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.
'You're about ten seconds from dead,' I said, 'unless I know that never again will anybody go anywhere near Susan Silverman.'
The blood was steady, from a cut inside his mouth probably, and it was ruining his shirt and tie.
'Never heard of her.'
I hit him in the face again, holding his lapel with my left hand to keep him up.
'You sent somebody out there to scare her, or me, or both, because I'm looking around under some of your rocks.' 'Man's crazy, Hawk.' Marcus had trouble saying crazy, because his lower lip was starting to puff.
'Probably is,' Hawk said, 'but that don't help you none, Tony.'
Marcus turned back toward me. 'What you after?'
I let go of him and stepped back away from him. Marcus glanced quickly at the door and away. I knew he was waiting for reinforcements.
'Anybody comes in that door, and I'll kill you,' I said. 'So don't be too hopeful.'
'Won't matter,' Marcus said. 'I'm dead. You're dead. Hawk's dead. Won't matter. I didn't get to own what I own by being scared to die.'
'What am I digging up that you don't want dug up?' I said.
Marcus shook his head. 'Take another punch, if you want to. Keep you busy 'fore you die.'
