A Catskill Eagle (18 page)

CHAPTER 41

RACHEL WALLACE ARRIVED BY CAB AT TEN twenty in the morning carrying a big briefcase. She put her arms around Susan and kissed her on the cheek.

“It is lovely to see you again,” she said. Susan nodded.

“How are you,” Rachel Wallace said.

“Better than I was,” Susan said.

Rachel Wallace turned to me and said, “I have spent the entire summer studying Jerry Costigan. I suspect there is no one anywhere, including Mrs. Costigan, who knows him as I do.”

“It’s for damn sure you’re ahead of our crack government intelligence team,” I said.

“Government intelligence is an oxymoron,” Rachel Wallace said. “Have you coffee?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll need several cups, black. Quite strong.” She patted Susan’s arm. “It is good to see you here.”

Susan smiled and nodded again. Rachel Wallace turned to Hawk and gave him both her hands.

“You too,” she said. “It is good to see you here.” She gave him a sisterly kiss on the mouth.

Hawk grinned. “You holding back,” he said.

The phone rang and Hawk answered. I was pouring coffee into the filter.

Hawk said, “Un huh?”

Then said, “You got a place we can call back?”

I stopped measuring out coffee and turned toward him.

“Okay,” he said. “You call back in ten minutes. Got to talk with my man here.”

Rachel and Susan turned to look at him and we all stood in that suspended way that people do waiting for someone to get off the phone.

Hawk said, “Un huh,” again and hung up the phone.

“So much for the safe house,” Hawk said. I waited.

“Man say if we want to know something real important about finding Jerry Costigan we should meet with him,” Hawk said.

“Have to talk with Ives about the security of his operation,” I said. “Where we supposed to meet him?”

“Man didn’t say. Says he’ll call back in ten minutes,” Hawk said.

I walked to the window and looked out. Without saying anything Susan got up and finished making the coffee. Below me Charlestown was going on undifferentiated.

“There’s no reason anyone should think we would care about where Jerry Costigan is,” I said.

“Less Ives’s people let it out,” Hawk said.

“Must have,” I said. “Guy knew we were here, had the phone number, knew we were looking for Costigan. Had to be from Ives’s people.”

“They could fuck up a beach party,” Hawk said. He looked at Rachel Wallace and made a slight apologetic head motion. She smiled and shook her head, it-doesn’t-matter.

“It’s a trap,” Susan said from the kitchen.

“Probably,” I said.

“Question is,” Hawk said, “who going to trap whom?”

“Whom?” I said.

“Whom,” Hawk said.

“We’ll meet him,” I said.

“Is that wise,” Rachel Wallace said.

“Might as well get it over with,” I said. “We’re compromised here. And the people setting the trap, assuming it’s a trap, might still be able to tell us something really important about finding Jerry Costigan.”

“If they don’t kill you,” Susan said. She was putting coffee cups, fresh from the dishwasher, onto a tray.

“Always with that caveat,” I said. “But they haven’t yet, and good people have tried.”

“I know,” Susan said. “But in this case it would be my fault.”

“Susan,” Hawk said, “we let somebody kill us, it our fault.”

“You know what I mean,” Susan said.

Rachel Wallace said, “It’s the way they live. If it weren’t your situation, it would be someone else’s. A few years ago it was mine.”

Susan nodded without speaking. But there was something in her face. I walked from the window, around the counter, and put my arms around her. She pressed her face into my neck and neither of us said anything.

The phone rang. Hawk picked it up and listened.

I murmured to Susan, “Sure we’re in this particolar thing because of things that you did. But that’s not why you did them.”

On the phone Hawk said, “Sure.”

“You did what you had to do,” I said. “The year before you left wasn’t good. So you did something to change it.”

Hawk said, “We be there.”

“I did nothing,” I said. “You took the step. Maybe not the best step. But a better step than I took. You do the best you can and you deal with the consequences. It’s all there is.”

Hawk said, “Un huh,” and put the phone back in the cradle.

Susan rubbed her face against my neck.

“Fish pier at noon,” Hawk said.

I let Susan go and walked back into the living room.

