by Chance(lit)
"I remember once Marty beat a guy to death with a pool cue," Hawk said.
"They playing pool, and the guy kidding Marty. Saying how Patriots folded against the Bears in the eighty-five Super Bowl. Marty likes those Patriots. So he starts hitting the guy with the butt end of the pool cue."
"Guy overestimated Marty's sense of humor," I said.
Hawk nodded.
"Your slugger probably be in some trouble, you tell Marty he screwed up the tail job."
"He's a dope," I said.
"He couldn't tail a bull through a china shop. No need to get him killed."
"Everybody know Marty's a psycho. You work with him, you gotta be prepared to deal with that."
"I sort of promised."
"Okay," Hawk said.
"I know what you like. How we going to do it?"
I ate a plain donut and drank some decaf. Hawk sipped his Guatemalan dark roast.
"Well, the best guess is that Marty, or more likely Gino Fish, knew that Julius hired me. And they wanted to see who I talked to and what I found."
"Julius hired us," Hawk said.
"You're so sensitive," I said.
"Nobody follow me."
"For cris sake I said.
"You haven't been doing anything."
"I waiting for my kind of work," Hawk said.
"I don't do gumshoe work, rattle fucking doorknobs."
Hawk stood and went to my window and looked down at the corner of Berkeley and Boylston. It was a fine bright morning.
There was a lot of foot traffic at ten of nine, people going to work at the big insurance companies that littered the Back Bay. The young women were still in their summer dresses. The young men wore no topcoats.
"Cross Boylston," Hawk said.
"Corner near Louis'."
I stood beside him and looked.
"Sort of tall with square shoulders," Hawk said.
"Fishing hat, tan raincoat, looking uninterested."
"I see him," I said.
"Newspaper under his arm."
"So he can lean on a lamppost and read it," Hawk said.
"He's doing everything but," I said.
"Your guy?"
"No," I said.
"They wouldn't send the same tail two days in a row."
"They haven't been too smart so far," Hawk said.
"You made the first guy as quick as we made this one."
"Not the same thing," I said.
"We were looking for this one."
"Sure," Hawk said.
"Why don't we just go see Marty, see what he wants?"
"You know where to find him?"
"Sure," Hawk said.
"
"Course it's possible," I said, "we brace Marty Anaheim, we get ourselves in trouble."
"Or him," Hawk said.
CHAPTER 7
The guy in the raincoat followed Hawk and me to a bar on Canal Street, near the old Boston Garden.
"Marty here about every morning," Hawk said.
The bar was called Poochie's, and through the big plate glass window in front we could see that Marty was there with a couple of other guys in suits drinking draught beer, and watching a motorcycle race on the big color television over the bar.
"Why don't you wait out here and confuse the tail," I said.
Hawk smiled and leaned against the entrance wall. The guy in the raincoat was across the street, near the MBTA entrance, pretending to count his change.
"He'll doodle around out here for a while," Hawk said.
"Trying to figure out if Marty'll be mad, and then he'll come in."
"That's about right," I said.
I walked in and sat on a bar stool next to one of Marty's companions and ordered a beer. Marty glanced at me and away, then he let his glance drift back to me out of the corner of his left eye.
The guy in the raincoat was decisive. After a minute or so, he came in and spoke to Marty, standing on the other side of Marty, whispering so I couldn't hear. Marty listened without taking his eyes off the motorcycle races.
"Okay, Dukes, beat it," Marty said when the guy in the raincoat finished whispering.
"I'll talk to you later."
Marty glanced casually past me at the street through the big window, then let his glance drift disinterestedly over me. I gave him a big friendly smile. He didn't smile back. Marty was a bodybuilder, and a successful one, if you judged by the way his suit didn't fit. He was clean shaven with shoulder-length blond hair and a dark tan. He had a small scar at the left corner of his mouth.
And his right eye seemed to wander off center. There was a gold earring in his left earlobe, and a very big emerald ring on his right pinky. The two guys with him were weight-room types. The one next to me had a medallion of some kind on a gold chain around his neck. On the television another motorcycle race was under way. I didn't watch. Marty and his pals did, with Marty occasionally glancing at me. I waited. Finally it was more than Marty could stand. He leaned forward and looked at me from the other side of his buddy with the medallion.
"How you doing," he said.
He had a surprisingly high voice.
"Fine," I said.
