Ceremony (13 page)

"Is that G-O-O-N, rhymes with noon?" I said. "Or G-U-N-E, rhymes with prune?"

Susan was looking at Poitras and he back at her. Then he looked away. Another point for Susan. She had all the points but he seemed to have April. Was it time to play the porno hand. I didn't think April would care. Probably admire his artistic interests. We could bust Poitras, but what would Amy and April do then? Did April go back to Red, maybe take Amy along? I knew she wouldn't go home. They might very well be better off with Poitras than with Red.

"This is not over, Mitchell," Susan said. "I will not give in on this. I can't. I can't let you have access to children."

"Suze," I said, and made a time-out sign by putting one hand horizontally on top of the other one held vertical. "Time to go. I told April I wouldn't force her, and I won't."

Susan opened her mouth and closed it and looked at me once and then turned on her heel and walked out. I stood, smiled at Amy and April, and started toward the door.

"No thanks," I said to Poitras, "we'll find our way out. Nice seeing you again, April. Amy. Mitchell, I may stop by sometime and knock you on your ass again." Then I followed Susan.

Walking down Beacon Street, Susan was galvanic with fury. "How can we let him keep her. Them? How can we?"

"Hey, Suze," I said, "why nip a budding film career?"

"Goddamn it," Susan said, "it is not funny."

"Where you parked?" I said.

"Commonwealth."

"Want a snack before we part?"

She nodded and we walked up toward Newbury Street.

"How does a slob like that get to be executive nitwit, or whatever he is, in the state education system?" I said.

"Knew someone, I suppose," Susan said. "There's all sorts of hiring regulations and elaborate interviewing procedures, and one call from practically anyone circumvents it. Half the jobs in the Commonwealth are bagged before they're advertised."

"Hard to imagine Poitras has a friend," I said.

"He has girls and dirty movies," Susan said.

I looked at her in the odd light, under the high mist. "Cynical," I said. "Beautiful but hard, like a diamond."

"It would be a way to make friends," Susan said.

"True," I said. "It would also be a way to put someone in your debt if you had supplied him with things that public servants aren't supposed to want." We turned down Newbury.

"How about the police?" Susan said.

"And what happens to April and Amy?"

Susan nodded. We crossed Fairfield. The rain was misting down now, steady but very fine. The temperature had risen.

"On the other hand," Susan said, "what happens to them in any case?"

"I was hoping you'd think of something," I said.

"Maybe there isn't anything to think of. We could get them back home. But that's where they learned to be what they are."

We crossed Exeter Street and went into the Bookstore Cafe. There were books, and there was blond woodwork, and a bar and tables, and in the back a balcony as well. I liked eating in there. It made me feel intellectual.

I had a tongue sandwich on rye and Susan had a salad. We split a bottle of Norman cider. Not everybody sells Norman cider by the bottle.

"Has a European feel," Susan said.

"That sounds terrific," I said. "Can I have one?"

Susan grinned at me. "How did you ever get to be so big without growing up?" she said.

"Iron self-control," I said.

For dessert we had one Linzer torte and two forks and I walked Susan to her car. Before she got in she leaned her forehead against mine. "We really do have to think of something to do about Poitras and those girls."

"Yes. ' She kissed me lightly on the mouth and climbed into the front seat of her big Ford Bronco.

"I never figured how you do that without giving me a flash of thigh."

She grinned again at me. "Iron self-control," she said, and started up the Bronco and drove off. I stood and watched the car as long as it stayed in sight, three blocks down Commonwealth and then a left turn onto Berkeley and out of sight across the intersection. I always felt a little sad when she left, or when I left. Even if it wasn't for long. Even if I'd see her tomorrow. Probably kept it fresh. Probably drive each other wacko if we were together all the time. Sure we would. Better to both have our own place and do our own stuff and be together when we chose to.

I walked back up Commonwealth toward Fairfield. Very sensible, I thought. Stay separate and together. I crossed Commonwealth and went down Fairfield in the bright soaking mist. It's the right way… except how come I miss her whenever I leave her? My car had a ticket on it. Crime doesn't pay. Justice never sleeps.

Neither did I when I got home, or at least it didn't feel much like I slept. Except I must have, because I was having dreams that had something to do with being with Susan and not being with her and trying to find some children. I woke up and fell asleep and dreamed variations of the same dream until the phone rang and got me up at 7:15 It was Susan.

