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, shifted 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 passenger’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, ”Shit,“ 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 Mass. Ave. and into one of the MIT buildings.
We moved through a crowded corridor lined with ship models in glass 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 shirt unbuttoned 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 Mass. Ave.
”Sorry about your car,“ I said.
”Ain’t my car, man,“ Hawk said.
”You boosted it?“ I said.
” ’Course. Ain’t gonna fuck up my own wheels, man.“
” ‘Course not,“ I said. ”I wonder if they’ve fished that guy out of the Charles yet“
Hawk grinned. ”Damn,“ 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 fucking 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
