“Yeah,” I said.
“Why didn’t you stop her?”
“I didn’t notice,” I said. “Besides, why shouldn’t she eat a bone on the couch?”
“Because she gets bone juice all over my cushions,” Susan said. “How could you not notice?”
Answering questions like that had never proven fruitful. So I smiled ruefully and gave my head a beguiling twist and started back to Calvin and Hobbes. Then I would move to Tank McNamara, and finish with Doonesbury. I had my evening all planned out.
“It is not funny,” Susan said.
“No,” I said, “that was a rueful smile.”
“I’m serious,” she said. “My stuff means a lot to me.”
“I thought it was our stuff,” I said.
“You know what I mean. I care about it. You don’t.”
“I know,” I said. “I know that a lot of you goes into design and decor. It is part of your art. And the results are in fact artful. It’s just that preventing the dog getting bone juice on your cushions was sort of on the back burner. I was feeling like I could read the paper and relax my vigilance for a bit.”
“You were reading the comics,” Susan said and walked out of the living room. I looked at Pearl, she did not seem abashed. She was vigorously getting bone juice on the rug.
CHAPTER 23
I was in my office evaluating the health hazard of a third cup of coffee, compounded by the possibility of a donut. Outside my window it was overcast with the hard look of rain toward the river. A good day for coffee and donuts.
My office door opened, and there, radiant in a white raincoat and matching hat with a lot of blue polka dot showing at her neck, was Marge Eagen herself, the host of the number-one-rated local show in the country. My heart beat faster.
“Hello,” I said.
“I wasn’t sure whether to knock or not,” Marge Eagen said. She smiled beautifully. “I thought you might have a receptionist.”
“I did,” I said, “but she returned to her first love, neurosurgery, a while back and I haven’t bothered to replace her.”
Marge Eagen laughed delightedly. “I heard you were funny,” she said.
“Lot of people say that.”
“May I sit down?”
“Of course,” I said.
I nodded at the chair. She sat and glanced around my office.
“Great location,” she said. I didn’t comment.
“Is it as fascinating as it seems,” Marge Eagen said, “being a private detective?”
“Better than working,” I said.
“Oh, I’m sure,” she said, “that you work pretty damned hard.”
“So what can I do for you?” I said.
“My, my,” she said. “So businesslike.”
She had unbuttoned her shiny white raincoat and let it fall off her shoulders over the back of the chair. She had on a dark blue dress with big white polka dots. When she crossed her legs, she showed me a lot of thigh. I remained calm.
“I really need to know what the problem is,” Marge Eagen said.
I nodded encouragingly.
“Just what is the issue with your black friend,” Marge said. “We’re out there trying to do a story that should help his people, and, frankly, he seems to have a real attitude.”
“Hawk?” I said. “An attitude?”
“Oh, come now, don’t be coy, Mr. Spenser. What is his problem?”
“Why not consult with him?” I said.
“Well, I don’t know where to find him, and in truth I’m more comfortable talking with you.”
“Is it because I’m so cuddlesome?” I said.
She smiled the smile that launched a thousand commercials.
“Well, that’s certainly part of it,” she said.
“And I’m not a surly nigger,” I said. “That’s probably appealing too.”
“There’s no need to be coarse,” Marge Eagen said. “The stations are really behind this. We believe in the project. We care.”
“Hawk probably thinks you are a self-important ninny who is looking for television ratings and using the problems of the ghetto to that end. Hawk probably thinks that your coverage will do no good, and will make people think it’s doing good, thus making things, if possible, worse.” Marge Eagen’s face got red.
“You arrogant fucking prick,” she said.
“Everyone says that,” I said.
She stood, and turned, angrily shrugging her coat back on.
“Of course maybe he just doesn’t like having his picture taken,” I said. “With Hawk you never know.”
She didn’t answer. Without looking back she stalked out my door and slammed it shut behind her.
No business like show business.
CHAPTER 24
It was raining when Major Johnson showed up with what appeared to be the whole Hobart posse. It was a light rain, and sometimes it would stop for a while and then pick up again, and the weather was warm. On the whole it was a nice rainy spring afternoon.
The Hobarts came down the alley from the back end of the project in single file. They all had on Raiders caps and Adidas sneakers. Most of them were in sweatsuits. Major had on a leather jacket with padded shoulders and a lot of zippers. As they came Hawk and I got out of the car to face them. I had the shotgun.
The Hobarts fanned out in a semicircle around us. I didn’t see John Porter. I took a look along the rooftops and saw nothing. Major stood inside the half-circle opposite us. He had the same half-amused, half-tense quality I had seen before.
“How you doing,” Major said. Hawk nodded slightly.
“Thought I should introduce you to the crew,” Major said.
Hawk waited.
“Figure you suppose to be scrambling with us, you ought to see who you gonna have to hass.” There was still no movement on the roofline. The rain misted down softly, and no one seemed to mind it. The boys stood arrayed.
“This here is Shoe,” Major said, “and Honk, Goodyear, Moon-man, Halfway, Hose.”
At each name Hawk would shift his eyes onto the person introduced. He made no other sign. Shoe was the kid I’d yanked out of the van. Goodyear looked like he’d been named for the Blimp. Honk was very light. Halfway was very short. Major moved slowly around the semicircle.
“This here is X, and Bobby High.”
I kept watching the roof, alternating glances at the street. The rain came a little harder.
“… and Junior,” Major said. “And Ray… ” There were maybe twenty kids in all. Major was around twenty. The youngest looked to be twelve or thirteen.
“Where’s John Porter?” Hawk said.
Major shrugged. “He ain’t here,” Major said. “I think maybe he soaking his hose.” He grinned. “John Porter heavy on soaking it. Say he need to soak it every day since he got out of rails, you know? Say his slut spend most of her time looking at the ceiling.”
“You come to tell me about John Porter’s sex life?” Hawk said.
“Come to see you, Fro. Come to intro the Homes. You ever been in rails, Fro?”
Hawk said, “It’s raining. You want to stand around in the rain?”
“We used to standing around,” Major said. “Stand around a lot. Stand around sell some sub. Stand around pick up some wiggle, stand around throat a little beverage. Maybe trace somebody.”
“Trace?” I said.
Major grinned. “You know, line somebody, haul out you nine and… ” With his thumb and forefinger he mimicked shooting a handgun.
“Ah,” I said. “Of course.”
“What kind of sub you sell?” Hawk said.
“Grain, glass, classic, Jock, motor, harp, what you need is what we got.”
Hawk looked at me. “Grass,” he said. “Rock cocaine, regular powdered coke, heroin.” He looked at Major. “What’s motor? Speed?”
“Un huh.”
“And PCP,” Hawk finished.
“You think I didn’t know that?” I said.
“What do you use?” Hawk said.
“We don’t use that shit, man. You think we use that? We see what it does to people, man. We ain’t stupid.”