Quirk put his feet up on the edge of my desk and munched on his scone and drank some coffee.
"Two days ago," Quirk said, "couple of vice cops are working a tavern in Roxbury, having reason to believe it was a distribution point for dope and/or whores."
The maple-oatmeal scone wasn't bad, for a non-donut. Outside my window, what I could see of the Back Bay had an authentic gray November look with a strong suggestion of rain not yet fallen.
"So the vice guys are sipping a beer," Quirk said. "And keeping an eye out, and two white guys come in and head for the back room. There's something hinky about these guys, aside from being the only white men in the room, and one of the vice guys gets up and goes to the men's room, which is right next to the back room."
Quirk was not here for a chat. He had something to tell me and he'd get to it. I ate some more scone. The oatmeal part was probably very healthy.
"The guy in the men's room hears some sounds that don't sound good, and he comes out and yells to his partner, and in they go to the back room with their badges showing and guns out," Quirk said. "The tavern owner's had his throat cut. The two white guys are heading out. One of them makes it, but the vice guys get hold of the other one and keep him."
"Tavern owner?" I said.
"Dead before they got there; his head was almost off."
"And the guy you nabbed?"
"Cold," Quirk said. "The dumb fuck is still carrying the knife, covered with the vic's blood, on his belt. Big, like a bowie knife, expensive, I guess he didn't want to leave it. And the vic's blood is all over his shirt. ME says they tend to gush when they get cut like that. So we bring him in and we sweat him. He speaks English pretty good. His lawyer's there, and a couple of Suffolk AD's are in with us, and after a while he sees the difficulty of his position. He says if we can make a deal he can give us his partner, and if the deal's good enough he can give us the people shot that family over by Seaver Street."
I was suddenly aware of my breath going in and out.
"Do tell," I said.
"I was in there at the time and I said 'family named Gillespie?' He said he didn't know their names but it was over by Seaver Street and it was the end of October. Which is right, of course. And I said, 'How about the rifle man that shot the bodyguard.' And he said, 'No sweat.' "
"He Ukrainian?" I said.
"Says so."
"What's his name?"
"Bohdan something or other," Quirk said. "I got it written down, but I can't pronounce it anyway."
"Did he give you the others?"
"Yes. His lawyer fought him all the way. But Bohdan isn't going down for this alone, and he does it even though his lawyer's trying to stop him."
"Think the lawyer was looking out for him?" I said.
"Not him," Quirk said.
"Bohdan's a mob guy," I said.
"Seems like," Quirk said.
"And his lawyer's probably a mob lawyer."
"Seems like," Quirk said.
"And you got the others?"
Quirk smiled.
"Five in all," he said.
"Including Bohdan?"
"Including him," Quirk said.
"They all Ukrainian?" I said.
"I guess so. Except for Bohdan, they all swear they don't understand English, and Ukrainian translators are hard to come by. We had to get some professor from Harvard to read them their rights."
"Maybe you should keep him on," I said.
"Too busy," Quirk said. "He's finishing a book on…" Quirk took out a small notebook, opened it, and read from it. "… the evolution of Cyrillic language folk narratives."
I nodded.
"That's busy," I said. "Can I have another scone?"
Quirk pushed the bag toward me.
"You think it'll make Hawk happy?"
"Not sure," I said.
"You think he'd rather have done it himself?"
"Not sure of that either," I said. "Hawk is sometimes difficult to predict."
"No shit," Quirk said.
4
IN THE AFTERNOONon Thursday, late enough to be dark, with the rain coming hard, I walked down Boylston Street to have a drink with Cecile in the bar at the Four Seasons. We sat by the window looking out at Boylston Street with the Public Gardens on the other side. Cecile was wearing a red wool suit with a short skirt and looked nearly as good as Susan would have in the same outfit. A lot of people looked at us.
"Hawk asked me to talk with you," I said.
She nodded.
"You know his situation?"
She nodded again. The waiter came for our order. Cecile had a cosmopolitan. I asked for Johnnie Walker Blue and soda.
"Tall glass," I said. "Lot of ice."
The waiter was thrilled to get our order and delighted to comply. There was considerable traffic on Boylston, backing up at the Charles Street light. There were fewer pedestrians. But enough to be interesting, collars up, hats pulled down, shoulders hunched, umbrellas deployed.
"I know his surgeon," Cecile said. "We were at Harvard Med together."
"And he's filled you in?"
"Well," Cecile said with a faint smile. "He respects patient confidentiality, of course… but I am reasonably abreast of things."
"Hawk wants me to explain to you," I said.
"Explain what?" she said.
"Him," I said.
"Hawk wants you to explain him to me?"
"Yes."
Cecile sat back with her hands resting on the table and stared at me. The waiter came with the drinks and set them down happily, and went away. Cecile took a sip of her drink and put it back down and smiled.
"Well," she said, "I guess I'm flattered that he cares enough to ask you… I think."
"That would be the right reaction," I said.
"I could have considered it possible that I knew him well, and perhaps even in ways that you don't," Cecile said. "For God's sake, you're white."
"That would be another possible reaction," I said.
Cecile drank some more cosmopolitan. I had some scotch.
"How long have you known Hawk?" she said.
"All my adult life."
"How old were you when you met him?"
"Seventeen."
"Good God," Cecile said. "It's hard to imagine either of you being anything but what you are right now."
"Hawk wants you to understand why he doesn't want you to visit."
"He doesn't need to explain," Cecile said.
"He doesn't want you to see him when he isn't… when he is, ah, anything but what he has always been."
Cecile nodded. She was looking at her drink, turning the stem of the glass slowly in her fingers.
"I am a thoracic surgeon," she said. "I am a black, female thoracic surgeon. Do you have any guess how many of us there are?"
"You're the only black female surgeon I know," I said.
"Surgery is still mostly for the boys. If you're a woman and want to be a surgeon, you need to be tough. If you are a black woman and want to do surgery…"
She drank a little more.
"I do not," she said, "need a man to protect me. I don't need one who can't be hurt."
"No," I said. "I think Hawk knows that."
She raised her eyebrows.
"But he needs to be that," I said. "Not for you. For him."
"That's childish," Cecile said.
"He knows that," I said.
"He could change," Cecile said.
"He doesn't want to. That's the center of him. He is what he wants to be. It's how he's handled the world."
"The world being a euphemism for racism?"
"For racism, for cruelty, for loneliness, for despair… for the world."
"Does that mean he can't love?"
"I don't know. He doesn't seem to hate."
"It's a high price," she said.
"It is," I said.
"I'm black."
"That doesn't make you just like Hawk," I said.
"I don't have to pay that kind of price."
"You're not just like Hawk."
"Neither are you," she said.
"No," I said, "neither am I."
"So what are you saying?"
"I'm saying he can't see you until he's Hawk again. His Hawk. And he cares enough about you to want me to explain it."
"I'm not sure you have," Cecile said.
"No. I'm not sure I have, either," I said.