Hawk and I took the hand wraps and put them on the boys’ hands in figure eights, fitting them snugly on their small hands. Then we put mitts on them and took them over to the speed bag. “Try hitting it, any way you want, just to get the feel of it,” I said. “Take turns.”
“You box?” I said to Jackie.
“A little,” he said. “But I can mix it up with them anytime. Today’s for the professionals to show their stuff.”
The kids had stepped up to the speed bag one by one, and flailed away, missing it most of the time, laughing and jabbing one another in the ribs, and dancing around the bag. Carl watched. He had put on wraps. He went over, picked up a pair of old leather boxing gloves, and went to the heavy bag. He stepped up to it and whacked it like an amateur, but with some strength. I held the bag for him. He went at it again.
“Good,” I said. “Next we’ll work on your footwork.”
“Don’t need to,” Carl said. He was starting to breathe heavily. “Footwork’s fine.”
I pushed the heavy bag slightly, and Carl’s next punch hit the side and brushed off. His momentum carried him forward, and he tripped. He staggered through the punch and stumbled to the floor.
The others kids stopped and stared at him. Pedro and Mike stifled laughs in their gloves.
“Hey!” Carl said. “That’s not fair. You tricked me.”
“You don’t have to worry about footwork if you’re hitting something that’s stationary,” I said. “Problem with people is they tend to move. If you’re going to box something that has feet, you’ve got to have good footwork.”
I put my hand down to help him up. He pushed my hand away and pulled himself to his feet.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s try it again. This time I promise I won’t move the bag. We’ll work on footwork next time.”
Carl ripped into the bag with a sullen fury. After a few punches his pace slowed, and in less than a minute he was spent.
Hawk and I worked with the other three kids for the next half-hour. When they finished, the boys piled the equipment back into the boxes.
Pedro said, “Will you return and teach us some more?”
We nodded.
“In the meantime,” I said, “take good care of that equipment. It’s yours now.”
The boys and Jackie beamed. “Say thank you to Mr. Spenser and Hawk, boys. That’s very generous of them.”
The boys responded with a uniform singsong chorus of thanks. Even Carl managed a grudging “Thanks, man.”
Jackie smiled, then turned to the boys. “When you are boxing, boys, your hands are your weapons. You need to know how to use them, and when. Mastering any weapon is about discipline and control. That’s it for today. You guys go get something to eat,” Jackie said.
The boys bolted in the direction of the kitchen. Carl’s elbows put him in the lead.
“Sorry about Carl,” Jackie said. “He’s a hard nut to crack. Been here about six months. He served time as a juvenile for breaking and entering, vandalism, car theft. You know. Pretty much kid stuff.”
“Just enough to get thrown in with guys tougher than him,” Hawk said.
Jackie looked at Hawk and nodded. “You got it. All these kids got a story. The Mexicans came over the border in Arizona being shot at; some of them saw a mother or father killed in front of them and somehow got away and reached relatives and made their way east. You take a kid like Teddy?”
“The tall one,” I said.
“Yeah. Good kid. But both parents were drunks and they dumped him. Just left him at an orphanage in Philadelphia. He had been there most of his life until he ran away and we found him. Or he found us is more like it. There’s a network of these lost street kids from city to city, and they hear about safe places to go. Some want to get there, some have already given up. These kids are so beaten up by living by the time we get them, I spend a lot of time just getting them to trust me.”
“What give you the idea to start Street Business?” Hawk said.
Jackie looked at Hawk. “I’ve always wanted to be like my big brother, Juan. A big success. Great with women. Lots of money. But it didn’t turn out that way for me. I tried a lot of things. Gambling. Selling cars. I wasn’t good at any of them. But I always liked kids. And I was lucky. My parents were good to us. As you know, my mother still lives in Lawrence, and my sisters and brothers all live nearby. Except, of course, Juan.”
“Yes, of course, Juan,” I said.
“You don’t like my brother?” Jackie looked surprised.
“I don’t know him well enough to like him or not like him. I’ve only met him once. He does seem like an international man of mystery.”
“He’s always been good to me, Spenser. And to our family. He has been generous with the fruits of his success. Without him, these kids would just be more sad stories out there on the streets. Because of Juan, they at least have a chance.”
“And because of you,” I said. “Probably more than Juan.”
Jackie shrugged as he stood. “I got to get a shower and do some chores. Thanks for coming by today. Both of you. The kids loved their boxing lesson.”
A stocky guy about my size was leaning on the wall just inside the front door, filling the space occupied by Joe on my last visit. He was wearing gray sweatpants over running shoes, and a New England Patriots sweatshirt with a matching slouch cap. He straightened up as Hawk and I approached.
“You security?” I said.
His lipped curled to form something that could have been a grin or a sneer.
“Security. Bus driver. Truant officer. Handyman,” he said. “Anything they need around this hellhole.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “You didn’t volunteer for this duty.”
“Christ, no.” The guy gave a short snort. “Volunteer.” He spat out the word like it described an unnatural act. “I’m minding my own business out in the suburbs, the boss says, ‘Frankie, get your ass into Boston and keep my little brother from falling into the Charles.’ The boss speaks, I jump. So here I am.”
