“You see them?” he said.
“No.”
A car behind me blew its horn at me, and the driver glared as he went by. Two kids in a Buick pulled around the car. The one in the driver’s seat gave me the finger. The passenger called me an asshole through his rolled-down window. I kept my eyes fixed on the Cambridge side of the bridge.
At three twenty-five I said to Paul, “Okay. It’s time for you to walk. Tell me what you’re going to do.”
“I’m going to walk to the middle and when my mother gets to me I’m going to tell her lie down, that you’re coming, and then I will lie down too.”
“And if she doesn’t hit the sidewalk?” I said.
“I’ll tell her again.”
“And when I show up what happens?”
“I get in one side. She gets in the other. We drive to that address.”
“Good. Okay, walk across the street. They’ll start her on their side.”
He sat for a moment. Belched again. Yawned. Then he opened the door of the MG and stepped out onto the sidewalk. He crossed and began to walk slowly toward the Cambridge side. He went about ten feet and looked back at me. I grinned at him and made a V with my fingers. He kept going. At the far end of the bridge I saw his mother get out of a black Oldsmobile and start toward us.
The Mass. Ave. Bridge is open. It rests on arches that rest on pilings. There’s no superstructure. On a summer evening it is particularly pleasant for strolling across. It is said that some MIT students once measured it by repeatedly placing an undergraduate named Smoot on the ground and marking off his length. Every six feet or so there is still the indication of one smoot, two smoots, painted on the pavement. I could never remember how many smoots long the bridge was.
He was almost to his mother. Then they met. Across the bridge the Oldsmobile began to move, slowly. The boy dropped to the pavement. His mother hesitated and then crouched down beside him, tucking her skirt under her. Flat, I muttered, flat, goddammit.
I slammed the MG into gear and headed for Paul and his mother. Across the way the Olds began to pick up speed. A Ford station wagon swung around the corner from Memorial Drive, looped out into the wrong lane with a lot of squealing rubber and blaring horns, and rammed the Olds from the side, bouncing it against the high curb and pinning it. Before the cars had stopped, Hawk rolled out of the driver’s side with a handgun the size of a hockey stick and took aim over the hood of the wagon. I cut across the traffic and rolled the MG up beside the sidewalk between the Olds and the two Giacomins. From down the bridge I heard gunfire. I jerked up the emergency, slapped the car into neutral, and scrambled out of the MG.
“Patty, get in, take Paul and drive to Smithfield, Paul’s got the address. Explain who you are and wait for me there. Move.”
There was another gunshot from five smoots away. I had my gun out and was running toward the Olds when I heard the MG take off with its tires squealing. I was almost at the Olds when I saw Hawk go over the hood of the wagon, reach into the driver’s side of the Olds and pull somebody out through the window with his left hand. With the barrel of his gun he chopped the pistol out of the other man’s hand, shifted his weight slightly, put his right hand, gun and all, into the man’s crotch and pitched him over the railing and into the Charles River.
A big guy with a tweed cap got out of the back seat of the Olds as I came around behind it. I turned sideways on my left foot and kicked him in the small of the back with my right. He sprawled forward and a gun that looked like a Beretta clattered on the pavement ahead of him as he sprawled. It skittered between the risers of the railing and into the river. I looked into the car and saw Buddy crouched down on the passenger’s side of the front floorboards, huddled under the dash. Hawk looked in at the other window, the enormous handgun leveled. We saw Buddy at the same time.
Hawk said, “Shit,” stringing out the vowel the way he did. From the Boston side of the bridge I heard a siren. So did Hawk. He put the bazooka away inside his coat.
“Let’s split,” I said.
He nodded. We ran down Mass. Ave. and into one of the MIT buildings.
We moved through a crowded corridor lined with ship models in glass cases.
“Try and look like an upwardly mobile nineteen-year-old scientist,” I said.
“I am, bawse. I got a doctor of scuffle degree.”
