for himself, until Bobby Nevins found him when Hawk was fifteen. He ever tell you about Bobby Nevins?"
"No."
"Ask him to. It's interesting."
"Are you actually explaining the black experience to me?" Cecile said.
"I'm explaining Hawk. Nevins trained him, but no one, as far as I know, ever loved him. Hawk is what he is because he has found a way to be faithful to what he is, since he was a kid."
"I love him," Cecile said.
"For him, that's a learning experience."
"And he won't change," Cecile said.
"If he changed he might cease to exist," I said. "He's with you now."
"Not all of him."
"Probably not."
"Do you think I'll ever have all of him?"
"Maybe not," I said.
"And if I want to be with him, I have to accept that possibility," Cecile said.
I smiled at her as encouragingly as I could and nodded my head. The snow was coming so hard now that it was difficult to see the FAO Schwarz store across the street.
"Yes," I said. "You do."
19
HAWK AND I sat with a State Police captain named Healy in his office at 1010 Commonwealth, talking about Marshport.
"Bohunks run it since the Pilgrims," Healy said. "Then after the war it began to shift. All that's left is one Ukrainian neighborhood, where Boots is from. The rest is mostly black, mostly Caribbean black. We think of them all as Hispanic. Or black. But they don't. They think they're Puerto Rican, Jamaican, Haitian, Costa Rican, Dominican, Guatemalan."
"So even though they a majority, they don't have think so because they don't think they all the same."
Healy nodded.
"So the Bohunks still in charge," Hawk said.
"It's more specific than that," Healy said. "Boots Podolak is in charge."
"Tell us about Boots," I said.
"Boots's grandfather took Marshport away from the Yankees," Healy said. "And his father inherited it and passed it on to Boots."
"They control it."
"Completely," Healy said. "Cops, firemen, probation officers, district court judges, aldermen, state reps, congressmen, school superintendents, restaurant owners, car dealers, liquor distributors, junk dealers, dope, whores, numbers…" Healy spread his hands. "Everything."
"And you can't close him down."
"I can't because I'm the homicide commander and it ain't my job," Healy said. "But it's a closed corporation and nobody will talk. Witnesses die. Informants disappear. Undercover cops disappear. Judges get intimidated."
Healy's office was on the top floor, and through the window behind his desk I could see the snow still falling evenly, and the plows lunging fitfully along Commonwealth Avenue, trying to stay ahead of it.
"You met Boots?" Healy said.
"Yes," Hawk said.
"You?" Healy said to me.
"Yes."
"At the same time?" Healy said. "Both of you?"
"Yes," I said.
Healy smiled.
"That must have been interesting."
"How big an operation is Boots running," Hawk said.
"About eighty thousand," Healy said.
"The whole city."
"Yep."
"How many people with guns."
Healy thought about it.
"Lemme make a call," he said.
"Maybe you don't have to," Hawk said. "Does he have as many shooters as Tony Marcus?"
"Oh, hell, yes."
"As good?"
"Hell, yes. He's got some Ukrainians would kill you for eating a Tootsie Roll," Healy said, "then take it out of your dead mouth and finish it."
"These homegrown Ukrainians," Hawk said. "Or Ukrainian Ukrainians."
"Imported," Healy said.
"How 'bout Boots?" I said.
"Don't look like much," Healy said, "does he?"
"He stands his ground pretty good," I said.
"Does he?" Healy said.
I shrugged. Hawk looked impassive, which is one of Hawk's best things.
"Ain't it great," Healy said, "how those of us in and out of law enforcement can share information in the common good."
"He looks like a mean funeral director," I said.
"He's a psychopath," Healy said. "Or is it sociopath. I can't keep it straight."
"He's a whack job," I said.
"He is," Healy said. "He's not such a whack job that he can't see what's in his best interest, and he's not such a whack job that he can't do what's in
"No."
"Ask him to. It's interesting."
"Are you actually explaining the black experience to me?" Cecile said.
"I'm explaining Hawk. Nevins trained him, but no one, as far as I know, ever loved him. Hawk is what he is because he has found a way to be faithful to what he is, since he was a kid."
"I love him," Cecile said.
"For him, that's a learning experience."
"And he won't change," Cecile said.
"If he changed he might cease to exist," I said. "He's with you now."
"Not all of him."
"Probably not."
"Do you think I'll ever have all of him?"
"Maybe not," I said.
"And if I want to be with him, I have to accept that possibility," Cecile said.
I smiled at her as encouragingly as I could and nodded my head. The snow was coming so hard now that it was difficult to see the FAO Schwarz store across the street.
"Yes," I said. "You do."
19
HAWK AND I sat with a State Police captain named Healy in his office at 1010 Commonwealth, talking about Marshport.
"Bohunks run it since the Pilgrims," Healy said. "Then after the war it began to shift. All that's left is one Ukrainian neighborhood, where Boots is from. The rest is mostly black, mostly Caribbean black. We think of them all as Hispanic. Or black. But they don't. They think they're Puerto Rican, Jamaican, Haitian, Costa Rican, Dominican, Guatemalan."
"So even though they a majority, they don't have think so because they don't think they all the same."
Healy nodded.
"So the Bohunks still in charge," Hawk said.
"It's more specific than that," Healy said. "Boots Podolak is in charge."
"Tell us about Boots," I said.
"Boots's grandfather took Marshport away from the Yankees," Healy said. "And his father inherited it and passed it on to Boots."
"They control it."
"Completely," Healy said. "Cops, firemen, probation officers, district court judges, aldermen, state reps, congressmen, school superintendents, restaurant owners, car dealers, liquor distributors, junk dealers, dope, whores, numbers…" Healy spread his hands. "Everything."
"And you can't close him down."
"I can't because I'm the homicide commander and it ain't my job," Healy said. "But it's a closed corporation and nobody will talk. Witnesses die. Informants disappear. Undercover cops disappear. Judges get intimidated."
Healy's office was on the top floor, and through the window behind his desk I could see the snow still falling evenly, and the plows lunging fitfully along Commonwealth Avenue, trying to stay ahead of it.
"You met Boots?" Healy said.
"Yes," Hawk said.
"You?" Healy said to me.
"Yes."
"At the same time?" Healy said. "Both of you?"
"Yes," I said.
Healy smiled.
"That must have been interesting."
"How big an operation is Boots running," Hawk said.
"About eighty thousand," Healy said.
"The whole city."
"Yep."
"How many people with guns."
Healy thought about it.
"Lemme make a call," he said.
"Maybe you don't have to," Hawk said. "Does he have as many shooters as Tony Marcus?"
"Oh, hell, yes."
"As good?"
"Hell, yes. He's got some Ukrainians would kill you for eating a Tootsie Roll," Healy said, "then take it out of your dead mouth and finish it."
"These homegrown Ukrainians," Hawk said. "Or Ukrainian Ukrainians."
"Imported," Healy said.
"How 'bout Boots?" I said.
"Don't look like much," Healy said, "does he?"
"He stands his ground pretty good," I said.
"Does he?" Healy said.
I shrugged. Hawk looked impassive, which is one of Hawk's best things.
"Ain't it great," Healy said, "how those of us in and out of law enforcement can share information in the common good."
"He looks like a mean funeral director," I said.
"He's a psychopath," Healy said. "Or is it sociopath. I can't keep it straight."
"He's a whack job," I said.
"He is," Healy said. "He's not such a whack job that he can't see what's in his best interest, and he's not such a whack job that he can't do what's in
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