Текст книги "Small Vices"

Автор книги: Robert B. Parker

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Chapter 39

I SQUEEZED A rubber ball in each hand most of the time I was in California. The first time I tried it with my right hand the ball dropped to the floor. I hadn't enough strength to hold it. Hawk hung a heavy bag from a tree in the meadow behind the house and I banged at it every day, weakly with my left hand, barely at all with my right. The next time I essayed the hill, I took Pearl on a leash and she pulled me maybe five yards further each time between stops. Progress.

By the end of January, I could go halfway up, and my right leg wasn't dragging. My beard was thick and bothersome. My hair was too long. Hawk and I went up into one of the canyons back in the hills and began to shoot. I held the gun in both hands, though my left was doing all the work, and I was able to level it mainly by pulling my right arm up with my left. My only success was that I didn't shoot myself.

I was up to five-pound dumbbells. With my right arm I was actually moving the weight, curling it maybe halfway so that my forearm was at right angles to my bicep. Hawk and I moved from the hill to the dumbbells to the heavy bag to the improvised pistol range to the dinner table for cold chicken and the local wine.

One of the many drawbacks to Southern California was that most of the basketball games started at 4:30 local time. Another drawback was that the Clippers played in some of the games. I kept squeezing the rubber ball. Susan had gone to a drug store and bought a bunch of vitamins and I took them every morning with the local orange juice. Susan was pushing big doses of Vitamin C. She said it helped in the healing process. We spoke to no one. We called no one on the phone. We wrote no letters. As far as Boston was concerned, we were gone. As far as the Gray Man was concerned, I was dead. There was no reason to think he didn't believe that. Still, I kept the Detective Special with me even though it was like carrying a bowling ball up the hill. And Hawk was never away from me, and never without a gun. And the shotgun leaned in the corner when Susan and I went to bed.

In mid-January, I made it halfway up the hill before I had to stop, and Pearl wasn't pulling me. It was a sunny day and when we came back down the road to our house, Susan was standing in the front yard watching me. She had on white sneakers and white short-shorts and a dark blue sleeveless blouse and her black hair must have been still damp from the shower because the sun glistened on it. Or maybe I just thought it did.

"You've got legs like a rainy day," I said. "I'd like to see them clear up."

"You say that to me every time I wear shorts," she said.

"Nice to be able to count on something," I said.

"Besides, my legs are hideously pale, pale, pale."

"Never my problem," Hawk murmured.

"Your legs look great," I said.

"Are you aware," Susan said, "that as you walked down the road toward me you weren't limping?"

Progress.

It was raining lightly on a Tuesday morning, but Hawk and I were out hitting the bag anyway. The way we did it was to work on one punch at a time, banging the same punch over and over again into the bag, first with my left, then with my right. And even though the right did little more than twitch, I went through the whole process in the nervous system just as if the right hand moved. By the third week in January, I was starting to thump the bag pretty good with my left, and this morning, a Tuesday, in the light rain, I got a right hook into it. It wasn't much of a right hook. It wouldn't have knocked the lime slice off a margarita, but it was a hook. I did it again, and eight more times. Neither Hawk nor I said anything. But when I finished on the heavy bag that day, I put out my left fist and Hawk tapped it gently with his.

Progress.

A week and a half later, Susan brought home a bunch of Pacific lobster tails and we had them with lemon butter and rice pilaf, which Susan cooked. We ate it on a glass table out on the patio with white wine and a salad. The sun slanted in, low in the southern sky, edging down over the Pacific, highlighting the ridge line on the hills across from us. There was no wind, and the smell of flowers and trees and green grass hung in the quiet air.

"Want me to cut up that lobster?" Susan said.

I smiled at her and picked up the knife with my right hand and carefully sliced a bite off the lobster. It took me longer than it should have, and I nearly dropped the knife once.

"You've been practicing in secret," Susan said.

"Un huh."

She leaned over and kissed me on the mouth.

"Coming right along," she said.

But the sunshine was fleeting that year in Montecito. Most of the time it rained, while bits and pieces of the town washed into the ocean. There was mud clogging much of downtown Santa Barbara and the people on the tube were paroxysmal about it.

"You build on a flood plain," Hawk said, "you got to consider the possibility of a flood."

We were in the Montecito YMCA lifting weights. Or I was. Hawk was standing around with his gun hidden under a loose warmup jacket, trying to look like a trainer. I wasn't lifting a lot of weight. But I was actually moving the weights that I was lifting. Most of the equipment was Nautilus machines. There wasn't much in the way of free weights, but I couldn't do much with free weights yet. I was doing chest presses. They were very light chest presses, but I was using both hands.