Hawk was wearing skintight unfaded jeans tucked into his black boots. He had on a black silk shirt unbuttoned nearly to his waist, and the handgun was hidden under a white leather vest with a high collar that Hawk wore turned up. His head was shaven and gleamed like black porcelain. He was my height, maybe a hair taller, and there was no flesh on his body, only muscle over bone, in hard planes. The black eyes over the high cheekbones were humorous and without mercy.
We went out a side door at the end of the corridor. Behind us there were still sirens. We strolled across the MIT campus away from Mass. Ave.
“Sorry about your car,” I said.
“Ain’t my car, man,” Hawk said.
“You boosted it?” I said.
“ ’Course. Ain’t gonna fuck up my own wheels, man.”
“ ’Course not,” I said. “I wonder if they’ve fished that guy out of the Charles yet.”
Hawk grinned. “Damn,” he said. “Wish the fuzz had been a little slower. I was gonna throw ’em all in.”
CHAPTER 13
We wandered in a mazy motion through the MIT complex down to Kendall Square and caught the subway to Park Street. We walked up across the Common to Beacon, where Hawk’s car was parked in front of the State House by a sign that said RESERVED FOR MEMBERS OF THE GENERAL COURT. It was a silver-gray Jaguar XJ 12.
Hawk said, “You owe me two bills, babe.”
I said, “Gimme a ride to Susan’s house.”
“Smithfield?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s the woods, man. That’s your fucking forest primeval out there.”
“Hawk, it’s thirteen miles north. We could run it in about two hours.”
“Dinner,” Hawk said. “Dinner and some champagne, I buy the champagne. They sell champagne out in the woods, babe?”
“We can stop at the trading post,” I said. “Cost plenty wampum, though.”
We got in and Hawk put the Jag in gear and we purred north over the Mystic Bridge. Hawk put an Olatunji tape on and the car trembled with percussion all the way to Saugus, where Hawk pulled into a Martignetti’s off Route 1 and bought three bottles of Taittinger Blanc de Blancs. At forty-five bucks a bottle it was cutting a lot of profit off the two hundred I was paying him. He also brought out two six-packs of Beck’s beer.
“No point wasting the champagne on you,” he said. “You born beer, you gonna die beer. There’s a bottle opener in the glove compartment”
Hawk peeled the foil off the neck of one bottle of Taittinger and twisted the cork out with a pop. I opened a bottle of beer. Hawk drank from the neck of his forty-five-dollar champagne bottle as he tooled the Jaguar up Route 1. I drank some Beck’s.
“Difference between you and me, babe,” Hawk said, “right here.” He drank some more champagne.
“As long as there is one,” I said. “Any difference will do.”
Hawk laughed quietly and turned his Olatunji tape up louder. It was a quarter to six when we pulled into Susan’s driveway. My MG was there beside the car Susan had bought to replace the MG. It was a big red Ford Bronco with a white roof and four-wheel drive and heavy-duty this and that, and big tires with raised white letters.
Hawk looked at it and said, “What the fuck is that?”
I said, “That’s Suze’s new vehicle. For Christmas I’m getting her some foxtails and a pair of big rubber dice.”
“That’s a big ten-four momma,” Hawk said.
We went in. Susan was the only person I’ve ever seen that Hawk seemed to have any feeling about. He grinned when he saw her. She said, “Hawk,” and came over and kissed him. He gave her the two unopened bottles of champa
gne.
“Brought us a present,” he said. “Spenser promised supper.”
She looked at me. “What am I, Howard Johnson’s,” she said.
“You’re a real looker when you’re angry,” I said.
She took the champagne and went toward the kitchen, “Goddamn host of the goddamn highway,” she said.
“You forgot to take my beer,” I said.
She kept going. Hawk and I went into the living room. Paul was watching a bowling show on television. Patty was sipping what looked like bourbon on the rocks.
“This is Hawk,” I said. “Patty Giacomin and her son, Paul.”
