Hawk said, “I’ll see to John Porter.”
“We be going,” Major said.
Hawk nodded and Major turned and walked away across the field toward the open end. From the stands the long silent row of black kids in Raiders hats went with him, one after the other jumping down off the grandstand and following him in silence.
“He might have killed me,” Jackie said.
Hawk was motionless, looking after Major.
“For Christ sake, Hawk,” Jackie said. Her voice was still very shaky. “You might have killed me shooting at him.”
“No,” Hawk said. “I wouldn’t have.”
Hawk looked down at John Porter for another silent moment. John Porter stared at the ground, waiting for whatever would happen. Then Hawk put the big Magnum back carefully under his arm and looked again at Major, now nearly across the field, with his gang filing after him.
“Can we use him?” I said to Hawk. “Will he stay?”
Hawk nodded. The sun was well up now, and the ducks had returned and were once again paddling in the Muddy River.
“Kid more like me than a lot of people,” Hawk said.
CHAPTER 42
Belson and I were sitting at the bar in Grill 23 across the street from police headquarters and two blocks from my office. We were each drinking a martini. I had mine with a twist. Around us were a host of young insurance executives and ad agency creative types wearing expensive clothes and talking frantically about business and exercise. Campari and soda seemed popular.
“One of the Hobart Street Raiders got shot,” Belson said.
There were mixed nuts in a cut-glass bowl on the bar. I selected out a few cashews and ate them.
“That so?” I said.
“Dude named John Porter. Somebody dropped him off at City Hospital ER with a slug in his shoulder. John Porter wouldn’t say who.”
“John Porter?” I said.
“Yeah. You been dealing with the Raiders, haven’t you?”
“Small world,” I said.
I sipped my drink. It takes awhile acquiring a taste for martinis, but it’s worth the effort.
“Raiders have cleared out of the Double Deuce apartments,” Belson said. “Packed up and left. Hear from the gang unit that Tony Marcus put out the word.”
“Public-spirited,” I said.
“Tony? Yeah. Anyway, they’re gone.”
Belson drank the rest of his martini and ordered another. His were straight-up and made with gin and an olive. Mine was made with Absolut vodka, on the rocks. I ordered one too.
“Just being polite,” I said. “Don’t want you to feel like a lush.”
“Thanks,” Belson said. He sorted through the mixed nuts.
“You eating all the cashews?” he said.
“Of course.”
“One-way bastard,” Belson said.
He found a half cashew and took it, and two Brazil nuts and ate them and sipped from his second martini. His jacket was unbuttoned and I could see the butt of his gun. He wore it in a holster inside his waistband.
“Marty and I were talking,” Belson said. “Figure whoever spiked Porter probably did us a favor. Been in and out of jail most of his life. Leg-breaker. Some homicides we could never prove.”
We each drank a little. Around us the afterwork social scene whirled in a montage of pastel neckties and white pantyhose and perfume and cologne and cocktails, and talk of StairMasters and group therapy and recent movies.
“Old for a gangbanger,” Belson said. “Nearly thirty.”
I nodded. I rummaged unsuccessfully for cashews. They were all gone. I ate three hazelnuts instead.
“Kid seemed kind of proud about being shot,” Belson said. “Gang kids put a lot of stock in that.”
“They got nothing else to put stock in,” I said.
“Probably not,” Belson said. “But that’s not my problem. I investigate shootings. Even if the shooting is maybe necessary, I’m supposed to investigate it.”
“And handsomely paid for the work, too,” I said.
“Sure.”
