Robert B. Parker's Someone to Watch Over Me

by Ace Atkins

  “Last week, a young woman came here under the auspices of giving a man a massage,” I said. “She was paid five hundred dollars. But while she was massaging the man’s feet, he stood up and performed a string rendition of ‘Camp Town Ladies’ on himself.”

  “Not here,” he said. “Not at the Blackstone Club. This is an elite club, sir. For more than a century, this club has offered refuge to Boston’s finest gentlemen.”

  “How long has the club existed?”

  “Since 1883.”

  “Perhaps some men of lesser character have oozed through the cracks.”

  Shaw looked up, smoothing down his slick little mustache with his thumb and forefinger. “Are you asking me for money?” he said. “Would that make you go away?”

  “Nope,” I said. “I’m asking you for the girl’s belongings and the name of the man who brought her here.”

  “Our membership is closely guarded and highly confidential.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  “I will make inquiries into this allegation.”

  “It’s not an allegation,” I said. “You already know that. Something very bad and very icky happened here. And you’re the one cleaning up the mess.”

  Shaw again wet his lips. His eyes wandered above my shoulder as a young black man in a waiter’s uniform entered and asked what we would be drinking today. Shaw let out a long breath and flailed his hand for the waiter to go away.

  “Mr. Shaw would like a double bourbon,” I said. “No chaser.”

  “And you, sir?”

  I shook my head, and he went away, silently, from the library. Shaw lifted his eyes toward me and swallowed. “Anyone who would bring a child here under those circumstances would have their membership immediately revoked.”

  “Of course, T.W.”

  Shaw swallowed, and we waited in silence. I gave a reassuring smile to T.W. He did not smile back.

  The waiter returned with a short whiskey on a silver tray. It was served neat, a cocktail napkin under the crystal glass. As T.W. reached for it, I noted a slight tremble in his hand.

  “The backpack contained a computer,” I said. “And the girl’s personal belongings.”

  “I will get to the bottom of it, Mr. Spenser,” he said. “You have my word.”

  “Immediately.”

  He sipped at the whiskey, holding it in his hand as he tried to steady his breathing and compose his thoughts.

  “I understand this man had a woman set up this massage,” I said.

  “We have no women here,” he said. “Except for serving staff. That’s against the rules.”

  “And what about letting in fifteen-year-old girls to massage men’s feet?”

  “Well, um.”

  “Happy to hear it.” I stood up. I looked around the library at all the books, the framed oil portraits of past elite members. Many ascots and mustaches. The air smelled of tobacco, leather, and money.

  “I expect to hear from you bright and early.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You have until ten a.m. tomorrow,” I said. “And then we will alert the local media.”

  I laid down my business card. Simple and elegant on heavy stock with only my name, profession, address, and phone number. No need to show him the one with the skull and crossbones.

  I would never be that gauche. Not at the Blackstone Club.

  “Surely you don’t think I can conduct an internal investigation in a day?” he said, looking down at his gold watch.

  “I look forward to hearing from you.”

  Shaw lifted the drink and took another long sip.

  5

  “There’s a faster way through this shit,” Hawk said.

  “Do tell.”

  “We snatch up that man who chased Mattie off and toss him into the trunk,” Hawk said. “What’s his name again?”

  “T.W.,” I said. “T. W. Shaw.”

  “We take T.W. for a little joyride,” Hawk said. “When we get back, I guarantee we get the laptop and the sicko who wanted his toes sucked.”

  “It was a foot massage,” I said. “Let’s not take it too far.”

  It was early at the Harbor Health Club, the waterfront and harbor covered in darkness and shadows. Rain fell over the moored cabin cruisers and sailboats, the ferry running from the Boston Harbor Hotel to the airport. Hawk shook his head and started back into the heavy bag. He worked out a quick delivery of body blows and head shots that sent the bag jumping up into the air and jangling from the chains.

  Two young women in black yoga pants and tight white tops with spaghetti straps over shapely shoulders stopped to watch Hawk. Hawk added a bit of flair to the round, and they stayed until he’d finished. He wore a white sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off, his upper arms larger than most grown men’s legs.

  “Some sick puppies out there,” Hawk said, wiping down his bald head.

  “We’ve met many of them.”

  “Man need to be taught a lesson,” Hawk said. “You don’t mess with kids.”

  “Agreed.”

  “But Mattie won’t let you?” Hawk said.

  “Mattie says I’m there only to assist,” I said. “And told me not to fuck it up.”

  “Damn,” Hawk said. “Now she knows how I feel.”

  “But if the club doesn’t deliver the goods,” I said. “I’ll do as I say.”

  “You always deliver, babe,” Hawk said. He held out his mitt, and I met him with mine. “Many black folks members at the Blackstone Club?”

  “Besides the help?” I said.

  “Boston,” Hawk said.

  We headed out of the boxing room Henry kept for us, the last sliver of the old gym he used to operate before going upscale. I walked over to an incline bench and added a couple plates to warm up. I cranked out a fast five and Hawk followed and then we began to slowly increase the weight on the next four sets. By the last set, we’d topped three-fifty.

