I did not like this job or the way it had turned out. I did not like my own performance on letting go of the Limas and the club shooting. I wondered why Victor Lima had been in New York City if he’d been involved in taking Akira in the first place. I needed to find out more about Victor Lima, his time in Boston, and his connection to Jesus DeVeiga. And if I was feeling wildly ambitious, maybe I could find DeVeiga, too.
Before I grew too introspective, Hawk walked in my office door. He removed a black rain slicker and sat down in my client’s chair. The chair creaked with Hawk’s weight and heft. The chair was more comfortable with long, lean females with shapely legs.
Hawk leaned forward in his chair and waited. A few raindrops dotted his bald head.
“I need an audience with Tony Marcus,” I said.
“Okay.”
Hawk leaned forward, picked up the phone on my desk, and dialed a number. He told someone at the other end, presumably Tony Marcus, that we were headed that way.
Hawk stood. I stood. And we drove into the South End and Marcus’s club, Buddy’s Fox.
Most of the South End had now gone high-end, but Marcus was implacable. Buddy’s Fox, with its long, stainless-steel front and elegant red cursive neon, was a beacon to the old South End, gateway to Roxbury. The parking lot was empty, since Buddy’s Fox was not a lunchtime spot. A large black man in a white shirt and white pants had set up a barbecue grill outside. He was turning some ribs and the air was rich with smoke.
We walked in the front door to find Ty-Bop sitting in a chair, front legs off the ground, his back leaning against a wall. His satin Pats jacket loose and open, a very large automatic worn below his left arm.
I smiled and shot him with my thumb and forefinger.
Ty-Bop nodded.
A very large black man named Junior stood behind the bar, washing glasses. Junior did not acknowledge us as we walked past the bar and through a door to a hallway and then into Tony’s office. Tony was at his desk, ushering us in as if he were a CEO to a Fortune 500 company and not the city’s biggest pimp.
“You smell them ribs when you come in?” Tony said.
“Hard to miss,” Hawk said.
“Want some?” Tony said. “I’ll get him to make up some plates. I’ll even make one up for Casper, too.”
“After all these years and all we’ve been through together,” I said. “Do you still see color?”
“Oh, please motherfucking forgive me, Spenser. Didn’t you put my ass into Walpole some time back? Or is your memory slipping out on your ass?”
“How’s your daughter, Tony?” I said.
I looked to Hawk and Hawk shrugged. “Man do have a point,” Hawk said.
Tony pursed his lips, put the tips of his fingers up under his flabby chin, and told us to sit. He was wearing a canary-yellow suit with a white shirt and a black tie with a black handkerchief in the pocket. The suit was bold and ugly, but Tony was a pimp, and pimps had certain fashion expectations.
“So,” Tony said, lighting up a cigar and placing some equally ugly black shoes on his desk. “What the fuck do you want?”
“What do you know about the Outlaws?”
Tony lifted his chin, studied the end of his cigar, and blew on it, getting the red tip glowing bright. “Hmm,” he said.
“You know them?”
“Everybody in Roxbury knows those punks,” Marcus said. “They make a lot of trouble for the working man. Make the streets unsafe, gangbang battles. All this shit. Nothing changes. Kids always want to puff themselves up, be men when they ain’t nothing but kids.”
“Ty-Bop was a kid when he came to you,” I said.
“Ty-Bop’s a man now,” he said. “When he start with me, he a true prodigy. How many teenagers shoot like Ty-Bop?”
I nodded and settled back into my chair. Junior and the black man we’d seen cooking outside walked into Tony’s office. They handed Hawk and me two heavy paper plates loaded with ribs, collard greens, and slices of corn bread.
Knowing that it would be rude to turn down a pimp’s hospitality, I set the plate in my lap and began to eat. Between mouthfuls, we talked about the Outlaws.
“They all from Cape Verde islands, but don’t ask me to find it on a fucking map,” Tony said. “Having it out with the Vietnamese kids in Dorchester. Street-corner conquests. Turf battles. Lots of dead kids.”
“Ever hear of an Outlaw named Lima?”
“Don’t know many names,” Tony said. “Just know them on sight, running drugs and shit in Roxbury. Ain’t my thing.”
“Lucky they don’t run girls,” I said.
“They do that,” Tony said, leaning back into his seat, puffing on the cigar. “Then we going to have some serious goddamn problems.”
“What about their main guy?” I said. “DeVeiga?”
Hawk listened while he ate. He ate very carefully, since I knew his jacket cost a few thousand dollars and a sauce stain would mess with his style.
“Jesus DeVeiga?” Tony said. “Shit. Small, quick little punk. Can’t be trusted. Mean as hell. Watch your back, he got that crazy look about him.”
“Where can we find him?” I said.
“Do I look like goddamn Information to you?”
“For certain professions,” I said.
Tony set down the cigar and picked up the phone. As he made some calls, Hawk and I polished off all the ribs, collard greens, and corn bread. Buddy’s Fox was on its way up in the world.
Tony set down the phone and picked up his cigar. He started to puff on it again, getting the tip glowing and smoke wafting above our heads.
“If I get to him, he’ll want to know what this shit’s all about,” Tony said.
“Looking for a kid,” Hawk said.
“What kid?” Tony said.
I told him it was the Heywood kid and Tony let out a low whistle. “Shit.”
“You said it,” I said.
“Okay,” he said. “You want my Junior and Ty-Bop to come along?”
Hawk set the empty plate on Tony’s desk. He stood up. “Appreciate the concern,” Hawk said. “But don’t need help.”
“You sure?” Tony said, eyebrows up, appraising us both.
Hawk didn’t answer and walked out of the office. I offered my hand to Tony. He studied it for a moment, reached out for his ashtray, and tapped his cigar.
I shrugged and followed Hawk.
59
Two hours later, we got word from Tony that Jesus DeVeiga would grant us an audience at Franklin Park. We were told to use the Walnut Street entrance into the Long Crouch Woods and follow the northern path up into the old part of the zoo. That part of the park was a lot of green space and walkways and bikeways at the edge of Roxbury. It was a great place to be during daylight hours and not so nice at night.
“Public space,” Hawk said. “People will be around.”
“Good place to get shot,” I said.
“Not perfect,” Hawk said. “But good as any.”
“There’s a rock wall on Columbus Ave,” I said. “You could hop the fence. Take the path toward me or frolic through the woods.”
“Hard to frolic with a twelve-gauge.”
“Or we go in together,” I said. “And impress Jesus with our numbers.”
“Gangbangers don’t have sense,” he said. “He into this kidnapping thing, he’ll start to shooting. No conversation. Bam.”
“But I so enjoy the conversation,” I said.
“Call Z,” he said.
I did and we rode around Roxbury a bit. Although we had multiple reasons to suspect Jesus DeVeiga and his people, perhaps he might also supply some answers about Victor Lima and his brother and their connection to his half-sister. I could spend the rest of the day chatting with the de facto head of the Outlaws. I wondered aloud if Jesus had ever seen West Side Story.