Walking Shadow (5 page)

The grounds around the house seemed to have been landscaped by Tarzan of the apes. Bushes, vines, saplings, weeds, decorative plantings run amok, all looped and sagged around the house, clustered in front of it, clung to it, and concealed far too much of it.

"This is ugly," Susan said. She had on jeans, and sneakers, and a lavender tee shirt with the sleeves cut off. Sweat had darkened the tee shirt. Sweat ran down her face under the long billed Postrio baseball cap. A sheen of sweat defined the small, hard muscles in her forearms.

"They'd never recognize you at Bergdorf s," I said.

She paid no attention, focusing as she always did on the question before her. She was wearing tan leather work gloves and carrying an axe.

"We need a chain saw," Susan said.

"Jesus," I said.

"You don't think I can handle a chain saw?"

"They're sort of dangerous," I said.

"If I weren't totally fearless, I'd be a little afraid of chain saws."

"Well, it would speed things up," she said.

"What's the hurry? We have the rest of our life to do this."

"You know perfectly well that I am always in a hurry."

"Almost always," I said.

"Except then."

Pearl came galloping up the slope from the stream, and jumped up with both feet on Susan's chest. Susan leaned forward so that Pearl could lap her face, which Pearl did vigorously. Susan squinched and endured the lapping until Pearl spotted a squirrel and dropped down and stalked it.

"God, wasn't that awful," Susan said.

"You might tell her not to do that," I said.

"She likes to do that," Susan said.

The squirrel zipped up a tree, and when it was safely out of reach, Pearl dashed at it and jumped up with her forepaws against the tree gazing after it.

"You think she'd actually eat the squirrel?" Susan said.

"She eats everything else she finds," I said.

Susan took a big swing with her axe at the base of a tree-sized shrub. What she lacked in technique, she made up in vigor, and I decided not to mention that she swung like a girl. I went back inside and worked on demolishing the back stairs with a three pound sledge and a crowbar.

I had a radio playing jazz in the kitchen. Pearl moseyed around in the fenced-in fields finding disgusting things to roll in. She came back periodically to show off her new smell, negotiating the debris with easy dignity. I could see Susan through the front windows.

She had her axe, her long-handled clippers, her bow saw, and her machete. She hacked and cut and clipped and sawed and stopped periodically to haul the cuttings into a big pile for pickup. Her tee shirt was dark with sweat. But, she was, I knew, tireless. For all of her self-mocking parody of the Jewish American Princess, she loved to work. And was rarely more happy than when she was fully engaged.

I got the crowbar under one edge of the lath and plaster wall and pried away a big chunk, exposing one of the stair stringers. With the three-pound sledge I knocked the stringer loose and the stairs canted slowly and then came down with a satisfying crash.

This is a lot better, I thought, than trying to find who killed Craig Sampson.

The tallest one did the talking.

"You're Mister Spenser?" he said.

"Yeah."

"My name is Lonnie Wu," he said.

"I believe you know my wife."

"Rikki," I said.

"Yes."

Lonnie Wu was maybe 5' 10" and slim. He had polished black hair combed straight back, and a small, neat black moustache. He was wearing a gray cashmere jacket with a big red picture frame plaid in it that fitted him as if they had grown up together, and probably cost more than my whole wardrobe. He wore a black silk shirt buttoned to the neck, and black slacks, and black loafers that were shinier than his hair.

"Have a seat," I said.

He coiled fluently into my client chair. There was only one. He said something to the two guys who'd come with him, and they stood against the wall on either side of my office door. I opened the right-hand top drawer of my desk a little.

"Couple of waiters from the restaurant?" I said.

"No."

"They from the north?"

"They are from Vietnam."

Wu smiled. The companions seemed to be barely out of their teens. They were both shorter than Wu, small-boned and lank haired One of them had a horizontal scar maybe two inches long under his left eye. They both wore jeans and sneakers and maroon satin jackets. The guy without the scar wore a blue bandana on his head.

"You are a detective," Wu said.

I nodded.

"And you are investigating the murder of an actor in Port City."

I nodded again.

"You had lunch recently with my wife."

"Sure," I said.

"In your restaurant."

"And you questioned her."

"I question everybody," I said.

"While you're here, I'll probably question you."

"I wish to know why you are questioning my wife."

"See previous answer," I said.

"Excuse me?"

"Like I said, I question everybody. Your wife is simply one of the people involved with the theater."

"My wife," Wu said calmly, "is not 'simply' anything. She is Mrs. Lonnie Wu. And I would prefer that you not speak to her again."

