I dropped thirty-five cents into the automatic toll hopper and headed in the turnpike extension toward Boston.
“Love is what makes me care whether you know which way is shorter,” I said.
She put her hand lightly on my thigh. I dropped my right hand on top of it and drove with my left.
“Professionally,” Susan said, “I’m not at all sure that love, as such, is not simply a complex of human impulses: need, identification, possessiveness, fear of loneliness, impulse to replicate the family from which you sprang, sexual desire, anger, the desire to punish, the desire to be punished.”
I didn’t say anything. The Cherokee had tinted glass and with the windows closed the interior was quiet and cool. There weren’t many cars out on a Sunday midday in late March, and the hum of the car’s passage was all there was for sound.
“On the other hand …” I said.
“On the other hand I love you so much I could swoon,” Susan said.
“Swoon?”
“Swoon.”
“And the fact that Dwayne feels swoonie over Chantel,” I said, “means he’s capable of forming healthier attachments than the one with Deegan.”
“I only said I was swoonie over you,” Susan said. “I can’t speak for Dwayne or Chantel. But the rest of it is right.”
“Chantel says he needs white approval,” I said.
“Yes, so a white male authority figure may even be more important to him than it would be to some,” Susan said.
“What do you recommend?”
“Let Chantel work on him,” Susan said. “Let him think about what’s happened to him, and let him come to it himself. You don’t want him to feel pushed or he’s very likely to clam up and if you push him hard enough you can push him right back to Deegan. Deegan says things Dwayne likes to hear. You keep telling him unpleasant stuff.”
“I keep telling him to grow up,” I said.
“And that he’s risking jail, and that he can’t read, and that he should testify against a man who makes Dwayne feel like he’s more important than oxygen,” Susan said.
“Are you suggesting he doesn’t enjoy that?”
“Only a suggestion,” Susan said.
We went off at the Allston/Cambridge exit and wove through the silliest exit ever devised to Soldiers Field Road.
I looked at my watch. Susan glanced at hers and then turned to look out at the red brick Harvard buildings.
“Two minutes faster than my way,” I said.
She turned and smiled at me a smile of infinite sweetness.
“Shut up,” I said.
31
I was in Lt. Martin Quirk’s office at Homicide. Quirk was there, and Frank Belson, and a young cop from Walford named Stuart Delaney, a former state cop named LeMaster, who was the Chief of the Taft U. police, and a guy from the Middlesex D.A.’s office named Arlett.
Quirk was sitting square in his chair behind his desk, his forearms resting on the desktop, his thick hands motionless on his blotter. Belson sat in a straight chair, tipped back against the wall to Quirk’s left, smoking a cheap narrow cigar, with his hat on and tilted down over his forehead. The rest of us ranged in straight chairs in a semicircle facing Quirk. Quirk was looking at me.
“Why, you are perhaps asking yourself,” Quirk said to me, “did Lt. Quirk invite me to his office at this time with these other gentlemen?”
“I assumed you were holding a crime stoppers seminar and wanted me to lecture,” I said.
“Well, that’s close,” Quirk said. “Actually these gentlemen all wish to learn from you what the fuck is going on with Dwayne Woodcock?”
“So where do you come in?” I said.
“Because the Walford police asked me to pick you up and hold you for them, and I thought it might make more sense if we all got together and shared our thoughts on this matter.”
“You’re Homicide,” I said.
Quirk looked at Belson. Belson looked up from under his hat brim.
“Man knows his cops, Marty,” Belson said.
“Who’s dead?” I said.
“We’ll ask the questions,” Arlett said to me, “if you don’t mind.”
I looked at Quirk. “We’ll ask the questions?” I said.
Quirk shook his head.
“Kid named Danny Davis,” Quirk said.
I felt a tickle of relief. It wasn’t Dwayne.
“Lieutenant,” Arlett said, “I’ll conduct this interrogation.”
