old now to care about expanding. Fast Fddie only does Asians. Leaves you and Gino."
"And the Italians," Tony said. "And the Irish guys."
"You'll know ahead of time he's going," I said. "Gives you an edge."
"Whaddya want from me?"
"Haskell's always got a lot of shooters around him."
"'Course he does," Tony said. "Everybody knows him wants to kick his nasty ass."
"We need to get Haskell alone, and the only time we can think of," Hawk said, "is when he's getting laid."
"You think Haskell can get laid?"
"We figure he pays for it," I said.
"'Course he does," Tony said. "Who would fuck him but a whore?"
"So you run the whore business in town."
"Yeah?"
"If he was to employ a whore," I said, "and she was to let us know where and when, and bow out, we could go talk to Haskell."
"That's the favor?"
"Uh huh."
"And when he goes down, you let me know, first. 'Fore it happens."
"Uh huh."
Tony smiled gently to himself. I could tell he liked it.
"I'm going to be thinking about it," he said.
He turned and squeezed past his bodyguard and walked back down the hall. The bodyguard followed, completely screening Tony from view. Hawk and I watched him go for a moment and then went toward the front door. The skinny shooter held his ground as we came to the door.
"'Shappenin', Ty-Bop?" Hawk said
Ty-Bop was no more than twenty. He had light skin and small, nearly oval, black eyes. The eyes were depthless, like a snake's. He put his left fist out and Hawk bumped it with his left. Ty-Bop stepped aside and we went out into the South End.
"Good you know the language," I said to Hawk.
"Surely is," he said. "Got to take special care with the children."
We were driving up Tremont Street, past Bay Village, toward Charles Street.
"What do you think Ty-Bop's life expectancy is?" I said.
"If he don't mess with me? Tony will use him up in maybe five years."
"And I suspect he knows that," I said.
"I imagine he do," Hawk said. "Right now he gets respect."
"Because he's willing to shoot anybody at all."
"Ty-Bop ain't got much other way to get respect," Hawk said.
"I know."
We drove through Park Square and stopped for the light at Boylston. The Common sloped up to our right. The Public Garden lay flat to our left.
"Kids like Ty-Bop bother you?" I said.
"Yeah."
"Me too," I said. "You got any idea what to do about them?"
"No."
"Me either."
chapter forty
HAWK CAME INTO my office on Wednesday morning with a young Asian woman. "This is Velvet," Hawk said. "Tony arranged for us to talk with her."
"See," I said, "another triumph for
charm and civility."
"Tony says you take Haskell out he knows ahead of everyone."
"Sure," I said. "Hello, Velvet."
"Hello."
Velvet looked maybe eighteen. She was wearing faded blue jeans and a loose white tee-shirt. Her only makeup appeared to be lipstick. She stood quietly in front of my desk.
"Sit down, Velvet," I said.
She sat.
"Would like coffee?"
"Yes, please."
"Cream and sugar?"
"Yes, please. Two sugar."
Hawk got her some from the Mr. Coffee pot. Then he sat beside her.
"Haskell got a regular contract with Velvet," Hawk said.
"Is Velvet your real name?" I said.
"No."
"What is your real name?"
"Kim Pak Soong."
"You're Korean."
"Yes."
"You're a prostitute?" I said to Velvet.
"Yes."
"Do you know who Tony Marcus is?"
"No."
I smiled. She was at the far other end of the chain of command.
"But you know Haskell Wechsler."
"Haskell. Yes."
"You have regular appointments with him."
"Yes."
"Tell me about them."
"I would not tell anyone these things, but Clifton says I must."
"Clifton's your pimp?"
"Yes."
"Where do you meet Haskell?" I said.
"Charles River Motel. He always has room 16."
"In Brighton, on Western Avenue?"
"I don't know name of street. It is near the river. Past the television station."
"How do you get there?"
"Man comes in a car, picks me up, and takes me there. When we are through, man takes me back."
"Is Haskell always in the room when you get there?"
"No. I go first, man lets me in. Then I get ready. Mr. Haskell like me to wear kimono, silk slippers, lots of makeup. Mr. Haskell comes maybe half hour after I do."
"He's alone?"
"Yes."
"How long usually?"
"He stay an hour, maybe hour and half. He doesn't fuck me all time. He brings a bottle. We drink some of it. Mr. Haskell like to talk."
"Who leaves first?"
"Mr. Haskell. After he is gone, I take shower, change clothes. Man comes back for me."
"You do this regularly."
"Tuesday and Thursday."
"So you're scheduled for tomorrow."
"Yes."
"What time?"
"Three o'clock."
I sat back in my chair and thought about things. Velvet drank her coffee.
"Clifton say you should do what we ask you to do?"
"Yes."
I looked at Hawk.
"Smart move would be to scope this all out tomorrow and make our move next Tuesday."
"Yep."
"Want to do it that way?"
"Nope."
"Tomorrow?" I said.
"Yep."
I leaned back in my chair some more, looking at Velvet.
"Okay," I said finally, "tomorrow here's what we need you to do."
Velvet listened with full attention while I told her. She seemed solely interested in doing what she was supposed to. She showed no interest at all in why.
chapter forty-one
WHILE WE WERE having dinner at Rialto, Susan said, "We spent so much time talking to the police after the incident the other night that we haven't really discussed it with each other." "I know it."
The waiter brought us a serving of broiled little necks.
