Playmates (18 page)

Storrow Drive would be standing still at this time. And so would the Mass. Pike. Shrewdly, I stayed off both and went straight out Commonwealth. So did everyone else. I hit every red light, and got to Newton at five thirty-five. Bobby and Madelaine were having cocktails. There was a pitcher of martinis on the coffee table. No one offered me one.

"Brooklyn will go for it," I told Deegan.

He was sitting in a Barcalounger wearing a white cotton sweater over a crimson polo shirt, collar up. His acid-washed jeans were carefully ironed and his Top-Siders were new.

"You turn on the OTB thing and they give you immunity and protection."

"And you?" he said. Madelaine sat on the foot of the Barcalounger, near his ankles, her left hand resting on his knee, sipping a martini from a thick lowball glass. She had her shoes off but otherwise looked as if she'd just come from work in a gray wrap-around dress.

"Me? You don't mention Dwayne, and he and I don't mention you," I said. "Nobody ever fixed a Taft game."

"What happens about Davis?"

"I got no control over that," I said. "But if there's no gambling case, I don't know how they'll make you for Davis."

"Danny Davis?" Madelaine said.

Deegan made a shushing motion with his hand.

"What about Danny?" Madelaine said. "Bobby, did you..."

"Put a lid on it, Madelaine. How do you know this guy hasn't got a wire?"

Madelaine looked as if she'd bitten into a sawdust donut. Her mouth shut and stayed shut.

"He's not going down for it," I said, "but Bobby had Danny Davis killed. Tried to have Dwayne killed. If he were going down for it you'd probably be an accessory to murder."

"I never . . ." she said, and that's as far as she got. Deegan leaned forward and grabbed her arm and yanked her over, so that she was sprawled on top of him on the lounger. With his face against hers, and his lips actually touching her lips, he said, "Shut up, you understand that? Shut your fucking trap."

I could see by the whiteness of his knuckles that he was squeezing her arm hard. She squirmed, pulling at his fingers.

"You understand?" he said again in a hoarse voice, holding her head in place with his left hand.

"Yes," she whispered, and he let her go. She got up abruptly and went and stood near the fireplace rubbing her arm where he'd squeezed it.

"You say what you want," Deegan said to me calmly. "I'm not saying anything at all about any murder stuff, that's not part of this deal. I had nothing to do with any murders."

"I'm not wired, Bobby," I said. "And I just wanted Madelaine to know who she was sleeping with. But for the record the deal doesn't include any murders."

"Fine," Deegan said. "Who do I talk to?"

"I'll set it up," I said. "You'll be here?"

"Right here," Deegan said.

THE next morning Dwayne bolted. He went into a washroom at the Lancaster Tap, opened the pebble glass window and went out and down the alley, leaving two campus cops having cheeseburgers and coffee and wondering what took Dwayne so long.

Chantel met him at the foot of the alley and they were off in the Trans Am, with Hawk behind them. He followed them to a house off Blue Hill Ave. near Mattapan Square. Watched them for a while until they settled in, and then he carne and told me about it.

"You stuck with Chantel," I said. "You knew he wouldn't go without her."

Hawk nodded. "Dwayne can't drive," he said.

"He could have taken a cab," I said.

"Sure," Hawk said.

"Let's go see him," I said.

"Might make him run again," Hawk said. "I'm getting sick of chasing him."

"We need to talk," I said.

We went in Hawk's car. Out the expressway and onto Columbia Road toward Mattapan Square. Hawk was listening to an album by Kinky Friedman and the Texas Jewboys.

"What happened to Hugh Masekela?" I said.

"Next tape," Hawk said.

Hawk turned the jag down Blue Hill Ave. and in another ten minutes we were pulling up in front of a three decker like a thousand others in Boston. Porches on the front of each floor with wooden railings. Shingle siding. Flat roof. The small yard out front was neatly trimmed. There were flowers in flower boxes on each floor. The house had been painted recently.

Hawk and I got out of the car. Everyone I saw was black, children mostly, and some older people. No one paid me any attention.

"First floor," Hawk said as we went up the steps to the porch. We went into the little entryway. The stairs went up the left side of the hall. There was a door in the right wall. I knocked. There were footsteps, and the door opened as far as the security chain inside would let it. A black woman looked out at us.

