Hawk walked slowly toward Major, the big Magnum still in his hand, hanging loosely at his side. When he reached him he looked straight down at Major. And stood, looking at him and not speaking. Then he reached over and took the Glock out of Major’s belt and dropped it in his pocket. He looked down at John Porter. John Porter was sitting up now with his left hand pressed against his right shoulder, and some blood slowly showing through his fingers and smearing on the smooth finish of his half-zippered warm-up jacket. There was no pain in his face yet, just surprise, and a kind of numb shock.
“Who iced Devona Jefferson?” Hawk said.
He didn’t speak very loudly, but his voice seemed too loud in the frightening silence.
I put my gun away and walked over and stood beside Jackie. The first cars of the morning rush hour were beginning to move around the Fenway.
“Who killed her?” Hawk said again.
Major seemed dazed, staring at Hawk as if he’d never seen him before. The ducks had flown, frightened by the gunfire. I put an arm around Jackie’s shoulder. No one spoke. No one moved.
Then Major said, “Marcus. Tallboy was skimming on us and Tony say be a good lesson for everybody.”
“He didn’t do it himself,” Hawk said.
“Billy done it,” Major said. “Done Tallboy, too, and left him in Double Deuce so we’d see and remember.”
“I heard you did Tallboy,” I said.
“Tol everybody I did,” Major said. “But it was Billy.”
“Marcus got to take the jump for it,” Hawk said.
Major nodded. He seemed transfixed, gazing at Hawk.
“I want you out of Double Deuce,” Hawk said. Major nodded slowly.
“We gonna go,” he said. “Tony already say so.”
“Tony going to be gone,” Hawk said. “I say so.” Everyone lingered.
Hawk said, “I’ll see to John Porter.”
“We be going,” Major said.
Hawk nodded and Major turned and walked away across the field toward the open end. From the stands the long silent row of black kids in Raiders hats went with him, one after the other jumping down off the grandstand and following him in silence.
“He might have killed me,” Jackie said.
Hawk was motionless, looking after Major.
“For Christ sake, Hawk,” Jackie said. Her voice was still very shaky. “You might have killed me shooting at him.”
“No,” Hawk said. “I wouldn’t have.”
Hawk looked down at John Porter for another silent moment. John Porter stared at the ground, waiting for whatever would happen. Then Hawk put the big Magnum back carefully under his arm and looked again at Major, now nearly across the field, with his gang filing after him.
“Can we use him?” I said to Hawk. “Will he stay?”
Hawk nodded. The sun was well up now, and the ducks had returned and were once again paddling in the Muddy River.
“Kid more like me than a lot of people,” Hawk said.
CHAPTER 42
Belson and I were sitting at the bar in Grill 23 across the street from police headquarters and two blocks from my office. We were each drinking a martini. I had mine with a twist. Around us were a host of young insurance executives and ad agency creative types wearing expensive clothes and talking frantically about business and exercise. Campari and soda seemed popular.
“One of the Hobart Street Raiders got shot,” Belson said.
There were mixed nuts in a cut-glass bowl on the bar. I selected out a few cashews and ate them.
“That so?” I said.
“Dude named John Porter. Somebody dropped him off at City Hospital ER with a slug in his shoulder. John Porter wouldn’t say who.”
“John Porter?” I said.
“Yeah. You been dealing with the Raiders, haven’t you?”
“Small world,” I said.
I sipped my drink. It takes awhile acquiring a taste for martinis, but it’s worth the effort.
“Raiders have cleared out of the Double Deuce apartments,” Belson said. “Packed up and left. Hear from the gang unit that Tony Marcus put out the word.”
“Public-spirited,” I said.
“Tony? Yeah. Anyway, they’re gone.”
Belson drank the rest of his martini and ordered another. His were straight-up and made with gin and an olive. Mine was made with Absolut vodka, on the rocks. I ordered one too.
“Just being polite,” I said. “Don’t want you to feel like a lush.”
“Thanks,” Belson said. He sorted through the mixed nuts.
“You eating all the cashews?” he said.
“Of course.”
“One-way bastard,” Belson said.
He found a half cashew and took it, and two Brazil nuts and ate them and sipped from his second martini. His jacket was unbuttoned and I could see the butt of his gun. He wore it in a holster inside his waistband.
“Marty and I were talking,” Belson said. “Figure whoever spiked Porter probably did us a favor. Been in and out of jail most of his life. Leg-breaker. Some homicides we could never prove.”
We each drank a little. Around us the afterwork social scene whirled in a montage of pastel neckties and white pantyhose and perfume and cologne and cocktails, and talk of StairMasters and group therapy and recent movies.
“Old for a gangbanger,” Belson said. “Nearly thirty.”
I nodded. I rummaged unsuccessfully for cashews. They were all gone. I ate three hazelnuts instead.
“Kid seemed kind of proud about being shot,” Belson said. “Gang kids put a lot of stock in that.”
“They got nothing else to put stock in,” I said.
“Probably not,” Belson said. “But that’s not my problem. I investigate shootings. Even if the shooting is maybe necessary, I’m supposed to investigate it.”
“And handsomely paid for the work, too,” I said.
“Sure.”
Belson picked up the martini glass and looked through it along the bar, admiring the refracted colors. Then he took a brief sip and put it down.
“Spenser,” Belson said, “Marty and me figure you or Hawk done John Porter. And we probably can’t prove it, and if we could, why would we want to?”
“Why indeed,” I said.
“But I didn’t want you thinking we didn’t know.”
“I understand that,” I said. “And I know that if you thought, say, Joe Broz had done it, that maybe you could prove it, and would.”
Belson looked at me silently for a moment, then he drank the rest of his martini in a swallow, put the glass on the bar, and put his right hand out, palm up. I slapped it lightly.
“Tony Marcus killed Devona Jefferson and her baby,” I said.
“Himself?”
“He had Billy do it. I got a witness.”
I looked around the bar. There were several attractive young executive-class women with assertive blue suits and tight butts. I could ask one to join me for a discussion of Madonna’s iconographic impact on mass culture. The very thought made my blood boil.
“Who you got?” Belson said.
A new drink sat undisturbed in front of him on the bar.
“Major Johnson,” I said.
“Kid runs the Hobart Street Raiders.”
“Yeah. He was in the truck when she got hit. He won’t say so, but he probably ID’d her for Billy.”
“And?” Belson said.
“He’ll need immunity.”
“I can rig that,” Belson said. “Can he tie Tony to it?”
“Heard him give the order,” I said. “Whole thing supposed to be an object lesson for the gangs. Tony wanted them to remember who was in charge.”
Belson nodded.
“Sort of dangerous being the only eyewitness against Tony Marcus,” he said.
“We’ll protect him,” I said.
“You and Hawk?”