"Aren't you supposed to say things like, `You can do it!' and `Atta boy'?" I said.

"Don't want people looking over, see what you lifting," Hawk said. "Be embarrassing."

There was a ravine between the Y and the parking lot with a wide, planked wooden bridge across it. When we left the gym, the rain was steady as it had been when we came. The ravine, bone dry when it wasn't raining, was snarling with flood waters only a couple of feet below the bridge.

"Keeps raining," I said, "Susan's going to start running in circles."

We got into the Explorer and Hawk started it up. "She ain't had much to do here," Hawk said. "'Cept food shop and make supper, and cheer you up."

"All of which she hates."

We pulled out of the lot and out to San Ysidro Road and right up toward East Valley. The wipers were on steadily. There was something soothing, I thought, about windshield wipers.

"Maybe she don't mind cheerin' you up," Hawk said.

"Maybe not," I said. "But you know how rambunctious she is. She can't even take Pearl out running because Pearl won't go out in the rain."

"Hell of a hunting dog," Hawk said.

"And she's got no patients to work with," I said.

"Cept you."

"And most of what I need you do better than she does."

"Like getting your sorry ass up and down that hill," Hawk said.

"Like that."

"You think you be able to handle all this weakness and pain without her?"

"I hope so."

"You handle it as well, you think?"

"No."

"I don't think so either," Hawk said.

When we got home, the door to our bedroom was closed. I could hear the television blatting inside. I opened the door quietly. One of the indistinguishable ghastly talk shows was on. The room was empty. The door to the master bath was open, and Pearl came out of it and wagged her tail and jumped up and gave me a lap. I went in. Susan was taking a bath. She had moved the shotgun in, and it leaned within reach against the laundry hamper. Pearl lay back down on the rug near the tub. I went to the tub and bent over and kissed Susan.

"Does this mean something good for me?"

"Not right away," Susan said. "I got us reservations at Acacia."

"Should I take a shower?"

"Unless you'd like to make a separate reservation for yourself." Susan said.

So I did. And Hawk did. And we dressed up with ties and jackets, and Susan put on a dress and some sort of high-laced, high-heeled black boots to subvert the rain, and Pearl got in the car with us, and we drove down to the lower village and parked and left Pearl in the locked car and went in to Acacia.

Acacia is the kind of place that people have in mind when they say they'd like to open a little restaurant somewhere. It's a small building with a patio in front and the look of bleached wood. Inside there are tables up front, a bar along the left wall in the back, and booths opposite the bar. There was a mirror over the bar, and I got a look at myself unexpectedly as we went to our booth. I was walking upright. I didn't limp. I had a hint of a tan from running up the hill in the occasional sunshine. My collar didn't look too big for my neck.

I had fried chicken with cream gravy and mashed potatoes and a gentle Chardonnay from a winery about half a mile down the road. I cut my own food. It was the first time I'd eaten in a restaurant since I'd gone off the bridge.

"For dessert," Susan said, "I think I will have something packed with empty calories and covered with chocolate."

"Good choice," I said and put my right hand out and covered hers for a moment. She smiled at me.

"Maybe I'll have two," she said.

She didn't. But she had one huge ice-cream-and-chocolate-cake-and-fudge-sauce thing, which for Susan was an Isadora Duncan-esque act of joyful abandon.

The rains abated in late February. By that time I was beginning to put some right hooks into the heavy bag with enough starch to discourage an opponent. By mid-March I was able to lift the entire stack on the chest press machine at the Y. By the end of March, I was able to shoot right handed and hit something. Hawk had a speed bag up now, bolted to the inside wall of the garage, and I was starting to hit it with some rhythm. Hawk had the big target mitts on and I was starting to put combinations together on them, as Hawk moved around me, holding the target mitts in different positions. All of us, Pearl included, after I'd slogged up the hill each morning, went down to Santa Barbara Harbor and ran along the beach, down near the water where the sand was harder. Pearl peeled off regularly to harry a sea bird, and then caught up to us easily. There were signs that said No Pets, but no one seemed to pay them any mind, except a few beach drifters who were grouchy about Pearl, but nobody paid them any mind either. Glowing with sweat, and breathing deeply, we went to the upper village and, except for Pearl who waited in the car, ate late breakfast on the terrace of a little dining room attached to the local pharmacy where movie stars ate. I had fresh orange juice and whole wheat toast and something they called a California Omelet. I drank three cups of coffee. People probably thought I was a movie star.

One morning I ran up the hill.

All the way.