I said, "Hello, my name is Spenser, I'm here to see Dwayne."

"No Dwayne here," she said.

"Yes there is, Ma'am," Hawk said. "I know he's here. Trans Am parked in the garage."

"Ask Chantel," I said. "They'll see me." The door closed. Hawk stepped back out onto the porch and looked down the driveway. After a minute or two the footsteps returned and the door opened. This time it was Chantel. She looked out at me. Hawk came back from the porch.

"Wait a minute," Chantel said.

She closed the door. The chain bolt slid off, and then the door opened. Chantel stepped back. We went into a den with a television, a braided rug on the floor, a daybed covered with a paisley throw, and a big leather armchair. Beyond the den was a big old kitchen, the kind that families would spend most of their time in. Chantel led us through the den and into the kitchen. There was a big square table against the wall opposite the big gas stove. There was another daybed in the kitchen, this one built in with a headboard of the same upright pine boards that formed the wainscot. At the foot of the daybed was a big old black leather rocking chair. The linoleum floor was covered with another braided rug. A door off the kitchen led to what appeared to be a dining room, another opened on a bedroom. At the far end of the kitchen was a bathroom and pantry. An old, portly black man stood at an easel in the middle of the kitchen floor under a bright fluorescent light, painting a landscape in oils. The woman who had opened the door sat at the oilcloth-covered table with Dwayne. There was coffee and the remains of a pumpkin pie on the table.

Dwayne looked up at me as Chantel brought us in.

"What you want?" he said.

Chantel went over and sat beside him. She had on a white shirt and jeans and low black boots. A scarlet scarf was knotted at her throat. Hawk went and leaned on the door jamb as he had at Madelaine's. There was no one could lean on a door like Hawk. When he was still he was entirely still. There was no real evidence he was alive when he leaned on the door jamb. You couldn't even see him breathe.

There was an empty chair at the table so I pulled it out and sat. The old guy at the easel ignored me. He had on a blue bib apron with paint stains on it, and he had a cigar clenched in his teeth. His brush moved in confident dabbing motions on the canvas.

"I think I got this thing fixed," I said to Dwayne.

Dwayne stared at me without comment. The woman got up and started to clear the table. She had on a yellow dress belted at the waist.

"Deegan was involved in a robbery in New York," I said. "To avoid prosecution on this gambling thing, he's going to testify against his associates in the robbery."

"So what's that mean for us?" Chantel said.

"Means you're clean. You can play basketball and sign with the Knicks for more than Ewing got-if the Clippers don't draft you-and live happily ever after."

"What about Bobby?" Dwayne said.

"After Bobby rats on his friends," I said, "he'll be in a witness protection program. New name, new place, new career. He won't have any chance, or any reason, to bother you," I said.

"How you get him to do that?" Dwayne said.

"Told him you'd testify against him on the gambling."

Dwayne stared at me. "I'd never squeal on nobody, man."

"He'd have killed you if we let him," I said.

"Don't matter about him," Dwayne said. "Matters 'bout me."

"You won't be a squealer even if the guy deserves to be squealed on," I said.

Dwayne thought about that for a minute, then nodded slowly.

"Man's what he is, not what other people are," he said.

"Sure," I said. "But you won't have to testify, so long as Bobby thinks you will."

"Ought to know I wouldn't," Dwayne said. "Dwayne Woodcock don't do no squealing."

"Fortunately, Bobby Deegan does," I said.

"Don't believe Bobby'll do that," Dwayne said.

"Did you believe he'd have somebody try to kill you?" I said.

"Don't have to be Bobby," Dwayne said. Chantel made an angry little tsh sound, and Dwayne glanced at her. He didn't speak. But after he'd looked at Chantel for a moment he began to barely nod his head.

"Who else know we here?" Dwayne said.

"Just Hawk and me," I said.

"You going to tell?" Dwayne said.

"No," I said. "But you don't need to hide. Deegan's going to be wrapped up. You can play ball."

Dwayne shook his head.

"We going to stay here for a while," he said. "See what happens. See if it's like you say."

"Coach Dunham will want to talk," I said.

"Things be like you say," Dwayne said, "I call him in a while."

