Ceremony

Chapter 25

Two cops came with the local dog officer. One of the cops was Cataldo. They took the dog away and the other cop went to tell the owners. Susan told Cataldo she didn't know why someone would do this.

Cataldo looked at me. "And you wouldn't have any idea either, would you?"

"No.

"Funny thing to do for no reason. Not even your dog, Susan."

"I know, Lonnie. I know. The poor thing. Maybe they were burglars and thought the dog would give them away."

"So they brought it in and shot it?"

Susan shrugged.

I said, "I have to go to work. Can you keep an eye on her?" Cataldo nodded. "I'll take her to school and pick her up when she's ready to come home."

"How about after that?" I said.

"I'll stick around," Cataldo said. "'Case the burglars come back."

"How about a paid detail?" I said. "Until I get this straightened out."

Cataldo shook his head. "I know Susan a long time now. Most of the guys do. We'll watch her for free."

"Who wouldn't?" I said.

Cataldo nodded again.

Susan said, "I won't even argue," and they went together in the cruiser.

I stood in her kitchen looking at the bloodstained rug and called Henry Cimoli on the phone. "Tell Hawk I need him," I said. "I'll be in there in about half an hour and I want him as soon as he can get there."

Henry said, "I'll tell him." And I hung up and headed for my car. When I got to the Harbor Health Club, Henry was in his office and Hawk was with him. They were drinking coffee. Henry had on blue-striped Adidas sneakers and a white T-shirt and dark blue sweat pants with zippered bottoms. The T-shirt said MANAGER in blue letters. Hawk was wearing gray and black Puma running shoes, white denim jeans, and a white cashmere sweater, V-neck, with no shirt under it. "Coffee?" Henry said. He was a little guy who'd been a very fine lightweight fighter once. Now he managed the Harbor Health Club and worked out twice a day. He looked like a superman doll. I took a white china mug of coffee from him. Hawk was slouched in one of the guest 156 chairs, his feet on the desk, holding a coffee mug in both hands.

To Hawk I said, "Somebody shot a dog and left it in Susan's kitchen."

"She okay?"

"Yes. I figured Tony Marcus."

Hawk nodded. He took a sip of coffee, put the mug on Henry's desk, and stood up by letting his feet drop off the desk and levering his body up as his feet hit. "Let's get to it," he said.

"You know where to find him?" I said.

"Yeah, he got a place in the South End-restaurant called Buddy's Fox, Clarendon and Tremont."

Henry said, "You want a third?"

I said, "No. Anything goes bad, tell Quirk, and see about Susan."

Henry nodded. Hawk slid open a drawer in Henry's desk and took out a shoulder holster with a .357 Magnum in it. He shrugged it on and put on a sandcolored suede jacket with a zipper front. And we went.

Buddy's Fox was across from the big round-roofed performing arts center.

Hawk parked his black Jaguar sedan at a hydrant in front of the restaurant and we got out. Hawk opened the trunk and took out a twelve-gauge shotgun. A pump model. He checked the action once, and then fed five shells into the magazine. He closed the trunk and said, "The restaurant is long and no wider than the front. Booths on both sides. Bar across the back. To the right of the bar is a little corridor. Down the corridor there are the men's room, the ladies' room on the right wall, the kitchen door at the far end, and Tony's office door on the left wall." Hawk held the shotgun casually across his shoulder, trigger guard up, as if we were shooting grouse on the moors.

"He always in there taking care of business. Has breakfast here every morning. Leaves after supper every night."

"He ever alone," I said.

"No," Hawk said. There was a sign in the restaurant window that said OPEN FOR BREAKFAST. I took my gun out and let it hang by my side. We went in. The place was old and looked as though it had been kept that way. There were four or five people having breakfast. Behind the bar at the far end a big, thick-necked black man with a flat nose was polishing glasses. We were halfway down the length of the room before he noticed us, and another ten steps toward him before he registered the shotgun. He looked toward the archway at the end of the bar and then put down the glass he was polishing and let his hands drop.

I raised my gun, "If your hands disappear, Jack, you're dead," I said.