Chapter 40

WE COT BACK to Boston in the late summer. I weighed 195 pounds, fifteen less than I had when I went into the water, and about what I weighed when I was fighting. But I could walk, and run, and shoot. My right hook was nearly ninety percent, and gaining. I had an impressive beard and my hair was long and slicked back. Hawk was driving.

We got off the Mass. Turnpike in Newton and cruised in along the last stretch of the Charles River that was navigable before you reached the falls near Watertown Square. The shells moved back and forth as they had for all the summers I'd looked at it. We cruised past the MDC Rink, and Martignetti's Liquors. In back with Susan, Pearl began to snuffle at the car window on the side near the river. Susan cracked the window slightly and Pearl snuffled harder.

"I think she knows she's home," Susan said.

"Smart," I said. "Who knows I'm alive."

"Me and Susan," Hawk said. "Quirk, Belson, Farrell, Vinnie, Paul Giacomon, Henry, Dr. Marinaro."

"And Rita Fiore," Susan said.

"Why Rita?"

"She sold the Concord house for me," Susan said. "You were presumed dead."

"Sold?"

"Where do you think we got the money to spend ten months in California with none of us working?" Susan said. "Rita arranged, or had someone from her firm arrange, to sell the Concord house in my absence. I was sure we could trust her, and she was quite upset when she thought you were gone."

"Did we make a profit?"

"Yes. We cashed in all that sweat equity," Susan said.

"I never thought about money," I said.

"You had other things to think about," Susan said. "Rita sold it and wire transferred the money to a bank in Santa Barbara where I had opened an account."

"I was a kept man for all this time?"

"Un huh."

"Me too," Hawk said.

"Yeah," I said. "But you're used to it."

"I deserve it," Hawk said.

"I feel like a jerk. I never thought about the money."

"Well, you probably are a jerk," Susan said. "But you're the jerk of my dreams, and whether you deserved it or not, you needed it."

"True," I said. "Thank you."

"The house was half yours anyway," Susan said.

We were on Greenough Boulevard on the Cambridge side of the river. Pearl was now clawing at the window and snuffling vigorously. Susan let it down a quarter and Pearl stuck her head out as far as she could, her tail wagging very fast.

"We going to your place?" I said.

"Yes," Susan said.

"Instead of my place," I said.

"We sublet your place," Susan said.

I nodded slowly. We stopped at the light near the Cambridge Boat Club. The light changed and Hawk drove on past the Buckingham, Brown and Nichols school. There were kids playing baseball on the field.

"Because otherwise the whole deal would have looked phony," I said.

Susan nodded.

"And you sublet my office?"

She nodded again.

"Gray Man had any doubts, first thing he'd do," I said, "would be check to see if the rents were being paid."

"And it would alleviate his doubts," Hawk said, "to find that they were not."

Hawk was very precise about all the syllables in "alleviate."

"Glad some of you were thinking for me."

"You were thinking about what you needed to think about," Susan said. "Not very many people would have been able to come back from where you were."

"Susan's place clean?" I said to Hawk. He nodded.

"Vinnie's been sweeping it 'bout once a week since we been gone. Nobody paying any attention."

"And when do I see Marinaro?" I said.

"Day after tomorrow," Susan said. "Ten A.M. at his office."

"He'll probably break into applause," I said.

"Almost certainly," Susan said.

"Assuming he say you okay," Hawk said, "then what you going to do?"

"I'm going to finish up the Ellis Alves case."

Hawk nodded. Susan was quiet. We turned down Linnaean Street with Pearl straining out the window, her ears blown back, her nostrils quivering.

Hawk said, "Sometimes you looking for somebody, you set yourself up so the somebody make a run at you. You let him find you 'stead of you find him. You figure you going to be good enough to take him when he does."

"Yeah?"

"And usually you are," Hawk said. "But don't do that with the Gray Man. You might be good enough, one on one. But you ain't good enough, he got the edge."

"Sure looks that way so far," I said.

"You find him," Hawk said.

"He's a hunter," I said. "He doesn't expect to be hunted."

"And he thinks you dead."

We pulled into the driveway beside Susan's house.

"Once he's out of the way, I can finish the Alves thing," I said.

"You'll be with him," Susan said to Hawk. "When he goes after the Gray Man."

Hawk shook his head.

"He won't want me with him," Hawk said.

Susan opened her mouth to speak, and didn't speak. She looked at me with her mouth still open and back at Hawk and back at me, and clamped her mouth shut without having made a sound.

Hawk shut off the car. We got out. Susan held Pearl straining on her leash.

"You guys bring in the luggage," she said. "I'll take the baby."

Then she turned and headed for her front door, fumbling in her purse for the key.