“This place is no good anymore,” I said. I looked at Susan. “Would Russell try to take you back?”

“He’d want me back. He may think you’ve taken me.”

“Would he force you?”

“No. But his father would.”

“So it could be to juke us away from you so they can take you back.”

Hawk said, “Yes.”

“What does Russell think you want,” I said.

“Time to be with myself and become someone who can decide for herself.”

“He understand that?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Me either,” I said.

“Now not the time,” Hawk said.

I nodded and went to the phone and dialed Martin Quirk.

“I need to put two women in a safe place,” I said. “One of them is Susan.”

“Congratulations,” Quirk said. “What about the government safe house in Charlestown?”

“Not safe anymore. Some of Ives’s people appear to have talked. Maybe Ives himself, for all I know.”

“Tsk, tsk,” Quirk said. “How quick.”

“Next half hour,” I said.

“Belson will come by in a car in about ten minutes.

“Where will he take them?”

“He and I will figure that out after he picks them up,” Quirk said.

“Okay,” I said. “Thanks.”

“Oh shit,” Quirk said. “No need for thanks. The entire City of Boston Police Department is at your disposal. We’ve decided to give up crime-stopping altogether.”

“Probably just as well,” I said. “You weren’t making that much progress anyway.”

“And you, hot shot?”

“Less,” I said.

CHAPTER 42

THE FISH PIER FINGERS OUT INTO BOSTON HARbor about opposite Logan Airport. You get to it by going out Northern Avenue past Pier Four, which squats at the harbor edge like some vaguely Mayan temple to expense accounts, and is to restaurants what the Grand Canyon is to valleys. Most of Northern Ave. is seedy and barren with piers in various stages of disrepute and warehouses designed for function rather than beauty. There were a number of seafood restaurants in addition to Pier Four, and just before you got to one of them, Jimmy’s Harborside, you found the fish pier.

The pier was lined on either side with fish-packing facilities that were undergoing restoration. The brick was getting sandblasted, the trim was getting painted. Two shirtless body-builders were retarring a section of the roof, and pausing every few minutes for a pose-off. There were probably going to be ferns hanging in macrame holders by next tourist season.

At the end of the pier was a building called the New England Fish Exchange, Members and Captains Only. It formed the dead end of the wharf, enclosing the long courtyard and blocking off the view of the harbor. In this interior courtyard, trucks and forklifts and tourists mingled with seagulls and food wrappers and the smell of dead fish and diesel fuel and the No Name restaurant where fish were frying. Water from melting ice formed puddles near the packing companies and stood stagnant, luminous with oil slick.

Behind the pier buildings, the fishing boats were tied to the pier, tossing on the baleful harbor water, rusted and dirty-looking with arcane equipment for dragging and trawling, and other things that a landling couldn’t identify. After the noise and movement of the interior courtyard, this outback strip along the ocean was silent and almost empty of life. A crew member hosed down one of the trawlers, two guys in rubber boots and dirty white T-shirts sat on the edge of the pier eating fried fish from a paper container and drinking something from large paper cups. Across the harbor, planes sat waiting on the taxiways at Logan.

Hawk and I stood near the land end of the pier, looking down the length of the pier behind the buildings.

“If I were doing this I’d come in by boat,” I said. Hawk nodded. He was looking, in a relaxed way, everywhere.

“Behind the Exchange Building, right?”

“Un huh.”

“So they could come in from the harbor, do it, go back down into the boat and be gone before we hit the pier.”

“If they could get a boat,” Hawk said.

“Costigan can get a boat,” I said.

Hawk nodded again, his eyes moving along the roof line of the row of buildings nearest us. “And they only have to go over behind the next pier and get out and into a car and make good their, uh, escape.”

“You eloquent bastard,” I said.

“Be the best way,” Hawk said.

I nodded. “Okay,” I said. “We got about a half hour. Let’s go next door to Commonwealth Pier and reconnoiter.”

“Reconnoiter?” Hawk said.

“If you can say `make good their escape,‘ I can say reconnoiter.”

“True,” Hawk said.

