Taming a Sea Horse s-13

by Robert B. Parker

  "I'm sitting in my office with only one light on," I said, "and I'm quoting Prufrock to myself."

  "My God," she said, "tell me about it."

  "Everybody I run into looking for April is a pimp," I said. "Except for the whores."

  "Everybody?"

  "Metaphorically at least. It's depressing."

  "The last time you found her she went right back to whoring," Susan said.

  "Yeah, that's not encouraging either. What kind of world is it when whoring is the best choice open to you?"

  "Since when do you and I talk about the world," she said. "The world is what it is."

  "Yeah, I know."

  "Not only do you know, you've helped me to know."

  "Good to be useful," I said.

  "What has always made me respect you, even in the bad times, was your ability to look out at the world and see what's there. Not what you'd like to see, or even what you need to see, but simply what's there."

  "I haven't killed anyone yet this trip."

  Susan was silent for a moment on the phone, then she said, "Ah, that's what it is. It's not this, it's still San Francisco.

  "And Idaho," she said. "Whatever you did, and whoever you killed, and however you feel about it, you have to judge all of that in context. You were doing what you felt you had to do, and you were doing it for love."

  "The people I killed are just as dead."

  "Yes. It makes no difference to them why you did it. But it makes a difference to me and to you. What we've been through in the last couple of years has produced the relationship we have now, achieved love, maybe. Something we've earned, something we've paid for in effort and pain and maybe mistakes as well. I live with some."

  "I know," I said.

  "We aren't who we were," she said.

  "I know," I said.

  "But if you are to continue what you do, you cannot be afraid to kill someone if you must. Otherwise you'll die, and if you do some of me will die as well."

  "I know," I said.

  "So either come to terms with that or do something else. We almost lost each other once."

  "Doing something else doesn't seem too swell," I said.

  "No, it doesn't. You are the best there is at what you do. And what you do is often crucially important to someone."

  "You love me," I said, "don't you."

  "More than I can say. Maybe more sometimes than I can show."

  "Yes," I said, "I know."

  "You want to come over?"

  "No," I said, "I'm okay."

  "You weren't when you called," Susan said.

  "I am now," I said.

  "No wonder I'm called super shrink," Susan said.

  "Hey, wait a minute, the patient does all the work."

  "Of course," Susan said. "You ought to not forget that whoever you killed last year, there were people you could have killed and didn't."

  "There's that," I said.

  "We all do what we need to, and what we have to, not what we ought to, or ought to have. You're a violent man. You wouldn't do your work if you weren't. What makes you so attractive, among other things, is that your capacity for violence is never random, it is rarely self-indulgent, and you don't take it lightly. You make mistakes. But they are mistakes of judgment. They are not mistakes of the heart."

  "I thought you shrinks didn't talk about heart."

  "We only do it with the patients who aren't paying," she said.

  "Thank you," I said.

  "When will I see you?" Susan said.

  "Maybe tomorrow night. I'll call you tomorrow."

  "Okay, take care of yourself."

  "Yes," I said.

  We hung up. I sat silently in the office for ten minutes and then got up and turned off the light and went home.

  32

  I made three tries at getting Warren Whitfield on the phone next morning and never getting past the administrative assistant, who remained courteous and implacable no matter how beguiling I became. Finally I sent him a telegram that read:

  In regards Ginger Buckey, the Cr Prince Club, and St. Thomas, call Spenser promptly.

  I added my phone number and sat back to wait. He didn't call that day. And Hawk and l spent the time considering a number of pressing issues. We discussed whether ethnicity had anything to do with sexual fervor among women. We also examined the issue of why the Red Sox kept building teams around the long ball and the short left-field fence, a practice that had won them three pennants in the last forty years. I quoted Peter Gammons, Hawk referenced Bob Ryan, all four of us agreed. We analyzed the relative merits of California champagne. I opted for Schramsberg, he for Iron Horse. We agreed that Taittinger was the class of the French though Krug and Cristal and Dom Perignon were worth a gulp. We agreed that Tapas Restaurant was the class of Porter Square, that Ray Robinson was the best fighter that ever lived (present company excluded), that Bill Russell was the most dominant basketball player, that Mel Torme could sing; we spoke well of Picasso, and Alan Ameche and the Four Seasons. We engaged in a long sexist analysis of female physiology.

