Robert B. Parker’s Cheap Shot

58

I returned to my apartment, took a hot shower, and ate a late breakfast of two poached eggs over hash with black coffee. I dressed in a navy button-down, jeans, and lace-up boots. I fitted my .38 on a holster behind my right hip and slipped into my leather jacket and ball cap. It was still raining. It had grown a little cold in the Back Bay. Not cold for Boston but cold for September. When I got to my office, I called Hawk at the Harbor Health Club and told him I needed another favor.

“Of course you do, babe,” Hawk said.

And hung up.

I made a few phone calls, including one to Kinjo, letting him know Cristal was back home. I called Susan and left a message about Nicole.

I then read the Globe and paid particular interest to the sports columnist’s take on the Heywood kidnapping and Kinjo refusing to stop playing. Everyone now knew about the return of Akira’s bloody clothes. The writer’s stance was contrary to all the sports wackos on the air and on the Web. He believed that Kinjo was doing the right thing and showing his respect and love for his child. Kinjo had not spoken to the press since the kidnapping, but it seemed to me he had spoken to the columnist. The title of the column was called “A Beacon of Light.” It was very sad and very powerful, and after reading, I closed the paper and set it aside on my desk.

I made coffee and turned slightly in my chair, to watch the dark skies and grumbling weather over the Back Bay.

I did not like this job or the way it had turned out. I did not like my own performance on letting go of the Limas and the club shooting. I wondered why Victor Lima had been in New York City if he’d been involved in taking Akira in the first place. I needed to find out more about Victor Lima, his time in Boston, and his connection to Jesus DeVeiga. And if I was feeling wildly ambitious, maybe I could find DeVeiga, too.

Before I grew too introspective, Hawk walked in my office door. He removed a black rain slicker and sat down in my client’s chair. The chair creaked with Hawk’s weight and heft. The chair was more comfortable with long, lean females with shapely legs.

Hawk leaned forward in his chair and waited. A few raindrops dotted his bald head.

“I need an audience with Tony Marcus,” I said.

“Okay.”

Hawk leaned forward, picked up the phone on my desk, and dialed a number. He told someone at the other end, presumably Tony Marcus, that we were headed that way.

Hawk stood. I stood. And we drove into the South End and Marcus’s club, Buddy’s Fox.

Most of the South End had now gone high-end, but Marcus was implacable. Buddy’s Fox, with its long, stainless-steel front and elegant red cursive neon, was a beacon to the old South End, gateway to Roxbury. The parking lot was empty, since Buddy’s Fox was not a lunchtime spot. A large black man in a white shirt and white pants had set up a barbecue grill outside. He was turning some ribs and the air was rich with smoke.

We walked in the front door to find Ty-Bop sitting in a chair, front legs off the ground, his back leaning against a wall. His satin Pats jacket loose and open, a very large automatic worn below his left arm.

I smiled and shot him with my thumb and forefinger.

Ty-Bop nodded.

A very large black man named Junior stood behind the bar, washing glasses. Junior did not acknowledge us as we walked past the bar and through a door to a hallway and then into Tony’s office. Tony was at his desk, ushering us in as if he were a CEO to a Fortune 500 company and not the city’s biggest pimp.

“You smell them ribs when you come in?” Tony said.

“Hard to miss,” Hawk said.

“Want some?” Tony said. “I’ll get him to make up some plates. I’ll even make one up for Casper, too.”

“After all these years and all we’ve been through together,” I said. “Do you still see color?”

“Oh, please motherfucking forgive me, Spenser. Didn’t you put my ass into Walpole some time back? Or is your memory slipping out on your ass?”

“How’s your daughter, Tony?” I said.

I looked to Hawk and Hawk shrugged. “Man do have a point,” Hawk said.

Tony pursed his lips, put the tips of his fingers up under his flabby chin, and told us to sit. He was wearing a canary-yellow suit with a white shirt and a black tie with a black handkerchief in the pocket. The suit was bold and ugly, but Tony was a pimp, and pimps had certain fashion expectations.

“So,” Tony said, lighting up a cigar and placing some equally ugly black shoes on his desk. “What the fuck do you want?”

“What do you know about the Outlaws?”

Tony lifted his chin, studied the end of his cigar, and blew on it, getting the red tip glowing bright. “Hmm,” he said.

“You know them?”

“Everybody in Roxbury knows those punks,” Marcus said. “They make a lot of trouble for the working man. Make the streets unsafe, gangbang battles. All this shit. Nothing changes. Kids always want to puff themselves up, be men when they ain’t nothing but kids.”

“Ty-Bop was a kid when he came to you,” I said.

“Ty-Bop’s a man now,” he said. “When he start with me, he a true prodigy. How many teenagers shoot like Ty-Bop?”

I nodded and settled back into my chair. Junior and the black man we’d seen cooking outside walked into Tony’s office. They handed Hawk and me two heavy paper plates loaded with ribs, collard greens, and slices of corn bread.

Knowing that it would be rude to turn down a pimp’s hospitality, I set the plate in my lap and began to eat. Between mouthfuls, we talked about the Outlaws.

“They all from Cape Verde islands, but don’t ask me to find it on a fucking map,” Tony said. “Having it out with the Vietnamese kids in Dorchester. Street-corner conquests. Turf battles. Lots of dead kids.”

“Ever hear of an Outlaw named Lima?”

“Don’t know many names,” Tony said. “Just know them on sight, running drugs and shit in Roxbury. Ain’t my thing.”

“Lucky they don’t run girls,” I said.

“They do that,” Tony said, leaning back into his seat, puffing on the cigar. “Then we going to have some serious goddamn problems.”

“What about their main guy?” I said. “DeVeiga?”

Hawk listened while he ate. He ate very carefully, since I knew his jacket cost a few thousand dollars and a sauce stain would mess with his style.

“Jesus DeVeiga?” Tony said. “Shit. Small, quick little punk. Can’t be trusted. Mean as hell. Watch your back, he got that crazy look about him.”

“Where can we find him?” I said.

“Do I look like goddamn Information to you?”

“For certain professions,” I said.

Tony set down the cigar and picked up the phone. As he made some calls, Hawk and I polished off all the ribs, collard greens, and corn bread. Buddy’s Fox was on its way up in the world.

Tony set down the phone and picked up his cigar. He started to puff on it again, getting the tip glowing and smoke wafting above our heads.

“If I get to him, he’ll want to know what this shit’s all about,” Tony said.

“Looking for a kid,” Hawk said.

“What kid?” Tony said.

I told him it was the Heywood kid and Tony let out a low whistle. “Shit.”

“You said it,” I said.

“Okay,” he said. “You want my Junior and Ty-Bop to come along?”

Hawk set the empty plate on Tony’s desk. He stood up. “Appreciate the concern,” Hawk said. “But don’t need help.”

“You sure?” Tony said, eyebrows up, appraising us both.

Hawk didn’t answer and walked out of the office. I offered my hand to Tony. He studied it for a moment, reached out for his ashtray, and tapped his cigar.

I shrugged and followed Hawk.