'Podolak'll never think of looking for us here,' I said.
Hawk didn't answer. He stared at the house.
'Lower half of the windows,' Hawk said, 'boarded up.'
I nodded.
'Cellar windows are entirely covered.'
Hawk nodded.
'Lets go ring the bell,' he said.
We got out of the car and walked toward the house. I was wearing my Smith & Wesson.38, butt forward, on the left side of my belt, and carrying a Browning nine-millimeter, with a round in the chamber on my right hip. I felt like Wild Bill Hickok. Nothing moved in the house that we could see as we walked across the street. The front door had a peephole. Hawk rang the bell. After a moment, the door opened two inches on a security bolt. A face appeared in the opening. The face didn't speak.
'Vanko,' Hawk said.
'Not home.'
'You're Vanko,' Hawk said.
'Not home.'
'You speak English?' Hawk said.
'No.'
Hawk looked at the face for a time.
'It's not over, Vanko,' Hawk said. 'It's just starting.'
The face didn't show any reaction. Nor did it move. Hawk turned and walked away. I followed him. I heard the door close behind us. My back felt as if someone had painted a bull's-eye on it. We got in Hawk's car and sat some more.
'Door's metal,' I said.
'Yes.'
'We can sit,' I said. 'They have to come out sometime.'
Hawk shook his head.
'I done what I wanted to do,' he said.
'They know you're back,' I said.
'Un-huh.'
'Which means they'll probably feel obligated to have another run at you.'
'Wouldn't you?' Hawk said. 'I come calling?'
'Especially if I was really successful the first time.'
'Thanks for remembering,' Hawk said.
'I still think Vinnie might be helpful here,' I said.
'Don't need no help,' Hawk said.
He was looking steadily at the house.
'No,' I said. 'Of course not. But I do. Ukrainians might be colorblind and shoot me instead.'
'Un-huh.'
'He'd be protecting me,' I said.
Hawk shrugged. He was still looking at the house. A few snowflakes began to skitter aimlessly.
'Long as he ain't protecting them,' Hawk said.
18
THE LAST SNOWFALL of the season had started. The first serious snowflakes were falling purposefully down, past my office window onto Berkeley Street. The city seemed to hunch up a little and hurry a little, getting ready. I decided not to turn on the office television. As I matured, my taste for manufactured hysteria was beginning to decline. It was late winter. In late winter, it snowed in Boston. Sometimes it snowed in early spring. I had lived here all my adult life. I was starting to get used to it.
Cecile came into my office, wearing a very incorrect fur coat, a few hints of melted snow gleaming in her thick, black hair. I stood and took her coat.
'A lot of beaver died for this coat,' I said.
'Be very careful with the beaver remarks,' Cecile said with a smile. 'Besides, it's mink. And the little darlings died during orgasm.'
'What better way,' I said.