Quirk looked at him for a moment. Nothing appeared to change in Quirk’s face, but the room seemed very quiet. Then Quirk looked back at me.
“Somebody shot him behind the left ear outside the Taft field house,” Quirk said, “and then shot him in the back of the head after he’d fallen and was lying face down. Big caliber gun, maybe .45 they tell me.”
“And we know you know more than you’re telling,” Arlett said in a rush. I could see Belson smile slightly.
Quirk ignored Arlett. “And then,” he said, “somebody apparently made a run at Woodcock, and your goomba, Hawk, ah, interceded.”
“Shooter dead?” I said.
“Two of them,” LeMaster said. “No I.D. on them. Delaney got prints and they’re going to run it down for us at Ten-Ten.”
“State Police Headquarters,” Arlett said.
Belson’s grin got a little wider.
“Gave us a statement,” Delaney said, “and released Woodcock and the broad …”
“Chantel,” I said.
“Yeah, Woodcock’s broad.”
I said, “She has a name. It’s Chantel.”
“Sure,” Delaney said. “They support Hawk’s statement that he acted in their defense.”
“So what do you know about all of this?” Arlett said.
“Nothing,” I said.
“Lieutenant, arrest him,” Arlett said, “read him his rights and book him.”
“Suspicion of murder?” Quirk said.
“Material witness, obstructing justice, anything you want. I want him in a cell thinking about this. Maybe his memory will improve.”
“Didn’t Robert Stack say that, in ‘The Untouchables’?” I said.
“You’re not as funny as you think you are,” Arlett said.
“Yeah, sure he did,” I said. “He said it to Bruce Gordon, who was playing Frank Nitti, ‘maybe your memory will improve,’ he said. And …”
“Shut up,” Arlett said.
“I bet you watched that all the time,” I said. “I know it was Ness who said, ‘we’ll ask the questions.’”
“Spenser,” Quirk said, “give it a rest.”
“Farantino’s got a bad caseload problem in Middlesex,” Belson said, around his cigar. “Sends out the best he’s got available.”
Arlett turned toward Belson. “Sergeant, just what the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Belson’s thin face with its permanent five o’clock shadow was sincere as he looked at Arlett.
“Trying to be supportive,” he said.
Quirk stood up.
“You gentlemen wait here,” he said. “Frank, Spenser, come with me.”
He went around his desk and out the door of his office without waiting to see if we’d come.
We came. He went along through the squad room and out and down a corridor and in through a door marked OCU. It was another squad room, a little smaller than Homicide. We walked through toward a door that read SGT. MYLES HICKMAN, COMMANDER, and opened the door.
“Myles is on vacation,” Quirk said.
He sat behind the desk and I sat in front and Belson closed the pebbly glass door and leaned on the wall beside it.
“Okay,” Quirk said. “Arlett’s an asshole, you know it, Frank knows it, I know it. He’s new in the criminal division, he’s insecure and he should be. So he tries to be tough and he don’t know how. But the questions he’s asking aren’t questions that shouldn’t be answered. And if he pushes me I’ll have to arrest you for him. They’ll hold you in Walford.”
/>
“For how long,” I said.
“Until Haller gets there. If we bust you, I’ll have Frank call him.”
I got up and stood looking out at the nearly empty squad room. At the far end was a dark-haired cop with a thick mustache. His baseball jacket was hung on the back of his chair. He was wearing his gun in a shoulder holster and a set of handcuffs dangled as well from the strap under his arm. He had his feet up on the desk. He was wearing New Balance running shoes and jeans. He hunched his right shoulder up to hold the phone against his ear while he fumbled for something in the desk drawer.
“I should have had Davis covered too,” I said.
The cop on the phone found a pad of yellow paper in the drawer and began to write on it with a ballpoint pen.
“And I simply didn’t think of it,” I said.
I turned and looked at Quirk and Belson.
“I didn’t think of it.”
“Too late now,” Belson said.
I nodded.
