“Shall we?” she said.
Jesse drained the rest of his drink and put his glass on the bar beside hers.
“You bet,” Jesse said.
Chapter 17
“See the guy over there talking to Marcy?” Macklin said.
“Cute,” Faye said.
“What’s so cute?” Macklin said.
“Well he’s slim, but he looks strong. He’s got a nice face. Good hair. Looks sort of, I don’t know, graceful. He’s cute.”
“Whaddya think he does for a living?” Macklin said.
“He’s some kind of professional athlete.”
“He’s the chief of police,” Macklin said.
“He’s young,” she said. “How do you know he’s the police chief?”
“I scoped out the police station, so’s I can recognize the cops, and I see him come and go. Plain clothes, unmarked car, and he walks like, you know, ‘This is mine.’ So I go over the library and get a town report and look up the police department and there he is, Jesse Stone, chief of police.”
“You don’t miss much do you, Jimmy?” Faye’s voice was admiring.
“No more than I have to.”
He liked to think that of himself, Faye knew. He liked to think that he was prepared for everything. The truth was Faye knew that he simply enjoyed the foreplay. She had never said, If you’re so goddamned good why have you spent half your life in jail? It would break his heart if he knew she thought less of him than he thought of himself. At least he was still alive. At least she still had him.
“How’s he look to you aside from cute?” Macklin said.
“He looks like he might know what he’s doing,” Faye said.
“Why do you say that?”
“He looks different from all the other men here,” Faye said. “And they clearly don’t have any idea what they’re doing.”
Macklin laughed and put his arm around her shoulder. He turned her toward him, and they began to dance to “The Tennessee Waltz.”
“Well, we’re just going to fucking-A find that out, aren’t we, my little chickadee?”
“Don’t turn this into a game, Jimmy.”
“A game?”
“Don’t make this you against the cop to see who’s better. Just steal the money and we’ll go.”
Macklin tightened his arms around her and held her against him. She rubbed her cheek gently against his.
“Not to worry,” Macklin said. “We’ll do the big knockover and then we’ll go someplace warm and sit beside each other and drink daiquiris in the sun.”
“Yes,” Faye said softly.
“You and me, babe,” Macklin said.
“Yes.”
“Always been you and me. Always will be.”
Faye didn’t say anything.
“Long time together, Faye,” Macklin said.
“Just don’t turn this into a game of chicken with the cop,” Faye said.
“Don’t worry,” Macklin said. “I got this thing wired. We’re going to do this right.”
Faye didn’t say anything else, as they moved across the dance floor. She kept her face pressed against his, and she closed her eyes.
Chapter 18
They sat on the open deck of Marcy’s small weathered shingle cottage on Strawberry Point in the east end of town, past the narrow harbor mouth, just above the buttress of rust-colored rocks against which the open Atlantic moved without respite. Jesse was drinking beer from the bottle. Marcy had a glass of white wine.
“I thought you drank scotch,” Marcy said.
“I do, but beer’s nice,” Jesse said. “I thought you drank martinis.”
“I do,” Marcy said and smiled. “But wine is nice.”
There were no lights on the deck, but there was a small moon and some starlight, and, as their eyes adjusted, they could see each other and the white spray of the breaking swells below them.
“You know why we were drinking differently at the yacht club?” Marcy said.
“Because we knew we couldn’t drink many, so we were trying to get the most bang for the buck.”
“I’ll be damned,” Marcy said. “You did know.”
Jesse smiled. “I know a lot,” he said.
“And so modest,” Marcy said.
Jesse had his suit jacket off and it hung from the back of the chair to his left. Marcy could see the butt of his gun showing just in front of his right hip.
“You’re carrying a gun,” she said.
“I’m a cop.”
“Do you always carry one?”
Jesse nodded.
“I’m always a cop,” he said.
“What are you now?” she said.
Jesse drank from the bottle.
“Interested,” he said.
They both laughed.
“First you,” Marcy said. “Tell me about yourself.”
“I was a cop in Los Angeles. I’m thirty-five and divorced.”
“I’m older than you,” Marcy said. “Always a cop?”
“No, I was a baseball player, before I got hurt.”
“Did you play professionally?”
“Yes.”
“Were you any good?”
“I was very good,” Jesse said.
“How’d you get hurt?”
“On a double play at second, runner took me out, and I came down on my shoulder.”
“What about the divorce?”
“I was married to a starlet,” Jesse said. “She wanted to be a star, so she slept with producers.”
“That start you drinking?”
“I used to tell myself it did,” Jesse said. “But it didn’t. I always liked to drink.”
“But you have it under control now.”
“Most of the time,” Jesse said.
“You over the first wife?”
“No.”
“You still love her?”
“Maybe.”
“That must make it hard to commit to other women.”
Jesse smiled. “Not for the short term.”
Marcy smiled with him in the pale darkness.
“I’ve never met a man who couldn’t commit for the short term,” she said.
