Robert B. Parker’s Cheap Shot

26

An hour later, Z and I sat down across from Ray Heywood and Hawk at the South Street Diner. The restaurant was open twenty-four hours, which made it attractive at two in the morning. It also made it attractive to many drunken kids leaving the bars around Faneuil Hall. There was a lot of noise and boisterous laughing, which was a bit incongruous to our talk of kidnapping and ransom demands. Said demands being left on the windshield of Ray Heywood’s Mercedes while we were all listening to “Skylark” up at the Top of the Hub.

As soon as we both drove out of the parking garage, Ray had called. We drove a fair bit around Chinatown to make sure he was not being followed. Z had recommended South Street because it was near the Harbor Health Club and was a favorite of Henry Cimoli’s. Not that Henry’s taste in food was stellar.

We all drank coffee. Hawk ordered a southwestern omelet with hash browns and a side of bacon. He ate while we spoke. His presence seemed to make Ray nervous. Which was only natural. Hawk made any normal person nervous.

“You’re someone,” Ray said. “I know you.”

“I am someone,” Hawk said. “But you don’t know me.”

“You were an athlete, a ballplayer or something.”

“Before your time.”

“But I know you.”

Hawk shook his head. “You are mistaken, friend.” With that, Ray turned back to me.

“Do you think they saw you?” Ray said.

I shook my head.

“How can you be sure?”

“Because we were careful you didn’t see us,” I said. “And they don’t know us.”

A waitress refilled our cups. Hawk finished the omelet and pushed the plate away, dabbing his lips with his napkin. Z sipped black coffee and listened to the talk.

“Where?” Hawk said.

I looked to Ray. “South Station at six a.m.”

Ray nodded.

“You got the note?” Hawk said.

Z reached into his leather jacket for the note and handed it across. Hawk read it and handed it back.

“Staties gonna be pissed,” Hawk said.

“Yep,” I said. “We should tell Lundquist.”

Heywood looked at both of us as if we needed to be fitted for straitjackets. “Didn’t you read the fucking note?” he said. “No cops or the kid is dead.”

“We read the note,” Hawk said.

Ray closed his mouth.

“I would have thought they’d ask for more money,” I said.

“You don’t think a hundred grand is a lot of money?” Ray said.

Z looked up and spoke. “Not when the victim is worth twenty million.”

“Kinjo’s gonna get the cash.”

“Who’d he tell?” I said.

“His agent.”

“Terrific,” I said. Z still wore his black leather jacket, hands around a thick ceramic coffee mug. Hawk had neatly hung up his trench coat by the booth. His black T-shirt seemed painted onto his body. His forearms corded with muscle and vein. Z studied Ray as he spoke, offering no emotion or reaction. His right hand tapped slightly on the mug.

“What does Kinjo want?” I said.

“He doesn’t want the police to know.”

“We ain’t the police,” Hawk said.

“He doesn’t know,” Ray said, lowering his head and leaning in among the rattling noise to whisper. “This his goddamn kid, man. You don’t mess around with that. I think he just wants to bring the cash, get Akira, and get done with this.”

I nodded.

“But that shit ain’t gonna happen,” Ray said. “Is it?”

I shook my head.

“They gonna try and kill him anyway.”

“It happens,” I said. “But I’d prefer to change the script.”

“How?”

“Three of us can even the odds.”

“And do what?”

“Make sure Akira is returned safe,” I said.

Z drank some coffee. It had started to rain out on South Street and the streetlamps glowed stark and bright white along the pavement. Hawk watched the rain from the booth. He was quiet but completely in tune with every word that was being said. One of the drunk kids dropped a glass of water off a table, crashing to the ground.

Ray recoiled. Hawk didn’t so much as turn his head.

“I can call Kinjo,” Ray said. “But I can’t promise nothing. It’s his kid. His decision.”

“Just how does he figure to leave the house with a hundred grand without the dozens of police camped out at his house knowing?” I said.

“Y’all just haven’t known my brother long enough. But he can do anything he puts his mind to.”

Ray stood up and walked outside under the diner overhang to make the call. I looked to Z. Hawk was still very interested in the rain.

“What will Lundquist do if we’re involved and don’t tell him?” Z said.

“I’ll be number one with a bullet on the staties’ shit list.”

“That bad?” Z said.

“Spenser tops many shit lists ’round here,” Hawk said. “Where he feels at home.”

Outside, Ray’s thick shadow bent over as he spoke into the phone. The streetlights turned the falling rain into sharp gold pellets hitting the asphalt. Gutters collected the runoff and rolled down the dry concrete.

Hawk turned from the window and smiled. “A woman would be mighty grateful to the man who saved her child.”

“Sure,” I said.

“Hmm,” Hawk said.

“I told Susan that you were smitten with Nicole Heywood,” I said. “Was I correct?”

“Smitten too nice a word for what I got,” Hawk said.