It was breezy on the beachfront, and I wanted to zip up my leather jacket, but it would have meant zipping my gun inside the jacket, so I settled for shivering a little. Hawk showed no sign of cold. He never did. He never seemed hot, either. Mortality rested very lightly on him. As we passed Ty Bop, I pretended to shoot him, dropping my thumb on my forefinger. Junior smiled faintly. Ty Bop ignored me. He may not have even seen me as he stood, jittering in place by the big SUV, thinking long thoughts about shooting somebody.
"Kid gets any skinnier," I said to Hawk, "his gun will be shooting him."
"Don't be dissing Ty Bop," Hawk said. "Ain't many people can shoot better."
"Or more willingly," I said.
"Yeah," Hawk said. "Ty Bop like the work."
We stepped into the pavilion with Tony and Leonard and the four Marshport cops. As soon as we did, Boots stepped out of his Mercedes. With him was Fadeyushka Badyrka, the big Ukrainian gunboat that Hawk had declined to kill.
"We may be forming a lasting friendship with Fadeyushka," Hawk said.
"Remembering his name is a good start," I said.
It was early April and cool with the wind coming off the water. But Boots was dressed for deep January. He had on a fur-lined cap with earflaps that tied under the chin, and a heavy, dark woolen overcoat with a black mouton collar snuggled up under his mean chin. His hands were in his pockets. His narrow shoulders were hunched. He walked straight up to Hawk and stood about a foot away.
"Okay," he said, "tell me."
I was standing a little back from Hawk and Boots and Tony, trying to find a spot where I could be useful if the ball went up. It was hard to find a place where someone couldn't shoot me dead. But it almost always is, if you think about it. I did what I could. I noticed that Leonard was having the same locational problems. The cops at each corner of the pavilion were sort of an issue for both of us. There were a few people on the beach. Some were walking dogs or small children, or both. Some were picking up things. I was never quite clear on what it was that people collected on beaches. No one paid any attention to the group in the pavilion.
"I shot one of your people," Hawk said. "Not realizin' he under Tony's protection. Apologize for that. Told Tony and I'll tell you. Long as you and Tony got a deal goin', I honor it."
"What kind of deal you think Tony and I got," Boots said.
"Don't know," Hawk said, "don't care. Tony says your people are protected. That be my deal."
Fadeyushka was looking at Hawk. I was looking at Fadeyushka. So was the handsome guy with Tony.
"You agree with that?" Boots said to Tony.
Tony nodded.
"Speak up," Boots said.
"I agree," Tony said.
I knew Tony wanted to kick Boots right out into the traffic on Revere Beach Boulevard, but he didn't show it. He seemed almost respectful when he spoke to Boots. Which I knew to be a crock. Nobody respected Boots. People were afraid of him, and with good reason. But it had little to do with respect. I was pretty sure Boots didn't know about this distinction, and if he did know, he didn't care. Boots glanced at me for the first time.
"How about this jerk-off?" he said.
I nodded at Hawk.
"I'm with him," I said.
"And you do what he says?" Boots asked me.
"I do."
Boots sort of snorted. He turned to the big Ukrainian.
"You down with this?" he said.
"Down?" Fadeyushka said.
"Learn the fucking language," Boots said. "Are you fucking okay with it."
Fadeyushka looked straight at Hawk for a time.
"For now," he said. "I am down."
Some seagulls hopped near the pavilion, looking for food. The wind blew a hamburger wrapper past them. Two of them flew up and lighted on it and tore at it and found no sustenance, and turned away.
"Remember something valuable," Boots said to Hawk. "Do not fuck with me."
Hawk seemed to smile a little.
"Long as you down with Tony," Hawk said. "You down with me."
Boots looked hard at Hawk for another moment, then turned and walked to the car. Fadeyushka followed him and the cops peeled off behind them. The rest of us stood as the procession pulled away, leaving us alone with the wind and the seagulls.
32
CECILE HAD A condominium in a gated enclosure on Cambridge Street, at the foot of Beacon Hill, right across from Mass. General, so she could walk to work. She and Hawk had Susan and me to brunch there on the Sunday after we met with Boots and Tony.
The big loft space on the second floor had full-length arched windows, which Cecile had opened. The big ivory drapes that spilled out onto the floor were too heavy to blow in the spring breeze, but their edges fluttered a little while Hawk made each of us a Bloody Mary. Domestic.
We drank a couple of Bloody Marys, thus ensuring that I would nap when I got home. Cecile and Susan talked about their respective practices, and I shared occasional thoughts on sex and baseball, which, by and large, were all I had for thoughts. As usual, Hawk said little, though he seemed to enjoy listening. I had been reading a book about the human genome. We talked about that for a while. Cecile served us a variation of a dish my father called "shrimp wiggle": shrimp and peas in a cream sauce. Cecile served hers in pastry shells. My father didn't know what a pastry shell was, and with good reason. We had a little white wine with the shrimp. When I went to get a little more from the ice bucket, I noticed that Hawk's big.44 Mag was lying holstered on the sideboard among the wineglasses. The stainless-steel frame was good, but the brass edge of the cartridges that showed in the cylinder clashed with the cutlery.
We were nearly, and mercifully, through the shrimp wiggle when Cecile put her wineglass down suddenly and sat, staring at her plate. Sitting beside her, Hawk put his hand on her thigh. Her shoulders began to shake and then she looked up and there were tears running down her face. Hawk patted her thigh softly.
"This is so awful," Cecile said.
Her voice was shaky.
"We had a fight about this before you came."
She dabbed carefully at her eyes with her napkin. There were still tears.
"We sit here and eat and drink and make small talk," she said, and pointed at Hawk.
"And he was almost shot and killed and now he's going to kill other people, probably already has, to get even, or get killed trying to get even, and"-she pointed at me-"he's helping. And no one will tell me anything about it or explain it or even talk about it, so we sit here and chit-chat and gossip and pretend."
Hawk continued to pat her thigh. Otherwise it was as if he hadn't heard her.
"It's not pretend, Cecile," Susan said. "Because these men aren't like other men you know doesn't mean that they are simply different. Because they are engaged in life-and-death matters sometimes doesn't mean that they can't waste time other times talking about sex or baseball."
"It's not wasting time," I said.
Susan glared at me, but flickering at the edge of the glare was amusement.
"I could accept that," Cecile said, "maybe. If only somebody could explain to me what the hell they are doing and why."
"It's a terrible left-out feeling, isn't it," Susan said.
"I'm terrified. I'm horrified. I can't understand it. And the man who is supposed to love me won't even explain himself."
I know Susan heard "supposed to love me," and I knew she knew that it could mean more than one thing. But Susan was not a proponent of freelance shrinkage over drinks on a Sunday afternoon. Thank God!
"Maybe he can't explain it," Susan said.
"So let him say he can't explain it," Cecile said.
Susan was quiet. So was I. Hawk gently took his hand from Cecile's thigh and stood and walked to the sideboard. He picked up the holstered gun and turned and walked out the front door, and closed it gently behind him. All of us were quiet for a moment.
Then Cecile said, "Oh my God!" and began to cry. We were quiet while she cried. Finally she eased up and dabbed some more at her eyes with her napkin. Some of her eye makeup had run a little in the big cry.