"You better come out here, right now," Susan said, and there was no laughter iri her voice.

"Trouble''"

"They've killed the dog," Susan said. "Please come quickly."

It was pre-rush hour, and what traffic there was was going the other way. I was at her house in twenty-five minutes. Susan met me at her front door. She had on her warm-up suit and sneakers. Without makeup her face looked a little simpler, like she must have as a kid.

"In the kitchen," she said. Her eyes were wet.

I went in. The black Lab was there. It had been shot in the head and the blood was stiff and dry and nearly as black as the fur it had stiffened. Some had soaked into the rug where the dog lay, on its side, between the kitchen table and the back door. I moved its leg. It was unyielding. The body had stiffened. "You find it this morning?"

"Yes."

"You come into the kitchen last night?"

Susan shook her head. "I came in the front door and went right upstairs."

"Probably shot it last night. Probably thought she was yours. Your back door wasn't locked."

"No," Susan said. "You know I don't lock the doors."

I stood up. "You may as well call the cops, and the dog officer."

"She was a lovely dog," Susan said. "What will I tell her folks?"

I didn't say anything.

"Why?" Susan looked at me. "You mentioned there had been threats, but… ?"

"I don't know. Maybe a warning. Maybe a substitute. They came and you weren't here, but'the dog was, so they brought her in and shot her instead. It won't happen again," I said. "You know who did it?"

"I know who had it done. That's better. Call the cops." 

Two cops came with the local dog officer. One of the cops was Cataldo. They took the dog away and the other cop went to tell the owners. Susan told Cataldo she didn't know why someone would do this.

Cataldo looked at me. "And you wouldn't have any idea either, would you?"

"No.

"Funny thing to do for no reason. Not even your dog, Susan."

"I know, Lonnie. I know. The poor thing. Maybe they were burglars and thought the dog would give them away."

"So they brought it in and shot it?"

Susan shrugged.

I said, "I have to go to work. Can you keep an eye on her?" Cataldo nodded. "I'll take her to school and pick her up when she's ready to come home."

"How about after that?" I said.

"I'll stick around," Cataldo said. "'Case the burglars come back."

"How about a paid detail?" I said. "Until I get this straightened out."

Cataldo shook his head. "I know Susan a long time now. Most of the guys do. We'll watch her for free."

"Who wouldn't?" I said.

Cataldo nodded again.

Susan said, "I won't even argue," and they went together in the cruiser.

I stood in her kitchen looking at the bloodstained rug and called Henry Cimoli on the phone. "Tell Hawk I need him," I said. "I'll be in there in about half an hour and I want him as soon as he can get there."

Henry said, "I'll tell him." And I hung up and headed for my car. When I got to the Harbor Health Club, Henry was in his office and Hawk was with him. They were drinking coffee. Henry had on blue-striped Adidas sneakers and a white T-shirt and dark blue sweat pants with zippered bottoms. The T-shirt said MANAGER in blue letters. Hawk was wearing gray and black Puma running shoes, white denim jeans, and a white cashmere sweater, V-neck, with no shirt under it. "Coffee?" Henry said. He was a little guy who'd been a very fine lightweight fighter once. Now he managed the Harbor Health Club and worked out twice a day. He looked like a superman doll. I took a white china mug of coffee from him. Hawk was slouched in one of the guest 156 chairs, his feet on the desk, holding a coffee mug in both hands.

To Hawk I said, "Somebody shot a dog and left it in Susan's kitchen."

"She okay?"

"Yes. I figured Tony Marcus."

Hawk nodded. He took a sip of coffee, put the mug on Henry's desk, and stood up by letting his feet drop off the desk and levering his body up as his feet hit. "Let's get to it," he said.

"You know where to find him?" I said.

"Yeah, he got a place in the South End-restaurant called Buddy's Fox, Clarendon and Tremont."

Henry said, "You want a third?"

I said, "No. Anything goes bad, tell Quirk, and see about Susan."

Henry nodded. Hawk slid open a drawer in Henry's desk and took out a shoulder holster with a .357 Magnum in it. He shrugged it on and put on a sandcolored suede jacket with a zipper front. And we went.

