"You doing anything for Ventura got to do with Anthony Meeker?" Marty said.
The nerve near his eye was twitching faster. "Who wants to know?" I said.
"Who the fuck you think? Who's asking you? Geraldo fucking Rivera?"
"Gino interested in this?"
Marty shrugged.
"Sure he is," I said.
"And when he found out Ventura hired me, he wanted to know what I knew."
"So?"
"So he told you to have me followed, and you did."
"So?"
"So, why's he want to know?"
"None of your fucking business," Marty said. It was starting to occur to him that I was finding out more than he was.
"And how'd he know so quick that Ventura hired us?" I said.
"That's it," Marty said.
"Meeting's over."
"He's got somebody in Julius's organization."
"Get lost," Marty said.
Marty put his thick hand on my chest and shoved. I was supposed to stagger backwards. But I didn't. I rolled a little away from the shove and Marty's hand slid off my chest and Marty actually staggered a half step forward. He caught himself on the bar and tried to look like he hadn't staggered.
"You okay?" I said solicitously.
The tic in his cheek was vibrating like high C. His hand started toward his coat.
Hawk said, "Marty."
Hawk never talked especially loud. But you could always hear him. He seemed to be in the same position leaning on the wall that he had assumed when he came in. Except the big-barreled.44 Mag that he always carried was now out and aiming at Marty Anaheim.
Everything stopped.
The bartender ducked down out of sight behind the bar.
The motorcycles kept zooming around the track.
Hawk nodded toward the door.
Nobody said anything for a moment. Then Marty jerked his head at the two gym rats and the three of them headed out. At the door Marty turned back, his cheek in full tic.
"Another day," he said, his high voice shaking, "you're both dead meat."
Hawk grinned at him.
"Gotta watch them steroids, Marty. You be talking soprano pretty quick."
Marty looked at Hawk with a look that would have scared us both if we weren't so fearless. Then he turned and went out the door followed by the gym rats. Hawk put the big Magnum away, and leaned over the bar.
"You got any Krug?" he said to the bartender, who was still crouched on the floor behind the bar.
"Maybe an eighty-six?"
The bartender didn't know what Krug was.
CHAPTER 8
I had lunch with Shirley Ventura at a new joint on Huntington Ave. called Ambrosia. You could eat well, and have quite a nice time examining the spectrum of Boston chic which regularly gathered there. Shirley studied the menu for a long time. She was wearing a low-cut electric blue slip dress that was designed to enhance long legs and a narrow waist. Shirley was short and chunky. The effect was different. A number of the women lunching that day appeared to notice the difference. "You got any, ah, like maybe a roast beef sandwich?" Shirley said to the waitress.
"We have a wonderful sandwich of grilled portabellas with Asiago on country bread dressed with extra virgin oil and served with julienne of jicama and blood orange," the waitress said encouragingly.
"What's a portabella?" Shirley said to me.
"A big mushroom," I said.
She looked at the waitress and frowned.
"A mushroom sandwich?"
The waitress smiled enthusiastically.
"Why don't we each have the pail lard of chicken, and a green salad and some bread."
"Of course, sir. Anything to drink with that?"
"Wine," Shirley said.
"Anything special?" the waitress said.
"Some white wine," Shirley said. She'd lost interest in ordering and was looking around the room at the other diners.
The waitress looked at me. She didn't have to be a weatherman to know which way the wind was blowing.
"Bottle of Sterling Sauvignon Blanc," I said.
The waitress smiled as they always do to tell me how much she admired my choice of wines, and hurried away to tell the wine steward.
"What's that pal lard thing you ordered?" Shirley asked.
"Breast of chicken flattened with a mallet and quickly sauteed."
"Sounds terrible," she said.
"Drink enough wine," I said, "you'll think you like it."
Shirley picked up a roll from the bread basket and bit into it the way you eat an apple. She looked around the room some more until the waitress returned with the wine.
"You care to try it?" I said to Shirley.
"Sure," she said.
The waitress opened the bottle and poured a splash in Shirley's glass. Shirley looked at it.
"Come on, lady, pour me some wine," Shirley said.
I nodded to the waitress.
"Pour it out," I said.
"I'm sure it's fine."
The waitress smiled happily and poured us both a glass of wine, and put the bottle in the ice bucket. Shirley picked up her glass and drank half of it. She smiled at me.
"Hits the spot," she said.
"You bet," I said.
She glanced out toward Huntington Ave. where her father's big Lincoln sat near the curb. The driver was behind the wheel, reading the Globe.
"See if Jackie's watching," she said with a big confidential smile.
"They don't like it, I drink wine at lunch."
"Your secret's safe with me," I said and made a slight toasting gesture with my glass. Shirley drank the rest of her wine and reached behind her to get the bottle from the wine bucket. She poured another glassful. The waitress brought our salads. The salad chef was long on presentation. There were various colored greens arranged into a somewhat precarious-looking vegetable spray. Shirley studied it for some time, sipping her wine without a word. I ordered a second bottle of wine from the waitress.
