Chapter 8
I parked down from Amy Gurwitz's town house on Beacon between Exeter and Fairfield. I had to ride around the block for nearly an hour until a space cleared. The morning was clear and bright and the sun made stark shadows along the small bare trees in the tiny front yards along the street. I had a Thermos of coffee and a bag of corn muffins that I'd bought, recently made at a Dunkin' Donuts shop on Boylston Street. Say what you will about their architecture, Dunkin' Donuts makes a fine corn muffin. I ate one with some coffee.
I didn't figure that April Kyle would be working the streets at 9:30 in the morning. Susan was in school. I'd already run my five miles along the river. The Ice Age art exhibit had departed the Science Museum. I'd read The New Yorker. Only an animal would lift weights at this hour. I was reading Sartoris that month, but I'd left it at Susan's. The Ritz Bar didn't open until I I :30. Why
not sit around and look at the Gurwitz place? There was nothing else to do.
Looking at Amy's place wasn't much to do. Nobody came out. On the other hand, nobody went in, either. The closest I came was when an elderly woman in a long black Persian lamb coat walked two animals past Amy's steps. I assumed they were dogs, though the size and look of them suggested a pair of pet rats on a leash, wearing little bitty plaid sweaters. I ate another corn muffin, drank some more coffee. The mailman went by. I tilted the seat back and slouched a little more. I crossed my arms on my chest. After a while I uncrossed them. Always self-amusing. Never without resources. A little after two in the afternoon a brown Chevrolet Caprice wagon pulled up in front of Amy's place and double parked. Three young women got out and went in to Amy's foyer and didn't come out. The Caprice pulled away.
About 2:20 a man in a tweed sport coat and a long muffler walked down Fairfield Street from Commonwealth, turned left, and mounted Amy's stairs. He went in. I finished my coffee. At three a very fat guy appeared out of the alley that ran behind Amy's place and walked down Fairfield and went toward the town house. As he walked he sorted keys on a key ring. He went up the stairs and disappeared. The afternoon edged by.
Nobody else went in. Nobody at all came out. Were they all visiting Amy? There was no other tenant in the three-story building. I'd noticed that yesterday. One mailbox, one buzzer, one entrance. So they were at least visiting Amy's place. The guy with the key was probably Poitras. Three young women, girls really, and one guy older than that, and Poitras. So what? Amy had some little chums over to listen to her Devo records and some guy had stopped by to see Poitras, who was a little late. None of the girls was April Kyle. So why was it my business? I looked at my watch. It was quarter to five. I had to meet Hawk at five. I looked at Amy's town house again. No clue appeared. There'd be other slow days. It could be my hobby. Like collecting baseball cards or old campaign buttons. In my spare time I'd come over and stare at Amy Gurwitz's doorway. It's good to keep busy.
I cranked up the MG, took a left on Gloucester, and headed for Copley Square. Hawk was standing outside the Copley Plaza Hotel wearing a glistening black leather jacket and skintight designer jeans tucked into black cowboy boots that glistened like the jacket. He was a little over 6 feet 2 inches, maybe an inch taller than I was, and weighed about two hundred. Like me. He blended with the august Bostonian exterior of the Copley Plaza like a hooded cobra. People glanced covertly at him, circling slightly as they passed him, unconsciously keeping their distance. He wore no hat and his smooth black head was as shiny as his jacket and boots.
I pulled the MG in beside him at the curb and he got in.
"This thing ain't big enough for either one of us," he said. "When you getting something that fits?"
"It goes with my preppy look," I said. "You get one of these, they let you drive around the north shore, watch polo, anything you want."
I let the clutch in and turned right on Dartmouth.
"How you get laid in one of these?" Hawk said.
"You just don't understand preppy," I said. "I know it's not your fault. You're only a couple of generations out of the jungle. I realize that. But if you're preppy you don't get laid in a car."
"Where you get laid if you preppy?"
I sniffed. "One doesn't," I said.
"Preppies gonna be outnumbered in a while," Hawk said. "Where we going?" I took April Kyle's picture out of my pocket and showed it to Hawk.
"We're going to eat dinner and then we're going to look for her," I said.
"What we gonna do when we find her?"
"I don't know," I said. "Urge her to go home, I guess."
"What you paying?"
"Half my fee," I said, "and expenses."
"How much you getting?"
"A buck," I said.
"You paying for dinner?" Hawk said.
"Yeah."
"Better be a big meal."
Chapter 9
"You want somebody killed," Hawk said, "you gotta give me the whole dollar."
"I like a man with standards," I said.
We were walking on Washington Street toward Boylston. As we moved along people got out of the way, spilling to each side of Hawk the way water surges past the prow of a cruiser. No one mistook him for a cop. The night was pleasant, not very cold, and the streets in the Combat Zone were crowded. "Who this pimp I supposed to keep off your back?" Hawk said.
"Name's Trumps," I said. "Black, middle-sized, long arms, drives a white Jag sedan. Looks like he works out. You know him?"
Hawk stopped and looked at me. "Trumps," he said. "I wish I see you take that sap away." He smiled, and his face looked joyful.
"Bad?" I said.
"Oh, yeah-he bad, all right. He almost as bad as he think he is."
"Bad as you?" I said.
Hawk's face looked even more cheerful, the glistening smile even wider. "Course not," he said. "Nobody as bad as me. Except maybe you, and you too softhearted."
We moved on again. Hawk paid no attention to the merchandise. He looked at the people.
"Trumps operate independently," I said, "or is he part of a chain?"
"Chain," Hawk said. "Works for Tony Marcus."
"The regent of Roxbury," I said.
Hawks shrugged.
"You know Tony?" I said.
"Sure," Hawk said. "Done a little work for him here and there." He grinned. "Security and enforcement division. He pay better than you."
"Yeah, but does he have a nice personality?"
Ahead of us, at the corner of Boylston and Washington, was a bar with a large flashing sign that said, THE SLIPPER. The sign was made up of individual white light bulbs, and they flickered on and off in a random sequence and gave the effect of strobe lighting in a disco.
Hawk said, "Now we're not looking for Trumps around here, right?"
"Right, we're looking for a white guy named Red. Or the kid in the picture, or both. Our only interest in Trumps is to keep him from blowing me up," I said.
We went into the club. It was crowded and dark and loud. Behind the bar three naked young women danced in a pink light. Danced is probably too strong. I'd been to see Paul Giacomin in a couple of jazz dance recitals and my dance aesthetics were becoming polished. Some of the customers were watching closely; others paid no attention at all. Hawk and I pushed among the crowd looking for Red. A bar girl asked us to buy her a drink. I said no. She started to argue, and Hawk looked at her and she stopped and went away. It took maybe another minute before one of the bouncers picked up that we weren't here for the nudies or the booze. He eased over to us.