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time he got sick as a dog when we killed a six-pack and pierced my ear.
    “Ah, the hell with it,” he said bitterly.
    “Take it easy, Hawk. The Fanatic was just in a bad mood.”
    The bag lady got up from her chair and shuffled to the door, pulling her thin coat tight to her neck. A couple of leaves blew in as she left.
    Hawk was looking into his empty glass. “No, it’s not him, Wick. It’s … Do you ever wonder where your old man is?”
    Hawk’s change in direction caught me off guard. “Yeah, sometimes.”
    “Well, at least you know
who
he is. Me, I don’t even know my mother’s and father’s names.”
    “Does it matter? I mean, the only people you remember are your mom and dad, right? How old were you when they adopted you? Three months or so?”
    “Less than a month.”
    “So what’s the problem? There was no relationship there. There’s nothing to remember. No memories, no loss. Right?”
    “I don’t know. Its hard to explain. My mother gave me up right in the hospital. I don’t know anything about her. Or about my father. All I know is that one of them must have been a real short-ass.”
    Hawk had made that comment more than once. He was a little sensitive about his height, even though he was pretty good-looking—straight black hair, clear pale skin. I hadn’t known him as a little kid, but I figured hegot more than his share of abuse from other kids. I also figured that was what got him into weight training and sports. Now he was muscular enough that you could tell, even if he had his jacket on, that he wasn’t the kind of guy you threw insults at.
    Talking about his birth mother like that, he set off some painful Replays in my head, scenes that played themselves behind our conversation the way images dance and weave behind a TV show when the cable isn’t working and you’ve got two stations competing for the screen. I wondered what was worse, having memories that robbed you of sleep and hurt you like broken bits of glass lodged in the back of your mind, or having nothing except the knowledge that your own mother gave you away without looking at you, and that your father wasn’t even around when it happened.
    “I don’t even know,” Hawk’s words broke in on my thoughts, “if they were married. Or if they lived together. Or any damn thing.”
    “Why not ask your mom and dad?”
    “Don’t you think I have? They don’t know anything, either. The adoption people won’t tell the new parents anything.”
    “You can find out, though,” I said. “I saw a show on TV about it. You can go and ask the adoption people and they have to let you look at the records. You could search your mother out.”
    “Yeah, I guess. But I’d be afraid of hurting Mom’s and Dad’s feelings. So no matter what I do, I lose.” Hawk laughed without mirth and shook his head. “You know, Wick, you take a guy like Leonard today, babbling on and on about commitment to the team, andresponsibility. Those are his two most favourite words, right? Commitment and responsibility. ‘You guys gotta learn these two things if you want to be treated as adults,’ he says. I think he’s talking to the wrong crowd, that’s what I think.”
    “You and me both.”
    I got up and ordered another coffee and a glass of milk from the woman behind the counter. I took them back to our table.
    “Maybe your mom and dad would understand,” I said. “I think they would. They’re pretty good that way.”
    “Yeah, you’re probably right.”
    “So why don’t you do it? Find out where your birth mother is. Go see her. Ask her about your father. I’ll go with you. Finding your parents can’t be that hard.”
    “I guess not. The thing is, though, I’m a little scared of what I’ll find out. What if it’s worse than not knowing?”
    “Nothing’s worse than not knowing,” I said.

SEVEN
    R OMEO WAS STANDING in a silver patch of moonlight in Juliet’s garden, telling her, as near as I could make out between the thees and