"There's another piece of the deal," I said. Dwayne waited.

"You learn to read," I said.

"Nobody tell Dwayne Woodcock what he do and don't do."

I nodded my head at Hawk. "Man saved your life awhile ago," I said.

Dwayne looked over at Hawk and nodded his head sharply once.

"You owe him," I said.

"Can't read," Hawk said, "you gonna be a dumb fuck all your life, excuse me, Chantel, and whitey gonna yank you around."

"He's right," Chantel said in a flat voice.

"Nobody call Dwayne Woodcock a dumb fuck," Dwayne said. He started to get up.

"Sit down, Dwayne," Hawk said. "We went to all this trouble to save your ass, I don't want to have to shoot you now."

Dwayne was on his feet staring at Hawk. Hawk remained as still on the door jamb as he had. The old guy kept painting. For all he cared we could have been on television.

Chantel said, "Dwayne, the man saved your life and mine. You know you got to learn to read. Both of them saved your life."

Dwayne stood for a long moment without speaking, then he sat back down.

"College will be able to arrange for a reading specialist," I said. "Coach Dunham can get that going."

Dwayne nodded.

"I want your word on it," I said.

Dwayne stared at me. I waited. Chantel banged her elbow into his upper arm.

"Dwayne," she said, making it two long syllables.

Dwayne still stared. Then he said, "You got it.

"Thank you," I said.

I looked at the painting the old guy was working on. It was mountains with a valley and a lake in the valley.

"White Mountains," he said. "New Hampshire."

"Un huh," I said and headed for the door. In the Jaguar, driving back up Blue Hill Ave., Hawk said, "Grateful motherfucker."

"Maybe he is," I said, "but can't show it."

"Or maybe he ain't," Hawk said.

SUSAN and I were having dinner at a place called Rarities in the Charles Hotel in Cambridge.

Outside the bank of picture windows Charles Square was beginning to look autumnal, and the first pumpkins and cornstalks were clustered around the display base of the Charles Square sign. Harvard students were back; parents, visiting, were lounging around the hotel lobby looking a little startled that they had kids in college.

"They convicted Deegan's friends today," I said.

She was reading the menu closely, peering through the crimson-rimmed twelve-dollar half glasses that she bought in Neiman Marcus.

"Bobby Deegan? Dwayne Woodcock's friend?" she said.

"Yeah, Bobby sang them all right into the state penal institution at Ossining."

"And Bobby?"

"Disappeared into the witness protection program."

"Do those work?" Susan said.

"They work if the guys after you have limited resources, and they work if the guy in the program isn't a dope. But most of them are dopes. They can't stay away from it. They knock over a crap game or they show up in Vegas on a gambling junket and someone recognizes them, or they get in a fight and someone hears about them."

"Do you think it will for Bobby Deegan?" The waiter came solicitously by and took our order.

"Deegan's smart," I said, "but he's been a wiseguy his whole life. He's never held a job, except being a crook. They'll set him up with new identity, papers, some money, a house. And they'll place him in a job. Selling real estate, say, or being a short order cook; that kind of thing. And he'll go to work every day and after a while his boss will tell him to do something and Bobby won't want to and they'll come to words and Bobby will pop him on the nose and quit and pretty soon he's back into being a crook, and after a while somebody will recognize him, or he'll get busted, or whatever. If it's the mob after you, then you're in trouble, because they've got time and money and connections and no passion. Killing you is a wise management decision for them. Passion cools, except you and me, Hotpants, but wise business decisions by the mob are forever. His friends may forget about who put them away, or they may not."

The waiter brought Susan some sweetbreads with grilled fruit. For me he brought oysters.

"Hotpants?" Susan said.

"Yeah, that's why the oysters," I said.

Susan ate a very small bite of sweetbread. "How is Dwayne?" she said.

"Fine," I said. "Surly, arrogant, uncommunicative, and the holder of a two-point-five-million contract over three years."

"Is Chantel with him?"

"Yes." I said.

"Good," Susan said. "Can he read?"

"Some," I said. "Chantel says he got to about third grade level over the summer."

"That's very good progress," Susan said. "It's only been, what, five months?"

"Yes."

I slurped an oyster and gestured with my wine list at the waiter.