“I know who had him killed, and I know who sponsored the run at Dwayne, and I know why, but I can’t prove it.”
“Give it to us,” Quirk said. “Maybe we can prove it.”
“Arlett’s going to prove it?”
“They got some good people working out of there,” Quirk said. “Stegman, Russo.”
I nodded again.
“The other problem is I will have to implicate someone I don’t want to implicate.”
“Life’s hard,” Quirk said.
“Kid already knows that,” I said. “I’m trying to make it a little easier.”
“Woodcock?”
“I’m not going to say.”
“What are you trying to do?” Quirk said.
“I’m trying to figure out a way to nab the son of a bitch who had Davis killed, without nabbing the kid he corrupted.”
“You want to do this legal?” Quirk said.
“Doesn’t make too much difference,” I said.
“I didn’t figure it did,” Quirk said.
“But the kid’s got to learn some stuff out of this,” I said.
“Father Flanagan,” Belson murmured.
“So you don’t just ace the bad guy and call it even,” Quirk said.
“No,” I said.
“Not like you wouldn’t do it,” Quirk said.
“Not this time, at least,” I said.
“You want to tell me the bad guy’s name?” Quirk said.
“Informally?” I said.
Quirk laughed a little short laugh with his mouth closed.
“You mean will I tell Arlett?” he said.
I nodded.
“No,” Quirk said.
“Okay. Guy named Bobby Deegan. New York wants him for knocking over an OTB parlor. He’s been fixing Taft basketball games and was using Woodcock and, apparently, the Davis kid to beat the spread.”
“I heard Taft hired you on that,” Quirk said.
“And fired you,” Belson said.
“And I got in there and stirred things up, and got so close to Deegan that he tried to hit me, and failed.”
“Parking garage on Milk Street?” Quirk said.
I shrugged.
“And then he realized that the only people could put him away were the people he’d bought,” I said.
“So he had them hit,” Quirk said. “Except you figured he’d try for Woodcock, so you had Hawk there.”
“Days,” I said. “Dumb bastards had waited an hour they’d have had the campus cops to deal with instead of Hawk.”
“Be my choice,” Belson said.
“So you sink Deegan, and he takes Dwayne down with him,” Quirk said.
“If we can keep him alive,” I said.
“He’s too hot,” Quirk said. “Be hard to get anyone to try for him now. I wouldn’t take the guards away, but I think you got a little time.”
I nodded.
“So what are you going to do?” Quirk said.
“I’ll think of something,” I said.
“Too bad you didn’t think of it before they killed Davis,” Quirk said.
“Yeah,” I said.
32
WE went back to Quirk’s office and teased Arlett for a while and then LeMaster and Delaney took me back to Walford in cuffs and stuck me in the Walford jail as a material witness. I was in for about two and a half hours before Haller came down with a writ and got me out.
The prisons in the state were sleeping four to a cell, but the town jails were as empty and quiet as a church on Wednesday. I alternated my time while I sat on the bare bunk between thinking about women I’d slept with and reanalyzing my all-time all-star baseball team. In recent years I’d replaced Brooks Robinson with Mike Schmidt and Marty Marion with Ozzie Smith. Now and then I wondered how the hell I ended up in jail in a case when I knew what happened and who did it and could probably prove it. But mostly I thought about women and baseball.
When I got back to my office it was late afternoon and raining. I was wearing my leather jacket to keep my gun dry and I had my collar up when I walked in from the alley where I parked. When I got out of the elevator on the second floor the corridor had that gray look that indoors gets on days like this one, and the lights from open doors along the corridor made yellow splashes on the corridor floor. One of the open doors was mine. I unzipped my jacket before I went in.
Hawk was at my desk reading a book with his feet up. He was wearing lizard skin cowboy boots. He glanced at me over the book.
“Cops talk to you?” he said.
“Yeah,” I said. “What are you reading?”
“Book by Stephen Hawking,” Hawk said. “ ’Bout the universe.”
“Only that?” I said.