"How come?" I said.

"It is unseemly."

"Mrs. Wu didn't seem to think so," I said.

"What Mrs. Wu thinks is not of consequence. It is unseemly for her to be having lunch with a lowfaan."

"Is lowfaan a term of racial endearment?"

"It is an abbreviated form ofguey lowfaan, which means barbarian," Wu said.

"Though many people use it merely to indicate someone who is not Chinese."

I nodded.

"You don't fully subscribe, then, to the melting pot theory," I said.

"Nor do I wish to stand here and make small talk," Wu said.

"I think it would be best if you stayed out of Port City."

"Is it okay if I retain my U.S. citizenship?" I said.

"What you do outside of Port City is your business. But if you come back.. he moved his head in such a way as to include the two Vietnamese kids against the wall… "we will make it our business."

The kids were silent. As far as I could tell, they understood nothing of what was being said. But they didn't seem to care. They seemed relaxed against the wall. Their dark eyes were empty of everything but energy.

"So that's what the teeny hoppers are for," I said.

"I don't know teeny hopper," Wu said.

"Adolescents," I said.

Wu nodded. I could see him file the phrase away. He'd know it next time.

"Don't be misled," Wu said.

"They are boat people. They are older than their age."

"And empty," I said.

Wu smiled.

"Entirely," he said.

"They will do whatever I tell them to."

I looked at the kids for a moment. They were not something new. They were something very old, without family, or culture; prehistoric, deracinated, vicious, with no more sense of another's pain than a snake would have when it swallowed a rat. I'd seen atavistic kids like this before: homegrown black kids so brutalized by life that they had no feelings except anger. It was what made them so hard. They weren't even bad. Good and bad were meaningless to them. Everything had been taken from them. They had only rage. And it was the rage that sustained them, that animated their black eyes, and energized the slender, empty place intended for their souls. The kids saw me looking at them and looked back at me without discomfort, without, in fact, anything at all. I looked back at Wu. He had crossed his legs and was lighting a cigarette.

"We got a problem here, Mr. Wu."

"You have a problem," Wu said.

I shrugged.

"Let me tell you my problem," I said.

"I am a sort of professional tough guy. I'm kind of smart, and I've got a lot of experience. But mainly I get hired to do things other people can't do, or won't do, or don't dare do. You know?"

Wu inhaled, enjoyed it, and let it out slowly, through his nose.

He didn't say anything.

"So," I said, "how would it look if I let two juvenile delinquents and a Chinese guy half my size come in here and frighten me."

"It would not look good," Wu said.

"But you would be alive."

My hand was resting on my desk top just above the half-open drawer.

"All this because I had lunch with your wife."

"You will stay away from Port City," Wu said.

"Or you will be killed."

I dropped my hand to the open drawer and came out with a revolver, which I cocked as I took it out. At the first movement both the Vietnamese kids went under their coats, but I had about a two-second lead on them and was aimed at the tip of Wu's nose by the time they got their guns out. Both had nines.

"If I hear the hammer go back on either of those guns," I said to Wu, "you're dead."

Wu spoke to the boys. Peripherally I could see both kids crouching, holding the gun in both hands.

"Perhaps they are already cocked," Wu said.

He hadn't moved, nor had his expression changed.

"Then I'm dead," I said.

The office was silent. I listened. Even these kids weren't crazy enough to walk around with a round in the chamber and the hammer back. It was a good bet. But it was still a bet. There was no sound. I'd won the bet.

"Even if you do shoot me," Wu said, "they'll kill you."

"I'm pretty good," I said.

"Maybe they won't."

My gun was a Smith and Wesson.357. Six rounds. It had a blued finish and a walnut grip, and it was alleged to stop a charging bear.

Normally, unless I expected to encounter a bear, I carried a comfy little.38. But for office use the.357 was an effective negotiating tool. I kept my eyes on Wu. I was listening so hard I felt tired. The radiator pinged in the corner and almost cost Wu his life. Still he didn't move. Still the kids crouched. Still I held steady on the end of his nose. Then Wu said something to the Vietnamese kids. Both of them put their guns away. I leaned back a little in my chair and kept the gun on Wu.

"Tell them to put the guns on the floor," I said.

Wu spoke to the boys. They answered.

"You will have to kill them, if you can, to get their guns away," Wu said.

The boys stared straight at me with their empty eyes. I was wrong. They had more than rage. They had face, and they wouldn't give it up. And I couldn't make them. I knew that. I could kill them. But I couldn't make them lose face.