The beer was growing slowly flat in front of me, but ten in the morning seemed a little early. Marty kept leaning forward. His two friends were looking at me too.
"I know you?" Marty said.
"Sure you do," I said.
"I'm your hero. You want to be just like me."
"That a wise remark?" Marty said.
"Yeah. I'm just practicing on you, in case I meet somebody smarter."
Marty's tan darkened, and a small nerve in his right cheek began to twitch, below the walleye. He slid off the bar stool and stepped around his associate to stand beside me.
"You come in here looking for trouble?"
"No, but your guy Dukes was tailing me. Thought I'd ask you about it."
"My guy?"
"Guy in the raincoat. I wanted to see who sent him. And sonovagun, Marty, it was you."
"I don't know no Dukes."
"Sure," I said, "and you don't know no Spenser either, and you didn't have a guy on my tail."
Marty took a half step back and folded his thick arms. His two friends were both turned on the bar stools toward me. I noticed the friend without the medallion sported some crude prison tattoos on his forearms. The bartender had moved as far down the bar away from us as he could and was busy slicing lemons. Marty kept his pose as he stared at me. His coat sleeves pulled tight around his upper arms. His Rolex watch gleamed at me from his left wrist.
"Chills," I said, "run up and down my spine."
"Whaddya doing for Julius Ventura?" Marty said.
"Why do you want to know?" I said.
"
"Cause I'm softhearted," Marty said.
"Give you a chance to tell me what's going on, and maybe walk out of here with your balls still swinging."
I had a couple of killer responses to that all ready, but I didn't get to use them because Hawk came in. He stepped inside the bar and took off his sunglasses and tucked them into the side pocket of his suede-denim jacket. Then he unbuttoned the jacket and walked down the bar past where we were sitting, and leaned on the wall behind Marty and his pals. It was nice theater and also made it harder for all of them to concentrate on giving me the hard eye.
Which had been getting pretty boring anyway.
"So," I said.
"Why do you want to know what I'm doing with Julius Ventura?"
Marty was still looking at me, but his two pals had swung farther around in their seats and were looking at Hawk.
"The colored guy don't make no difference," Marty said.
"The hell he doesn't," I said.
"Still three to two," Marty said.
"Yeah, but one of the two is me," I said.
"And the other one's him."
Marty wasn't scared of me, or of Hawk. Marty was much too predatory to be scared. But he was confused. He'd put a simple
tail on a guy and ended up having the guy, so to speak, on his tail.
He was used to scaring people to death. He wasn't used to smart talk. His natural response to it would be violence. He was almost certainly doing what Gino Fish had told him to do, so he couldn't just kill me. He was supposed to find something out.
"You doing anything for Ventura got to do with Anthony Meeker?" Marty said.
The nerve near his eye was twitching faster. "Who wants to know?" I said.
"Who the fuck you think? Who's asking you? Geraldo fucking Rivera?"
"Gino interested in this?"
Marty shrugged.
"Sure he is," I said.
"And when he found out Ventura hired me, he wanted to know what I knew."
"So?"
"So he told you to have me followed, and you did."
"So?"
"So, why's he want to know?"
"None of your fucking business," Marty said. It was starting to occur to him that I was finding out more than he was.
"And how'd he know so quick that Ventura hired us?" I said.
"That's it," Marty said.
"Meeting's over."
"He's got somebody in Julius's organization."
"Get lost," Marty said.
Marty put his thick hand on my chest and shoved. I was supposed to stagger backwards. But I didn't. I rolled a little away from the shove and Marty's hand slid off my chest and Marty actually staggered a half step forward. He caught himself on the bar and tried to look like he hadn't staggered.
"You okay?" I said solicitously.
The tic in his cheek was vibrating like high C. His hand started toward his coat.
Hawk said, "Marty."
Hawk never talked especially loud. But you could always hear him. He seemed to be in the same position leaning on the wall that he had assumed when he came in. Except the big-barreled.44
Mag that he always carried was now out and aiming at Marty Anaheim.
Everything stopped.
The bartender ducked down out of sight behind the bar.
The motorcycles kept zooming around the track.
Hawk nodded toward the door.
Nobody said anything for a moment. Then Marty jerked his head at the two gym rats and the three of them headed out. At the door Marty turned back, his cheek in full tic.
"Another day," he said, his high voice shaking, "you're both dead meat."
Hawk grinned at him.
