Double Deuce s-19

by Robert B. Parker

  At two minutes to five in the morning, Hawk and I parked up on the grass near the Victory Gardens where Park Drive branches off Boylston Street. We thought it would be wise to walk in from this end and get a look at things as we came. There wasn’t much traffic yet, and as we walked into the Fenway the grass was still wet. A hint of vapor hovered over the Muddy River, and two early ducks floated pleasantly out from under the arched fieldstone bridge.

  “We figured out exactly what we’re doing?” I said.

  I had on a blue sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off, and jeans, and white leather New Balance gym shoes. I wore a Browning 9mm pistol in a brown leather holster tipped a little forward on my right hip, and a pair of drop-dead Ray Ban sunglasses.

  “Thinking ‘bout making a citizen’s arrest,” Hawk said.

  He was wearing Asics Tiger gels, and a black satin-finish Adidas warm-up suit with red trim. The jacket was half zipped, and the butt of something that appeared to be an antitank gun showed under his left arm.

  “I don’t want to kill him if we don’t have to,” I said.

  “He’s in the way,” Hawk said. “We don’t get him out the way we got problems at Double Deuce. Plus he buzzes three people and he strolls?”

  “If he really buzzed three,” I said.

  “He did, ‘less you find me somebody better.”

  “I’m working on that,” I said.

  “Better hurry,” Hawk said. “Got about thirty-five seconds ‘fore the gate opens.”

  Ahead of us was the stadium, poured concrete with bleacher seats rising up at either end. A skin baseball diamond was at the near end. Another diamond wedged in against the stadium administrative tower at the far end. The place must have been built in the thirties. It had, on a small scale, that neo-Roman look like the LA Coliseum. The tower was closed. It had always been closed. I had never seen it open.

  As we came into the open end of the stadium from the north, I could see maybe twenty black kids in Raiders caps sitting in a single line, not talking, in the top row of the bleachers on the east side of the stadium, the sun half risen behind them. We kept coming, and as we did, Major appeared from behind the tower, walking slowly toward us.

  Hawk laughed softly.

  “Major been watching those Western movies,” Hawk said.

  Major was all in black. Shirts, jeans, hightopped sneakers, Raiders cap. As he came toward us I could see the sun glint on the surface of a handgun stuck in his belt.

  “Piece in his belt,” I said. “In front.”

  “Un huh.”

  We were in front of the assembled Hobart Raiders now. We stopped. Major, fifteen yards from us, stopped where we stopped. One point for us: you needed to be pretty good to count on shooting well at forty-five feet with a handgun. Hawk and I were pretty good. Odds were that Major wasn’t. Odds were on the other hand that if all the kids in the stands opened up, some of them might hit us. Odds were, though, that not all of them had weapons.

  “Life’s uncertain,” I said to Hawk.

  Hawk was looking at Major.

  “What we need now,” Hawk said. “Deep thinking.”

  “Talked with Goodyear and Shoe last night,” I said.

  Hawk’s eyes moved calmly between Major and the Raiders in the stands.

  “They said that Major didn’t kill Devona.”

  “How ‘bout Tallboy?” Hawk said.

  “Major killed Tallboy because Tallboy came in on them drunk and waving a gun.”

  “So,” Major said, “Hawk, my man, what’s happening?”

  “Let’s see,” Hawk said.

  “You come to get me? You and the Mickey?”

  “Me,” Hawk said.

  “So why you bring him?”

  “Didn’t bring him,” Hawk said. “He come on his own.”

  “Make you look like a fucking Tom,” Major said.

  “You invited me, boy,” Hawk said. “You got something in mind, whyn’t you get to it.”

  “Good move,” I said to Hawk. “Placate him.”

  Hawk grinned.

  “What you smiling for?” Major said. “I don’t let no one laugh at me.”

  Major paused and looked at the gang members in the stands. They were all standing now, motionless along the top row of seats. He was playing to them. He looked back at us.

  “You know the fucking law, Hawk. Respect. You like made the fucking law, man. Respect. You don’t get treated with respect, you see to it.”

  “Heard maybe you backshot a fourteen-year-old girl,” I said. “Hard not to dis you.”