"Hot," he said to Susan.
"Like her?" I said.
"Just like her," he said.
Susan said, "Thank you, Francis," and smiled at him enough to weaken his knees, though when he walked away he seemed stable enough. Maybe I was projecting.
"When I was alone, after it was all over, and you'd gone, I got very shaky and felt like crying."
"Post traumatic shock syndrome," I said wisely.
"That's usually somewhat more post trauma than this was," she said. "Though you are very cute to use the phrase."
"I was trying to sound smart," I said.
"Settle for cute," Susan said.
"Damn," I said. "I've been settling for that all my life."
"Anyway. I didn't cry."
"Nothing wrong with crying," I said.
"I don't like to," she said.
I shrugged. Francis came by and refilled our champagne glasses.
"Regardless," I said. "You looked pretty good with that brick, little lady."
"Do you ever get shaky after something like that?"
I thought about it.
"Mostly no," I said. "But I've done more of it than you have."
"Mostly no?"
"Yeah."
"But not always no?"
"Sometimes depends on the situation. Long time ago, in San Francisco, when I was looking for you, I had to shoot a pimp because if I didn't he'd have killed two whores. I had problems with that afterwards."
"Because it was cold-blooded?"
"Yes."
"Even though it was necessary?"
"More than that, it was my responsibility. Hawk and I got the whores into trouble with the guy. It was the only way to get them out."
"Did you feel like crying?"
"I threw up," I said.
"Oh," Susan said. "Did it bother Hawk?"
"No."
"Hawk's life has desensitized him in many cases," Susan said.
"But not in all cases," I said.
"Which is a triumph," Susan said.
We were quiet while we ate the clams. Susan washed her last one down with a swallow of champagne.
"I must admit," Susan said, "that I feel better about my own reaction, knowing you sometimes have one."
"You don't have to be so damned tough," I said.
"I don't wish to be stereotypically frail about things."
"Tough is what you do, more than it is how you feel about it before or after," I said. "You're tough enough."
"I haven't been so tough about my past," she said.
Francis came and cleared the clams and brought us each a salad of lobster and tiny potatoes. He topped off our champagne glasses without comment.
"You mean Sterling," I said.
"And Russell Costigan, and all of that," she said.
"You seem to me to have handled it pretty well," I said. "Here we are."
"But I have you embroiled in something bad because of it, because of… my former husband. That incident the other night was connected, wasn't it?"
"Probably."
"And Carla Quagliozzi?"
I shrugged.
"Did I hear something about her tongue being cut out?"
"After she had been killed," I said.
"She was one of Brad's ex-wives."
"Yes."
She shook her head.
"Things just don't go away," she said.
I ate a potato and was quiet.
"I just wanted to pretend all that never happened," she said. "But I couldn't."
I nodded and chewed my potato. It was good.
"I chose those men for their weaknesses, and then rejected them for their weaknesses."
"You said that already. No need to beat yourself up about it."
"But there's a part I haven't ever said. Not even to you."
"No need," I said.
"There is. I have caused too much trouble by not saying it."
"Long as you say it to yourself," I said.
She shook her head. "One of the reasons I was attracted to these men was that, in their imperfection, I felt safe. I knew they could never get to me."
"Get?"
"One of the aspects of my family struggle when I was little was, of course, that if my father's affection for me ever got out of hand, and my mother's worst fears were realized…"
"You had to keep him from ge
tting you," I said.
"And having learned that, it got transferred to all the other men I knew."
"Including me."
"Me more powerful and good and complete you turned out to be," Susan said, "the more I feared that you'd get me."
"And now."
"Now, now for crissake, I know you don't even want to get me."
"True. And if I did, you wouldn't let me."
"For which I can thank Dr. Hilliard."
"So what's that got to do with how you should have faced up?" I said.
"I got you into this because I still feel guilty about it."
"If you hadn't gotten me into this, someone would have gotten me into something."
"But it wouldn't have been me," she said.
"And you feel guilty about getting me into trouble because you felt guilty about Sterling."
"Yes."
"Well, stop it," I said.
"Stop feeling guilty?"
"Yeah."
Susan stared at me for a moment and then began to smile.
"There are people in my profession who would faint dead away to hear you say that."
"But you're not one of them," I said.
Her smile widened some more. "No," she said. "I'm not one of them."
We sat for a while in silence. Then Susan, still smiling, raised her champagne glass toward me. I raised mine and touched hers.
"Here's looking at you, Sigmund," she said.
And the laughter bubbled up out of her like a clear spring.
chapter forty-two
HAWK AND I sat in the parking lot of the Charles View Motel on Thursday afternoon waiting for Velvet to be delivered. The motel was a wooden building with pseudo redwood siding, and blue shingle roof. It stood two stories high with entrances to the rooms through individual doors facing the parking lot. A balcony across the front gave access to the second-floor rooms. It was a dark muggy day. There were thunderstorms in the area, and their tension hung undissipated in the air. At 2:30, a white Cadillac sedan pulled into the parking lot and Velvet, carrying a small overnight hag, got out one side. Buster got out the other. They went without stopping at the motel office to room number 16, last one on the first floor. Buster produced a key and opened the door. Buster went in first, after a minute he came back to the Cadillac, and drove off. I got out of Hawk's car and walked to room 16. Velvet let me in. "See the dark green Ford Mustang, front row, parked opposite this room?"
"I do not know Mustang."
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