Chance

by Robert B. Parker

  "That's part of it, isn't it?" Susan said.

  "That I don't find the investigation stuff boring?"

  "Yes. You're simply curious. There's a hidden truth in the case.

  You want to find it out."

  I shrugged, which is more awkward than you might think, if you're running down your 1000th stadium step.

  "The other part is you can't bear to be told what to do. When Mr. Ventura warned you that you couldn't do A, B, or C, he sealed the deal."

  I shrugged again. I was getting the hang of it.

  "I'm in the business of selling brains and balls," I said.

  "And most people value the latter."

  "Lucky for you," Susan murmured.

  I ignored her.

  "And it is not good for the business if people perceive me as someone who can be scared off of something."

  We turned and started back up. My quads were beginning to feel as if they were made of lemon Jell-0. Perspiration was soaking through the back of Susan's top. She was the most elegant person I had ever known, and she sweated like a horse.

  "It wouldn't matter," she said. I heard no sound of exhaustion in her voice. Her breath was still even.

  "Even if it were good for business you couldn't let someone chase you off."

  Shrugging was even harder going up the stairs. I was concentrating on getting one foot then the other up each step now. I was starting to tie up. I could never understand how the quads could turn to jelly and then knot. At the top of the stairs Susan stopped and rested her forearms on the retaining wall and looked out at the traffic below us on Western Ave.

  "I've had it," she said.

  "Time to stop."

  "So soon?" I said.

  "Ah, frailty, thy name is woman."

  She didn't say anything, but she looked at me the way she does, out of the corner of her eyes, and I knew she knew the truth. We walked together around the top level of the stadium, as the light began to fade.

  "When will you talk to Hawk?" Susan said.

  "Henry says he's out of town."

  "So, what's your first move?" Susan said.

  "I was thinking of patting you on the backside, and whispering "Hey, cutie, how about it?"

  " "That's effective," Susan said.

  "I mean the business with the missing husband. What are you going to do first?"

  "Deposit Ventura's check," I said.

  "See if it clears."

  "And if it does?"

  "Then I'll have to come up with a plan," I said.

  "Besides patting me on the backside."

  "Besides that."

  "But not instead of," she said.

  "No. Never instead of."

  We stood quietly at the top of the old stadium, our forearms resting on the chest-high wall, our shoulders touching lightly, looking out at the declining autumn sun.

  "You like that, don't you," Susan said.

  "Walking into something and not knowing what you'll find."

  "I like to see what develops," I said.

  "See what's in there."

  We had been together for twenty years, except for a brief mid-term hiatus. The excitement of being with her had never waned.

  The twenty years simply deepened the resonance.

  "And whatever develops, you assume you'll be able to manage it."

  "So far so good," I said.

  She put her hand on top of mine for a minute.

  "Yes," she said.

  "So far, very good."

  CHAPTER 3

  Two days later I found Hawk at the Harbor Health Club, in the boxing room, working on the heavy bag. He had on Reebok high tops, black sweats, and a black tee-shirt with the sleeves cut off. In white script, across the front of the tee-shirt, was written, Yes, it's a black thing.

  "Wow," I said, "militant."

  "Dating a B.U. professor," Hawk said.

  "Impresses the hell out of her."

  He dug a left hook into the bag.

  "Where you been?" I said.

  "San Antonio. Hold the bag."

  I leaned into the bag and held it still, which was not relaxing.

  Hawk had a punch like a jackhammer, and the bag wanted to jump around and say beep beep.

  "What were you doing in San Antonio?"

  "Looking at the Alamo," Hawk said.

  "Of course you were."

  "Riverwalk's kind of nice there too," Hawk said. He was driving the left hook repetitively into the bag.

  "Yeah. You want to talk to me about Anthony Meeker."

  "Who?"

  "Julius Ventura's son-in-law."

  Hawk grinned and began to alternate three hooks, with one overhand right. The punches were so fast that the sound of them nearly ran together.

  "And the cerebral daughter?"

  "Shirley," I said.

  "Imagine running off from Shirley," Hawk said.

  I moved the bag a half step back from Hawk as he started the next combination, and he shuffled a half step forward and maintained the pattern. The reaction had been visceral. He may not have been conscious that I'd moved the bag.

  "You got a plan?" he said.