  “Fuck you, Irish. I didn’t shoot no sly. But if I do, what you know about it? You don’t know shit. You live in some kind of big white-ass fucking house, and you drive your fancy white-ass car. And you don’t know a fucking thing about me. You live where I live, and what you got is respect, and you ain’t got that you ain’t got shit. Don’t matter who you spike or how, you get respect. Hawk know that. Am I right or wrong, Hawk?”

  “Never had to backshoot a fourteen-year-old girl,” Hawk said.

  “You think I shot her, you think what you fucking want. Everybody know you, Hawk. You the man. You the one set the standard. Well I be the man now, you dig? I set the standard. All of them”-he jerked his head toward the gang members-“they looking at me. I want them here, they here. I let someone dis me, he dis them. That mean some sly got to bite the dust.” Major shrugged elaborately. “Plenty of them around,” he said. “You know why I the man? I have to do one, I’ll do one. There some brothers bigger than me, some Homeboys real strong fighters like John Porter. But he ain’t the man, and they ain’t the man. I the man. You know why? ‘Cause I crazy enough. I crazy enough to do anything. And everybody know. Maybe somebody got to die. I willing. I step up. Ain’t afraid to die, ain’t afraid at all. I die what I be losing?”

  Major paused.

  Hawk waited.

  “So you be thinking I lined Tallboy’s wiggle, then you wrong. But if I wanted to I would have and I wouldn’t give a fuck what you or the flap or anybody thought ‘bout it.”

  Hawk was perfectly still, and perfectly relaxed like he always was in this kind of moment. But he was different. He didn’t, I realized all at once, want to kill Major. I knew he would if he had to, but in all the years I’d known him I’d never seen him want or not want. Killing was a practical matter to Hawk.

  “You didn’t kill her,” Hawk said, “who did?”

  “Hawk, you and me the same,” Major said. “It got to be done we step up. Ain’t afraid to be killing, ain’t afraid to be dying.”

  Major was playing to his audience, and, I realized, he was playing most of all to Hawk.

  Quietly I said, “How many guns, you think?”

  Hawk said, “Besides Major, probably two or three. Kids have them, pass them around. Kid with the raincoat probably has a long gun. One with the jacket probably got one.”

  “What you talking ‘bout?” Major said. “You better be listening to me.”

  “We arguing which one of us going to fry you,” Hawk said.

  “You, Hawk.” There was something almost like panic in Major’s voice. “You and me, Hawk. Not me and some flap-fucking Irish.”

  I was scanning the crowd in the stands. Hawk was right. Only two of them wore coats that would conceal a gun. Some of them might have it stuck under a shirt or in an ankle holster, but the good odds were to fire at the ones with coats first.

  Major raised his voice. “John Porter.” Around the corner of the grandstand came John Porter with Jackie Raines. John Porter had her arm and he held a revolver to her head. Jackie’s face was pinched with fear. She walked stiffly, trying not to be compliant, but not strong enough to resist John Porter.

  “Got this here fine nigger lady,” Major said.

  Jackie looked at us. Her eyes were wide. “Hawk,” she said. She said it like a request. Hawk didn’t move. His expression didn’t change.

  “Come around without you,” Major said, the laughter lilting in his voice
. “Say we all black folks, and I’m trying to get the low-down on what it’s like for you poor nigger boys in the ghet-to. And John Porter he say how come you don’t go low down on this?”

  Major laughed. It was real laughter. It wasn’t for effect, but it had a crazy tremolo along its edge. John Porter smiled vacantly, proud to be mentioned by Major.

  “So she say I know you gonna meet with Hawk and he won’t tell me where. So I say we tell you where, slut. Fact we bring you along with us.”

  Hawk said to me, “When it starts, you take the stands.”

  I said, “Um hmm.”

  Major said, “I tol you, you better be listening to me, Hawk. You want your slut back, you better be paying attention to me.”

  Hawk looked at Major, full focus, and slowly nodded his head once.

  “You want the slut back, you ask me nice, you say please, Mr. Major, and maybe I tell John Porter to let her go.”

  Hawk’s gaze didn’t falter. He was waiting. Major didn’t know him like I did. Major thought he was hesitant.

