We walked in the front door to find Ty-Bop sitting in a chair, front legs off the ground, his back leaning against a wall. His satin Pats jacket loose and open, a very large automatic worn below his left arm.

I smiled and shot him with my thumb and forefinger.

Ty-Bop nodded.

A very large black man named Junior stood behind the bar, washing glasses. Junior did not acknowledge us as we walked past the bar and through a door to a hallway and then into Tony’s office. Tony was at his desk, ushering us in as if he were a CEO to a Fortune 500 company and not the city’s biggest pimp.

“You smell them ribs when you come in?” Tony said.

“Hard to miss,” Hawk said.

“Want some?” Tony said. “I’ll get him to make up some plates. I’ll even make one up for Casper, too.”

“After all these years and all we’ve been through together,” I said. “Do you still see color?”

“Oh, please motherfucking forgive me, Spenser. Didn’t you put my ass into Walpole some time back? Or is your memory slipping out on your ass?”

“How’s your daughter, Tony?” I said.

I looked to Hawk and Hawk shrugged. “Man do have a point,” Hawk said.

Tony pursed his lips, put the tips of his fingers up under his flabby chin, and told us to sit. He was wearing a canary-yellow suit with a white shirt and a black tie with a black handkerchief in the pocket. The suit was bold and ugly, but Tony was a pimp, and pimps had certain fashion expectations.

“So,” Tony said, lighting up a cigar and placing some equally ugly black shoes on his desk. “What the fuck do you want?”

“What do you know about the Outlaws?”

Tony lifted his chin, studied the end of his cigar, and blew on it, getting the red tip glowing bright. “Hmm,” he said.

“You know them?”

“Everybody in Roxbury knows those punks,” Marcus said. “They make a lot of trouble for the working man. Make the streets unsafe, gangbang battles. All this shit. Nothing changes. Kids always want to puff themselves up, be men when they ain’t nothing but kids.”

“Ty-Bop was a kid when he came to you,” I said.

“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.