  "What makes you think I'm going to do it?"

  Hawk smiled and switched to an overhand lead, and a left cross pattern.

  "How long I know you?" he said.

  "Story smells like an old flounder," I said.

  "Sure do," Hawk said.

  "You in?" I said.

  "Un huh."

  "But only if I do it," I said.

  "Un huh."

  Hawk did three left hooks so fast that it felt almost like one big one as I leaned on the bag. He followed with a right cross, and stepped back.

  "You the dee-tective," Hawk said.

  "I is just a fun-loving adventurer."

  "So you want to watch?"

  "Gig in San Antonio is finished. Got nothing going right now," Hawk said. He wiped the sweat off his face and naked scalp with one of the little white hand towels that Henry handed out as a perk.

  "You sure to make Ventura mad. And it'll give me something to do."

  "You put us together to see what would happen," I said.

  Hawk looked pleased.

  "All work and no play," Hawk said.

  While I waited for Hawk to shower and change, I honed my observational skills by studying the tightness of the various leotards on the young professional women who made up most of Henry's clientele. It did not escape my attention that there was scant room for anything underneath. When he was through, Hawk went to Henry's office to retrieve his gun from a locked drawer in Henry's desk.

  Henry weighed about 134 pounds, and 133 of it was muscle. He had gone twice with Willie Pep in his youth and done as well with Willie as I had with Joe Walcott. It showed on his face.

  "That's the biggest fucking weapon I ever seen," Henry said.

  "Got a lot of stopping power," Hawk said.

  He shrugged into the shoulder rig, and slipped on a gray and black crinkle-finish warm-up jacket with bell sleeves and a standup collar. He checked his reflection in the window to see how the jacket hid the gun.

  "Whyn't you get one of them new nines," Henry said.

  "Fit nice under your coat, fire fifteen, sixteen rounds a clip."

  Hawk made a minute adjustment to the drape of the jacket.

  "Don't need fifteen rounds," Hawk said.

  "What you carrying?" Henry said to me.

  I opened my coat and showed him the short-barreled Smith & Wesson on my belt.

  "That's all?"

  "It's enough," I said.

  "Most of the shooting I've ever had to do is from about five feet away and was over in one or two shots. A nine with fifteen rounds in the clip is heavy to carry. I got one, and I bring it if I think I'll need it. Got a three fifty-seven too, and a twelve-gauge shotgun and a forty-four-caliber rifle. But for walking around, the thirty-eight is fine."

  "Well," Henry said.

  "I got a nine, and I like it."

>   "You safe without no gun, Henry," Hawk said.

  "You so teeny anybody shoot at you, going to miss anyway."

  "Just keep it in mind," Henry said, "I ever come after you."

  Hawk and I went out, adequately armed, at least by our standards, and walked along the waterfront through a raw wind blowing off the harbor. When we got to the Boston Harbor Hotel we went in and sat in the lounge looking out at the harbor past the big cupola where the airport ferry docked. We ordered coffee.

  Hawk said, "You doing decaf again?"

  "Sure. It's good for me… I like it."

  "

  "Course you do."

  Hawk put his feet up on the low table in front of the couch we sat on. Outside, the airport ferry slid around the end of Rowe's Wharf and edged in to the cupola to unload passengers. The waitress warmed our cups. Hawk asked if she had a bakery basket.

  She said she did and would be pleased to bring one.

  The waitress returned with the bakery basket. There were scones and little corn muffins and some croissants, that were still warm. I had one.

  "Goes great with decaf," I said.

  Hawk was watching the people file off the ferry with their garment bags and briefcases. He shook his head, and picked up one of the small corn muffins, and popped it in his mouth. I drank some coffee. The ferry picked up a scattering of passengers and backed away from the dock, turning slowly when it was far enough out, sliding on the dark slick harbor water like a hurling stone.

  "You think Anthony fooling around?" Hawk said.

  "Shirley's a good argument for it," I said.

  "I married to Shirley I wouldn't be fooling around with other women," Hawk said.

  "I be serious about it. You think Julius wants him found so Shirley be happy?"

  "Maybe," I said.

  "Loving father," Hawk said.

  "It's possible," I said.

  "Hitler liked dogs."

  The waitress was looking at Hawk from across the room. Hawk smiled at her. She smiled back at him.