  “Not bad for a couple of old dudes,” Hawk said.

  “Speak for yourself,” I said. “We’re not in the AARP yet.”

  “I don’t get older,” Hawk said. “I youthen.”

  “You and Merlin,” I said. I began to hum the first few chords of Camelot.

  We continued over to the lat pulldown machine, and I watched as Hawk ran the key down to the lowest plate. He slid beneath the bar and cranked out twelve reps, slow and easy, holding the weight against his neck each time for a long count of three. He had complete control and mastery of the equipment. No wasted movement.

  Henry Cimoli wandered out from his office, watched us train for a moment, and then shook his head in disappointment.

  “That all you got to say, Henry?” Hawk said.

  Henry tossed his hand up over his shoulder and walked back to his office.

  “He loves us,” I said.

  “’Course he do.”

  I nodded and used my teeth to start unwrapping the tape from my knuckles. The front of my gray T-shirt was soaked.

  “How’s Pearl?” Hawk said.

  “Susan will only call her Puppy.”

  “She’ll come around.”

  “I’m still working on the house-training,” I said. “She’s pretty much only at my place. Susan claims the sounds of a yipping puppy might distract her patients.”

  “That and puppies leave little presents around your house.”

  “Lots of presents,” I said. “We’re working on crate training. And her sit and stay commands.”

  “I like that little dog.”

  “She fell asleep on your lap the whole drive back from New York.”

  “How you feel if this Pearl prefers me to you?”

  “Never will happen.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” Hawk said.

  We walked back to the loc
ker room to shower and dress. I was headed to the office. Hawk was off to wherever Hawk goes.

  Outside, he’d parked his silver Jaguar beside my Land Cruiser. Before he drove off, he looked at me from over the car. The rain beading down off his slick bald head.

  “Man needs to be taught lesson,” he said.

  “Won’t exactly be a paying gig.”

  “This is for Mattie?” he said. “Right?”

  I nodded.

  “Then whatever she decides, count me in.”

  6

  At five minutes until ten, just as I finished Arlo & Janis, Mattie opened my office door and held it wide. A man in a black suit with a red tie entered the room. He was a smaller, fit-looking guy with lots of black hair, a prominent nose, and a toothy grin. He looked to me, stuck out his hand, and said, “You must be Spense.”

  He had the face and manner of someone selling jewelry on late-night television. I disliked him immediately.

  I closed the pages of my morning paper, folded my arms, and leaned back in my office chair. The rain fell pleasantly outside, making tapping sounds against my bay window. The man had a small black backpack slung across his shoulder. When I didn’t respond, he retracted his hand, set the backpack on the floor, and took a seat without being asked.

  “My name is Greebel.”

  “You look like a Greebel,” I said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Do you have an appointment, Mr. Greebel?”

  “I’m in the employ of a certain party who’s asked me to deliver a particular item.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “Could you be any more circumspect?”

  He motioned to the backpack. Mattie leaned against the doorframe.

  “There you go,” he said. “And there is an envelope inside to make up for a truly unfortunate misunderstanding.”

  “There was no misunderstanding,” Mattie said. “A man whipped it out in front of a freakin’ kid.”

  Greebel continue to smile. His teeth were so big and white that I wondered if they were capped. So I asked.

  “No,” Greebel said, the smile fading and his lips covering the chompers. “They’re my own teeth.”

  “You must be the rock star at the dentist’s office,” I said.

  Mattie pushed herself off the doorframe and walked toward my desk. She took a seat at the edge.

  “A most generous gift,” Greebel said. “Along with the return of the lost item.”

  “The backpack wasn’t lost,” Mattie said. “My client ran off. She was scared shitless.”

  “I don’t know anything about that,” he said. “But I hope this will all remain confidential. If you have any further questions, please contact my law firm.”

  “Were you sent by the Blackstone Club?” I said.

  He shook his head.

  “T. W. Shaw?”

  He shook his head again.

  “Jimmy Hoffa?” I said.

  Mattie shook her head. “This guy wouldn’t say shit if his mouth was full of it.”

  Greebel started to grin again, wearing a bemused expression while standing up. “Are we through here?”

  “Perhaps your client, whoever that might be, might have started off by returning the bag to its rightful owner rather than playing a game of keep-away,” I said.

  “I apologize if there was any misunderstanding.”

  “The Blackstone Club, of which your client is a member, sent two men to follow my assistant here,” I said. “One of whom was carrying a gun.”

  “I have no knowledge of that.”

  “No big deal,” Mattie said. “They were fucking idiots.”

  “Amateurs,” I said.

  “I really have no idea what you’re talking about,” Greebel said.

  “So your client isn’t the Blackstone Club or T. W. Shaw?”

  “Or the fucking Easter Bunny,” Mattie said.

  “My client will remain nameless,” Greebel said, turning on a heel. “And I hope your client is pleased by the generous gift.”

  “And what if they’re not?” Mattie said.

  Greebel smiled even bigger. You could play “Sweet Rosie O’Grady” on those teeth. The lawyer held out his hands, showing his palms, and nodded at the backpack before leaving the room.