"So what can you tell me about Anthony?" Shirley said.
She stuffed a forkful of greens into her mouth.
"Haven't found him yet," I said.
"So why we having lunch. So you can tell me you haven't found him?"
"Tell me a little more about what he did for your dad," I said.
"Money stuff," Shirley said.
She washed the greens down with more wine.
"What kind?" I said.
"What kind of what?"
"What kind of money stuff," I said.
I took my first sip of wine. If I drank a lot at lunch, I needed a nap. Shirley didn't seem worried about that.
"He used to pick up money from people," she said.
"Bring it places, and give it to other people."
"Bookies?"
"I don't know. I'm a girl. They don't talk about business with girls."
"Of course not," I said.
"He carry a lot of money around?"
"Sure. Daddy trusted him like he was his own son."
"Sure," I said.
The waitress arrived with our chicken pail lard Shirley poked at it with her fork for a moment, and put the fork down and drank some wine.
"Daddy never had sons of his own, just me."
"Only child, huh?"
"Yeah, my mom said it was too hard."
"I'm an only child too," I said.
Shirley nodded. It didn't seem to make us closer. I drank another small swallow of wine.
"You and Anthony ever have any, ah, little spats?"
"Never, I told you before, he'd stand on his head for me."
I nodded. She drank the rest of the wine in her glass and reached around to the ice bucket and poured out the remainder of the first bottle.
"Well sure, I know a woman who'd stand on her head for me, unless she was wearing a skirt. But now and then we might disagree about something."
Shirley laughed loudly. Her face was flushed.
"I bet she would
n't," Shirley said between guffaws, "if she was wearing a dress. I bet she wouldn't."
She laughed very loudly again.
"Well, luckily, Anthony doesn't wear a skirt," she said.
"So he can stand on his head whenever he wants."
"When he stands on his head, do you forgive him?"
She was still giggling.
"Depends how long he stands." She had trouble saying it because she was giggling so hard.
I laughed along with her. She tried to get it under control by having some more wine, but it only made her more giggly.
"What's the longest you ever made him stand on his head?" I said. Jovial.
"Well, of course he never really stood on his head. But there was the time when I found out about him and the cocktail waitress at The Starlight," she said.
Her face was bright red now, and she spilled a little of her wine as she drank.
"He paid big for that one," she said.
"He paid for that big time."
"I'll bet he did," I said, bursting with mirth.
"I'll bet he never tried that again."
"You kidding?" she said, leaning forward toward me over the table.
"Little fink would fuck a snake, you hold it for him."
"Really?" I said.
"I'm telling you," she said.
"How you feel about that?"
"I won't hold one for him," she said. And leaned back in her chair and laughed hard. I had a bite of chicken and glanced around the room. The chic lunch crowd was grimly ignoring her.
"You ever catch him with anyone else?" I said.
"Naw. That time I caught him I laid down the goddamned law.
He's too scared to try and step out on me," she said.
"Your father know about this?"
"Gawd no," she said.
"That's what I told Anthony.
"I tell Daddy about this," I told him, 'and he'll have them cut off your balls." I nodded.
"That would be discouraging," I said.
She giggled again.
"
"Course I wouldn't really want them to snip off his balls, you know. Wouldn't be in my best interest, you know what I mean.
Little bastard is something in bed, I'll tell you."
"I'm glad to hear it," I said.
Shirley stood up quite suddenly.
"Scuse me," she said.
"I gotta go to the little girls' room."
I stood, ever gallant, and watched her as she wove among the tables, showing too much of her chunky legs, looking sadly vulnerable with the little dress draped badly over her big butt. People stared at her as she wobbled among the tables. Not our kind.
I sat down and looked at nothing much. Shirley had eaten half her salad and none of her chicken. But the second bottle of wine was nearly empty. I caught a couple of people peeking over at me, wondering who would be lunching with her! I'd have to come here with Susan and try to recoup. The long dining room was impressive. Along the front, picture windows looked out onto Huntington Ave." and across at the Prudential Center. The bar was across the far end of the room, and the ceiling was two stories high. The kitchen was, apparently, at the top of a flight of stairs to the right of the hostess station, which must have been an added benefit for the wait staff. Earn a living while developing the quadriceps of a long jumper.
The maitre d' came to my table. His brass name tag said Jose.
"Excuse me," Jose said. He spoke with the silken hint of an accent.
"I'm afraid your companion has had a small accident in the ladies' room."
"She pass out?" I said.
"I'm afraid she has, sir," Jose said.
"But unfortunately not before she was sick."
"Okay, Jose," I said.
"Keep the other ladies out of there for a couple minutes and we'll get her out."
"Jose," the maitre d' said.
"I'm Brazilian. In Portuguese you pronounce the J."
"Jcs," I said, and went to the front door of the restaurant and gestured at her driver. Jackie was more alert than I had thought.
He came rolling out of the car very quickly, with his hand inside his coat. He was a tall rangy kid, with a lot of black hair cut short on the sides, left long on the top.
