Belson picked up the martini glass and looked through it along the bar, admiring the refracted colors. Then he took a brief sip and put it down.
“Spenser,” Belson said, “Marty and me figure you or Hawk done John Porter. And we probably can’t prove it, and if we could, why would we want to?”
“Why indeed,” I said.
“But I didn’t want you thinking we didn’t know.”
“I understand that,” I said. “And I know that if you thought, say, Joe Broz had done it, that maybe you could prove it, and would.”
Belson looked at me silently for a moment, then he drank the rest of his martini in a swallow, put the glass on the bar, and put his right hand out, palm up. I slapped it lightly.
“Tony Marcus killed Devona Jefferson and her baby,” I said.
“Himself?”
“He had Billy do it. I got a witness.”
I looked around the bar. There were several attractive young executive-class women with assertive blue suits and tight butts. I could ask one to join me for a discussion of Madonna’s iconographic impact on mass culture. The very thought made my blood boil.
“Who you got?” Belson said.
A new drink sat undisturbed in front of him on the bar.
“Major Johnson,” I said.
“Kid runs the Hobart Street Raiders.”
“Yeah. He was in the truck when she got hit. He won’t say so, but he probably ID’d her for Billy.”
“And?” Belson said.
“He’ll need immunity.”
“I can rig that,” Belson said. “Can he tie Tony to it?”
“Heard him give the order,” I said. “Whole thing supposed to be an object lesson for the gangs. Tony wanted them to remember who was in charge.”
Belson nodded.
“Sort of dangerous being the only eyewitness against Tony Marcus,” he said.
“We’ll protect him,” I said.
“You and Hawk?”
“Yeah.”
“Still, it’s his word against Tony’s. Tony ain’t much, but neither is the kid.”
“Thought of that,” I said.
“You got a plan?”
I smiled.
“Surely you jest,” I said.
Belson pushed the undrunk martini away from him and leaned his elbows on the bar.
“Tell me,” he said.
I did.
CHAPTER 43
International Place nestles in the curve of the High Street off-ramp from the Central Artery, right across the street from the new Rowe’s Wharf development on the waterfront. It’s about forty stories tall, with a four-story atrium lobby full of marble and glass. In the lobby is a dining space, and at one end of the dining space is a croissant shop. Hawk and I were sitting at one of the little tables in front of the croissant shop, having some coffee and acting just like we belonged there. The glass walls let in the sun and the movement of urban business outside. It was 10:20 in the morning and most of the tables were empty. A roundish young woman at the next table was enjoying black coffee with artificial sweetener, and a chocolate croissant.
“Tony know the spots, don’t he?” Hawk said.
He was wearing a teal silk tweed jacket over a black silk T-shirt, with jeans, and black cowboy boots. He leaned back in his chair, his legs straight out, his feet crossed comfortably at the ankles. I had on a blue blazer and sneakers. If there were a GQ talent scout in the building, our careers would be made.
“Major’s okay?” I said.
“Yeah. I told him Tony’s answer when we said Major had to take the fall.”
“‘Plenty more where he came from’?”
Hawk grinned. “What Major hate was not so much that Tony would let him take the rap, but that he didn’t matter. Major like to think he important.”
“Here’s his chance,” I said.