  “Go ahead, man. Say please, Mr. Major Johnson, sir.”

  Major was excited. He moved back and forth in a kind of wide-legged strut as he talked. The gun in his belt was a Glock, 9mm, retail price around $550, magazine capacity seventeen rounds. It was enough to make you nostalgic for zip guns.

  “Hawk,” Jackie said again. “Please.”

  “Better hurry up, Hawk, better ask me nice and polite, ‘fore I put a bullet up her ass.”

  In the stands a kid in a black satin hip-length warm-up jacket brought an Uzi out from underneath it.

  “No,” Major screamed. “Nobody shoots! This is me and Hawk! Nobody shoots! Hawk! Me and Hawk!”

  Hawk reached thoughtfully under his arm and brought out the big Magnum. He turned deliberately sideways toward Major and Jackie.

  “Hawk,” Jackie screamed. “Don’t!”

  “You shoot at me, Hawk,” Major shouted, “John Porter kill the slut.” Major’s voice was full of high vibrato.

  Hawk brought the gun down onto his target. “Don’t!” Jackie screamed again.

  “He’ll kill her”-Major was screaming now too-“ ‘less you ask me nice.”

  I drew my Browning and cocked it as it cleared the holster. Everything seemed to be moving languidly through liquid crystal. Hawk settled the handgun on his target and squeezed off a round and John Porter’s face contorted. His gun spun away from him and he flung out both his arms and fell backwards, sprawling on the ground behind Jackie. Jackie was standing with both hands pressed against her open mouth. She looked as if she were trying to scream and couldn’t. The kids in the stands were motionless.

  Hawk walked slowly toward Major, the big Magnum still in his hand, hanging loosely at his side. When he reached him he looked straight down at Major. And stood, looking at him and not speaking. Then he reached over and took the Glock out of Major’s belt and dropped it in his pocket. He looked down at John Porter. John Porter was sitting up now with his left hand pressed against his right shoulder, and some blood slowly showing through his fingers and smearing on the smooth finish of his half-zippered warm-up jacket. There was no pain in his face yet, just surprise, and a kind of numb shock.

  “Who iced Devona Jefferson?” Hawk said.

  He didn’t speak very loudly, but his voice seemed too loud in the frightening silence.

  I put my gun away and walked over and stood beside Jackie. The first cars of the morning rush hour were beginning to move around the Fenway.

  “Who killed her?” Hawk said again.

  Major seemed dazed, staring at Hawk as if he’d never seen him before. The ducks had flown, frightened by the gunfire. I put an arm around Jackie’s shoulder. No one spoke. No one moved.

  Then Major said, “Marcus. Tallboy was skimming on us and Tony say be a good lesson for everybody.”

  “He didn’t do it himself,” Hawk said.

  “Billy done it,” Major said. “Done Tallboy, too, and left him in Double Deuce so we’d see and remember.”

  “I heard you did Tallboy,” I said.

  “Tol everybody I did,” Major said. “But it was Billy.”

  “Marcus got to take the jump for it,” Hawk said.

  Major nodded. He seemed transfixed, gazing at Hawk.

  “I want you out of Double Deuce,” Hawk said. Major nodded slowly.

  “We gonna go,” he said. “Tony already say so.”

  “Tony going to be gone,” Hawk said. “I say so.” Everyone lingered.

  Hawk said, “I’ll see to John Porter.”

  “We be going,” Major said.

  Hawk nodded and Major turned and walked away across the field toward the open end. From the stands the long silent row of black kids in Raiders hats went with him, one after the other jumping down off the grandstand and following him in silence.

  “He might have killed me,” Jackie said.

  Hawk was motionless, looking after Major.

  “For Christ sake, Hawk,” Jackie said. Her voice was still very shaky. “You might have killed me shooting at him.”

  “No,” Hawk said. “I wouldn’t have.”

  Hawk looked down at John Porter for another silent moment. John Porter stared at the ground, waiting for whatever would happen. Then Hawk put the big Magnum back carefully under his arm and looked again at Major, now nearly across the field, with his gang filing after him.

  “Can we use him?” I said to Hawk. “Will he stay?”