"Maybe another time," I said.

"See you around."

Wu looked at me for another moment. Then without a word he dropped his burning cigarette on the floor and got up and left.

Without even glancing at me, the two kids went after him. They didn't look back. They didn't close the door.

I sat with my chair tilted back and the gun still in my hand. A thin blue will-o'-the-wisp trailed up from the still-burning cigarette. I stared through it, out the door, at the empty corridor.

After a while I got up and went around and stepped on the cigarette. I closed the door and went back to my desk and got the phone, and called Boston Police Headquarters. I asked for Homicide. When I got Homicide I asked for Lt. Quirk. He picked up his phone, still talking to someone, and held it while he finished the conversation.

"Fuck aTF.," he said to someone.

"They got their problems.

We got ours."

Then he spoke into the phone.

"Quirk."

"Hi," I said.

"This is the aTF. charitable fund…"

"I know who it is. What do you want?"

"You got a Chinatown guy?"

"Yeah."

"I need to talk with him."

"Okay. Name's Herman Leong. I'll have him call you.

"Thanks," I said. But Quirk had already hung up.

Mister Congenial.

"Think we should have some kale soup?" Hawk said.

"No," I said.

"Couple of all-natural donuts."

"Good choice," Hawk said.

He got up and went to the counter and returned with four plain donuts on a plate.

"Authentic crime-buster food," Hawk said.

The Happy Haddock was almost empty. There was a darkhaired kid on the counter with a ponytail and an insufficient moustache. He wore a stained apron and a pink tee shirt with Pixies World Tour printed on the front. An old woman in a shapeless dress and a bandana was scraping the grill with an inverted spatula. A couple of old men in plaid shirts and plastic baseball caps sat at the counter drinking coffee and smoking.

"Nobody shadowing the Greek," Hawk said. "

"Cept me."

"If there ever was," I said.

"You think he made it up?"

"No."

"You think he thought he was being followed and he wasn't?"

"No."

"You confused, don't know what to think?"

"Yeah."

Hawk nodded.

"Maybe there never was a shadow," he said.

"Or maybe the shadow laying low 'cause the murder stirred everybody up. Or maybe the shadow got wind of me. What I know is, if there was a shadow, he didn't spot me."

"I know."

"I'm getting bored," Hawk said.

"Yeah," I said.

"Forget it. There may be a shadow, but not while you're around."

Hawk broke off a smallish piece of his second donut and ate it and wiped his fingers carefully on the paper napkin.

"You got anything?" he said.

"Yeah," I said.

"But I don't know what it is."

Hawk ate another piece of donut and waited.

"Woman named Rikki Wu is on the theater board with Susan. I had lunch with her couple days' ago to talk about the murder."

"She Chinese?"

"Yes."

Good-looking?"

"Yes."

"I like Chinese women," Hawk said.

"Also Irish women, Aleut women, French women, women from Katmandu…"

"Never bopped nobody from Katmandu," Hawk said.

"Their loss," I said.

"Anyway. She didn't do me much good, but the next day her husband, Lonnie Wu, came to my office with two teen-aged Vietnamese gunnies, and told me to buzz off."

"How nice," Hawk said in his BBC voice.

"He's mastered the American idiom."

"Told me to stay away from his wife."

"Who wouldn't?" Hawk said.

"Told me to stay out of Port City, too."

"Awful worried 'bout his wife," Hawk said.

"Or something," I said.

"Or something," Hawk said.

"He say what he gonna do if you don't stay away?"

"I believe he mentioned killing me."

"Un huh." Hawk said.

"If he do, can I have your donut?"

"Yeah, but you got to finish that house in Concord for Susan."

"Sure." Hawk drank some coffee.

"Tongs use Vietnamese kids for muscle. Kids don't give a shit. Kill anything."

"Tongs?" I said.

"In Port City?"

Hawk shrugged.

"Big Chinatown," he said.

"Bigger than Boston."

"True," I said.

"You think it's a long thing?" Hawk said.

"I don't know."

"You think Wu's involved in the killing?"

"I don't know."

"You saying that a lot."

"Yeah. I'm thinking of having it printed on my business card."

The rain was slower than it had been last time I was in Port City, but it was steady and it made the fall morning dark. The light from the restaurant window reflected on the wet pavement. A Port City police car cruised slowly past, its headlights on, its wipers going.