Buddy's Fox was across from the big round-roofed performing arts center.

Hawk parked his black Jaguar sedan at a hydrant in front of the restaurant and we got out. Hawk opened the trunk and took out a twelve-gauge shotgun. A pump model. He checked the action once, and then fed five shells into the magazine. He closed the trunk and said, "The restaurant is long and no wider than the front. Booths on both sides. Bar across the back. To the right of the bar is a little corridor. Down the corridor there are the men's room, the ladies' room on the right wall, the kitchen door at the far end, and Tony's office door on the left wall." Hawk held the shotgun casually across his shoulder, trigger guard up, as if we were shooting grouse on the moors.

"He always in there taking care of business. Has breakfast here every morning. Leaves after supper every night."

"He ever alone," I said.

"No," Hawk said. There was a sign in the restaurant window that said OPEN FOR BREAKFAST. I took my gun out and let it hang by my side. We went in. The place was old and looked as though it had been kept that way. There were four or five people having breakfast. Behind the bar at the far end a big, thick-necked black man with a flat nose was polishing glasses. We were halfway down the length of the room before he noticed us, and another ten steps toward him before he registered the shotgun. He looked toward the archway at the end of the bar and then put down the glass he was polishing and let his hands drop.

I raised my gun, "If your hands disappear, Jack, you're dead," I said.

The bartender froze. "Put 'em on the bar," I said. The bartender put both hands on the bar. The breakfast crowd was beginning to notice that all was not copacetic. The sounds of cutlery and conversation died. Without lifting the shotgun off his shoulder, Hawk stepped around behind the bar and hit the bartender in the forehead, bringing the gun butt forward as if he were driving a peg. The sound was harsh in the now dead-silent room. The bartender slumped off the bar and fell without a sound. I went past the end of the bar down the corridor. Hawk came behind me. A waitress met us halfway down the short hall. She had a tray of ham and eggs and home fries and toast. I said, "Go back in the kitchen, honey, and be quiet."

She looked at the gun in my hand and past me at Hawk with his shotgun and backed down the hall and into the kitchen. Just short of the swinging door on the left wall was a paneled oak door with no marking.

Hawk nodded. I turned the knob. It was locked.

A voice inside said, "Yeah. Who is it?"

Hawk moved up beside me. "Hawk," he said. "Open up."

A lock clicked, the knob turned, and Hawk and I hit the door simultaneously, each with a shoulder. The door rammed open, and whoever had opened it went backward and fell over a chair. Inside I kicked the door shut behind us. Hawk stepped to the left of the door, pumped a shell into the chamber of the shotgun, and held the gun level and still. To my left the guy who'd opened the door was getting to his feet. There was a trickle of blood from his nose. Another man stood against the back wall of the office, his hands straight at his sides and slightly spread. At the desk in front of me, with the remnants of breakfast on a tray and a white napkin tucked into his collar, was Tony Marcus. He was a nice-looking guy with a salt-and-pepper Afro and a thick mustache. He was tan skinned, not nearly as dark as Hawk. His neck and chin line looked soft and comfortable. The suit he had on under the napkin looked like maybe a thousand dollars and custom tailored. His nails shone.

He looked at me and Hawk without any expression. Then he shook his head.

"Hawk," he said sadly, "siding with him against us? Turning on a brother?" He shook his head again. Hawk was whistling softly between his teeth. A jazzy Yankee Doodle.

I spoke to the two bodyguards. "On the floor," I said. "Face down." The two men lay face down. "Clasp your hands behind your neck," I said. "And keep them there. If either one of you moves, I'll kill you." Then I put my gun back in my hip holster and said to Marcus, "Step around here in front of the desk."

Marcus took the napkin from his collar, wiped his mouth and mustache, dropped the napkin on the tray, and stood up. His face showed only a mild sadness. "This is too bad," he said. "This is very much too bad."

He walked around the desk and I hit him in the stomach with my left hand and on the point of the chin with my right hand. He went backward against the desk and sagged without falling. I hit him again and he did go down. He tilted left and fell on his side on the floor. The two bodyguards remained motionless. Hawk continued his barely audible whistle. I reached down and got hold of Marcus's lapels with both hands and lifted him upright and sat him on the edge of his desk and held him still. Blood ran down his chin.