Robert B. Parker's Cheap Shot Read online

  “Ty-Bop’s a man now,” he said. “When he start with me, he a true prodigy. How many teenagers shoot like Ty-Bop?”

  I nodded and settled back into my chair. Junior and the black man we’d seen cooking outside walked into Tony’s office. They handed Hawk and me two heavy paper plates loaded with ribs, collard greens, and slices of corn bread.

  Knowing that it would be rude to turn down a pimp’s hospitality, I set the plate in my lap and began to eat. Between mouthfuls, we talked about the Outlaws.

  “They all from Cape Verde islands, but don’t ask me to find it on a fucking map,” Tony said. “Having it out with the Vietnamese kids in Dorchester. Street-corner conquests. Turf battles. Lots of dead kids.”

  “Ever hear of an Outlaw named Lima?”

  “Don’t know many names,” Tony said. “Just know them on sight, running drugs and shit in Roxbury. Ain’t my thing.”

  “Lucky they don’t run girls,” I said.

  “They do that,” Tony said, leaning back into his seat, puffing on the cigar. “Then we going to have some serious goddamn problems.”

  “What about their main guy?” I said. “DeVeiga?”

  Hawk listened while he ate. He ate very carefully, since I knew his jacket cost a few thousand dollars and a sauce stain would mess with his style.

  “Jesus DeVeiga?” Tony said. “Shit. Small, quick little punk. Can’t be trusted. Mean as hell. Watch your back, he got that crazy look about him.”

  “Where can we find him?” I said.

  “Do I look like goddamn Information to you?”

  “For certain professions,” I said.

  Tony set down the cigar and picked up the phone. As he made some calls, Hawk and I polished off all the ribs, collard greens, and corn bread. Buddy’s Fox was on its way up in the world.

  Tony set down the phone and picked up his cigar. He started to puff on it again, getting the tip glowing and smoke wafting above our heads.

  “If I get to him, he’ll want to know what this shit’s all about,” Tony said.

  “Looking for a kid,” Hawk said.

  “What kid?” Tony said.

  I told him it was the Heywood kid and Tony let out a low whistle. “Shit.”

  “You said it,” I said.

  “Okay,” he said. “You want my Junior and Ty-Bop to come along?”

  Hawk set the empty plate on Tony’s desk. He stood up. “Appreciate the concern,” Hawk said. “But don’t need help.”

  “You sure?” Tony said, eyebrows up, appraising us both.

  Hawk didn’t answer and walked out of the office. I offered my hand to Tony. He studied it for a moment, reached out for his ashtray, and tapped his cigar.

  I shrugged and followed Hawk.

  59

  Two hours later, we got word from Tony that Jesus DeVeiga would grant us an audience at Franklin Park. We were told to use the Walnut Street entrance into the Long Crouch Woods and follow the northern path up into the old part of the zoo. That part of the park was a lot of green space and walkways and bikeways at the edge of Roxbury. It was a great place to be during daylight hours and not so nice at night.

  “Public space,” Hawk said. “People will be around.”

  “Good place to get shot,” I said.

  “Not perfect,” Hawk said. “But good as any.”

  “There’s a rock wall on Columbus Ave,” I said. “You could hop the fence. Take the path toward me or frolic through the woods.”

  “Hard to frolic with a twelve-gauge.”

  “Or we go in together,” I said. “And impress Jesus with our numbers.”

  “Gangbangers don’t have sense,” he said. “He into this kidnapping thing, he’ll start to shooting. No conversation. Bam.”

  “But I so enjoy the conversation,” I said.

  “Call Z,” he said.

  I did and we rode around Roxbury a bit. Although we had multiple reasons to suspect Jesus DeVeiga and his people, perhaps he might also supply some answers about Victor Lima and his brother and their connection to his half-sister. I could spend the rest of the day chatting with the de facto head of the Outlaws. I wondered aloud if Jesus had ever seen West Side Story.

  “Sure,” Hawk said. “He start snappin’ his fingers. Expect trouble.”