Paul looked at Hawk and then looked back at the bowling show. Patty smiled and started to get up and changed her mind and stayed seated.
“Are you the other one?” she said.
Hawk said, “Yes.” He drank some champagne from the bottle.
Susan came back into the room with another bottle of champagne in a bucket and four fluted champagne glasses on a tole serving tray.
“Perhaps you’d care to try a glass,” she said to Hawk.
“ ’Spect ah might, Missy Susan,” Hawk said. Susan said to Patty, “May Paul have a glass?” Patty said, “Oh, sure.”
Susan said, “Would you care for a glass, Paul?” Paul said, “Okay.”
Patty Giacomin said to Hawk, “I’d like to thank you for what you did today.”
Hawk said, “You’re welcome.”
“I really mean it,” Patty said. “It was so brave, I was so terrified. You were wonderful to help.”
“Spenser gave me two hundred dollars,” Hawk said. “I figure it’ll show up in his expense voucher.”
“Are you a detective too?” Patty said.
Hawk smiled. “No,” he said. “No, I am not,” His face was bright with mirth.
I said, “I’m going to put this beer away,” and went into the kitchen. Susan came out behind me.
“Just what in hell do you think we’re going to feed these people?” Susan said.
“Got any cake?” I said.
“I’m serious. I don’t have anything in the house to serve five people.”
“I’ll go get something,” I said.
“And let me entertain your guests?”
“Your choice,” I said. “I don’t care to have a fight though.”
“Well, don’t do this to me. I don’t simply sit around here waiting for your problems to drop by.”
“Love me, love my problems,” I said.
“Sometimes I wonder if that’s a worthwhile tradeoff.”
“There you go,” I said, “talking that education management jargon again.”
She was looking in the refrigerator. “If I want to say trade-off, goddammit, I’ll say trade-off. I’ve got some of that Williamsburg bacon. We could make up a bunch of BLTs.”
“Toasted,” I said. “And on the side, some of those homemade bread-and-butter pickles we did last fall.”
“And cut flowers in a vase, and the Meyer Davis Orchestra? You better go back in and help out on the conversation. Hawk must be ready to jump out of his skin.”
“Not Hawk,” I said. “He doesn’t mind silence. He doesn’t want to talk. He won’t talk. He doesn’t sweat small talk much.”
“He doesn’t sweat anything too much,” Susan said, “does he?”
“Nope. He’s completely inside. Come on in and talk a bit, then we’ll all transfer to the kitchen and make sandwiches and eat. There’s some cheese too, and a couple of apples. It’ll be a feast.” I patted her lightly on the backside. “Besides, we need your advice.”
“My advice to you, big fella, is to keep your hands to yourself,” she said.
I opened another beer and we went back into the living room. Hawk was stretched out in a wing chair near the fireplace, feet straight out in front of him, body slumped easily in the chair. When we came in, he took a small sip from his champagne glass and put it back on the end table near him. Patty and Paul were watching the six o’clock news. No one was talking.
I sat in a Boston rocker on the opposite side of the fireplace from Hawk.
I said, “Paul, you did good today.”
He nodded.
“Patty,” I said, “tell me what happened.”
“I came out of the supermarket and three men with guns made me get into the car. That one that came to our house was one of them.”
“Buddy?” I said.
“Yes. He sat in front with the driver and the other man sat in back with me and we drove to a pay phone in Boston. Then we drove to the bridge and they told me to get out and start walking. Other than that they didn’t talk to me at all or say anything.”
“You recognize any of them, Hawk?”
“Dude I threw in the river is Richie Vega. He used to shake down massage parlors.”
Patty said, “My God, how would Mel find people like that to hire?”
Hawk raised his head slightly and looked at me. I shrugged. Hawk let his chin settle back onto his chest.
Patty Giacomin said to Hawk, “Do you know my husband?”
