Early Autumn Part 10

"For whatever comes along. Your way out of a lousy family life is to grow up early and you may as well start now."

"What am I supposed to do?"

"What I tell you. And do it with as little whining as you can. That would be a start."

"But I'm scared," Paul said. There was outrage in his voice.

"That's a normal condition," I said. "But it doesn't change anything."

He was silent We pa.s.sed Mount Auburn Hospital and crossed the Charles onto Soldier's Field Road. To the right Harvard Stadium looked like it was supposed to, round and looming with arches and ivy on the walls. The Harvard athletic plant sprawled for acres around it Soldier's Field Road became Storrow Drive and I went off Storrow by BU, and made the complicated loop turn till I was heading inbound on Commonwealth. At Ma.s.s. Ave. there was an underpa.s.s. I stayed to the right of it and turned onto Ma.s.s. Ave. and drove past the up ramp from Storrow and parked on the bridge with my emergency lights blinking. It was three twenty. Beside me Paul's stomach rolled. He belched softly.

"You see them?" he said.

"No."

A car behind me blew its horn at me, and the driver glared as he went by. Two kids in a Buick pulled around the car. The one in the driver's seat gave me the finger. The pa.s.senger called me an a.s.shole through his rolled-down window. I kept my eyes fixed on the Cambridge side of the bridge.

At three twenty-five I said to Paul, "Okay. It's time for you to walk. Tell me what you're going to do."

"I'm going to walk to the middle and when my mother gets to me I'm going to tell her lie down, that you're coming, and then I will lie down too."

"And if she doesn't hit the sidewalk?" I said "I'll tell her again."

"And when I show up what happens?"

"I get in one side. She gets in the other. We drive to that address."

"Good. Okay, walk across the street. They'll start her on their side."

He sat for a moment. Belched again. Yawned.

Then he opened the door of the MG and stepped out onto the sidewalk. He crossed and began to walk slowly toward the Cambridge side. He went about ten feet and looked back at me. I grinned at him and made a V with my fingers. He kept going. At the far end of the bridge I saw his mother get out of a black Oldsmobile and start toward us.

The Ma.s.s. Ave. Bridge is open. It rests on arches that rest on pilings. There's no superstructure. On a summer evening it is particularly pleasant for strolling across. It is said that some MIT students once measured it by repeatedly placing an undergraduate named Smoot on the ground and marking off his length. Every six feet or so there is still the indication of one smoot, two smoots, painted on the pavement. I could never remember how many smoots long the bridge was.

He was almost to his mother. Then they met. Across the bridge the Oldsmobile began to move, slowly. The boy dropped to the pavement. His mother hesitated and then crouched down beside him, tucking her skirt under her. Flat, I muttered, flat, G.o.ddammit.

I slammed the MG into gear and headed for Paul and his mother. Across the way the Olds began to pick up speed. A Ford station wagon swung around the corner from Memorial Drive, looped out into the wrong lane with a lot of squealing rubber and blaring horns, and rammed the Olds from the side, bouncing it against the high curb and pinning it. Before the cars had stopped, Hawk rolled out of the driver's side with a handgun the size of a hockey stick and took aim over the hood of the wagon. I cut across the traffic and rolled the MG up beside the sidewalk between the Olds and the two Giacomins.

From down the bridge I heard gunfire. I jerked up the emergency, slapped the car into neutral, and scrambled out of the MG.

"Patty, get in, take Paul and drive to Smithfield, Paul's got the address. Explain who you are and wait for me there. Move."

There was another gunshot from five smoots away. I had my gun out and was running toward the Olds when I heard the MG take off with its tires squealing. I was almost at the Olds when I saw Hawk go over the hood of the wagon, reach into the driver's side of the Olds and pull somebody out through the window with his left hand. With the barrel of his gun he chopped the pistol out of the other man's hand, s.h.i.+fted his weight slightly, put his right hand, gun and all, into the man's crotch and pitched him over the railing and into the Charles River.

A big guy with a tweed cap got out of the back seat of the Olds as I came around behind it. I turned sideways on my left foot and kicked him in the small of the back with my right. He sprawled forward and a gun that looked like a Beretta clattered on the pavement ahead of him as he sprawled. It skittered between the risers of the railing and into the river. I looked into the car and saw Buddy crouched down on the pa.s.senger's side of the front floorboards, huddled under the dash. Hawk looked in at the other window, the enormous handgun leveled. We saw Buddy at the same time.

Hawk said, "s.h.i.+t," stringing out the vowel the way he did. From the Boston side of the bridge I heard a siren. So did Hawk. He put the bazooka away inside his coat.

"Let's split," I said.

He nodded. We ran down Ma.s.s. Ave. and into one of the MIT buildings.

We moved through a crowded corridor lined with s.h.i.+p models in gla.s.s cases.

"Try and look like an upwardly mobile nineteen-year-old scientist," I said.

"I am, bawse. I got a doctor of scuffle degree."

Hawk was wearing skintight unfaded jeans tucked into his black boots. He had on a black silk s.h.i.+rt unb.u.t.toned nearly to his waist, and the handgun was hidden under a white leather vest with a high collar that Hawk wore turned up. His head was shaven and gleamed like black porcelain. He was my height, maybe a hair taller, and there was no flesh on his body, only muscle over bone, in hard planes. The black eyes over the high cheekbones were humorous and without mercy.

We went out a side door at the end of the corridor. Behind us there were still sirens. We strolled across the MIT campus away from Ma.s.s. Ave.

"Sorry about your car," I said.

"Ain't my car, man," Hawk said.

"You boosted it?" I said.

" 'Course. Ain't gonna f.u.c.k up my own wheels, man."