The door of the Happy Haddock opened, bringing with it the rain-dampened smell off the harbor, and Jocelyn Colby came in wearing a belted tan raincoat and carrying a green-and-white umbrella. She closed the umbrella and put it against the wall and walked to our table.

"Thank God," she said.

"I saw you through the window. I need to talk."

I gestured at the empty chair. She looked uneasily at Hawk and sat. I introduced them.

"Coffee," I said.

"No. Yes. Black. Thank you."

I got up and got us three cups and brought it back. One of the old men at the counter poked the other one and they both stared at Jocelyn. The kid behind the counter went back to reading The Want Advertiser. Probably looking for a deal on moustache wax.

"What's new," I said when I sat down.

Jocelyn looked sideways at Hawk.

"May I speak freely?" she said.

"Sure."

"I… it's about the case."

I nodded. She hesitated.

"You can talk in front of Hawk," I said.

"He's too dumb to remember what you said."

"Lucky thing too," Hawk said, "Cause I a bad blabbermouth."

Jocelyn couldn't tell if she were being kidded. Her glance shifted back and forth.

"Hawk's with me," I said.

"You can talk to us."

Jocelyn held her coffee mug in both hands, took a swallow, held the mug against her lower lip, and looked at me over the rim.

"I'm being followed," she said.

Jocelyn waited, allowing the impact of her statement to achieve all it was going to.

"Lot of that going around," Hawk said.

"Tell me about it," I said.

"He's medium height and slender," Jocelyn said.

"Black coat and a black slouch hat pulled low."

"When did he start shadowing you?" I said.

"Two nights ago."

"And why not go to the cops?"

"Well… I mean, Jimmy said you were here because someone was stalking someone. And then I was hurrying along the street and I saw you…"

"Sure," I said.

"And I have such a kind face."

"Yes," she said.

"You do."

"So what would you like?" I said.

"Like? I… Well, I guess I thought you'd want to look into it.

I don't know exactly, but… in truth, I guess I thought you might want to, ah, protect me."

"Are you saying you want to hire me?"

"Hire?"

"Yeah. I do this for a living. Or I used to, before I came down here."

"Well… of course, I… I don't have any money."

"Lot of that going around too," Hawk said.

He was looking out at the street. Suddenly he put out his left arm and swept Jocelyn off her chair and onto the floor. I dove on top of her and Hawk hit the floor beside us, the big.44 Magnum gleaming in his hand. Above our heads the plate glass window shattered and the bubbling chatter of an automatic weapon came with it. Glass fell on us. Jocelyn was screaming. Then there was stillness. I realized my gun was out too. I looked around the restaurant. It was as if the film had stopped. The kid reading his Want Advertiser, the old woman at the grill, the two geezers at the counter, were all frozen in silence and slow time. None of them seemed to be hurt. Hawk was up. He never seemed to get up or down; it was as if he just reincarnated in one position or the other.

I started to get up and found that Jocelyn was clinging to me in an embrace that seemed as much passion as fear.

"Stay down on the floor," I said and shrugged loose from her and stood and looked carefully out the window. The street was empty. The rain was blowing in through the space where the window had been.

"Uzi," I said.

"Un huh. Maroon Buick station wagon, maybe 1990, '91.

Coming slow, window down on the passenger side. Why somebody driving in the rain with the window down? Then he stuck the gun barrel out."

"Too soon," I said.

Hawk nodded.

"Shoulda come down the street at a normal speed, windows up," he said.

"Shooter shoulda been in back. They should have pulled into the curb like they were parking. Driver shoulda hit the rear-window button and the shooter shoulda opened up as it went down. We be dead now."

"Well, maybe they're young, and from another country," I said.

"Was that a machine gun?" the kid behind the counter said.

"Assault rifle," one of the geezers said.

"I'll bet it was one of them damned assault rifles."

The old woman had gone in the back room without a word. I put my gun away and reached down a hand to Jocelyn Colby. She took it and stood up, and kept hold of my hand. The old woman came out of the back room.

"Police coming," she said.

"

"Course they really going to do it right," Hawk said.

"Shoulda walked in and opened up."

He put the Magnum away under his coat. He looked out at the empty street and shook his head.

"Drive-bys are sloppy," he said.

The old woman had a push broom and was carefully sweeping the broken glass into a pile in the middle of the room. She moved implacably and slow, as if movement had always hurt her and she had always moved anyway. Jocelyn continued to cling to my hand, standing very close to me.

"Were they trying to kill me?" Jocelyn said.

Hawk grinned without comment.

"Maybe not," I said.

"Maybe they were trying to kill me."