She sipped her wine. He drank some beer. Below them the ceaseless ocean moved hypnotically against the begrudging rocks.
“And I’ve met a lot,” she said.
Jesse waited. It was her turn.
“You’re honest,” Marcy said. “Most men wouldn’t have told me about the ex-wife and would have sworn they’d love me forever.”
“So they could get you into bed,” Jesse said.
“Yep.”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t want that,” Jesse said.
“No, I’m sure it doesn’t,” Marcy said. “But if I were husband hunting, and using my bed as bait, you’d have just blown the lay.”
“Instead of vice versa,” Jesse said.
Marcy laughed. And Jesse liked the way she laughed and joined in, and they both laughed as much for the pleasure of laughing together as for the bite of Jesse’s wit.
“We’ll see about vice versa,” Marcy said.
“You looking for a husband?” Jesse said.
“No. I was married,” she said. “At eighteen. I got two kids in college. Girl at Colby. Boy at Wesleyan.”
“Lot of money,” Jesse said.
“Their father can afford it.”
“He supports them?”
“As always. I raised them. He paid for it. He’s always been good that way.”
“What way wasn’t he good?”
“He was, is, a doctor. Very successful. A neurosurgeon. And he fucked every nurse that wou
ld hold still for twenty seconds.”
“Like all the jokes,” Jesse said.
“Like all the jokes,” Marcy said. “He’s not a bad man. He’s generous, and he’s a good father in his way. But where his penis leads, he follows.”
“When’d you get divorced?”
“Ten years ago.”
“You over it?”
“Yes.”
“Want to get married again?”
“No.”
Jesse finished the last of his beer and set it on the table beside him.
“Well,” he said. “Hello.”
“Hi.”
They both laughed again. Marcy drank some wine.
“Here’s the deal,” she said. “I like men. I like wine. I like sex. Right now I’m having a nice time and I hope to have an even nicer one. I am not going to fall in love with you, and I don’t think you’ll fall in love with me. And, assuming you’re interested, we can have some nice uncomplicated sex with nothing at stake. And we can be each other’s friend.”
Jesse leaned back in his chair and looked at her and said, “Works for me.”
He kept looking at her in the semi-lucent darkness. She was quiet for a while as he did so, and then she said, “Assessing the goods?”
“No, well, maybe. I was just thinking how clear you are.”
“I had a good shrink,” Marcy said.
“The shrink had a good patient,” Jesse said.
“Also true,” Marcy said.
She stood and walked to the railing of her deck and placed her hips against it and sipped her drink.
“The trouble with being clear is that it makes the transitions a little awkward,” she said. “I’m going to take a shower. Would you care to join me?”
“Sure,” Jesse said.
Chapter 19
“I need a boom guy,” Macklin said.
He was leaning on a railing on the Baltimore waterfront looking across at the aquarium, talking to a tall, bony red-haired man named Fran.
“Uh-huh?” Fran said.
Fran wore small, round, gold-rimmed glasses. His wiry red hair was long and pulled back in a ponytail. He had on a short-sleeved green shirt and khaki pants and Hush Puppies. His bare arms were heavily freckled. He had a gold earring.
“You are the best around.”
“True,” Fran said. “What’d you have in mind?”
“I need a bridge blown.”
“Legally?”
“ ’Course not.”
“What else?”
“Other things. I’ll tell you when you need to know.”
“Maybe I need to know to decide if I want the job.”
“Job’s worth more than a million.”
“Total?”
“Each.”
A water taxi pulled up to the dock below them and some tourists got out and headed up the stairs toward Harbor Place.
“Each is good,” Fran said. “Who’s in it?”
“So far, Crow, JD, Faye, and me,” Macklin said.
“She waited for you.”
“Yes.”
Fran nodded.
“Where’s this going to go down?” he said.
Macklin smiled and shook his head.
“Keep thinking about the million,” Macklin said. “It’s what you need to know.”
“You wouldn’t have Crow if you didn’t think it would take some doing,” Fran said.
“Better to have him and not need him,” Macklin said, “than need him and not have him.”
“Maybe,” Fran said. “How many guys you need all together?”
“One more after you,” Macklin said.
“I’m married now,” Fran said.
“Congratulations.”
“Four kids.”
“How about that,” Macklin said.
“I been legit since I got out. Working for the city, mostly slum clearance.”
“Making the big buck?”
“Not this big,” Fran said. “How long will it take?”
“You’ll probably be gone a week, ten days.”
“Ten days?”
“It’s a big job. You’ll need some time.”
“Ten days,” Fran said, “I could blow up Baltimore.”
“You have to look at the site,” Macklin said. “Decide what you need. Then you have to get it. And install it. It’ll take some time. You can’t get away ten days for a million bucks?”
“Old lady’ll croak,” Fran said. “I tell her I’m leaving her alone with four kids for ten days.”
“You’ll have to deal with your wife,” Macklin said.