  I took Columbus to where it connected with Blue Hill and then took Blue Hill south as it circled the park. The park was very big and had a lot of ball fields, a zoo, and a golf course. I cut across on Morton and found my way back again north on Forest Hills. We stopped at a Shell station to use a bathroom and get a couple coffees. There was no sense in going against an entire drug gang uncaffeinated.

  We parked at the north entrance. Hawk walked around to the back of the Explorer and removed a Mossberg twelve-gauge. He had a specially made leather rig worn for such occasions and slipped the shotgun onto his side. I knew he had his .44 somewhere, along with a .22 pistol worn on his ankle, should all else fail.

  We found the stone gate on Walnut and walked inside the park. The sky was a darker shade of slate and the rain had returned. The rain wasn’t awful, but it wasn’t exactly wonderful, either. It meant fewer walkers and joggers and people milling about. A decided advantage for the Outlaws.

  Hawk and I walked down a narrow path cutting through the center of the Long Crouch Woods. We found the northern path, signs marking the way to the old bear dens, and followed.

  “Fucking bears?” Hawk said.

  “Old bear dens,” I said. “The bears have been moved.”

  “Closest I ever get to a bear was a married woman’s rug,” Hawk said. “Her husband liked to shoot dangerous animals.”

  Hawk wiped the rain from his face, his teeth white and beaming.

  No one was in the woods that day. The woods and path were cold and still, bright yellow leaves littering the walkway. A few leaves shook loose in the light wind and rain and twirled down. We walked on. No one came out to us. No one approached us on the path. We kept on walking and moving and watching. In the distance, I spotted the big stone entrance to the old bear cages. I remembered coming here as a teenager with my father and the walkway and the bears. It was pretty much the way I recalled, except overgrown by weeds and ivy.

  As we crested the top, three men approached us. They were young, light-skinned blacks, and dressed in traditional gangbanger wear. Low-hanging jeans, team jackets, and ball caps. The ball caps were brand-new Sox game caps, flat-billed and still boasting a 59Fifty sticker. All wore thick chains, gold and silver, and sported simple mustaches. They were hardened men, but not as old as a decent whiskey.

  “You Hawk?” said a young guy with shoulder-length cornrows.

  Hawk nodded.

  “I heard of you,” he said.

  “’Course you have.”

  “I’m DeVeiga,” he said, not bothering to introduce his friends. Of course, Hawk didn’t introduce me, either.

  One of his boys was light-skinned and short. The other was taller and of a darker complexion. The darker one wore earrings in both ears and a very unpleasant scowl as Hawk spoke to Jesus DeVeiga. I smiled at him, but he acted as if he did not notice.

  “Your sister is dead,” Hawk said.

  DeVeiga nodded.

  “She tied in with Victor Lima?”

  “Mr. Marcus said you’re cool,” DeVeiga said.

  “Mr. Marcus knows his shit.”

  “Yeah,” DeVeiga said. “Lela and Victor. They were together. Been together for a long time.”

  Hawk stood there, right foot on the tallest step, back foot behind him, but still taller than DeVeiga and his crew. I stood off to the right, very aware of the gun on my hip and the time it would take to draw.

  “Where’s the kid, Jesus?” Hawk said, pronouncing the name with a hard J.

  DeVeiga stood his ground, his ball cap obscuring his eyes
like a gunfighter in a Stetson. He nodded in thought and looked to Hawk. I smiled again at DeVeiga’s crew. No use in spreading a bad attitude for the day.

  “Kid’s dead,” DeVeiga said.

  I swallowed and took in a long breath.

  “Who?” Hawk said.

  “Like you said, Lima,” he said. “Him and his brother were Outlaws. But their mama wanted them out. Moved them to New York, tried to get them out of the life around here. Lela come to be with them. She was with Antonio but then with the brother when Antonio got killed. Then they come back to Boston. But this ain’t Outlaw stuff, man. This his own shit he swimming in. This gonna be a problem for us?”

  Hawk nodded. “You bet, Jesus. You bet.”

  I stepped forward. “Where’s Lima?” I said.

  DeVeiga shook his head.

  “Can you find him?”

  He shrugged, not once looking at me. “That five mil for real?” he said.