  At about four-thirty we turned on my answering machine and walked up the street to Grille Twenty-three and had a couple of beers at the bar. I called Susan and she said she'd meet us for supper. We had a couple more beers. The bar began to fill. The seat next to Hawk remained empty.

  "You doing something," I said, "or is it racism?"

  "Need a place for Susan," Hawk said.

  "You're looking at people when they start to sit there," I said.

  "Just a glance," Hawk said.

  Susan arrived at a quarter to seven. As she came in she didn't do anything different than anyone else, but somehow she seemed to sweep in. There probably was no hush in the place. I probably imagined it. I always felt like a hush fell when she swept into a place. Hawk moved to the empty seat beside him and Susan sat between us. She kissed Hawk, and kissed me and gave me a hug with her right arm. She ordered a White Russian and looked at Hawk.

  "I love you," she said, "but it always makes me nervous when I see you. It means he's into something too much for him to handle alone. Which means it's really too much."

  "Maybe I into something I can't handle alone, Susan. Ever think of that?" Hawk said.

  "No. Of course, it would work that way too," she said. "I guess I'm Spensocentric."

  "Me too," I said, "Want me to get us a table?"

  "Not yet," Susan said, "unless you're starving. I'd like to sit a little and come down."

  "The crazies getting to you," I said.

  "No, not really. I love what I do. And, mostly, I love the patients. But the concentration level is so high and so sustained that I am buzzed when I get through every night."

  The bar was crowded now, people standing, mostly suits and ties after work at insurance companies. Police headquarters was right across the street but I didn't see much that looked like fuzz.

  "How did you manage to save me a seat?" Susan said.

  Hawk smiled. "Luck of the draw, Susan."

  She studied him for a moment. "Maybe," she said.

  Hawk and I finished our beer. Susan had a second White Russian. Then we went to dinner.

  Grille Twenty-three occupied part of what used to be the Salada Tea Building. The building was from the era of vaulted ceilings and marble pillars, and the restaurant had made full use of the space. The dining room was separated from the bar by a railing and a couple steps down. Susan and Hawk and I sat near a display table of fresh produce and bread, which looked, somehow, better than it sounds. We got menus and Hawk took the wine list.

  Susan said, "Tell me what you are doing now. I know you're still looking for April. But why Hawk?"

  Hawk was absorbed in the wine list. "Well, there was a mystery man named Warren," I said.

  "Warren? What kind of name is Warren for a mystery man," Susan said.

  "See why I was feeling Prufrockian?" I said.

  "Go on," Susan said.

  Hawk asked to see the wine steward
. I told Susan about Perry Lehman and Warren and Mr. Milo. The wine steward conferred with Hawk, and went away.

  "Schramsberg," Hawk said. "They didn't have Iron Horse. I was going to have one of each and do a blind tasting."

  "After four or five beers," I said, "to prepare the palate."

  Hawk grinned.

  "And you knew Hawk would show up when they came to kill you?"

  "Un huh."

  "Even though you didn't see him and hadn't seen him all day?"

  "Un huh."

  "Isn't that remarkable," Susan said. "Have you each ever considered how rare that kind of trust is?"

  "Yes," I said, "I have."

  Hawk simply smiled at Susan.

  "He doesn't consider stuff like that," I said. She looked at Hawk.

  "It have to do with us both knowing it matters," Hawk said. "Our line of work, you got to do what you say you going to do."

  "See," Susan said, "he does think about such things."

  "But not too much, Susan," Hawk said. "Doing it, more important than thinking about it."

  The waiter brought the champagne. He opened it and poured. Susan ordered grilled salmon fillet. So did I. Hawk had scallops. We sipped the champagne. Susan's hand rested on mine on the tabletop. The room was full of the sound of people talking and dishes being served and steaks being cut and glasses being raised and fish being grilled and wine being poured. I looked at Susan, she smiled and said, "Umph," at me. We both knew what we were feeling. Since Hawk seemed to know whatever he felt like knowing, he probably knew it too.

