Authors: Robert B. Parker
”No, he canned me. He says he’s going to sue me.“
”Ah wouldn’t worry all that much about the suing,“ Hawk said. ”Harv’s kinda busy.“
”Is it Powers?“ I said.
”Maybe it is, maybe it ain’t. You gonna stay out of this, Spenser?“
”Maybe I will, maybe I won’t.“
Hawk nodded. We drove a way in silence.
”Who’s King Powers?“ Susan said.
”A thief,“ I said. ”Loan sharking, numbers, prostitution, laundromats, motels, trucking, produce, Boston, Brockton, Fall River, New Bedford.“
Hawk said, ”Not Brockton anymore. Angie Degamo has got Brockton now.“
”Angie chase Powers out?“
”Naw, some kind of business deal. I wasn’t in it.“
”Anyway,“ I said to Susan, ”Powers is like that.“
”And you work for him,“ she said to Hawk.
”Some.“
”Hawk’s a free-lance,“ I said. ”But Powers asks him early when he’s got Hawk’s kind of work.“
”And what is Hawk’s kind of work?“ Susan said, still to Hawk.
”He does muscle and gun work.“
”Ah prefer the term soldier of fortune, honey,“ Hawk said to me.
”Doesn’t it bother you,“ Susan said, ”to hurt people for money?“
”No more than it does him.“ Hawk nodded to me.
”I don’t think he does it for money,“ she said.
”That’s why ah’m bopping down the Cape in a new Eldorado and he’s driving that eight-year-old hog with the gray tape on the upholstery.“
”But…“ Susan looked for the right words. ”But he does what he must, his aim is to help. Yours is to hurt.“
”Not right,“ Hawk said. ”Maybe he aiming to help. But he also like the work. You know? I mean he could be a social worker if he just want to help. I get nothing out of hurting people. Sometimes just happens that way. Just don’t be so sure me and old Spenser are so damn different, Susan.“
We pulled back into the parking lot at the motel. The blue and white was gone. I said, ”You people through discussing me yet, I got a couple things to say, but I don’t want to interrupt. The subject is so goddamned fascinating.“
Susan just shook her head.
”Okay,“ I said. ”This is straight, Hawk. I’m not working for Shepard, or anybody, at the moment. But I can’t go home and let you and Powers do what you want. I’m gonna hang around, I think, and see if I can get you off Shepard’s back.“
Hawk looked at me without expression. ”That’s what I told them,“ he said. ”I told them that’s what you’d say if I came around and talked. But they paying the money. I’ll tell them I was right. I don’t think it gonna scare them.“
”I don’t suppose it would,“ I said.
I opened the door and got out and held it open for Susan. She slid out, and then leaned back in and spoke to Hawk. ”Goodbye,“ she said. ”I’m not sure what to say. Glad to have met you wouldn’t do, exactly. But“—she shrugged—”thanks for the ride.“
Hawk smiled at her. ”My pleasure, Susan. Maybe I’ll see you again.“
I closed the door and Hawk slid the car out of the parking lot, soundless and smooth, like a shark cruising in still water.
Susan said, ”I want a drink.“
We went in and sat on two barstools, at the corner, where the bar turns. Susan ordered a martini and I had a beer. ”Martini?“ I said.
She nodded. ”I said I wanted a drink. I meant it.“ She drank half the martini in a single pull and put the glass back on the bar.
”How different?“ she said, and looked at me.
”You mean me and Hawk?“
”Uhhuh.“
”I don’t know. I don’t beat people up for money. I don’t kill people for money. He does.“
”But sometimes you’ll do it for nothing. Like this afternoon.“
”Powell?“
”Powell. You didn’t have to fight him. You needled him into it.“
I shrugged.
”Didn’t you?“ Susan said.
I shrugged again. She belted back the rest of the martini.
”Why?“
I gestured the bartender down. ”Another round,“ I said.
We were silent while he put the martini together and drew the beer and placed them before us.
”Got any peanuts,“ I said.
He nodded and brought a bowl up from under the bar. The place was almost deserted, a couple having a late lunch across the room, and four guys, who looked like they’d been golfing, drinking mixed drinks at a table behind us. Susan sipped at her second martini.
”How can you drink those things?“ I said. ”They taste like a toothache cure.“
”It’s how I prove I’m tough,“ she said.
