"Like reading and writing," I said.
"That's right," Chantel said. "He wasn't so good at that so he just didn't do it. He so good at other stuff that he don't have to do it."
"What happens when you try to teach him?" I said.
"He get mad," Chantel said. "No, he don't get mad. That's not right." Chantel paused for a moment and looked out my window while she thought. She pushed her lower lip. And frowned just slightly. I wanted to pick her up and kiss her on the forehead.
"He gets embarrassed," she said.
"Yeah," I said.
"He is very proud," Chantel said. "He got this whole Dwayne Woodcock thing he got to live up to and protect and be, and it cost him a whole lot to do that all the time."
"You grow up with him, Chantel?"
She shook her head. "No, he from Brooklyn; I grew up in Germantown. You know, Philly. Met him here, freshman year."
"Damn lucky thing for him that you did," I said.
"Why you say that?" Chantel said.
"Because you are a woman and a half, Chantel. What's your last name?"
"deRosier," she said. "Chantel deRosier."
"What would you like me to do, Chantel?"
Her gaze was steady and unembarrassed on my face.
"I want you to help us," she said.
"Chantel, I will help you do anything you want forever," I said. "Where would you like me to start?"
She shook her head. "They are bad people he's with," she said. "They don't care about him. They call him 'big guy' and they tell him how terrific he is and they pretend to be scared of him cause he's so big and so good. But they aren't scared. And they don't think he's a man like them. They think they've got this here poor nigger boy by the nose."
Chantel's eyes were shiny, maybe a little damp.
"And they have," I said.
She nodded. "Yeah, they have, and he doesn't know it. He think they the cat's ass. They got cars, they got money, they take us to restaurants and clubs, and give us clothes."
"They treat you good?" I said.
"They treat me like I'm Dwayne's piece of ass," she said softly. "And Dwayne don't seem to notice."
I stood up from my chair and turned and looked out the window for a moment, down at Boylston Street and the people moving by. I looked across at the trees in very early flower outside the building that used to be Bonwit's and was going to be Louis'. Right below me a young man in a tuxedo passed carrying a cluster of balloons that read HAPPY BIRTHDAY KATIE KROCK. He crossed Boylston with the balloons and headed on down Berkeley toward the river.
I turned back around and looked at Chantel. She was crying, though not very much.
I said, "Whatever comes out of this, Chantel, I'm going to do three things. I'm going to save Dwayne's ass, I am going to see to it that no one involved will treat you like anyone's piece of anything, and I'm going to make the bastards wish they hadn't treated you like that to start with."
"I'm not, you know," she said.
"Dwayne's piece of ass?"
"Yeah. He loves me. I love him. We got each other. We got a space nobody can come in. When we sleep together that's making love, it's not no piece of ass thing."
"I know," I said.
"How you know that?" Chantel said.
"Because that's the kind of woman you are," I said.
She nodded, the movement of her head barely perceptible.
"How you going to save him?" she said.
"Like I said, I'm going to go after Bobby Deegan."
"You get them it going to get Dwayne in trouble."
"I know, that's the part I haven't figured out yet," I said. "Be nice to get some feedback from Dwayne."
Chantel shrugged and looked at her lap. "How much they paying him?" I said.
"I don't know. Dwayne never talks about that."
"Who's in on it with him?"
"On the team?"
"Yeah."
Chantel looked down and shook her head again.
"Don't know, or won't say?"
"Won't," Chantel said.
I nodded. "Okay," I said. "We figure it's Danny Davis."
Chantel didn't move.
"You know anything that will help?"
"Mr. Deegan got a friend named Gerry," she said.
"Gerry Broz?"
"Don't know his last name. White guy, scraggly mustache. Kinda fat ... not really fat, just sort of flabby-looking."
"That's Gerry," I said. "You know what he's got to do with this?"
"No," Chantel said. "I just see them together when we go out. They talk to Dwayne. Dwayne don't want me talking to them. He knows I don't like them. He's afraid I'll say something bad."
"Dwayne likes them?" I said.
"He likes Mr. Deegan," she said. "I don't think he likes Gerry so much."
"Most people don't," I said.
"Dwayne don't like white people exactly, but he likes them to like him, you know? He needs to have them think he's a big man."
"And Deegan makes him feel good?"
Chantel leaned a little forward toward me.
"Yes. Mr. Deegan got money, and he acts like he got money. He know what to do in restaurants and how to talk to headwaiters and what to tip the hat check girl, you know, that kind of man. Real sure of himself. Confident, seems nice, but very aggressive too, like a big success."
"Dwayne likes that?" I said.
"Dwayne been a star most of his life but he been poor most of his life too and where he lived was all black people like where I lived. But his was poorer. We weren't poor. And you'd see all these cool white guys on TV, and you didn't really think about it, and if you did you wouldn't admit it, but being a success got kind of mixed up with being white, or being like a white person, or having white people like you. Mr. Deegan is what Dwayne thinks he ought to be."
"He is better than that, Chantel, or you wouldn't love him."
"He needs to know he better than that," Chantel said. "He got to see that Mr. Deegan is a sleaze with nice manners."
"Okay," I said. "I think I've got it. I show Dwayne that Deegan's a sleaze, prove to Dwayne that he himself is not a sleaze, get Deegan off his back, keep anyone from finding out he shaved points, teach him to read and write and not let anyone know that he can't."
For the first time since I'd seen her, Chantel smiled.
"Yes," she said, "that's exactly it."
"And on the seventh day I'll rest," I said.
20
I got the call from Dwayne on my office phone at four-thirty on a cold drizzly Thursday afternoon. Hawk was with me. We'd spent most of the last hour trying to figure out how to deal with the mess Dwayne was in, and we weren't making much progress. We were in the middle of a five-minute break devoted to a discussion of the paralegal's backside when the phone rang and I answered it.
"I need to see you," Dwayne said.
"How come?" I said.
"I been thinking 'bout what you said and I was wrong to get mad," Dwayne said. "I need to talk with you without anybody seeing me."
"I'll meet you," I said.
"Gotta be private, man. Nobody better see me."
"Wherever you want," I said.
"You know the parking garage by the Aquarium?" Dwayne said.
"Yes," I said. "On Milk Street."
"I be on the top level at six thirty," Dwayne said. "You come in your car and I'll get in."
"Six thirty," I said.
"Don't tell nobody," Dwayne said and hung up.
I said, "Dwayne wants me to meet him on the top level of the parking garage on Milk Street by the Aquarium."
"When?"
"Six thirty. Says he's changed his mind about me being a honkie motherfucker."
"He actually say that?" Hawk said.
"Well, he implied it," I said.
"Hm," Hawk said. "What you think?"
"Could be true," I said. "Or he could be doing what he's told and when I get there whoever Deegan hired instead of you will jump out of a Cutlass Supreme and shoot a hole in me."
"Wonder which it'll be," Hawk said.
"Me too," I said.
We talked a little and observed the paralegal one more time as she closed up for the evening. Then Hawk left and I put my feet up on my desk and my hands behind my head and closed my eyes and thought about things. At six I let my feet down, unfolded my hands from behind my head and stood up. I had the Browning on my hip. I took it out, put it into the pocket of my leather trench coat, put the trench coat on and buttoned it up, turned the collar up, put on the tweed cap that Susan said made me look like Trevor Howard, and headed for the meeting with Dwayne, or whoever.