" 'Course not," I said. "I wonder if they've fished that guy out of the Charles yet"

Hawk grinned. "d.a.m.n," he said. "Wish the fuzz had been a little slower. I was gonna throw 'em all in."

CHAPTER I3.

We wandered in a mazy motion through the MIT complex down to Kendall Square and caught the subway to Park Street. We walked up across the Common to Beacon, where Hawk's car was parked in front of the State House by a sign that said reserved for members of the general court. It was a silver-gray Jaguar XJ 12.

Hawk said, "You owe me two bills, babe."

I said, "Gimme a ride to Susan's house."

"Smithfield?"

"Yeah."

"That's the woods, man. That's your f.u.c.king forest primeval out there."

"Hawk, it's thirteen miles north. We could run it in about two hours."

"Dinner," Hawk said. "Dinner and some champagne, I buy the champagne. They sell champagne out in the woods, babe?"

"We can stop at the trading post," I said, "Cost plenty wampum, though."

We got in and Hawk put the Jag in gear and we purred north over the Mystic Bridge. Hawk put an Olatunji tape on and the car trembled with percussion all the way to Saugus, where Hawk pulled into a Martignetti's off Route 1 and bought three bottles of Taittinger Blanc de Blancs. At forty-five bucks a bottle it was cutting a lot of profit off the two hundred I was paying him. He also brought out two six-packs of Beck's beer.

"No point wasting the champagne on you," he said. "You born beer, you gonna die beer. There's a bottle opener in the glove compartment."

Hawk peeled the foil off the neck of one bottle of Taittinger and twisted the cork out with a pop. I opened a bottle of beer. Hawk drank from the neck of his forty-five-dollar champagne bottle as he tooled the Jaguar up Route 1. I drank some Beck's.

"Difference between you and me, babe," Hawk said, "right here." He drank some more champagne.

"As long as there is one," I said. "Any difference will do."

Hawk laughed quietly and turned his Olatunji tape up louder. It was a quarter to six when we pulled into Susan's driveway. My MG was there beside the car Susan had bought to replace the MG. It was a big red Ford Bronco with a white roof and four-wheel drive and heavy-duty this and that, and big tires with raised white letters.

Hawk looked at it and said, "What the f.u.c.k is that?"

I said, "That's Suze's new vehicle. For Christmas I'm getting her some foxtails and a pair of big rubber dice."

"That's a big ten-four momma," Hawk said.

We went in. Susan was the only person I've ever seen that Hawk seemed to have any feeling about. He grinned when he saw her. She said, "Hawk," and came over and kissed him. He gave her the two unopened bottles of champagne.

"Brought us a present," he said. "Spenser promised supper."

She looked at me. "What am I, Howard Johnson's," she said.

"You're a real looker when you're angry," I said.

She took the champagne and went toward the kitchen, "G.o.dd.a.m.n host of the G.o.dd.a.m.n highway," she said.

"You forgot to take my beer," I said.

She kept going. Hawk and I went into the living room. Paul was watching a bowling show on television. Patty was sipping what looked like bourbon on the rocks.

"This is Hawk," I said. "Patty Giacomin and her son, Paul"

Paul looked at Hawk and then looked back at the bowling show. Patty smiled and started to get up and changed her mind and stayed seated.

"Are you the other one?" she said.

Hawk said, "Yes." He drank some champagne from the bottle.

Susan came back into the room with another bottle of champagne in a bucket and four fluted champagne gla.s.ses on a tole serving tray.

"Perhaps you'd care to try a gla.s.s," she said to Hawk.

" 'Spect ah might, Missy Susan," Hawk said.

Susan said to Patty, "May Paul have a gla.s.s?" Patty said, "Oh, sure."

Susan said, "Would you care for a gla.s.s, Paul?"

Paul said, "Okay."

Patty Giacomin said to Hawk, "I'd like to thank you for what you did today."

Hawk said, "You're welcome."

"I really mean it," Patty said. "It was so brave, I was so terrified. You were wonderful to help."

"Spenser gave me two hundred dollars," Hawk said. "I figure it'll show up in his expense voucher."

"Are you a detective too?" Patty said.

Hawk smiled. "No," he said. "No, I am not" His face was bright with mirth.

I said, "I'm going to put this beer away," and went into the kitchen. Susan came out behind me.

"Just what in h.e.l.l do you think we're going to feed these people?" Susan said.

"Got any cake?" I said.

"I'm serious. I don't have anything in the house to serve five people."

"I'll go get something," I said.

"And let me entertain your guests?"

"Your choice," I said. "I don't care to have a fight though."

"Well, don't do this to me. I don't simply sit around here waiting for your problems to drop by."

"Love me, love my problems," I said.

"Sometimes I wonder if that's a worthwhile tradeoff."

"There you go," I said, "talking that education management jargon again."

She was looking in the refrigerator. "If I want to say trade-off, G.o.ddammit, I'll say trade-off. I've got some of that Williamsburg bacon. We could make up a bunch of BLTs."

"Toasted," I said. "And on the side, some of those homemade bread-and-b.u.t.ter pickles we did last fall."

"And cut flowers in a vase, and the Meyer Davis Orchestra? You better go back in and help out on the conversation. Hawk must be ready to jump out of his skin."

"Not Hawk," I said. "He doesn't mind silence. He doesn't want to talk. He won't talk. He doesn't sweat small talk much."

"He doesn't sweat anything too much," Susan said, "does he?"

"Nope. He's completely inside. Come on in and talk a bit, then we'll all transfer to the kitchen and make sandwiches and eat. There's some cheese too, and a couple of apples. It'll be a feast" I patted her lightly on the backside. "Besides, we need your advice."