Hawkins listened to Walter Cronkite intoning the news, a game show audience screaming, the twang of country music, men saying lines in a movie or play, and lugubrious background music, and he wondered if the babble presaged some chaos coming. He thought of the basement and the bodies thrown around like trash. He wondered which one of the dead boys was the one who’d cried, and the pain in his head got so bad he pushed the sides of his skull with his fists. The noise got louder for a second, then the wind started up, the dead air that fed the volume moved, and the din subsided.

He tried to eat, but couldn’t. He took aspirin and went to bed, praying that the headache wouldn’t be there in the morning, but it was.

5

Chapter 5

“What are you going to say about Levy?” Ableson asked.

Hawkins wet some brown paper towel and pressed it against his eyes.

“Why should I say anything about Levy?”

“It’s going to come up, Roger. Adam was Levy’s son.”

Hawkins wet the towel again.

“You got a hangover?” Ableson asked gently.

“No.”

“So what about Levy?”

Hawkins kept his eyes covered. They were bloodshot and burning and his head still pounded. He’d never had a headache like this before.

“What do we say about Levy and the rest of them?” Ableson asked again.

Hawkins didn’t have to answer because Joe Turner pushed open the men’s room door.

He smiled when he saw Hawkins and the towel, a nasty smile that Hawkins was used to.

“They’s waitin’ on you, darlin’. All the brass of this fair city. Waitin’ on their man.” Turner was black and he hated Hawkins. White man’s nigger, he called him, and whenever Hawkins would pass him and some of the other black detectives talking in a bunch in the hall or lounge, they’d get quiet and watch him go by with smiles on their faces. Hawkins rubbed his head.

“Got DTs?” Turner asked.

“Shut the fuck up,” Ableson said.

“Dear, dear . . .” Turner said. He went out and Hawkins and Ableson followed him down the hall to the press room.

The place was hot and crowded. Stringers and steadies lined the walls and packed the back of the aisles. There was a mike set up at the front, and Pescado and the chief stood in the front. Turner led Hawkins and Ableson to two empty folding chairs in the back row.

“What’d I tell you, honey,” Turner said. “The fairhaired boy’s here, and they can start. . . .”

Suddenly Hawkins grabbed Turner’s arm and squeezed it until the other man gasped. People nearby turned around.

“One more word, Joe Motherfucker,” Hawkins whispered loudly, “and press or no press, I’ll punch your yellow eyes out.”