  “Kinjo Heywood says so,” I said. “You get his kid back.”

  “Money wasn’t for finding the kid,” he said. “I heard the money was for killing who took him.”

  “And that’s already started.”

  “Somebody is hunting,” DeVeiga said. “Damn, Lela. She fucked up as soon as she hooked up with those boys. Should have come back home when Antonio was shot.”

  Up behind DeVeiga and his men sat several large, rusted cages connected to failing brick walls. Beyond the cages was a large stone wall with a frieze of two bears caught on their hind legs in a sort of royal seal. The rain was coming down harder now, pinging off the bill of my ball cap, the gangbangers’ ball caps, and Hawk’s bald head. No one seemed to want to call it quits on account of the rain.

  “You helping them?” Hawk said.

  “Outlaws got no fucking business with folks kill a child,” DeVeiga said.

  Hawk nodded, and DeVeiga turned to me. He stared at me and I stared back.

  When the rifle cracked in the woods, I recoiled and ducked and DeVeiga spun and turned and hit the ground, toppling down a couple concrete steps. His boys fanned out, pulling automatics and firing wildly into the woods. Two more rifle shots sounded, and the kid with the double earrings was down, too. A large and ugly wound bloomed in his chest. I hopped the side of the stone steps, seeking cover. I had my .357 out, leveled on the concrete wall and firing toward the shots.

  The firing stopped. I heard DeVeiga screaming from the top of the steps. I heard my own breath and the patter of rain from the trees. Hawk called out to me, and I called back. Everything was still and silent. I did not move from the wall. I steadied my breath and eased up along the rock barrier against the staircase and raised the gun.

  Two more quick rifle shots. Stone and concrete flew upward. The sound of Hawk’s .44 boomed like a cannon into the woods. I looked up in time to see Hawk pulling Jesus DeVeiga from the top of the steps and behind the wall. I fired to give them cover.

  The rifle sounded twice more and then went quiet again.

  60

  DeVeiga had been shot in the upper chest. Hawk removed his jacket and used it as a compress on the wound. One of DeVeiga’s men was dead. The other had run for the woods. I wasn’t sure if he’d made it or not.

  There seemed to be only one shooter taking careful aim from somewhere in the thick woods below the old stone cages. I could jump up again and fire off a few rounds. But it wouldn’t do any good. I had absolutely no idea, beyond the sound of the shot, where the shooter had set up.

  If I tried to run from the cover of the stone steps, I’d have a nice big target on my back. I could call the cops and wait. But that would give the shooter time to move through the woods and gain a better position. My best chance was to leave Hawk and DeVeiga and get north, beyond the back of the cages, and circle around to the shooter. The only trouble came from about twenty yards of open ground to the cages. I thought about yelling “time out” but figured the bad guy or guys to be not all that sporting.

  Instead I looked to Hawk and nodded to the old cages. He nodded back, pressing the wadded-up jacket into DeVeiga’s chest. I made it down onto my belly, and snake-crawled inch by inch on the mud and leaves and trash and debris. The rain came on even harder now, and I continued to crawl, stomach and thighs and chest pressed to the ground. Two shots cracked again from the woods. Still, I was confident I could make it without being seen, until the last eight to ten yards, when my plan was to run like hell to the stone wall.

  Inch by inch, mud up under my hands and on my .357 carried in my right hand, I made it close to the wall. And then I ran like hell.

  Three shots echoed through the woods. I saw stone chip a few feet away to my right and another chip off the far wall as I dove to the ground and crawled behind the wall. The bear cages were more than ample cover, reaching up fifty feet, built of sturdy stone and concrete. The gun went silent. I ran behind the curvature of the old cages, well protected, and hoped to make it back into the woods before the shooter was gone. My clothes were soaked, jeans drenched in water and mud, bomber jacket coated and heavy. I dropped the jacket at the far corner of the cages, looking into the depths of the Long Crouch Woods. The thick trees, leaf-covered ground, and the stillness of the rain in the woods made it difficult to believe I was still in Roxbury.