  "Nice to be dining with you both," Hawk said. He gestured slightly with the champagne glass and drank some. Susan and I drank some too.

  "We've been together on worse occasions," I said.

  "But few better," she said.

  The food came. We had a platter of assorted grilled vegetables to go with our entree. The waiter served some onto each plate. Susan smiled up at him when he finished. He poured more champagne and looked at Hawk. Hawk nodded and the waiter went for another bottle.

  I said to Susan, "You keep smiling at the waiter that way and he's going to get vertigo and drop his tray and get fired."

  "I forgot," Susan said, "I must control this special power."

  "Smile at me," I said. "I'm so tough I can take the full force, ear to ear."

  The waiter came back with a second bottle and leaned over Hawk. "Lady up there wants to buy you this next bottle, sir," the waiter said. He handed Hawk a business card on which something was written.

  Hawk read the card and the message and looked up across the room at a tall blond woman in a tight-fitting red knit dress. He smiled once, and tucked the card into his shirt pocket.

  "Your smile seems to be working pretty good too," I said.

  "Thermonuclear," Hawk said.

  "You know her?" Susan said.

  "Not yet," Hawk said, and smiled again.

  I put my hands lightly over Susan's eyes. "I know you love me," I said, "but there's no sense taking chances."

  33

  At nine-fifteen the next morning I got a call from Warren Whitfield's personal, senior, confidential assistant.

  "Mr. Whitfield would like to have you stop by this morning at ten o'clock," she said.

  "Be pleased to," I said.

  "Thank you," she said.

  DePaul Federal was about a half-hour walk from my office. With Hawk drifting along behind me on the other side of the street I set out at nine-thirty. I liked to walk and had been falling behind on my jogging lately, so the walk was especially welcome. The weather was about as good as summer gets as I headed down Boylston Street. Temperature eighty-one, sunny, small breeze.

  The DePaul Building was forty-five stories with a high art deco lobby facing out on Franklin Street and Post Office Square. The cashiers and floor people occupied most of the floor, and a bank of elevators off a slightly raised walkway led to the executive offices up on top.

  Hawk stayed in the lobby. No one was likely to hit me in the office of the man they'd been trying so hard to keep out of trouble. I found Whitfield's name on the directory and went to the thirty-seventh floor at a rate sufficient to make my ears block. I got out of the elevator, swallowing to clear my eustachian tubes. The foyer was deeply carpeted in banker's gray. Straight ahead was a large mahogany desk and a, receptionist.

  I said, "My name is Spenser. I have an appointment with Prez Whitfield."

  "Yes, sir," she said with a lovely smile. "I'll tell him you're here."

  She picked up the phone and punched a button. Her fingernails were painted a muted pink.

  "Mr. Spenser is here," she said into the phone. Then she hung up. Almost at once the door behind her opened and a woman came it wearing a gray pinstripe suit and a white shirt with a ruffled bow at the collar.

  "Mr. Spenser," she said. "Please come in." I followed her. The skirt of her suit came just to the bend of her knee. She wore black pumps. We walked through another waiting room with a black oak desk in it and a woman sitting at it who wore dark maroon nail polish. I followed the pinstripe through one of a set of raised-panel oak doors into an office that looked out over Boston Harbor and south past Dorchester and the painted gas tanks along the Southeast Expressway. In front of the big windows a man sat at a bleached maple worktable, nearly bare of papers, with a phone bank near the left-hand corner, and a couple of manila folders stacked on the right. Against the left wall was another desk with a lot of papers and a similar phone bank and an empty black swivel chair with arms.

  "Mr. Spenser," Pinstripe said, "Mr. Whitfield."

  Whitfield rose but didn't put out a hand. I stood opposite him across the desk.

  "I'll see Mr. Spenser alone, Helen," Whitfield said. He was looking steadily at me.

  "Fine," Pinstripe said, and went out and closed the door.

