I cranked up the MG, took a left on Gloucester, and headed for Copley Square. Hawk was standing outside the Copley Plaza Hotel wearing a glistening black leather jacket and skintight designer jeans tucked into black cowboy boots that glistened like the jacket. He was a little over 6 feet 2 inches, maybe an inch taller than I was, and weighed about two hundred. Like me. He blended with the august Bostonian exterior of the Copley Plaza like a hooded cobra. People glanced covertly at him, circling slightly as they passed him, unconsciously keeping their distance. He wore no hat and his smooth black head was as shiny as his jacket and boots.
I pulled the MG in beside him at the curb and he got in.
'This thing ain't big enough for either one of us,' he said. 'When you getting something that fits?'
'It goes with my preppy look,' I said. 'You get one of these, they let you drive around the north shore, watch polo, anything you want.'
I let the clutch in and turned right on Dartmouth.
'How you get laid in one of these?' Hawk said.
'You just don't understand preppy,' I said. 'I know it's not your fault. You're only a couple of generations out of the jungle. I realize that. But if you're preppy you don't get laid in a car.'
'Where you get laid if you preppy?'
I sniffed. 'One doesn't,' I said.
'Preppies gonna be outnumbered in a while,' Hawk said. 'Where we going?' I took April Kyle's picture out of my pocket and showed it to Hawk.
'We're going to eat dinner and then we're going to look for her,' I said.
'What we gonna do when we find her?'
'I don't know,' I said. 'Urge her to go home, I guess.'
'What you paying?'
'Half my fee,' I said, 'and expenses.'
'How much you getting?'
'A buck,' I said.
'You paying for dinner?' Hawk said.
'Yeah.'
'Better be a big meal.'
Chapter 9
'You want somebody killed,' Hawk said, 'you gotta give me the whole dollar.'
'I like a man with standards,' I said.
We were walking on Washington Street toward Boylston. As we moved along people got out of the way, spilling to each side of Hawk the way water surges past the prow of a cruiser. No one mistook him for a cop. The night was pleasant, not very cold, and the streets in the Combat Zone were crowded. 'Who this pimp I supposed to keep off your back?' Hawk said.
'Name's Trumps,' I said. 'Black, middle-sized, long arms, drives a white Jag sedan. Looks like he works out. You know him?'
Hawk stopped and looked at me. 'Trumps,' he said. 'I wish I see you take that sap away.' He smiled, and his face looked joyful.
'Bad?' I said.
'Oh, yeah-he bad, all right. He almost as bad as he think he is.'
'Bad as you?' I said.
Hawk's face looked even more cheerful, the glistening smile even wider. 'Course not,' he said. 'Nobody as bad as me. Except maybe you, and you too softhearted.'
We moved on again. Hawk paid no attention to the merchandise. He looked at the people.
'Trumps operate independently,' I said, 'or is he part of a chain?'
'Chain,' Hawk said. 'Works for Tony Marcus.'
'The regent of Roxbury,' I said.
Hawks shrugged.
'You know Tony?' I said.
'Sure,' Hawk said. 'Done a little work for him here and there.' He grinned. 'Security and enforcement division. He pay better than you.'
'Yeah, but does he have a nice personality?'
Ahead of us, at the corner of Boylston and Washington, was a bar with a large flashing sign that said, THE SLIPPER. The sign was made up of individual white light bulbs, and they flickered on and off in a random sequence and gave the effect of strobe lighting in a disco.
Hawk said, 'Now we're not looking for Trumps around here, right?'