  Hawk nodded. The sun was well up now, and the ducks had returned and were once again paddling in the Muddy River.

  “Kid more like me than a lot of people,” Hawk said.

  CHAPTER 42

  Belson and I were sitting at the bar in Grill 23 across the street from police headquarters and two blocks from my office. We were each drinking a martini. I had mine with a twist. Around us were a host of young insurance executives and ad agency creative types wearing expensive clothes and talking frantically about business and exercise. Campari and soda seemed popular.

  “One of the Hobart Street Raiders got shot,” Belson said.

  There were mixed nuts in a cut-glass bowl on the bar. I selected out a few cashews and ate them.

  “That so?” I said.

  “Dude named John Porter. Somebody dropped him off at City Hospital ER with a slug in his shoulder. John Porter wouldn’t say who.”

  “John Porter?” I said.

  “Yeah. You been dealing with the Raiders, haven’t you?”

  “Small world,” I said.

  I sipped my drink. It takes awhile acquiring a taste for martinis, but it’s worth the effort.

  “Raiders have cleared out of the Double Deuce apartments,” Belson said. “Packed up and left. Hear from the gang unit that Tony Marcus put out the word.”

  “Public-spirited,” I said.

  “Tony? Yeah. Anyway, they’re gone.”

  Belson drank the rest of his martini and ordered another. His were straight-up and made with gin and an olive. Mine was made with Absolut vodka, on the rocks. I ordered one too.

  “Just being polite,” I said. “Don’t want you to feel like a lush.”

  “Thanks,” Belson said. He sorted through the mixed nuts.

  “You eating all the cashews?” he said.

  “Of course.”

  “One-way bastard,” Belson said.

  He found a half cashew and took it, and two Brazil nuts and ate them and sipped from his second martini. His jacket was unbuttoned and I could see the butt of his gun. He wore it in a holster inside his waistband.

  “Marty and I were talking,” Belson said. “Figure whoever spiked Porter probably did us a favor. Been in and out of jail most of his life. Leg-breaker. Some homicides we could never prove.”

  We each drank a little. Around us the afterwork social scene whirled in a montage of pastel neckties and white pantyhose and perfume and cologne and cocktails, and talk of StairMasters and group therapy and recent movies.

  “Old f
or a gangbanger,” Belson said. “Nearly thirty.”

  I nodded. I rummaged unsuccessfully for cashews. They were all gone. I ate three hazelnuts instead.

  “Kid seemed kind of proud about being shot,” Belson said. “Gang kids put a lot of stock in that.”

  “They got nothing else to put stock in,” I said.

  “Probably not,” Belson said. “But that’s not my problem. I investigate shootings. Even if the shooting is maybe necessary, I’m supposed to investigate it.”

  “And handsomely paid for the work, too,” I said.

  “Sure.”

  Belson picked up the martini glass and looked through it along the bar, admiring the refracted colors. Then he took a brief sip and put it down.

  “Spenser,” Belson said, “Marty and me figure you or Hawk done John Porter. And we probably can’t prove it, and if we could, why would we want to?”

  “Why indeed,” I said.

  “But I didn’t want you thinking we didn’t know.”

  “I understand that,” I said. “And I know that if you thought, say, Joe Broz had done it, that maybe you could prove it, and would.”

  Belson looked at me silently for a moment, then he drank the rest of his martini in a swallow, put the glass on the bar, and put his right hand out, palm up. I slapped it lightly.

  “Tony Marcus killed Devona Jefferson and her baby,” I said.

  “Himself?”

  “He had Billy do it. I got a witness.”

  I looked around the bar. There were several attractive young executive-class women with assertive blue suits and tight butts. I could ask one to join me for a discussion of Madonna’s iconographic impact on mass culture. The very thought made my blood boil.

  “Who you got?” Belson said.

  A new drink sat undisturbed in front of him on the bar.

  “Major Johnson,” I said.

  “Kid runs the Hobart Street Raiders.”

  “Yeah. He was in the truck when she got hit. He won’t say so, but he probably ID’d her for Billy.”

  “And?” Belson said.

  “He’ll need immunity.”

  “I can rig that,” Belson said. “Can he tie Tony to it?”