”Oh,“ I said. I ate some of the peanuts. The voices of the golf foursome were loud. Full of jovial good fellowship like the voice of a game-show host. A little desperate.
”Millions of guys spend their lives that way,“ I said. ”Sitting around pretending to be a good fellow with guys they have nothing to say to.“
Susan nodded. ”Not just guys,“ she said.
”I always thought women did that better though,“ I said.
”Early training,“ Susan said, ”at being a phony, so men would like you. You going to answer my question?“
”About why I badgered Powell?“
”Uh huh.“ ‘You don’t give up easy, do you?”
“Un unh.”
“I don’t know exactly why I pushed him. He annoyed me sitting there, but it also seemed about the right move to make at the time.”
“To show Hawk you weren’t afraid?”
“No, I don’t think it impressed Hawk one way or the other. It was a gut reaction. A lot of what I do is a gut reaction. You’re a linear thinker, you want to know why and how come and what the source of the problem is and how to work out a solution to it. I assume it comes, in part, with being a guidance type.”
“You’re reversing the stereotype, you know,” Susan said.
“What? Women emotional, men rational? Yeah. But that was always horseshit anyway. Mostly, I think it’s just the opposite. In my case anyway. I don’t think in ABC order. I’ve gotten to be over forty and done a lot of things, and I’ve learned to trust my impulses usually. I tend to perceive in images and patterns and—what to call it—whole situations.”
“Gestalt,” Susan said.
“Whatever, so when you say why I feel like the best I can do is describe the situation. If I had a video tape of the situation I would point at it and say, ”See, that’s why.“
“
”Would you have done the same thing if I weren’t there?“
”You mean was I showing off?“ The bartender came down and looked at our glasses. I nodded and he took them away for refill. ”Maybe.“ The bartender brought the drinks back. ”Would you have hit someone with that beer bottle if I needed it?“
”You insufferable egotist,“ Susan said. ”Why don’t you think I picked the bottle up to defend myself?“
”You got me,“ I said. ”I never thought of that. Is that why you picked it up?“
”No,“ she said. ”And stop grinning like a goddamned idiot.“ She drank some of her third martini. ”Smug bastard,“ she said.
”You did it because I’m such terrific tail, didn’t you.“
”No,“ she said. The force of her face and eyes were on me. ”I did it because I love you.“
The couple across the room got up from the table and headed out. She was Clairol blond, her hair stiff and brittle, he was wearing white loafers and a matching belt. As they left the dining room their hands brushed and he took hers and held it. I drank the rest of my beer. Susan sipped at her martini. ”Traditionally,“ she said, ”the gentleman’s response to that remark is, ‘I love you too.’ “ She wasn’t looking at me now. She was studying the olive in the bottom of her martini.
”Suze,“ I said. ”Do we have to complicate it?“
”You can’t say the traditional thing?“
”It’s not saying ‘I love you,’ it’s what comes after.“
”You mean love and marriage, they go together like a horse and carriage?“
I shrugged. ”I don’t suppose they have to, I’ve seen a lot of marriages without love. I guess it could work the other way.“
Susan said, ”Urn hum“ and looked at me steadily again.
”The way we’re going now seems nice,“ I said.
”No,“ she said. ”It is momentary and therefore finally pointless. It has no larger commitment, it involves no risk, and therefore no real relationship.“
”To have a real relationship you gotta suffer?“
”You have to risk it,“ she said. ”You have to know that if it gets homely and unpleasant you can’t just walk away.“
”And that means marriage? Lots of people walk away from marriage. For crissake, I got a lady client at this moment who has done just that.“
”After what, twenty-two years?“ Susan said.
”One point for your side,“ I said. ”She didn’t run off at the first sprinkle of rain, did she. But does that make the difference? Some J.P. reading from the Bible?“
”No,“ Susan said. ”But the ceremony is the visible symbol of the commitment. We ritualize our deepest meanings usually, and marriage is the way we’ve ritualized love. Or one of the ways.“
”Are you saying we should get married?“
”At the moment I’m saying I love you and I’m waiting for a response.“
”It’s not that simple, Suze.“
”And I believe I’ve gotten the response.“ She got up from the bar and walked out. I finished my beer, left a ten on the bar and walked back to my room. She wasn’t there. She also was not on the terrace or in the lobby or in the parking lot. I looked for her small blue Chevy Nova and didn’t see it. I went back to the room. Her suitcase was still on the rack, her clothes hanging in the closet. She wouldn’t go home without her clothes. Without me maybe, but not without her clothes. I sat down on the bed and looked at the red chair in the corner. The seat was one form of molded plastic, the legs four thin rounds of dark wood with little brass booties on the bottom. Elegant. I was much too damn big and tough to cry. Too old also. It wasn’t that goddamned simple.
