Major was all in black. Shirts, jeans, hightopped sneakers, Raiders cap. As he came toward us I could see the sun glint on the surface of a handgun stuck in his belt.
“Piece in his belt,” I said. “In front.”
“Un huh.”
We were in front of the assembled Hobart Raiders now. We stopped. Major, fifteen yards from us, stopped where we stopped. One point for us: you needed to be pretty good to count on shooting well at forty-five feet with a handgun. Hawk and I were pretty good. Odds were that Major wasn’t. Odds were on the other hand that if all the kids in the stands opened up, some of them might hit us. Odds were, though, that not all of them had weapons.
“Life’s uncertain,” I said to Hawk.
Hawk was looking at Major.
“What we need now,” Hawk said. “Deep thinking.”
“Talked with Goodyear and Shoe last night,” I said.
Hawk’s eyes moved calmly between Major and the Raiders in the stands.
“They said that Major didn’t kill Devona.”
“How ‘bout Tallboy?” Hawk said.
“Major killed Tallboy because Tallboy came in on them drunk and waving a gun.”
“So,” Major said, “Hawk, my man, what’s happening?”
“Let’s see,” Hawk said.
“You come to get me? You and the Mickey?”
“Me,” Hawk said.
“So why you bring him?”
“Didn’t bring him,” Hawk said. “He come on his own.”
“Make you look like a fucking Tom,” Major said.
“You invited me, boy,” Hawk said. “You got something in mind, whyn’t you get to it.”
“Good move,” I said to Hawk. “Placate him.”
Hawk grinned.
“What you smiling for?” Major said. “I don’t let no one laugh at me.”
Major paused and looked at the gang members in the stands. They were all standing now, motionless along the top row of seats. He was playing to them. He looked back at us.
“You know the fucking law, Hawk. Respect. You like made the fucking law, man. Respect. You don’t get treated with respect, you see to it.”
“Heard maybe you backshot a fourteen-year-old girl,” I said. “Hard not to dis you.”
“Fuck you, Irish. I didn’t shoot no sly. But if I do, what you know about it? You don’t know shit. You live in some kind of big white-ass fucking house, and you drive your fancy white-ass car. And you don’t know a fucking thing about me. You live where I live, and what you got is respect, and you ain’t got that you ain’t got shit. Don’t matter who you spike or how, you get respect. Hawk know that. Am I right or wrong, Hawk?”
“Never had to backshoot a fourteen-year-old girl,” Hawk said.
“You think I shot her, you think what you fucking want. Everybody know you, Hawk. You the man. You the one set the standard. Well I be the man now, you dig? I set the standard. All of them”-he jerked his head toward the gang members-“they looking at me. I want them here, they here. I let someone dis me, he dis them. That mean some sly got to bite the dust.” Major shrugged elaborately. “Plenty of them around,” he said. “You know why I the man? I have to do one, I’ll do one. There some brothers bigger than me, some Homeboys real strong fighters like John Porter. But he ain’t the man, and they ain’t the man. I the man. You know why? ‘Cause I crazy enough. I crazy enough to do anything. And everybody know. Maybe somebody got to die. I willing. I step up. Ain’t afraid to die, ain’t afraid at all. I die what I be losing?”
Major paused.
Hawk waited.
“So you be thinking I lined Tallboy’s wiggle, then you wrong. But if I wanted to I would have and I wouldn’t give a fuck what you or the flap or anybody thought ‘bout it.”
Hawk was perfectly still, and perfectly relaxed like he always was in this kind of moment. But he was different. He didn’t, I realized all at once, want to kill Major. I knew he would if he had to, but in all the years I’d known him I’d never seen him want or not want. Killing was a practical matter to Hawk.
“You didn’t kill her,” Hawk said, “who did?”
“Hawk, you and me the same,” Major said. “It got to be done we step up. Ain’t afraid to be killing, ain’t afraid to be dying.”
Major was playing to his audience, and, I realized, he was playing most of all to Hawk.
Quietly I said, “How many guns, you think?”
Hawk said, “Besides Major, probably two or three. Kids have them, pass them around. Kid with the raincoat probably has a long gun. One with the jacket probably got one.”
“What you talking ‘bout?” Major said. “You better be listening to me.”
“We arguing which one of us going to fry you,” Hawk said.
“You, Hawk.” There was something almost like panic in Major’s voice. “You and me, Hawk. Not me and some flap-fucking Irish.”
I was scanning the crowd in the stands. Hawk was right. Only two of them wore coats that would conceal a gun. Some of them might have it stuck under a shirt or in an ankle holster, but the good odds were to fire at the ones with coats first.
Major raised his voice. “John Porter.” Around the corner of the grandstand came John Porter with Jackie Raines. John Porter had her arm and he held a revolver to her head. Jackie’s face was pinched with fear. She walked stiffly, trying not to be compliant, but not strong enough to resist John Porter.
“Got this here fine nigger lady,” Major said.
Jackie looked at us. Her eyes were wide. “Hawk,” she said. She said it like a request. Hawk didn’t move. His expression didn’t change.
“Come around without you,” Major said, the laughter lilting in his voice. “Say we all black folks, and I’m trying to get the low-down on what it’s like for you poor nigger boys in the ghet-to. And John Porter he say how come you don’t go low down on this?”
Major laughed. It was real laughter. It wasn’t for effect, but it had a crazy tremolo along its edge. John Porter smiled vacantly, proud to be mentioned by Major.
“So she say I know you gonna meet with Hawk and he won’t tell me where. So I say we tell you where, slut. Fact we bring you along with us.”
Hawk said to me, “When it starts, you take the stands.”
I said, “Um hmm.”
Major said, “I tol you, you better be listening to me, Hawk. You want your slut back, you better be paying attention to me.”
Hawk looked at Major, full focus, and slowly nodded his head once.
“You want the slut back, you ask me nice, you say please, Mr. Major, and maybe I tell John Porter to let her go.”
Hawk’s gaze didn’t falter. He was waiting. Major didn’t know him like I did. Major thought he was hesitant.
“Go ahead, man. Say please, Mr. Major Johnson, sir.”
Major was excited. He moved back and forth in a kind of wide-legged strut as he talked. The gun in his belt was a Glock, 9mm, retail price around $550, magazine capacity seventeen rounds. It was enough to make you nostalgic for zip guns.
“Hawk,” Jackie said again. “Please.”
“Better hurry up, Hawk, better ask me nice and polite, ‘fore I put a bullet up her ass.”
In the stands a kid in a black satin hip-length warm-up jacket brought an Uzi out from underneath it.
“No,” Major screamed. “Nobody shoots! This is me and Hawk! Nobody shoots! Hawk! Me and Hawk!”
Hawk reached thoughtfully under his arm and brought out the big Magnum. He turned deliberately sideways toward Major and Jackie.
“Hawk,” Jackie screamed. “Don’t!”
“You shoot at me, Hawk,” Major shouted, “John Porter kill the slut.” Major’s voice was full of high vibrato.
Hawk brought the gun down onto his target. “Don’t!” Jackie screamed again.
“He’ll kill her”-Major was screaming now too-“ ‘less you ask me nice.”
I drew my Browning and cocked it as it cleared the holster. Everything seemed to be moving languidly through liquid crystal. Hawk settled the handgun on his target and squeezed off a round and John Porter’s face contorted. His gun spun away from him and he flung out both his arms and fell backwards, sprawling on the ground behind Jackie. Jackie was standing with both hands pressed against her open mouth. She looked as if she were trying to scream and couldn’t. The kids in the stands were motionless.