Hawk said, “No. Not if he go by Mel Giacomin.”
“Well, that’s his name.”
Hawk nodded.
Patty said, “Do you know what this is all about?” Hawk said, “No.”
“You got in a fight with three men and they had guns, and you threw one into the river, and you don’t even know why?”
Hawk said, “Yeah, that’s right.”
“And you’re not a detective or anything?”
“Nope.”
Paul was watching and listening. We had distracted him from the tube.
“A strong-arm man?” he said.
“Yeah, something like that,” I said.
The newscasters joked painfully with the weather forecaster on television.
I said to Susan, “I don’t know how much Patty’s told you since she arrived, but for your benefit and Hawk’s I’ll run through it very quickly.”
I did.
When I got through, there was silence. Hawk seemed almost asleep. Only the evening news mewled in one corner.
Susan said, “You can’t continue this way. You and your husband will have to negotiate.”
“After what he pulled today?” Patty said. “I will not talk to that man.”
“What about the law?” Susan said.
“The law has already given me custody.”
“But kidnapping,” Susan said. “Kidnapping is illegal.”
“You mean report him to the police.”
“Certainly. You can identify at least two of the men. Hawk and Spenser can testify that they had indeed kidnapped you. Surely the police could trace it back to your husband.”
Susan looked at me. I nodded. Hawk sipped champagne and put the glass back gently on the end table. He was nearly prone in the chair, his feet stretched out and crossed at the ankles.
“He’d kill me,” Patty said.
“You mean you’re afraid to tell the police because of what your husband would do?”
“Yes. He’d be furious. He’d.… I can’t do that.”
“But he’s already had you kidnapped. Aren’t you already afraid of him?”
“But he wouldn’t try to hurt me. If I told, he’d.… I can’t. I can’t do that.”
“So do you plan to employ me permanently?” I said.
“I can’t. I can’t keep paying you. I’m.… running out of money.”
Hawk smiled to himself. I looked at Susan.
She said, “What about Paul? How can he grow up like this?”
Patty Giacomin shook her head.
We were all quiet. Paul was watching the television again. The network news was on now. Authoritative.
Patty said, “It isn’t me he wants. It’s Paul. If I told on him.…”
“The heat would be on you,” I said. “Instead of on Paul.”
Susan said, “That’s it, isn’t it?”
Patty shook her head. “I don’t know,�
� she said. “What difference does it make? I’m not going to the police. I’m not.” Her voice was shaky. “I’ve still got money. We’ll do something.”
I said, “What?”
She said, “You take Paul.”
“Take him where?” I said.
“I don’t know. Anywhere. I’ll pay you,” she said.
“I hide Paul out so your husband can’t find him?”
“Yes. I’ll pay you.”
“Why won’t they just try the same swap again that they tried today?”
“I’ll go live with a friend. Mel won’t find me.”
“So why not take Paul too,” I said. “Much cheaper.”
“He won’t let me bring Paul.”
“Your friend?”
“Yes.”
“That wouldn’t be old disco Stephen, would it? The one I met when I first brought Paul home?”
She nodded.
I said, “Probably afraid if it got too crowded, his cashmere sweaters would wrinkle.”
“He’s not like that. You don’t know him,” she said.
“Well, a friend in need.…” I said.
“Will you take Paul?” Patty said.
I looked at him. He was staring hard at the network news. His shoulders were stiff and awkward. He was concentrating on ignoring us.
“Sure,” I said. “It would be a pleasure.”
Susan looked at me with her eyes widened. Hawk made a sound under his breath like a soft hog call.
“He ain’t heavy,” I said at large. “He’s my brother.”
Susan shook her head.
CHAPTER 14
We ate our BLTs and drank champagne in the kitchen without much talk.
For an extra fifty dollars Hawk said he’d take Paul and his mother home and stay there till I arrived. Neither of the Giacomins looked very happy with that, but they went.
Five Classic Spenser Mysteries Page 30