"Gotta watch them steroids, Marty. You be talking soprano pretty quick."
Marty looked at Hawk with a look that would have scared us both if we weren't so fearless. Then he turned and went out the door followed by the gym rats. Hawk put the big Magnum away, and leaned over the bar.
"You got any Krug?" he said to the bartender, who was still crouched on the floor behind the bar.
"Maybe an eighty-six?"
The bartender didn't know what Krug was.
CHAPTER 8
I had lunch with Shirley Ventura at a new joint on Huntington Ave. called Ambrosia. You could eat well, and have quite a nice time examining the spectrum of Boston chic which regularly gathered there. Shirley studied the menu for a long time. She was wearing a low-cut electric blue slip dress that was designed to enhance long legs and a narrow waist. Shirley was short and chunky. The effect was different. A number of the women lunching that day appeared to notice the difference.
"You got any, ah, like maybe a roast beef sandwich?" Shirley said to the waitress.
"We have a wonderful sandwich of grilled portabellas with Asiago on country bread dressed with extra virgin oil and served with julienne of jicama and blood orange," the waitress said encouragingly.
"What's a portabella?" Shirley said to me.
"A big mushroom," I said.
She looked at the waitress and frowned.
"A mushroom sandwich?"
The waitress smiled enthusiastically.
"Why don't we each have the pail lard of chicken, and a green salad and some bread."
"Of course, sir. Anything to drink with that?"
"Wine," Shirley said.
"Anything special?" the waitress said.
"Some white wine," Shirley said. She'd lost interest in ordering and was looking around the room at the other diners.
The waitress looked at me. She didn't have to be a weatherman to know which way the wind was blowing.
"Bottle of Sterling Sauvignon Blanc," I said.
The waitress smiled as they always do to tell me how much she admired my choice of wines, and hurried away to tell the wine steward.
"What's that pal lard thing you ordered?" Shirley asked.
"Breast of chicken flattened with a mallet and quickly sauteed."
"Sounds terrible," she said.
"Drink enough wine," I said, "you'll think you like it."
Shirley picked up a roll from the bread basket and bit into it the way you eat an apple. She looked around the room some more until the waitress returned with the wine.
"You care to try it?" I said to Shirley.
"Sure," she said.
The waitress opened the bottle and poured a splash in Shirley's glass. Shirley looked at it.
"Come on, lady, pour me some wine," Shirley said.
I nodded to the waitress.
"Pour it out," I said.
"I'm sure it's fine."
The waitress smiled happily and poured us both a glass of wine, and put the bottle in the ice bucket. Shirley picked up her glass and drank half of it. She smiled at me.
"Hits the spot," she said.
"You bet," I said.
She glanced out toward Huntington Ave. where her father's big Lincoln sat near the curb. The driver was behind the wheel, reading the Globe.
"See if Jackie's watching," she said with a big confidential smile.
"They don't like it, I drink wine at lunch."
"Your secret's safe with me," I said and made a slight toasting gesture with my glass. Shirley drank the rest of her wine and reached behind her to get the bottle from the wine bucket. She poured another glassful. The waitress brought our salads. The salad chef was long on presentation. There were various colored greens arranged into a somewhat precarious-looking vegetable spray. Shirley studied it for some time, sipping her wine without a word. I ordered a second bottle of wine from the waitress.
"So what can you tell me about Anthony?" Shirley said.
She stuffed a forkful of greens into her mouth.
"Haven't found him yet," I said.
"So why we having lunch. So you can tell me you haven't found him?"
"Tell me a little more about what he did for your dad," I said.
"Money stuff," Shirley said.
She washed the greens down with more wine.
"What kind?" I said.
"What kind of what?"
"What kind of money stuff," I said.
I took my first sip of wine. If I drank a lot at lunch, I needed a nap. Shirley didn't seem worried about that.
"He used to pick up money from people," she said.
"Bring it places, and give it to other people."
"Bookies?"
"I don't know. I'm a girl. They don't talk about business with girls."
"Of course not," I said.
"He carry a lot of money around?"
"Sure. Daddy trusted him like he was his own son."
"Sure," I said.
The waitress arrived with our chicken pail lard Shirley poked at it with her fork for a moment, and put the fork down and drank some wine.
"Daddy never had sons of his own, just me."
"Only child, huh?"
"Yeah, my mom said it was too hard."
"I'm an only child too," I said.