“The boss would be Juan Alvarez?”
Frankie stiffened and pulled himself away from the wall.
“Who wants to know?”
“My name’s Spenser. This is Hawk. Jackie asked me to help find out who’s been causing problems for Street Business.”
Frankie relaxed and resumed his job holding up the wall.
“Lucky you. Heard about you. Super-dick come to save the day. Good luck.”
I let that pass. “What can you tell me about what’s been going on around here?”
Frankie rolled his eyes and exhaled elaborately. “Nothing going on around here. A few kids get their lunch money stolen on their way home from work.” He rallied himself from the wall to put air quotations around “work,” then settled back again. “Some get in fights and get knocked around a little. Chickenshit stuff.”
“Still,” I said. “Hard to believe, with all the crack security around here.”
He straightened up again and leaned into my face. “Screw you, Jack,” he said. “It all happens out on the street somewhere. Never had a problem in the yard or in the premises.”
“It’s Spenser,” I said. “And I think you mean ‘on the premises.’ Any idea who might be harassing the kids?”
Frankie folded his arms across his chest. I had a feeling we were experiencing his entire repertoire of poses.
“Don’t know, don’t care. Kids go out on the city streets and some get into fights. That’s a big fucking news flash. Especially with these turds. This ain’t exactly a collection of altar boys.”
“I’m sensing you’re not a big fan of Street Business.”
“You think? Best thing anyone could do is run these pissants off and take a wrecking ball to the place. Or maybe lock them in here and bring in the wrecking ball.”
�
��So you’re not a believer in Jackie’s mission to help kids?”
Frankie shook his head. “Guy’s got his head up his ass. He thinks if he clothes and feeds street kids they’ll grow up and save the world. Christ, these kids are animals. You dress ’em up and give ’em three squares a day, they’re still animals. Just as likely to kill Jackie in his bed as anything.”
“So you just give up and let them be animals?”
“You let their families take care of them. That’s the way I was brought up.”
“And if they don’t have family?” Hawk asked. Until then he had been silent, and his question startled Frankie.
Frankie recovered. “That’s bullshit. Everyone’s got family. If the parents aren’t around, there are aunts and uncles and grandparents. And if there aren’t any relatives, send ’em back where they came from.”
“Your boss aware of your enlightened views of his brother and his work?” I said.
“You ask him straight, I bet he’d agree with me. Juan Alvarez is one tough sonovabitch. He started with nothing and clawed his way to the top. No one gave him any handouts. He had his family and himself, and that’s it. And family is everything to Mr. Alvarez. He looks out for his own. I seen the way he supports his mother and his brothers and sisters. Especially Jackie.”
“Especially Jackie?”
“Yeah.” Frankie shook his head. “From what I hear, Jackie’s the black sheep. Always getting into trouble. Mr. Alvarez promised his mother that he’d take Jackie under his wing, straighten him out. When Jackie decides he wants to start this Romper Room, Mr. Alvarez sets him up and supports him, just like he promised Mama.”
“Doesn’t Alvarez support a bunch of charities around Boston? Street Business seems to fit with that.”
Frankie unfolded his arms and put them behind his back. Experimenting with a new pose. Conversational Frankie. Daring.
“Mr. Alvarez donates to groups that have been around a long time, that have a track record. Places that do things you can point to. Stuff connected to his businesses. Lot better places to put money than this rat hole.”
“You ever consider following the kids around, try to find out who’s bothering them?”
“Yeah, right.” Frankie flashed the might-be-a-sneer, might-be-a-grin look at Hawk. Hawk showed nothing. The look disappeared. “I do what Mr. Alvarez tells me to do. No upside in freelancing.”
“Might help you to move around a little bit,” I said. “You stand next to the door too long, people might mistake you for a coatrack.”
Frankie balled his fists, took a step toward me, then looked at Hawk and reconsidered. We walked out.
HAWK AND I sat in my car and looked back at Street Business. We seemed to be doing a lot of sitting in my car lately. Maybe it was the start of a new holiday tradition. Next year we could change it up a little and sit in Hawk’s car.
“How you feeling about Street Business now?” I said.
Hawk nodded his approval. “Not bad,” he said. “This Jackie seem sincere, seem good with the kids. Place be clean and tidy. Kids look happy, like they gettin’ fed and looked after. Got structure and routine.”
“Is it a place you would have wanted to be when you were a kid?”
Hawk shook his head.
“Not what I wanted, way I was then. Didn’t want no structure, didn’t want no rules.”
“But you wanted to eat. A place to sleep.”
“Food always come with some catch. Rules. Tradeoffs. Someone tryin’ to save me. Didn’t want that. Needed to find my own way.”
“So—what, then?”
“Man I am now can look back, say sure, would’a been nice to have someplace safe to go, place where you knew somebody give a rat’s ass, could teach you things. Didn’t want that then.”
He turned to me and grinned. “’Course, I lived in a place like that, probably grow up to be a minister. Or worse, an Afro-American you.”
“We so different?”
“Different enough. You got rules.”
“And you don’t?”