We went back through the short parking lot in front of the fish pier and walked maybe a hundred yards to the Commonwealth Pier Building, which had recently been an exhibition hall and was now being converted to some kind of computer center. The noise from the power tools was loud, and the rubble of interior demolition made it hard going. Workers in yellow hard hats moved about and a couple stared at us as we walked through hard hatless, but no one bothered us. The huge interior of the building was nearly gutted. A small yellow front-end loader was scooping rubble into a container to be skidded out to a truck. At the end of the pier we could look through the window openings in the gutted building and get a clear view of the fish pier behind the Fish Exchange. There were a lot of white seagulls with gray wings, and a few brown seagulls, the color of sparrows. There was nobody else.

“You figure they know what we look like,” Hawk said.

“Probably got descriptions. Maybe pictures. Costigan owns Mill River and they had pictures of us.”

“Or maybe they just got orders to blast every handsome black man they see with an ugly honkie.”

“We’d be safe,” I said.

An open-topped Art Deco speedboat with a very large outboard engine idled slowly past us and edged in toward the fish pier. It was a new boat, with very raked-back lines and a metalliclooking gray paint job with red trim. There were four men in it. The guy steering wore a white captain’s hat. The other three were Oriental, wearing nondescript black pants and matching black T-shirts. The guy in the white hat brought the boat to a gentle idle beside the fish pier, on the outside harbor edge, behind the Exchange, eight feet below the surface of the pier, and tied up to a rusted metal ladder that reached almost to the water line. The three Orientals went up the ladder, almost it seemed without touching it. One of them stood in the center of the dock, moving his head back and forth. He carried a blue gym bag. The other two took a place at opposite corners of the Exchange Building. Below, the speedboat idled quietly, and the guy in the white hat leaned on the steering wheel with his folded arms and gazed out toward the open sea. I looked at my watch. They were fifteen minutes early.

“The revenge of the Ninja,” Hawk said.

“Somebody’s doing somebody a favor,” I said. “Somebody must owe Costigan.”

“Maybe everybody owe Costigan,” Hawk said.

“We do,” I said. “What do you suppose he’s got in the gym bag?”

“Sophisticated kung fu weapons,” Hawk said. “Like maybe a Uzi.”

“Or a sawed-off,” I said. “Where’s Bruce Lee when you really need him.”

“We could use a boat,” Hawk said.

“Can you swim?” I said.

Hawk looked down at the murky harbor water and then looked at me. “In that?”

I nodded.

“That like swimming in a sewer,” Hawk said. I nodded again. Hawk shook his head.

“Man was right ‘bout you blue-eyed satans,” he said.

“We won’t swim across,” I said. “We’ll drop off the fish pier and edge around below them.” Hawk didn’t say anything.

We went back out of the construction and walked to the fish pier. On the Boston side a big trawler lay against the pier empty. Hawk and I dropped onto it. I took off my blazer, my shirt and shoes. I checked that the snap on my holster was tight. Hawk had a shoulder holster, which he removed and readjusted over his bare upper body. He looked down at the water.

“Least there no sharks,” he said. “Pollution would have killed them.”

We left our clothes in a pile on the trawler and went over the edge into the cold ugly water. Treading water we pushed along the hull of the trawler and around its stern and moved along the pier, holding the rough stones and pressing close, out of sight from the pier ten feet above us. A radio played on the pier someplace and I could hear Willie Nelson. Debris bumped against us as we edged along the pier. I didn’t look. I didn’t want to know what it was. The water was cold and harsh and black. There were barnacles here and there on the stones of the pier. Not many, and probably from another time. Not much could live in the water these days. Now and then half-rotten seaweed made the stones slimy and made me slip as we edged along.

Hawk said very softly, “You figure this stuff flotsam, or jetsam?”

There was a second fishing boat, smaller than the first, with a narrow gush of water occasionally belching from the bilge pump. We went outside it. There was room inside but we didn’t want to risk getting crushed if the boat drifted in.