The two of them were silent then, their forearms resting on the railing, the littered sea water washing tamely against the pier. The harbor was busy with small boats and behind them Harbor Place was raucous with teenagers.
“Okay,” Fran said finally. “I’ll deal with her.”
Macklin smiled and put out his hand. Fran shook it slowly.
“I’ll be in touch,” Macklin said.
Chapter 20
Surveillance was easy enough. Stay out of sight and watch. He’d done a lot of it in L.A. and the greatest enemy was boredom. Tonight in the Back Bay, outside Jenn’s apartment, there was no boredom. He’d found space to park on a hydrant in view of her front door. And he sat in his car in the dark with a feeling of such complex intensity that he didn’t understand it. He knew that he felt anticipation and anger and excitement, which was at least partly sexual. He also felt calmness and curiosity and hope and guilt and something like strength.
Too hard for me, he said to himself and settled back against the car seat. He didn’t let the motor run because that was a dead giveaway to surveillance, a car parked with its motor on. He didn’t play the radio. He simply sat and waited. People moved along the sidewalk past his parked car. There was money in the Back Bay and the four-story brick town houses along Beacon Street were full of young, well-dressed, good-looking men and women. It was evening and many of them were coming home from dinner or movies or working late. Dogs were being walked, and elegantly dressed women in high heels were carrying plastic bags to clean up after them.
Dog shit does not respect social status, Jesse thought.
He looked at his watch. Nine-thirty. If she’d left the station by seven and gone to dinner with somebody, she’d be coming home now. Unless she was spending the night somewhere else. He took in some air and let it out slowly with his lips pursed in a kind of silent whistle.
He felt the comfortable weight of his gun near his right hip. If she were with another guy, he could kill him. He could feel the release it would bring him. He could imagine the near ejaculatory surge of relief he would get, and he rolled the thought around in his mind passionately. And then what. Now that I’ve croaked your boyfriend, honey, let’s you and me get together? That wouldn’t work. It would also get him jailed. Even police chiefs weren’t permitted to kill people for dating their ex-wives. He could probably do it secretively and get away with it. But how many would he have to kill off? And mightn’t Jenn get a bit suspicious when her dates kept getting clipped? And how often could he get away with it? Cops normally looked for the disgruntled lover when some men get killed that are dating the same women. He gave it up slowly, knowing he’d never really thought he could. So why was he here? He shrugged in the darkness. Better to know than not know.
Jenn turned the corner at Dartmouth Street and walked down Beacon Street beside a short man. They were holding hands. Jesse knew Jenn’s walk in the dimness before he could recognize any feature. As they got closer, Jesse recognized the evening news anchor, Tony Salt. He was much shorter than he appeared on the tube. Shorter than Jenn. But he had a large head and a strong chin and deep mascul
ine smile lines around his mouth. His walk seemed stilted, and Jesse realized that Tony Salt was teetering on high-heeled cowboy boots. Christ, in his bare feet he can walk under bar stools, Jesse thought.
They were walking close together and their shoulders brushed often. Jenn was talking in that brilliant, animated way she had when she seemed to put her whole self into whatever she was saying. Tony Salt was listening and nodding and laughing often. They walked past Jesse sitting in the darkness and turned into Jenn’s doorway. Jesse’s concentration was so intense that he didn’t realize he had drawn his gun until he clanked it gently against his steering wheel, as he turned in the seat. He rested the gun on the back of the seat, and, knowing he wouldn’t shoot, he aimed it carefully at Tony Salt’s back and sighted carefully at the spot between Tony Salt’s shoulder blades that sat invitingly, and looked a yard wide, on top of the front sight. He held the aim as Jenn fumbled for her keys at the door. Jenn could never find her keys quickly, and when she did find them she never recognized one key from another, so more time ensued while she tried several in the lock before she got the right one. Jesse had always found it endearing that she couldn’t find her keys and, indeed, often lost them. Goddesses had no time for keys. Tony Salt stood close to her while she worked on the keys. Jesse knew he was so close that their bodies would be touching every time either of them moved. Jesse could feel how shallow his breathing was. Given the intensity of his feeling, it was surprising that the gun hand was perfectly steady. He squinted a little. He knew it was too far and too dark, but it was as if he could see the weave in the back of Tony Salt’s thousand-dollar jacket. Jenn found the right key, and the door opened. She turned and gave Tony Salt a light kiss and stepped through the door. He followed her. With the door still open, they stopped in the lighted hallway and turned the easy kiss into a long embrace, Jenn slouching a little so that she wouldn’t have to actually bend down to kiss Tony Salt. Jesse could see Tony Salt’s hand move down to Jenn’s butt. He had on a big ring that caught the hall light and flashed like Elliott Krueger’s ring.
Then they broke the clinch.
The door shut.
“Bang,” Jesse said.
Chapter 21
“You’re the last piece,” Macklin said to Freddie Costa.
Robert B Parker: The Jesse Stone Novels 1-5 Page 32