"She passed out in the ladies' room," I said.
He took his hand out of his coat.
"You give her something to drink?"
"Some wine," I said.
Jackie nodded.
"Probably two bottles, right?"
I nodded.
"Which way?" Jackie said.
We went into the ladies' room and found Shirley asleep on the floor in one of the stalls, her cheek resting on the toilet seat, her white thighs exposed by the skirt that had hiked up above her hips. She looked like a clumsy little girl who'd eaten too much Halloween candy. I wanted to put my coat over her, or something.
"Goddamn it," I said.
Jackie pushed past me. He straddled her, got his arms around her waist, and hoisted her up.
She mumbled something that sounded like "hey."
Jackie turned her toward the sink.
"Clean her off," he said to me.
I wet one of the hand towels and did the best I could. She wasn't cooperative but she was too zonked to put up much resistance. I used a second towel to finish the cleanup and a third to dry her off.
"Okay," I said.
"Want me to take an arm?"
Jackie shook his head.
"Easier I just do her around the waist like this. You can go ahead and open doors."
"Done this before, I gather."
Jackie didn't say anything but he let his eyes roll upwards in their sockets for a moment. We got her through the restaurant, out the door, and into her father's car. She slumped over when Jackie put her in the backseat. He went around to the front, got in behind the wheel, nodded at me, power-locked the doors, and drove her away.
I went back in to pay the check.
"I hope the lady is all right, sir," Jose said.
I gave him my American Express card.
"I don't think she'll ever be all right," I said.
"But she'll be no worse for this experience."
Jose went away with my card.
No wonder they didn't like her to drink wine at lunch.
CHAPTER 9
I feel like Chester the Molester," I said to Susan. We were walking Pearl the Wonder Dog along the Charles River, on the Esplanade, near the Hatch Shell.
"Getting a young woman drunk and pumping her for information?"
"Yeah," I said.
"Are you familiar with the term "Consenting Adult'?" Susan said.
I nodded. Susan was wearing black high top sneakers, black sweats, a black baseball cap with the words "Community Servings" printed in 'white over the visor, and a yellow all-weather jacket which said "DKNY Athletic" in black letters on the back.
"Did you find out things that will help you?"
"I found out that her husband handles a lot of money. I found out that he has cheated on her and seems inclined to again, except he's afraid that her father will have someone cut off his testicles."
"Well, it would render the question of adultery moot," Susan said.
"Conventionally denned."
"Good point," Susan said.
"I also found out from Lennie Seltzer that Anthony, that's Shirley's husband, gambles a lot and loses."
"And," Susan said, "you found out that Anthony is married to a stupid, coarse, spoiled, self-indulgent, childish drunk."
"You shrinks have a real knack for saying things so they don't sound bad."
A platoon of people in elbow pads, helmets, and spandex pants Rollerbladed by with various degrees of grace. Pearl gazed after them with what might have been scorn, or even derision. I wasn't sure. Dogs are hard to read.
"I'd love to do that," Susan said.
"I think I'll take some lessons."
I made no comment. Pearl returned to straining against her leash,
sniffing the grass along the edge of the sidewalk, alert for a wayward Zagnut wrapper.
"So what you have is a picture of perhaps a compulsive gambler with a wandering eye, married to an undesirable wife, with access to a great deal of money," Susan went on.
"That you had to find some of this out by sitting quietly while Shirley Ventura got drunk and made an ass of herself seems a fair exchange for a man in your business."
"You ought to try Rollerblading, at that," I said.
"And if you don't like it you can always eat the skates."
"Oh come on," Susan said.
"You complain that I'm hard. You're the hardest person I've ever known. And I'm in a fairly tough profession, myself."
"Including Hawk?"
"Okay, one of the two hardest people I've ever known," Susan said.
"And most of the time you accept it. In fact most of the time you enjoy it, except when you have one of these little sentimental spasms."
"Thanks," I said.
"I needed that."
We walked quietly for a bit. Pearl spotted a couple of sparrows and went into her bird dog stalk, head extended, body tense, each step infinitely deliberate as she seemed to steadily elongate toward the birds until they flew away. As they rose in the air Pearl looked back at me expectantly.
"Bang," I said.
Pearl returned to the Zagnut hunt.
"Of course," Susan said, "I love you for having the little spasms of sentimentality."
"I know," I said.
"That's why I have them."
Pearl paused to roll vigorously on an earthworm which had gotten squashed on the sidewalk, probably the victim of a reckless Rollerblader.
"Ick," Susan said as Pearl rolled.
"Why do they do that?"
"I don't know," I said.
"Dogs are sometimes mysterious," Susan said.
The small sailboats that people rented from the public boat club bobbed not very gracefully around the basin where the river widened behind the dam. They had small sails and flat bottoms and the people in them were mostly amateurs, but the scatter of white sails on the blue-gray river looked nice anyway. On the other side MIT stretched along Memorial Drive, its gray stone buildings and its domes looking technical and serious.
"I also have a connection between Gino Fish and Julius Ventura," I said.
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