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Why
    not sit around and look at the Gurwitz place? There was nothing else to do.
    Looking at Amy's place wasn't much to do. Nobody came out. On the other hand, nobody went in, either. The closest I came was when an elderly woman in a long black Persian lamb coat walked two animals past Amy's steps. I assumed they were dogs, though the size and look of them suggested a pair of pet rats on a leash, wearing little bitty plaid sweaters. I ate another corn muffin, drank some more coffee. The mailman went by. I tilted the seat back and slouched a little more. I crossed my arms on my chest. After a while I uncrossed them. Always self-amusing. Never without resources. A little after two in the afternoon a brown Chevrolet Caprice wagon pulled up in front of Amy's place and double parked. Three young women got out and went in to Amy's foyer and didn't come out. The Caprice pulled away.
    About 2:20 a man in a tweed sport coat and a long muffler walked down Fairfield Street from Commonwealth, turned left, and mounted Amy's stairs. He went in. I finished my coffee. At three a very fat guy appeared out of the alley that ran behind Amy's place and walked down Fairfield and went toward the town house. As he walked he sorted keys on a key ring. He went up the stairs and disappeared. The afternoon edged by.
    Nobody else went in. Nobody at all came out. Were they all visiting Amy? There was no other tenant in the three-story building. I'd noticed that yesterday. One mailbox, one buzzer, one entrance. So they were at least visiting Amy's place. The guy with the key was probably Poitras. Three young women, girls really, and one guy older than that, and Poitras. So what? Amy had some little chums over to listen to her Devo records and some guy had stopped by to see Poitras, who was a little late. None of the girls was April Kyle. So why was it my business? I looked at my watch. It was quarter to five. I had to meet Hawk at five. I looked at Amy's town house again. No clue appeared. There'd be other slow days. It could be my hobby. Like collecting baseball cards or old campaign buttons. In my spare time I'd come over and stare at Amy Gurwitz's doorway. It's good to keep busy.
    I cranked up the MG, took a left on Gloucester, and headed for Copley Square. Hawk was standing outside the Copley Plaza Hotel wearing a glistening black leather jacket and skintight designer jeans tucked into black cowboy boots that glistened like the jacket. He was a little over 6 feet 2 inches, maybe an inch taller than I was, and weighed about two hundred. Like me. He blended with the august Bostonian exterior of the Copley Plaza like a hooded cobra. People glanced covertly at him, circling slightly as they passed him, unconsciously keeping their distance. He wore no hat and his smooth black head was as shiny as his jacket and boots.
    I pulled the MG in beside him at the curb and he got in.
    "This thing ain't big enough for either one of us," he said. "When you getting something that fits?"
    "It goes with my preppy look," I said. "You get one of these, they let you drive around the north shore, watch polo, anything you want."
    I let the clutch in and turned right on Dartmouth.
    "How you get laid in one of these?" Hawk said.
    "You just don't understand preppy," I said. "I know it's not your fault. You're only a couple of generations out of the jungle. I realize that. But if you're preppy you don't get laid in a car."
    "Where you get laid if you preppy?"
    I sniffed. "One doesn't," I said.
    "Preppies gonna be outnumbered in a while," Hawk said. "Where we going?" I took April Kyle's picture out of my pocket and showed it to Hawk.
    "We're going to eat dinner and then we're going to look for her," I said.
    "What we gonna do when we find her?"
    "I don't know," I said. "Urge her to go home, I guess."
    "What you paying?"
    "Half my fee," I said, "and expenses."
    "How much you getting?"
    "A buck," I said.
    "You paying for dinner?" Hawk said.
    "Yeah."
    "Better be a big meal."

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