“Just a few. Need a whole book for your rules. Have to think too much. Turns you soft sometimes. I try to live your way, I be dead long ago.”
“And you think Street Business might make those kids soft?”
“Just sayin’ the world be a pretty simple place when you just tryin’ to stay alive.” He fell silent for a moment. “Street Business be good if it gives kids a safe place off the streets. Even better if it teach them skills. Someday they got to go out on their own, leave Street Business behind. Got to be ready when that day comes.”
“Give a man a fish versus teach a man to fish.”
“Always comforting to hear you quote Scripture,” Hawk said.
“Anything trouble you about this place?”
Hawk thought for a moment. “Couple of things. Something go wrong down here, sure would hate to depend on ol’ Frankie.”
“Yeah,” I said. “You’ve got to admire a man who loves his work. I’ve met the other member of the security detail. He’s pretty much the same.”
“Don’t know this Juan Alvarez, but you think if he so concerned about his brother, he make sure his team fell in line.”
“Or bring in a team that did,” I said. “What else?”
Hawk looked out the car window. “Neighborhood’s too quiet.”
He was right. The block was deserted. Except for Street Business, there were no lights visible in the windows of any building on either side of the street. There were no Christmas lights, no menorahs, no holiday decorations for the length of the block. I realized that in the entire time Hawk and I had been in the car, we had seen no traffic, no pedestrians, no kids pulling sleds or throwing snowballs.
We waited and watched for signs of life. Fifteen minutes passed and nothing changed.
“No Whos in Whoville,” I said.
“Maybe the Rapture just happened,” said Hawk, “and we got left behind.”
Dusk settled over the neighborhood. The streetlights kicked on, offering a thin canopy of light over the street.
“Still curious why Alvarez don’t wanna sell these houses,” Hawk said.
“Well,” I said, opening my car door, “since we’re in the neighborhood, let’s find out what makes them so special.”
The first one we chose was quiet and dark inside. If anyone was upstairs, we did not hear them. I turned on a couple of lamps in a room that once had passed as a parlor but now looked like the final resting place for furniture the Salvation Army wouldn’t take. The two sofas were sprung, and the chair cushions looked as greasy as two-day-old stir-fry.
In the kitchen, dirty dishes were piled in the sink and laundry was heaped by the washer.
“Tidy bunch,” Hawk said.
“No sports equipment or video games. Nothing for kids.”
“These aren’t kids. These employees,” Hawk said.
I entered a larger room with a desk in the corner. I was shuffling through some papers lying on the scarred Formica top when I heard footsteps.
I turned, and a tall man with a red crew cut was pointing a small handgun at me. Hawk was nowhere in sight.
“Who are you?” he said. “What are you doing here?” He was lean and strong-looking, in better shape than either Joe or Frankie at Street Business.
“I’m going door-to-door collecting for charity,” I said. “We want to send all the underprivileged kids in Weston to violin camp. Would you care to contribute?”
“Not funny, asshole,” Redhead said. “Hands up where I can see them.”
I raised my hands, and he continued to point the gun at my chest. He seemed uncertain about what to do next.
“How’d you get in here?” Redhead was doing his best to look menacing. The gun helped.
“Chimney,” I said. “Just like Santa.”
Redhead opened his mouth to say something. He never got the chance. Hawk appeared behind him and put one arm around Redhead’s neck and his knee deep into his back. Redhead let out a choked snarl and dropped his gun. I picked it up and stuck it in my pocket.
Hawk let Redhead go.
I looked down at the floor where Redhead sat with his head down. He had left a small duffel bag in the doorway, which I inspected while Hawk watched him. Five hundred in big bills and a round-trip economy ticket to El Paso, Texas. A small notepad filled with dates and numbers. I tucked it inside my pocket.
I looked at Redhead. “You live here?”
He stared at the ground and said nothing.
“Want to tell us what’s so great about El Paso at Christmas?”
Redhead remained enamored with a spot on the wooden floor. He shook his head.
“Maybe he just shy,” said Hawk. “Could use a little encouragement to facilitate some conversation.”
Redhead started to shake a little.
“No,” I said. “Let’s go.”
“No?” Hawk said. “Guy almost shot you.”
“Almost,” I said. “And we did invite ourselves in.”
Hawk shook his head. “Rules, Spenser. Rules gonna get you killed someday.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But not today.”
I WAS SITTING AT MY DESK with my feet up, contemplating the cooking of the turducken for our Christmas dinner. It needed to roast for seven hours. I was counting backward from our appointed dinner hour of two in the afternoon to figure out when it should go in Susan’s oven. Then the door to my office opened and Juan Alvarez came in.
“I hope you don’t mind the intrusion,” he said. His tone suggested he didn’t much care whether I minded or not. He carried his overcoat on his arm. He wore a tweed jacket with smooth leather patches at the elbows, a tartan vest, and a green tie patterned with small yellow animals that looked like little foxes.
I motioned to the chair opposite my desk.
He shot me a baleful look with his hard brown eyes. “You, Spenser, are not who you say you are. You are a private investigator. You never mentioned that when we were introduced.” He sounded genuinely injured.
Silent Night: A Spenser Holiday Novel Page 5