The bartender froze. "Put 'em on the bar," I said. The bartender put both hands on the bar. The breakfast crowd was beginning to notice that all was not copacetic. The sounds of cutlery and conversation died. Without lifting the shotgun off his shoulder, Hawk stepped around behind the bar and hit the bartender in the forehead, bringing the gun butt forward as if he were driving a peg. The sound was harsh in the now dead-silent room. The bartender slumped off the bar and fell without a sound. I went past the end of the bar down the corridor. Hawk came behind me. A waitress met us halfway down the short hall. She had a tray of ham and eggs and home fries and toast. I said, "Go back in the kitchen, honey, and be quiet."

She looked at the gun in my hand and past me at Hawk with his shotgun and backed down the hall and into the kitchen. Just short of the swinging door on the left wall was a paneled oak door with no marking.

Hawk nodded. I turned the knob. It was locked.

A voice inside said, "Yeah. Who is it?"

Hawk moved up beside me. "Hawk," he said. "Open up."

A lock clicked, the knob turned, and Hawk and I hit the door simultaneously, each with a shoulder. The door rammed open, and whoever had opened it went backward and fell over a chair. Inside I kicked the door shut behind us. Hawk stepped to the left of the door, pumped a shell into the chamber of the shotgun, and held the gun level and still. To my left the guy who'd opened the door was getting to his feet. There was a trickle of blood from his nose. Another man stood against the back wall of the office, his hands straight at his sides and slightly spread. At the desk in front of me, with the remnants of breakfast on a tray and a white napkin tucked into his collar, was Tony Marcus. He was a nice-looking guy with a salt-and-pepper Afro and a thick mustache. He was tan skinned, not nearly as dark as Hawk. His neck and chin line looked soft and comfortable. The suit he had on under the napkin looked like maybe a thousand dollars and custom tailored. His nails shone.

He looked at me and Hawk without any expression. Then he shook his head.

"Hawk," he said sadly, "siding with him against us? Turning on a brother?" He shook his head again. Hawk was whistling softly between his teeth. A jazzy Yankee Doodle.

I spoke to the two bodyguards. "On the floor," I said. "Face down." The two men lay face down. "Clasp your hands behind your neck," I said. "And keep them there. If either one of you moves, I'll kill you." Then I put my gun back in my hip holster and said to Marcus, "Step around here in front of the desk."

Marcus took the napkin from his collar, wiped his mouth and mustache, dropped the napkin on the tray, and stood up. His face showed only a mild sadness. "This is too bad," he said. "This is very much too bad."

He walked around the desk and I hit him in the stomach with my left hand and on the point of the chin with my right hand. He went backward against the desk and sagged without falling. I hit him again and he did go down. He tilted left and fell on his side on the floor. The two bodyguards remained motionless. Hawk continued his barely audible whistle. I reached down and got hold of Marcus's lapels with both hands and lifted him upright and sat him on the edge of his desk and held him still. Blood ran down his chin.

"You're about ten seconds from dead," I said, "unless I know that never again will anybody go anywhere near Susan Silverman."

The blood was steady, from a cut inside his mouth probably, and it was ruining his shirt and tie.

"Never heard of her."

I hit him in the face again, holding his lapel with my left hand to keep him up.

"You sent somebody out there to scare her, or me, or both, because I'm looking around under some of your rocks." "Man's crazy, Hawk." Marcus had trouble saying crazy, because his lower lip was starting to puff.

"Probably is," Hawk said, "but that don't help you none, Tony."

Marcus turned back toward me. "What you after?"

I let go of him and stepped back away from him. Marcus glanced quickly at the door and away. I knew he was waiting for reinforcements.

"Anybody comes in that door, and I'll kill you," I said. "So don't be too hopeful."

"Won't matter," Marcus said. "I'm dead. You're dead. Hawk's dead. Won't matter. I didn't get to own what I own by being scared to die."

"What am I digging up that you don't want dug up?" I said.

Marcus shook his head. "Take another punch, if you want to. Keep you busy 'fore you die."

"Okay," I said. "You're tough. I'm tough. Hawk's tough. Let's stop for a while being tough and start being smart."

There was a soft knock on the door. I took my gun out and pushed the muzzle into Marcus's neck. He didn't flinch. A voice outside said "Tony?" I nodded. Marcus said, "Yeah, Buster?"