On the top of the bureau was a card that said, ”Enjoy our health club and sauna.“ I got undressed, dug a pair of white shorts and a gray T-shirt out of the bureau, put them on and laced up my white Adidas track shoes with the three black stripes, no socks. Susan always bitched at me about no socks when we played tennis, but I liked the look. Besides, it was a bother putting socks on.
The health club was one level down, plaid-carpeted, several rooms, facilities for steam, sauna, rubdowns, and an exercise room with a Universal Trainer. A wiry middle-aged man in white slacks and a white T-shirt gave me a big smile when I came in.
”Looking for a nice workout, sir?“
”Yeah.“
”Well, we’ve got the equipment. You familiar with a Universal, sir?“
”Yeah.“
”It is, as you can see, a weightlifting machine that operates on pulleys and runs, thus allowing a full workout without the time-consuming inconvenience of changing plates on a barbell.“
”I know,“ I said.
”Let me give you an idea of how ours works. There are eight positions on the central unit here, the bench press, curls, over-the head press…“
”I know,“ I said.
”The weight numbering on the left is beginning weight, the markings on the right are overload weights resulting from the diminishment of fulcrum…“
I got on the bench, shoved the pin into the slot marked 300, took a big breath and blew the weight up to arm’s length and let it back. I did it two more times. The trainer said, ”I guess you’ve done this before.“
”Yeah,“ I said.
He went back toward the trainer’s room. ”You want anything, you let me know,“ he said.
I moved to the lat machine, did 15 pull downs with 150, did 15 tricep presses with 90, moved to the curl bar, then to the bench again. I didn’t normally lift that heavy on the bench but I needed to bust a gut or something and 300-pound bench presses were just right for that. I did four sets of everything and the sweat was soaking through my shirt and running down the insides of my arms, so I had to keep wiping my hands to keep a grip on the weight bars. I finished up doing twenty-five dips, and when I stepped away my arms were trembling and my breath was coming in gasps. It was a slow day for the health club. I was the only one in there, and the trainer had come out after a while and watched.
”Hey,“ he said, ”you really work out, don’t you?“
”Yeah,“ I said. There was a heavy bag in one corner of the training room. ”You got gloves for that thing?“ I said.
”Got some speed gloves,“ the trainer said.
”Gimme,“ I said.
He brought them out and I put them on and leaned against the wall, getting my breath under control and waiting for my arms to stop feeling rubbery. It didn’t used to take as long. In about five minutes, I was ready for the bag. I stood close to it, maybe six inches away, and punched it in combinations as hard as I could. Two lefts, a right. Left jab, left hook, right cross, left jab, left jab, step-back right uppercut. It’s hard to hit a heavy bag with an uppercut. It has no chin. I hit the bag for as long as I could, as hard as I could. Grunting with the effort. Staying up against it and trying to get all the power I could into the six-inch punches. If you’ve never done it you have no idea how tiring it is to punch something. Every couple of minutes I had to back away and lean on the wall and recover.
The trainer said to me, ”You used to fight?“
”Yeah,“ I said.
”You can always tell,“ he said. ”Everybody comes in here slaps at the bag, or gives it a punch. They can’t resist it. But one guy in a hundred actually hits it and knows what he’s doing.“
”Yeah,“ I went back to the bag, driving my left fist into it, alternating jabs and hooks, trying to punch through it. The sweat rolled down my face and dripped from my arms and legs. My shirt was soaking and I was beginning to see black spots dancing like visions of sugar plums before my eyes.
”You want some salt,“ the trainer said. I shook my head. My gray T-shirt was soaked black with sweat. Sweat ran down my arms and legs. My hair was dripping wet. I stepped back from the bag and leaned on the wall. My breath was heaving in and out and my arms were numb and rubbery. I slid my back down the wall and sat on the floor, knees up, back against the wall, my forearms resting on my knees, my head hanging, and waited while the breath got under control and the spots went away. The speed gloves were slippery with sweat as I peeled them off. I got up and handed them to the trainer.