  I called 911 and reported a shooting and the need for an ambulance. I quickly reloaded my .357 and checked the load on the .38 from my jacket pocket. I listened and waited. I hoped I’d see a movement, a glint off a scope. But in the rain, I couldn’t have spotted a rhino tap-dancing to “Stormy Weather.” I just needed to make it far enough behind the shooter and come back on him before he spotted or heard me. I would walk with stealth. The wilderness preservation of my world.

  I again took up the old tactic of running like hell. I sprinted far into the woods, following the stone fence around the park until I was confident I was beyond the shooter. I cut back into the woods, water dappling muddy holes and tapping hard off the yellowing leaves. I ducked low branches and jumped over fallen logs until I was far within the park. I breathed quietly and tried to listen, but again heard only the rain. If Pearl was with me, perhaps she might point to the shooter. But if Pearl had been with me, I’d have been worried about her safety. I kept moving, kept walking, far into the woods, heading back to the stone steps where I’d left Hawk tending to DeVeiga. I could see the steps raising up from the walking path and leading up into the old bear cages. I turned from left to right and saw nothing. I had my .357 held tight and at the ready. At another fallen log, I stopped and scouted the woods before me.

  I felt one with the earth and with the woods until I heard a voice behind me. “Don’t move a muscle, motherfucker.”

  Although the slight was not appreciated, I did not move a muscle. And soon hands were on me, pulling the gun from my hand and the .38 from my waist. Someone yanked my arm and I turned to see Victor Lima staring right at me. He cocked me in the temple with my own gun. The feeling was not pleasant, but I kept to my feet.

  “Stupid,” he said. “Stupid.”

  “Where’s Akira?”

  “Why’d you keep fucking with this?” he said. “Heywood had to be the man. Had to lay down a price on our heads.”

  I touched my temple. It was bleeding badly. I felt sick and spit on the ground.

  “Fucking dumb,” he said. “Now I got to kill you, too.”

  “Like you killed Lela?”

  “Lela?” he said, wiping water off his face with his free hand. “They killed Lela to get to me.”

  “Who?”

  “DeVeiga.”

  “DeVeiga says this is all on you.”

  “Five mil levels things a bit,” he said. “Now keep walking. Keep walking to that ditch and then lay down. I’ll make it quick and easy for you.”

  “You’re too kind.”

  “Fuck you,” Victor Lima said.

  We w
alked for another twenty feet to a wide ditch brimming with running water. He told me to get into the ditch and place my hands on my head. I could reach for him and take the chance of being shot in a good way. Or I could go into the ditch and keep talking. As talking was my strong suit, I thought I could keep it going.

  “Where’s Akira?” I said. When you got a good thing, stay with it.

  Lima didn’t answer. He leveled my .357 at me.

  “Did you kill him?” I said.

  “Everything would have been cool if Heywood had been a man.”

  “Is he alive?”

  Something flashed in his eyes, a moment of hesitation. But then he gritted his teeth and slowly pulled the trigger. His teeth were clenched tight, jaw tight as the hammer pulled back and cylinder gently started to roll.

  And then a large shot as I ducked. As if ducking would do much good.

  Lima was down, bleeding and hurt, shot in the back. Another pistol shot rang out as Lima got to his feet and ran fast but ragged and ugly toward the far wall circling the park.

  I crawled out of the ditch and ran after him, but he had disappeared. As I reached the park wall, Z came up on me, jogging and out of breath.

  “You hurt?” Z said.

  “Nope,” I said, wiping the blood off my temple. “But Hawk’s with a guy who’s bad.”

  Z nodded. Sirens screamed in the distance.

  “You did good,” I said.

  Z looked at me with his black eyes and nodded. “I know.”

  61

  DeVeiga went to the hospital. His pal got a ride with the ME’s office and his other pal had disappeared. Z drove Hawk back to the Harbor Health Club and I went to Susan’s.

  It was Saturday, and she was not in session. Pearl the Wonder Dog greeted me at the front door, paws extended onto my chest, and a giant lick on the chin.

  “Why can’t you ever greet me like that?” I said.

  “Because you’re covered head to toe in mud?” Susan said. “Ick.”

  “Can I borrow your hose?”

  “Around back, cowboy.”