Pale Kings and Princes

35

On Wheaton Road, a hundred yards from the turnpike exit, was a small gray building with a pitched roof. It sold hot dogs and coffee, according to the sign out front. Hawk pulled the van in and stopped next to an Oldsmobile Cutlass parked in front of the store. Lundquist got out of the Olds wearing a sheepskin jacket and jeans and Frye boots. He carried a shotgun. I opened the door and tipped my seatback forward and Lundquist got into the back of the van and sat on the floor.

“I’m on my own time,” Lundquist said. “If this doesn’t go right that’s all I’ll have is my own time.”

I introduced Hawk.

“Didn’t you do some work once for Cliff Caracks in Worcester?” Lundquist said.

Hawk smiled and didn’t answer.

“Yeah,” Lundquist said. “You did, but we could never prove it.”

Hawk opened the door on his side and got out and took off his coat. He wore a big .44 Magnum under his arm.

“Hand me that bag,” he said to Lundquist. “The small one.”

Lundquist handed him an Avia equipment bag. Hawk took a Red Sox warm-up jacket out and put it on. He sat sideways on the driver’s seat and took off the cowboy boots and put on a pair of white Reebok high-cut basketball shoes and laced them up. Then he put on a navy watch cap and took a pair of oversize leather mittens out of the bag and put them on the dashboard. He took out a .25-caliber palm-size automatic pistol and put it in his jacket pocket. Then he carefully put the fur coat on a hanger in the back of the van. He put the cowboy boots in the equipment bag, put the bag in the van and got back in, and closed the door.

“The suit of lights,” I said to Lundquist.

Hawk put the van in gear and we were back out on Wheaton Road. It started to snow, a few flakes and then many. Almost at once we were in a dense, driving snowfall.

“Hiatus is over,” I said.

“Good for cutting down on sniper fire,” Hawk said.

We went through town and out Route 9, past the Reservoir Court where my shirts and Susan’s face and the rental Mustang were still hostage. In another five minutes I said, “Next right is Quabbin. Half mile in on the right is an overlook, pull in there and park.”

“If Esteva checks to see that you’ve got the coke, he’ll spot me,” Lundquist said.

“He gonna whack us whether we got the coke or not,” Hawk said. “He been fucking around long enough.”

“So he won’t check,” Lundquist said.

“If he does,” I said, “it’ll mean he’s not going to take us out.”

“He going to try,” Hawk said.

We took the turn into the Quabbin Reservation and drove slowly through the blinding charge of snow until we came to the overlook. Normally you could gaze out over the vast reservoir from here and maybe scarf a left-over Polish Platter sandwich and try to see an eagle. At the moment you could see about six inches.

Hawk shut off the motor and turned off the lights. I took the Python off my hip and stuck it in my belt in front. I left my leather jacket unzipped. Hawk took the .25 out of his coat pocket and ran a shell up into the chamber and, with the piece cocked and held in his left hand, he slipped the oversize mitten on. I helped him with the mitten for his right hand.

“Those mittens look pretty dumb,” Lundquist said.

“Everybody knows we gets cold easy,” Hawk said. “We needs to bundle up.”

“That because of your African heritage?” I said.

“Naw,” Hawk said. “ ’Cause we got much bigger dicks than you honkies. More skin surface to keep warm.”

Lundquist was slumped back in the corner of the van behind the driver’s seat in the dark. I heard him work the action on the shotgun.

“Lundquist,” I said, “I know you’re putting your ass on the line.”

“Yeah, but if it works I’m a corporal Monday,” he said.

Hawk and I got out of the van and leaned against the front of it. We left both windows open an inch or so.

The snow coming at us made us squint. My hair was thick with it in a matter of seconds. It wasn’t terribly cold, maybe just below freezing, but the wind was driving the snow and it cut into the strip of my upper body that was exposed by my unzipped jacket.

“Think they staked the place out?” Hawk said.

“If they did it won’t help them much,” I said. “They’d have to stake us out from three inches away.”

“I’m betting they have the cops do it,” Hawk said.