  "You figure Anthony took some of Julius's money?" Hawk said.

  "Shirley said Anthony was in the financial end of the business."

  "That both ends," Hawk said, "for Julius."

  I nodded. Outside the window wall a seagull landed on one of the ornamental mooring posts, and tucked his wings up and turned his head in profile checking for the remnants of a bite-sized donut hole that someone might have dropped, or a stray French fry. Gulls were actually pretty good-looking birds. The problem was that there were so many of them, and they were so raucous and eager, that no one ever bothered to notice that they had nice proportions.

  "I asked Shirley if Anthony gambled and she had an odd look, just a flicker, before she said no."

  "Ordinary man woulda missed it," Hawk said.

  "True," I said.

  "And maybe he'd be right. It wasn't much."

  "Think he might be a gambler?"

  "If he was it would be a place to start," I said.

  Hawk finished his coffee and looked up. The waitress was there, more alert than a seagull, and filled his cup. Hawk let his voice drop an octave or so and said, "Thank you." The waitress hovered for a moment, managed not to wiggle all over, and went away.

  "And if he not a gambler?" Hawk said.

  "Got no place to start."

  "So he a gambler," Hawk said, "until we find something better."

  "Maybe a gambler that fooled around on his wife."

  "And took Julius Ventura's money," Hawk said.

  "To do both."

  "So not a smart gambler," I said.

  "Maybe not even a live one," Hawk said.

  "Except Julius's daughter wants him back."

  "Maybe Julius had him chilled and then hired you and me to make it look good for the daughter."

  "Not a bad thought," I said.

  "But why hire you and me?"

  "

  "Cause we too good?"

  "Yeah. There's lots of reputable private licenses around that could spend his money, look good, and find zip."

  Hawk nodded.

  "Yeah, he already killed Anthony he don't want us looking into it.

  "Cause we going to find out he did it. And you being a Boy Scout, going to tell."

  "So he must want him found," I said.

  "But why us? Why not his own people?"

  Hawk smiled.

  "Impress the daughter," he said.

  "Maybe. Maybe more than that."

  "Like maybe the son-in-law done something Julius don't want his own people to find out?" Hawk said.

  "You're pretty smart," I said, "for an aging Negro man."

  "Sho'nuff," Hawk said.

  CHAPTER 4

  Lennie Seltzer was in his usual booth at the Tennessee Tavern on Mass Avenue. He was talking on a portable phone and sipping beer. A laptop computer sat on the table in front of him, the lid up, the screen blank. On the seat across from him in the booth a briefcase stood open. As I sat down Lennie nodded at me and made a small gesture with his free hand at the bartender. I waited while Lennie listened to the phone. He didn't say anything. The bartender brought over a shot of Irish whisky and a draft beer. Lennie always bought me a shot of Irish whisky and a beer when he saw me. I always drank the beer and left the whisky, but it didn't discourage Lennie at all. Lennie kept listening to the phone.

  As he listened he turned on the computer. I drank some beer.

  Finally Lennie said, "Copacetic," and hung up. He typed on the computer for a moment, looked at what he'd written, nodded to himself, hit a couple more keys on the computer, turned it off, and shut the lid. Then he picked up his beer bottle, poured a little into his glass, and drank some. He took a handkerchief from his breast pocket, patted his lips, refolded the handkerchief, and put it back.

  "Question?" he said.

  "How come you always buy me a shot of Irish whisky and a draught beer, even though you drink bottle beer, and I never drink the whisky?"

  "

  "Cause you're Irish, aren't you?"

  "Oh, yeah."

  "What else you want?" Lennie said. He had on a brown suit with a tan chalk stripe, a lavender shirt, with a white collar and a wide chocolate-colored silk tie tied in a big Windsor knot. His black hair was parted in the middle and slicked back evenly on both sides of the part.

  "Know a guy named Anthony Meeker?"

  "Un huh."

  "He a gambler?"

  "Gambler implies that sometimes you win. I win more than I lose, for instance. It's how I make my living. Anthony don't gamble. Anthony loses."

  "Stupid?"

  "Yeah, but that ain't it. Stupid you lose more than you win; but even stupid, you win sometimes. Anthony needs it too much."

  "The money?"