“Campus cops and Walford cops and some state cops all hanging around Dwayne,” Hawk said. “Figured I wasn’t needed.”
“Tell me about the hit on Dwayne,” I said.
“Two guys pull up about five, quarter of, park in front of the condo, walk up to Dwayne’s place and ring the bell. Door opens and they go in quick. I figure I better go in right after them and I do. They in the living room with Dwayne and the girl.”
“Chantel,” I said.
“Un huh, and there’s an Uzi showing, so I say ‘How dee doo’ and shoot the guy with the Uzi and his associate turn around with a hand gun and …” Hawk shrugged and made a shooting motion with the forefinger and thumb of his right hand, bringing the thumb down like a hammer falling.
“Chantel sort of moaning and got her face against Dwayne, and he hanging on to her like she gonna blow away, so I call the campus blue bellies and pretty soon there a lot of people there.”
“Danny Davis got killed,” I said. “They tell you that?”
“Yeah. Should a had him covered too,” Hawk said.
“I know,” I said.
“Can’t think of everything,” Hawk said.
“I’ll say.”
We looked at each other silently for a moment. Then Hawk nodded. I did too.
“What we going to do about this?” Hawk said.
“Dwayne will turn,” I said.
“Better than dying,” Hawk said.
“So we’re going to have some leverage on Deegan,” I said.
“ ’Less Dwayne runs,” Hawk said.
I looked at him.
“Think like Dwayne. You black, you look up to white people, but you scared of them. You don’t trust them. All your life they been calling you nigger, acting like you don’t matter. Now, he got his life on the line, his girlfriend’s life on the line. He can trust the system, trust the white cops and the white judge to protect him, same system been telling him he don’t matter for the last twenty-one years. Stand up to a white guy wants to kill him and count on the white system to protect him.”
“Or,” I said, “he can run. He can bury himself in the black ghetto of choice and hide for the rest of his life.”
“What would you do?” Hawk said.
“Run for the ghetto,” I said.
<
br /> Hawk nodded.
“Can you watch him,” I said.
“Can’t watch him forever,” Hawk said. Then he smiled. “Well, I could, but I don’t want to.”
“Stay with him a couple of days, give me time to try and put something together.”
“You want me to stop him if he runs?” Hawk said.
“No,” I said. “Just want to know where he runs to.”
Hawk went to hang around outside of Dwayne’s, and I went to my desk and sat down and called Detective Maguire in Brooklyn. Things were looking up; I got him.
“I’m going off duty, in fact I was supposed to go off a half hour ago,” Maguire said.
“I thought you New York guys never slept,” I said.
“We don’t,” Maguire said, “but we need time off for fucking. What do you want?”
I said, “If I got Deegan to turn on that OTB thing would you deal?”
“Maybe.”
“If I got him to give you the rest of the outfit, can you get him immunity?”
“He turns on the rest of the outfit and he’ll need witness protection. That’s Feds.”
“Will the federal attorney deal on this?”
“Ain’t a federal crime,” Maguire said. “Why’s he give a shit?”
“That’s up to you,” I said, “convince him.”
“Yeah?”
“Can you do that?” I said.
“Maybe.”
“Why don’t you look into it and find out,” I said.
“How you going to get Deegan to turn?” Maguire said.
“That’s my problem,” I said. “You work on what he’ll get if I do.”
“Hey,” Maguire said, “I gotta know you’ll turn him. I’m not going to be walking around down here saying he’s turned, and find out he hasn’t, and end up looking like an asshole.”
“Would anyone see the change?” I said.
“I mean it,” Maguire said. “I’m not sticking my neck out on the word of some guy I never even met. I mean I talked to you twice on the phone, and you got me making deals with the federal attorney.”
“Magic,” I said, “isn’t it.”
“It’s bullshit,” Maguire said. “You gonna turn him or not?”
“I’ll turn him,” I said.
“You do and we’ll talk,” Maguire said. “We can work something out.”
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