“Yes,” I said. “They caught us with the goods on a tip and we resisted arrest.”

“Un huh. You worry Esteva won’t show?” Hawk said.

“He’ll show. Same reason he gave that kid the piece that killed his father.”

“Yeah,” Hawk said. “He’ll be here.”

“This isn’t business anymore either,” I said.

We heard them before we saw them. The snow muffled murmur of a car engine and then the snow-blurred yellow glow of headlights and Esteva’s big Lincoln town car pulled up into the turnaround and parked in front of us.

The car parked and the motor stopped and the headlights disappeared. We could see it faintly, a dark shape in the snow. Hawk and I stayed still. No one got out of the car. The only other sound’s the sweep / of easy wind and downy flake. Hawk unsnapped his Red Sox jacket with his right hand.

Then we could hear something else. I saw Hawk tilt his head slightly, the way a dog will when he is listening. Swathed in the blizzard came the faint sound of another car, then the faint glow of headlights, and a dark shape pulled in through the snowfall and parked behind the van, on an angle so that the van was blocked. Barely through the snow I could see the “Wheaton Police” seal on the side. The blue light wasn’t flashing.

The door of Esteva’s car opened and Cesar got out from the driver’s side and opened the back door. There was movement and Esteva got out of the rear. Behind him, on a short leather lead, the big Rottweiler I’d seen when I visited Emmy. Felice got out of the other front door of the Lincoln, and the three men walked toward us.

Esteva said very calmly, “Hello, pig fucker.”

“Perhaps you have me confused with someone else,” I said.

“Before I kill you,” Esteva said, “I want you to know that I’m going to do it.”

“Or the pet cops you brought along,” I said, and jerked my head toward the cruiser.

Beside me Hawk was looking at Cesar and Cesar’s gaze was steady on Hawk. He didn’t even blink as the snow came at him. To Esteva’s left Felice was wearing his Celtics jacket over a red plaid shirt. The collar of the shirt was turned up outside the jacket. He had an excited smirk.

“Whoever has the pleasure of actually doing it,” Esteva said, “it will be me, my will.”

Behind us I could hear the police car’s door open. Two doors, one closed, the other didn’t.

“Are you ready to die, pig fucker?”

“I have promises to keep,” I said.

Esteva spoke to the dog in Spanish and let go of the leather lead. The dog sprang at my throat. Hawk shot Cesar with the .25 through his mitten. I hit the dog with a left cross and went for my gun with my right. The force of my punch turned the dog in midair and he fell in front of Cesar, and stayed there. I shot Felice as he brought his gun up from his hip pocket. Cesar stepped over the dog, going toward Hawk. Hawk shot him again with the .25. Behind me I heard Lundquist say, “State Police, freeze,” and then the boom of a shotgun and someone grunted. There was a pistol shot and another shotgun boom. Cesar staggered but stayed on his feet and got hold of Hawk’s jacket. Esteva was backing into the blizzard. Cesar had gotten his arms around Hawk. A bullet hissed through the snow and whanged off a rock to our right. I stopped and steadied and brought the Python down slowly with both hands, knees bent slightly, feet comfortably apart. Another shot plunked into the side of the van. Esteva’s blurred shape rested uncertainly on the top of my front sight. I exhaled and steadied. He was firm on the sight, his gun at arm’s length. I squeezed the trigger carefully, and the gun barrel bounced and Esteva was down. I turned toward Hawk. Cesar had bent him backward a bit. Hawk had his right hand under Cesar’s chin. He was shaking the mitten off his left hand. He seemed unhurried. Cesar bent him farther. Hawk brought the small automatic up with his left hand and placed it under Cesar’s chin and pressed up a little and pulled the trigger. Cesar jounced and then sagged forward and his hold on Hawk loosened and he slid slowly down Hawk’s body to earth, leaving a smear of bright blood the length of Hawk’s person.

Lundquist leaned against the side of the van with the shotgun held barrel-up against his hip. Captain Henry and J.D. were dead in front of him.

“Jesus,” he said.

There was blood on the front of his left thigh.