  Whitfield and I remained standing. He was a short man, and overweight. His hair was short and combed straight back and he had a clipped mustache that was sprinkled with gray. Dark suit, white shirt, yellow tie. Yellow was supposed to be the new power color.

  Whitfield kept staring at me. His eyes were very pale blue and unblinking. The killer stare. I looked back. The office was silent. Everywhere money must have been being dispersed and collected and counted. But no sound of it reached the office. Whitfield pursed his lips silently, as if coming to a negative conclusion on my loan application. He looked some more.

  "I'm getting bored," I said. "You want me to faint or anything?"

  "Sit down," Whitfield said.

  I sat in a mahogany chair upholstered in black leather. Whitfield went and sat in his high-backed leather swivel. He leaned back slightly and folded his arms, still gazing at me. I waited.

  There were paintings of sailing ships on the walls.

  "What game are you playing?" Whitfield said.

  "I'm trying to find April Kyle, and I'm trying to find out what happened to Ginger Buckey, and how come someone killed her?"

  Whitfield made a short dismissive shake of his head. "I'm not concerned," he said, "with how you waste your time. When it's yours. I want to know what game you're playing with me."

  "You knew Ginger Buckey," I said. "You took her to the Crown Prince resort in St. Thomas and she dumped you and went off with a reed man named Robert Rambeaux. He's dead too."

  "If you make any such allegation before a witness," Whitfield said, "I will certainly sue you."

  "Sure," I said. "But what I'd rather is that you tell me about Ginger, and maybe about April."

  Whitfield slapped his open hand down on the desk. "Are you crazy?" he said. "Who the hell do you think you're talking to. You're looking for a couple of adolescent chippies and you come into my office and ask me? Do you have any idea what you're doing?"

  "I didn't say they were chippies," I said.

  Whitfield leaned forward over the desk, letting the swivel chair come forward with him. "Don't play cute games with me, pal," he said.

  "Warren," I said, "if you keep s
caring me to death this is going to take all day. You think you're a powerful guy. You think it's because of something in you that you're powerful, so you figure to unleash a little of that power on me and watch me get limp and shriveled."

  Whitfield's eyes were narrowed a little and both hands were flat on the top of the desk as he looked at me.

  "But you're not a powerful guy," I said, "and what power you have isn't in you, it's in the job, in the fact that you control a lot of money and a lot of jobs and people want both, so they suck around. I don't want either. I want to know what you know about Ginger Buckey, and I'm going to find out."

  Whitfield raised his hand. With the index mnger extended he jabbed toward me with it. I kept right on talking.

  "And until I find out," I said, "I'm going to be so annoying that it will make your eyes water."

  "I don't know what you're talking about," Whitfield said. "I've been to the Crown Prince Club locally once or twice for lunch. I occasionally vacation in St. Thomas. But I don't know any Ginger Whatsis, or any April."

  "Yeah you do," I said, "and you know Perry Lehman who runs the place and you know some other stuff that Mr. Milo doesn't want me to mnd out, and I want to know what that is too."

  The name Mr. Milo rocked him. He sat back and some of the edge went off his voice. "Mr. Milo?" he said.

  "Un huh."

  "Who's Mr. Milo?" he said.

  I shook my head. "Come off it, Warren. We both know you know who Mr. Milo is. Even if you were clean, you'd know who Mr. Milo was."

  He was back to looking at me again. But the look was fuzzier now.

  "And I know that something is going down here between you and Mr. Milo because Mr. Milo has already tried to hit me after I started looking for you. The too-bad part for you, Warren, is that I'm probably going to knock the whole thing over, whereas if someone had told me about April Kyle back at the start, I wouldn't care much what you and Mr. Milo were doing."

  "I…" Whitfield started to talk and stopped. On the right wall past the assistant's desk a door opened and Jacky Wax walked through. He walked over to Whitfield's desk and punched one of the buttons on the phone.

  "Jesus Christ," Whitfield said. "You can't show yourself here."

  "Shut up," Jacky said without heat. He wasn't looking at Whitfield. He was looking at me.