"There's a cop car parked outside, Tony," Buster said.

Marcus said, "Go stand behind the bar, Buster. Polish some glasses."

The blood continued to run down his chin. He made no move to wipe it away.

"What you got in mind?" Marcus said to me. I put the gun back on my hip and said, "You got a very fine organization working here. Whores, dope, numbers, cards, horse parlors, bootleg booze, loansharking-did I leave anything out?"

"Protection," Marcus said. "Some leg breaking. Shooting."

"Fun," I said. "I'm not out to break that up. If it's not you, it'll be someone else. I do what I can, not what I should."

Marcus nodded.

"What I want is Mitchell Poitras and a little kid named April Kyle."

Marcus shrugged.

"So why do you care?"

Marcus made a small noncommittal gesture with one hand.

"I say you didn't want the Poitras connection exposed. I say you had a nice supply of white suburban teenage whores coming in, and there's always a big demand for them. High-ticket items, you might say. And you found me chasing one of the kids that Poitras recruited, you figured it would be easier to chase me off than to risk the source drying up."

"Say that's so," Marcus said. "So what?"

"It's not easy to chase me off," I said. "And it's not going to get easier. You probably got enough bodies finally to get it done, but it won't be easy. You're up against me, and you're up against Hawk."

"I not sure he do have enough bodies for that," Hawk said softly.

"If you do, and you burn me, or both of us, then there's some cops that will take it hard, and they'll keep hoisting your pimps and busting up your books and maybe bringing you in once a week for routine questioning. And maybe you'll fall down the stairs when they do. Chasing me off is a mistake. It's nothing but trouble."

"You got a better idea," Marcus said.

"I bet he do," Hawk murmured.

"I take Poitras and the kid and leave you out of it," I said. "I can't leave Poitras in place."

"I don't give a shit about one whore more or less," Marcus said.

"You know that Poitras makes chicken flicks down there-boys and girls?" Marcus frowned. "Boys too?" he said.

"Yeah."

"I don't deal in that," Marcus said.

"I take Poitras, and you're out of it."

"If I don't like it."

"We do it anyway," I said. "And a lot of people get dumped, and your business goes to hell."

"He talking for you, Hawk?" Marcus said.

..Yep… "You with him the whole way?"

..Yep." "Would he go that way for your black ass?"

Hawk said, "Do it, Tony. You don't know him, but you know me. He as hard to kill as I am. And as bad. Do it or he going to fuck up your life."

"No way you can push me into a deal I don't want," Marcus said. "Not with guns or fists or anything else. I don't push."

"It's a deal that makes sense," I said.

"I make a deal and I stick to it," Marcus said. "Hawk'll tell you that. You make a deal with me and it's dead solid done. You understand. No mistakes, no backing out. I say I'll do something, I do it."

I looked at Hawk. He nodded.

"I take Poitras and the kid and the kid he lives with. I keep you out of it, and Poitras won't talk because he knows what would happen if he did." Marcus nodded.

"And if anyone goes near Susan Silverman I'll kill him. And you." Marcus made a movement with his puffed lips that was probably a smile.

"Thought you'd get to that."

"He talking for me on that too," Hawk said.

Marcus nodded. He looked down at the two bodyguards face down on the floor. "Took Buster easy enough," he said almost to himself. "And these two clowns." He picked up his napkin from the desktop and began to dab at the blood on his chin. "Not sure you could have pulled it off without the cops outside." He stopped dabbing with the napkin and held it wadded against his mouth. "Got some cop in your pocket," he said, his voice muffled by the napkin. Hawk and I were quiet. Holding the napkin against his mouth, Marcus rolled his neck as if trying to loosen the muscles. Then he looked at me and took the napkin away from his mouth. It was bloody and wet. "Okay," he said. "You make sure Foitras knows what not to talk about. He talks, it's on you."

"Okay," I said. "We clean?"

"Almost," Marcus said, and hit me an overhand right on the jaw. He rolled off the desk as he threw the punch, and his full weight was behind it. It was a good punch. I had to take a quick backward step to keep from falling. "Now we're clean," Marcus said. "Your lucky day, honky. You and your lady."

My head was ringing. "Not bad," I said. "Not a bad punch for a pimp."