Double Deuce

CHAPTER 4

We came out of the meeting at about 9:30. It was a fine spring night in the ghetto. And around Hawk’s car ten young men in black LA Raiders caps were enjoying it.

A big young guy, an obvious body builder, with a scar along his jawline and his hat on backwards; was sitting on the trunk of the car.

As we approached he said, “This you ride, man?”

Hawk took his car keys out of his pocket with his left hand. Without breaking stride he punched the kid full in the face with his right hand. The kid tipped over backwards and fell off the trunk. Hawk put the key in the lock, popped the trunk, and took out a matte finish Smith and Wesson pump-action 12-gauge shotgun. With the car keys still dangling from the little finger of his left hand, he jacked a round up into the chamber.

The kid he had punched was on his hands and knees. He shook his head slowly back and forth, trying to get the chimes to stop. The rest of the gang was frozen in place under the muzzle of the shotgun.

“You Hobarts?” Hawk said.

Nobody spoke. I stood half facing Hawk so I could see behind us. I didn’t have my gun out, but my jacket was open. Hawk took a step forward and jammed the muzzle of the shotgun up under the soft tissue area of the chin of a tall kid with close-cropped hair and very black skin.

“You a Hobart?” Hawk said.

The kid tried to nod but the pressure of the gun prevented it. So he said, “Yeah.”

“Fine,” Hawk said and removed the gun barrel. He held the shotgun easily in front of him with one hand while he put his car keys in his pocket. Then without moving his eyes from the gang he reached over with his left hand and gently closed the trunk lid.

“Name’s Hawk,” he said. He jerked his head at me. “His name’s Spenser.”

The kid who’d taken the punch had gotten to his feet and edged to the fringe of the group where he stood, shaky and unfocused, shielded by his friends.

“There some rules you probably didn’t know about, ‘cause nobody told you. So we come to tell you.”

Hawk paused and let his eyes pass along the assembled gang. He looked at each one carefully, making eye contact.

“Satan,” he said, “you care to, ah, promulgate the first rule?”

“As I understand it,” I said. I was still watching behind us. “The first rule is, don’t sit on Hawk’s car.”

Hawk smiled widely. “Just so,” he said. Again the slow scan of tight black faces. “Any questions?”

“Yeah.”

The speaker was the size of a tall welterweight. Which gave Hawk and me maybe sixty pounds on him. He had thick hair and light skin. He wore his Raiders cap bill forward, the old-fashioned way. He had on Adidas high cuts, and stone-washed jeans, and a satin Chicago Bulls warm-up jacket. He had very sharp features and a long face and he looked to be maybe twenty.

Hawk said, “What’s your name?”

“Major.”

“What’s your question, Major?” Hawk showed no sign that the shotgun might be heavy to hold with one hand.

“You a white man’s nigger?” Major said.

If the question annoyed Hawk he didn’t show it. Which meant nothing. He never showed anything, anyway.

“I suppose you could say I’m nobody’s nigger,” Hawk said. “How about you?”

“How come you brought him with you?” Major said.

“Company,” Hawk said. “You run this outfit?” I knew he did. So did Hawk. There was something in the way he held himself. And he wasn’t scared. Not being scared of Hawk is a rare commodity and is generally a bad mistake. But the kid was real. He wasn’t scared.

“We all together here, man. You got some problem with that?”

Hawk shook his head. He smiled. Uncle Hawk. In a minute he’d be telling them Br’er Rabbit stories.

“Not yet,” he said.

Major grinned back at Hawk.

“Not sure John Porter believe that entirely,” he said and jerked his head at the guy that had been sitting on Hawk’s trunk.

“He’s not dead,” Hawk said. Major nodded.

“Okay, he be bruising your ride, now he ain’t. What you want here?”

“We the new Department of Public Safety,” Hawk said.

“Which means what?”

“Which means that starting right now, you obey the 11th commandment or we bust your ass.”

“You Iron?” Major said.

“We the Iron here,” Hawk said.

“What’s the 11th commandment?”

“Leave everybody else the fuck alone,” Hawk said.

“You and Irish?” Major said.

“Un huh.”

“Two guys?”

“Un huh.”

Major laughed and turned to the kid next to him and put out his hand for a low five, which he got, and returned vigorously.

“Good luck to you, motherfuckers,” he said, and laughed again and jerked his head at the other kids. They dispersed into the project, and the sound of their laughter trailed back out of the darkness.

“Scared hell out of him, didn’t we?” I said.

“Call it a draw,” Hawk said.