At the end of the pier we paused, Hawk behind me. I edged my head around the corner, The stern of the speedboat rolled gently five feet in front of me. I looked up. The Orientals weren’t visible. In the speedboat, from my oceangoing angle, I could see only the back of the driver’s white yachting cap.

I turned and put my mouth next to Hawk’s ear. “You take the captain,” I said. “I’ll go up the ladder.” Hawk nodded, only his head and one arm and shoulder showing above the water. We edged around the corner of the pier. Three gray and white seagulls bobbed on the water near the speedboat. They looked at us with what seemed to be annoyance.

I went inside the speedboat and caught the lowest rung of the rusty pier ladder. Hawk went past me, outside the speedboat. I looked back as he disappeared from view and then I took out my gun, and holding it in my right hand I went up the ladder. The man at the far right corner of the Exchange Building saw me as my head and shoulders cleared the floor of the pier, and went for his gun under his shirt. I shot him and he doubled up and dropped forward on the ground. The other two turned toward me.

“Freeze,” I said with a lot of sincerity. I had the GI .357 leveled and moving in a small are between the two of them. The man closest to me had his hand inside the gym bag. I felt a tremor on the ladder below me. I stepped up onto the pier, the gun still leveled and moving in its little arc. The fallen man by the edge of the building was doubled up, his knees drawn to his chest. He was grunting with pain. There was movement in the left edge of my peripheral vision.

“It’s me, bawse,” Hawk said.

“Never thought it wasn’t,” I said.

Hawk stepped to the man with the gym bag. He took a handful of hair in his left hand and caught the man’s right wrist with his right hand. He eased the hand out of the gym bag.

“Anything in that hand, and you dead,” he said. The hand came out empty. Hawk kicked the gym bag toward me. He slid his hands over the man’s body, took a big gravity knife out of the man’s right-hand pocket and stepped away. He turned toward the other man, by the edge of the Exchange Building. He pointed at him.

“You,” Hawk said. “Walk over here, hands on your head.”

The man looked at Hawk and shook his head slightly and shrugged.

Hawk jerked his thumb toward us, and put his hands on top of his head for a moment. The man nodded once and put his hands on his head and walked toward us. I held the gun steady on him. When he reached Hawk, he launched a karate kick with a movement so fast and precise it was almost immediate. Hawk leaned back out of the way and the kick missed. The man landed and spun and launched another kick almost before he’d landed; elevating like a spring.

Hawk caught him.

Hawk got the kicking foot around the ankle with his right hand and locked a handful of T-shirt with his left. He held the man motionless at eye level for a moment then pivoted and threw the man spinning into the harbor.

The man with the gym bag said, “Jesus Christ.”

“Yes,” I said. “Exactly.” I put my gun back in my holster and picked up the gym bag. It said NIKE on it, in white script.

The kicker floundered below in the water, thrashing after the speedboat, which was drifting twenty yards from shore, the captain slumped facedown in the cockpit. I took off my holster and put it in the bag.

“Take him with us,” I said to Hawk. “Around that way. I’ll meet you at the car.”

Then I headed down the right side of the pier carrying the gym bag. Down the pier I saw a Port Authority cop in a blue baseball cap walking rapidly along with two fishermen behind him.

“Officer,” I yelled, “quick. A man’s been shot.” The cop broke into a jog, one hand resting on his holstered gun, the other holding the walkie-talkie. As he ran he spoke into it.

“I got him out,” I said. “He’s back there.”

“Stick around,” the cop said. “I’ll want to talk with you.”

He went on past and the two fishermen followed.

“Yes, sir,” I said. I cut through one of the fishpacking bays and walked swiftly to the parking lot. People stared at me, shirtless in my soaked jeans. Hawk was sitting in the backseat with the Oriental man. I got in front, started the car, and we drove away. Halfway down Northern Avenue we saw an ambulance coming with its lights flashing, and behind it, two Boston Police cars.

“Fearsome doings on the fish pier,” I said.

“What’s in the gym bag?” Hawk said.

I fished into it, on the seat beside me, and came out with a modified shotgun. No shoulder stock, and the barrels sawed off even with the remains of the stock.

“Inscrutable,” Hawk said.