  He left the door open, and we soon heard the hallway door open and close.

  “What a freakin’ douche,” Mattie said.

  “But a conscientious flosser.”

  Mattie scooted off the desk and reached for the bag. She unzipped it, removed the laptop and what looked like a small makeup bag. She continued to pull out notepads and packs of pens until she found the envelope. It was white and sealed and looked to be bulging at the seams. Mattie slit it with a fingernail and began to shuffle through a wad of cash.

  “How much?” I said.

  “Thousand bucks.”

  “Are you satisfied with the offer?” I said.

  Mattie held my gaze. And then slowly shook her head.

  “Nope,” she said. “No fucking way.”

  7

  Later that afternoon, Mattie and I met Chloe Turner at Joe Moakley Park on a green park bench overlooking Carson Beach. The rain had stopped and the sun returned, but most of the park and beach remained empty. Puppy Pearl romped and played across the wet grass while I sat down on a concrete retaining wall.

  Pearl had taken to Chloe immediately, lapping her face with a thousand kisses, causing her to relax her shoulders and take in deep breaths.

  “Thank you,” Chloe said, sifting through her backpack. “But I don’t want the money. I don’t want to have anything to do with that man. I agreed to five hundred to show up. But this makes me feel dirty. I don’t like it.”

  “Who told you about meeting this guy?” Mattie said. “About making money from massages?”

  “This girl at school,” Chloe said. “Can we not talk about it? I’ll split the five hundred with you like I promised. But I don’t want any more trouble. If my mom found out. Christ. She’d kick me out of the house.”

  I smiled at Chloe. She was a cute girl who looked much younger than fifteen. She was as gangly as Pearl, with a chubby little girl’s face. Lots of baby fat and wide-set innocent eyes under blond bangs and shoulder-length hair. She had on khaki shorts and a blue-and-white boatneck shirt like French sailors used to wear.

  “What this man did was a crime,” I said. “He should be arrested and go to jail.”

  “Taking the T to the Common to go to some fancy men’s club,” Chloe said, shaking her head. “What the hell was I thinking? I got what I deserved. He probably thought I was a whore.”

  “Don’t talk like that,” I said. “That’s what he wants you to feel like. People like that feed on power and making others feel weak and useless.”

  “Can’t we just let it go?” Chloe said. “Please.”

  Pearl had taken to running figure-eight patterns, bits of clipped grass across her brown flank. She seemed possessed of a demon or an adrenaline shot, looping and looping until she ran back to us and flopped on her back. Her small pink tongue lolled from her mouth. Pearl made Chloe smile as she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

  “I don’t want to quit,” Mattie said. “I’m not good at it. Who’s the girl?”

  “Come on, Mattie.”

  “If you don’t speak up,” Mattie said, “he’s gonna do it again to someone else. Some other kid. Only this time, that girl might not get away.”

  Chloe looked to me. I nodded.

  “I can’t pay you,” Chloe said.

  “What if we take this man’s money as a down payment,” Mattie said, sounding much more entrepreneurial than me. I wouldn’t have asked for the money. But I wasn’t Mattie. And this wasn’t my case.

  Chloe shrugged and reached down and pulled Pearl up into her arms. P
earl lapped at her face, kissing her nose and cheek. The tear stains disappeared instantly.

  She looked to me. And then back to Mattie. She let out a long breath.

  “Debbie Delgado.”

  Mattie nodded.

  “You know her?” Chloe said.

  “I know Sandy Delgado,” Mattie said. “She was in my class.”

  “Debbie is Sandy’s little sister,” Chloe said. “She’s a senior. I don’t know her, really. She came up to me at a basketball game and said I was cute. Wondered if I thought about being a model.”

  “And how’d that get to a massage?” I said.

  “She said this woman she knows is tied in with big people in New York,” Chloe said. “Said this woman discovered some top models from Boston. And that she’s always on the lookout for fresh faces.”

  “This was the woman you met?”

  “Yeah,” Chloe said. “Debbie said this woman wanted me to start networking. She didn’t say, but I figured this was the guy who ran the agency or had something to do in that business.”

  “Foot Fetish Weekly?” I said.

  Mattie shot me a very Mattie look. I remained quiet. Pearl looked content, lying on her back like an infant, in Chloe’s arms. She looked at me with sad brown eyes, letting me know her heart still belonged to me.

  “What’s her name?” Chloe said.

  “Pearl.”

  “You just get her?”

  “I’ve had her since I was a kid,” I said.

  Chloe looked to Mattie. Mattie shrugged.

  “Don’t ask,” Mattie said.

  Chloe set Pearl back onto the sidewalk, and the adrenaline shot kicked in again, Pearl running figure eights until she plopped down again with exhaustion. Her rib cage rising and falling with exertion.

  “Does Debbie know what happened?” Mattie said.

  “Yes,” Chloe said, biting her lower lip. “She called me right after and said I’d embarrassed her. She said I screwed up.”

  “Wow,” I said.

  “Did she know about the backpack?” Mattie said.

  “No.”

  “Did you tell her about what the man did?”

  “No.”