Hawk let out a deep breath that he appeared to have been holding.

I did too.

Chapter 41

HIS NAME WAS Ives. And he worked, as he liked to say, for a three-letter federal agency. Ten or twelve years ago, when Susan was in trouble, I had done some pretty ugly stuff for him, to get her out of trouble. I hadn't liked it then, and I didn't like remembering it now. But Ives didn't seem to care, and, as far as I could tell, neither did the universe.

Ives had an office in the McCormick Federal Building, in Post Office Square. There was no name on the door when I went in. And no one at the reception desk. The blank door to the inner office was ajar. I went in. Ives was sitting behind a desk wearing a cord suit and a blue and white polka dot bow tie.

"Spenser, isn't it?" Ives said.

"Yes, it is," I said.

"The beard threw me," he said. "Your Lieutenant Quirk said you might be coming by."

"He's not mine," I said. "And he's a captain now."

Ives had one of those red rubber erasers in his hands and he kept turning it slowly in his thin fingers as he talked.

"Well, good on him," Ives said. "You look well."

"I'm looking for a guy," I said.

Ives smiled. He slowly turned the eraser on its axis.

"Gray-haired man," I said. "Gray eyes, sallow complexion, forty to sixty, six feet two or three, rangy build, athletic, when I saw him he was dressed all in gray."

"And what does this gray man do?" Ives said.

"He's a shooter," I said.

"And where does he do his shooting?"

"Boston and New York, to my knowledge, but I assume he goes where his vocation takes him."

"Is he an American national?" Ives said.

"I don't know. He speaks English without an accent."

"You know of course that this agency has no domestic mandate."

"Of course not," I said.

The eraser revolved slowly. Ives gazed off into the middle distance.

"You wouldn't, naturally, know the varlet's name, would you?"

"No."

"You have solid municipal police connections," Ives said. "Why come to me?"

"Cops can't find him. They have no record of him or anyone like him. Not here. Not New York. Not on the national wire."

"How distressing," Ives said.

"Yes."

"And why do you think I'll help you?"

"I helped you twelve years ago," I said.

Ives smiled gently and shook his head. The eraser did a complete revolution.

"We helped each other, as I recall. The agency got what it wanted. You got the maiden and a clean record. How is the maiden?"

"Susan is fine."

"You're still together?"

"Yes."

"Glad to hear love has triumphed. But I still don't see why either of us owes the other one anything."

"How about old times' sake."

"How about that, indeed," Ives said. "It's quite a charming idea, isn't it."

We were quiet. Except for a desk with a phone on it, and a green metal file cabinet, Ives's office was entirely empty. The morning sun was shining in through the big window to our right and made a clear stream for dust motes to sail through. Ives got up and looked out his window for a while, down at Post Office Square, and probably, from this height, the ocean, a few blocks east. High shouldered and narrow, he stood with his hands loosely clasped behind his back, still turning the eraser. Where his trouser cuffs didn't quite touch his pebble-grained oxford shoes, a narrow band of Argyle sock showed. The dust motes drifted. Ives stared down at the square. He probably wasn't thinking. He was probably being dramatic. He had, after all, gone to Yale. Finally he spoke without turning away from the window.

"There's a fellow fits that description, an Israeli national; who was a covert operative. He left Israeli service under prejudicial circumstances, worked with us for a little while, and then dropped out of sight. I had heard he was in private practice."

"Name?"

"Barely matters," Ives said. "He called himself Rugar when he was with us."

"How was his English?"

"American accent," Ives said. "I believe he was born in this country."

"You know where he is now?"

"No."

"Any suggestion where I might look for him?"

"None."

"Anything else?"

"He had gray hair and a sallow complexion. Attempting, presumably, to turn a liability into an asset, he affected a completely gray wardrobe."

"Funny," I said. "A guy in his line of work trying to give himself an identity."

Ives turned from the window. "How so?"

"It's in his best interest to have no identity," I said.

"By God," he said. "You know, I never thought of it that way."

"Bureaucracy clogs the imagination," I said. "Is there anything else you can tell me about this guy?"

Ives pursed his lips faintly. He was turning the eraser at belt level now using both hands. There were liver spots on his hands.

"He is," Ives said gently, "the most deadly man I have met in forty years."

"Wait'll you get a load of me," I said.

"I've gotten a load of you and the black fellow, too."

"Hawk," I said.

"Yes, Mister Hawk. He's still alive?"

"Yes."

"He's still your friend?"

"Yes."

"You are a stable man," Ives said. "In an unstable profession. But I stand by what I said of our friend Rugar."

He smiled softly and squeezed his eraser and didn't say anything else.