  "Probably not the money. Probably the rush. I don't know. For me it's better than regular work. But it don't make me crazy. For Anthony? I seen him once keep betting in five-card stud when he was beat on the table. You know? Guy had three eights showing with four cards out. Anthony had nothing. Best he could do with a fifth card was a pair. But he kept kicking into the pot."

  Lennie drank some beer, poured out the rest of the bottle, and stared at the foam as it settled.

  "Compulsive," I said.

  "Sure," Lennie said.

  "He been losing a lot lately?"

  "Don't know. He married Julius Ventura's daughter I wouldn't let him bet with me anymore."

  "Julius say anything?"

  "No, but I been doing fine these years without pissing Julius Ventura off. I didn't see no reason to start."

  "So you don't know firsthand, you hear anything?"

  "People don't talk about Julius Ventura's son-in-law, Spenser.

  He's in hock to them they stay low about it, you know."

  The bartender brought Lennie a new bottle of Budweiser.

  "How many beers you drink a day?" I said.

  "Maybe sixteen," Lennie said.

  "Why you asking about Anthony."<
br />
  "He's missing."

  Lennie nodded.

  "Julius hired me to find him," I said.

  "You're shitting me."

  "Nope."

  I drank some beer.

  "He fool around with women?" I said.

  "Julius Ventura hired you to find his son-in-law?"

  "Me and Hawk," I said.

  "What kind of beer is this?"

  Lenny shrugged and called to the bartender over his shoulder.

  "Jackie, what kinda draught beer you serving us?"

  "New Amsterdam Black and Tan," Jackie said.

  "New Amsterdam Black and Tan," Lennie said.

  "Thanks," I said.

  "His answer was much too hard for me."

  "Why the fuck is Julius hiring you and Hawk, for cris sake "Julius's a first-class guy," I said.

  "You know he ain't," Lennie said. He lowered his voice when he said it.

  "What's going on?"

  I shrugged.

  "Anthony fool around with women?" I said.

  "I don't know," Lennie said.

  "Can you find out?"

  "No."

  "I like a man knows his limitations," I said.

  "I know gambling," Lennie said.

  "I don't know shit about fooling around."

  "Your wife will be pleased to hear that."

  "She's the reason I don't know."

  I finished my New Amsterdam Black & Tan. I wanted another one, but I was used to that. I always wanted another one. Lennie picked up his portable phone and dialed a number.

  "It's Lennie," he said into the phone.

  "Gimme what you got."

  I got up from the booth, shot Lennie once by dropping my thumb on my forefinger, and left the bar, and headed down Newbury Street.

  CHAPTER 5

  It was a grand Wednesday afternoon on Newbury Street. The sky was blue, the temperature was in the low seventies, and people trying to look like Eurotrash were sitting outside having various kinds of fancy coffee and looking at each other. A college-aged woman in tight jeans, high boots, and a red St. Lawrence Hockey jacket walked by with a black Lab on a leash. The Lab wore a red bandana around his neck. Most black Labs you saw in the Back Bay had red bandanas around their neck, but not every one was color-coordinated with its owner. I walked down from Mass Ave. toward my office, past boutiques, designer shops, handmade jewelry stores, sidewalk cafes, tiny chic restaurants, pet stores that sold iguanas, places that sold frozen yogurt, Hermes scarfs, hand hammered silver, decorative furniture, muffins, scones, wine, cheese, pate. Behind me across the street in front of a sign that advertised boysenberry sorbet was a big guy in a watch cap who had as much business on Newbury Street as I did. I had seen him outside my office earlier this morning, and he had been behind me when I went to talk with Lennie. Now he was looking in the window of the ice cream store, his hands deep in his jacket pockets while he studied the options to boysenberry sorbet, paying no attention to me. And being blatant about it. I walked on to Dartmouth Street and turned right toward Copley Square. Across from the public library, I turned right onto Boylston Street and went past H. H. Richardson's other church back toward Mass Ave. By the time I reached Exeter Street, the guy in the Patriots football jacket was turning up Boylston. I stopped outside Morion's Steak House and leaned on the doorway. He walked on past me and crossed Exeter Street and leaned idly against the streetlight post, musing on the new addition to the library. Probably agreed with me that the new addition was ugly. I walked across Exeter Street, and stood beside him on the corner, looking at the new part of the library.