"Why here?" I said to Hawk as we walked toward them.
Hawk shrugged. "Likes the food, I guess. Man was willing to come, I didn't ask many questions."
We reached the booth. Marcus smiled. The four guys at the table all looked at us without any expressions. Marcus gestured that we should sit across from him and we did. Hawk slid in first and I sat beside him.
"Tony," I said.
"Good Szechwan cooking," Marcus said. "You like Szechwan, this is the place. Better than Chinatown."
I nodded. A waiter showed up with some Chinese beer and put it down and went away. "I already ordered," Marcus said.
"Thoughtful," I said.
The waiter returned with two platters of Peking ravioli and some hoisin sauce. Marcus smiled again, and rubbed his hands softly together. We each ate a ravioli and drank some beer. The four guys at the next table weren't eating or drinking. They just sat.
"Understand you looking for a man," Marcus said.
"Art Floyd," I said. Marcus nodded.
"You know him?" I said.
Marcus nodded again. He speared a second ravioli from the platter and spooned a little sauce over it and cut it in two with the edge of his fork.
"You find him he going to be in trouble?"
"I don't know," I said. "I'm looking for a kid and it depends on how willing he is to help me."
Tony ate half his ravioli. Patted his lips with his napkin, took a sip of Tsingtao beer, and said, "Maybe it ought to depend on whether I want him in trouble or nor."
"Do you?" I said.
Marcus smiled again. "Un huh."
I nodded. "That's what you get out of it," I said.
"Un huh."
"What kind of trouble you want him in?"
"What kind you got?" Marcus said.
"Tell me about him," I said. "We can work something out."
The Peking ravioli were gone. The waiter took the platter, replaced it with mu-shu pork and another round of beers.
"Running whores is traditionally black turf," Marcus said. "In New York, in Chicago, in Detroit… here." He put a pancake on his plate and added a spoonful of mu-shu and carefully folded it over into a neat package and took a bite. Then he drank some beer and used his napkin. "Been that way a long time and everyone sort of accepts that."
I nodded.
"Which means here it's mine," Marcus said.
"Okay by me," I said.
"Even if it's not," Marcus said.
"Just being polite," I said.
"Polite is shutting up and listening, sowbelly," Marcus said.
I looked at Hawk. "Sowbelly?"
"White," Hawk said, "like salt pork. He insulting you."
"Ahhh," I said.
"Maybe you ought to sit on it too, Hawk," Marcus said. The four guys at the next table all looked over at us. Hawk poured the rest of his second bottle of beer into his glass, tipping the glass slightly so that the head of foam worked just right. He put the empty bottle down, picked up the glass, took a sip, looked for a minute at the color of the beer, holding it so the light showed through. Then he put the glass down and leaned back in the booth and looked at Marcus.
"Ain't enough of you, Tony, to smartmouth both of us," he said.
Marcus looked back at him and then looked away. "Fuck that," he said, and made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "Let's talk business."
Hawk smiled and drank a little more beer. I waited.
"Artie Floyd works for a guy named Perry Lehman. You know Lehman?"
I nodded. "Skin magazines."
"That's one part of it," Marcus said. "Soft porn, hard porn, gay porn, kid porn, fetish porn." Marcus paused and finished his pancake. He made another one. "Lehman got magazines for every taste."
The waiter appeared and took away the empty platters and brought a bowl of steamed rice and a platter of chicken with cashews. Marcus gestured at the beer and the waiter went for some.
"I think it's shit but no skin off my ass, is it." Marcus spoke in a neutral dialect most of the time, softly, like an FM announcer. But every once in a while there was a Caribbean trace in his speech. He served himself some chicken and some rice. "Then he branches out. He opens a series of resorts and vacation clubs and he starts staffing them with hostesses. At which point he starts cutting into part of my franchise. So I have lunch with him one day, and I tell him that he's off base. And that he should stick to the fuck magazines and let me run the actual fucking." Marcus drank some beer. "Try the chicken," he said. "Stuff's excellent."
I nodded and put a little on my plate.
"So the fucking sleaze bag says, sure. Right. He hadn't realized that, and he'd take care of it, and maybe we could work out… what the hell he say…" Marcus put his head back for a moment then looked back at me. "A franchising fee. A fucking franchising fee, man." Marcus shook his head. "Shit!"
I ate the chicken. It was good. But I had already had more lunch than I was used to. The beer was good too. Marcus seemed to have a low tolerance for it. As he ate and drank he talked faster and louder and more profanely and the island accent became more frequent.
"So I tell him to go think about it and we'll have lunch next week and we'll come to a decision. And I go and talk to some of my money people and they say maybe some sort of fee isn't a bad move, and I say no, you let the little Hymie prick in, man, and pretty soon he's all the way in."
"And there goes the neighborhood," I said. Marcus paid no attention. He was rolling.
"So I have lunch with him the next week, Jap restaurant in Harvard Square, and he don't show up. Instead a couple of wise guys show up."
"Vinnie Morris?" I said.
Marcus shook his head. "Not Vinnie. This is bigger than Joe Broz. You don't need to know the names."
"Lehman's connected," I said.
"Indeed," Marcus said.
"Connected so good that you can't touch him."
"It's a boat I don't want to rock," Marcus said.
"And you want me to rock it."
Marcus finished another beer and glanced around for the waiter.
"Anything bad happening to Lehman is good happening to me," he said.
The waiter appeared, with more beer. "Never mind the beer," Marcus said. "Gimme a double Scotch."
"Okay," I said. "Let's start with Artie Fioyd. I find him and we'll see what happens."
Marcus said, "Daryl?" and the big guy with the telltale shoulder strap said, "He lives in Salem, Six Grey Street, down by the water." The waiter came back with Marcus's Scotch, and another showed up with littlenecks in black bean sauce. I stood up. Hawk followed.
"Thanks for lunch," I said.
"Don't miss the clams," Marcus said. "Clams are the best."
I shook my head.
Hawk said, "Bon appetit." And we left the restaurant.
18
The Salem waterfront was in the early throes of restoration chic. Run-down buildings were being rehabbed and condo-ized, people were buying jeeps and BMWs, the bars were serving nachos and potato skins, there were Vietnamese and Mexican restaurants, and it was only a matter of time before nouvelle cuisine was vying for position with Cajun cooking. Looming over all were the twin stacks of the 'power plant, which gently dusted the new condos with a fine black grit.
I drove down Derby Street past the Pickering Wharf development, full of restaurants, and shops that sold things like teddy bears and silk flowers, past the old custom house where Hawthorne had worked, past a barroom called In a Pig's Eye, and turned right onto Grey Street behind the House of Seven Gables.
Grey Street was very short and ended in a boatyard. Just before the boatyard was a five unit condominium development that hinted at having once been a warehouse. Floyd lived in unit five. He answered my second ring smoking a pipe, wearing Top-Siders and white duck pants and a short-sleeved khaki safari jacket. His hair was blond and longish and his mustache was thick and shagged over his upper lip. He was flawlessly tanned and was probably thought a hunk by sexually liberated young women.