Pearl shifted on the bed and nosed at it. I told her not to and she withdrew nearly a quarter of an inch. I drank some beer and hunched over the plate, keeping my body between Pearl and the sandwich, and ate. It was not a neat sandwich and some of it fell on the night-table. I picked it up and gave it to Pearl.
The movie was some sort of love story between an elegant rich woman from Beverly Hills, who appeared to be 5’10“, and a roughneck ironworker from Queens, who appeared to be 5’6”. They were as convincing as Dan Quayle.
I finished my sandwich and got under the covers. Pearl got under the covers when I did, and stretched out between me and Susan.
“There appears to be a German Short Haired Pointer in bed with us,” I said.
“That’s where she sleeps,” Susan said. “You know that.”
I took the Globe from the floor beside the bed and opened it. The ironworker and the elegant lady were playing a love scene on the tube. I glanced at it. In the close-ups he was much taller than she was. I went back to the paper. I noted in the TV listings that the Bulls were playing the Pistons on TNT.
“Why did you sit for all that time in the middle of the project?” Susan said.
“Hawk figures that it will make the gang react,” I said.
“Isn’t that sort of like being the bait in a trap?” Susan said.
“I raised that point,” I said.
“And?”
“It is sort of like being bait,” I said.
Susan was silent. Her eyes stayed on the movie. I read the paper some more.
“It is what you do,” Susan said.
“Yeah.”
“But it scares me,” Susan said.
“Hell, it scares me too,” I said.
CHAPTER 10
I was in Martin Quirk’s office in Boston Police Headquarters on Boylston. Quirk’s office overlooked Stanhope Street, which was much more of an alley than a street.
Quirk was wearing a beige corduroy jacket today, with a tattersall shirt and a maroon knit tie. His dark thick hair was cut very short and his thick hands were nicely manicured. He was sitting at his desk so I couldn’t see his pants, but I knew they’d be creased and his shoes would gleam with polish and would match his belt. His desk was empty except for a picture of his wife, children, and dog.
“You are the neatest bastard I ever saw,” I said. “Except maybe Hawk.”
“So?” Quirk said.
“And the gabbiest.”
Quirk didn’t say anything. He merely sat, his hands quiet on the bare desk top.
“You called me,” I said.
“How you doing on the killing outside Double Deuce?” Quirk said.
“We’re hanging around awaiting developments,” I said.
“And?”
“Hobarts have noticed us.”
“And?”
“And nothing much. Kid named Major Johnson seems to run things.”
“They make a run at you yet?”
“Nothing serious,” I said. Quirk nodded.
“Will be,” Quirk said. “They buzz the kid and her baby?”
“Probably,” I said. “They seem to be the force in Double Deuce.”
“You doing any investigating or are you just sitting around scaring the Homies?”
“Mostly sitting,” I said.
“Anybody in the project talk with you?”
“Nearly as much as they talk with you,” I said. Quirk nodded.
“Tillis got a line on anything?”
“He thinks I’m the white Satan.”
“He thinks whatever will get his face on television,” Quirk said. “Just happens to be right this time.”
“Be more photo opportunities if the kids were white.”
Quirk shrugged.
