Sixkill s-40

by Robert B. Parker

  The gate was open, and I drove in and around the stadium and parked near an entrance.

  "Gladiatorial combat," I said. "On the floor of Harvard Stadium. Is that cool or what?"

  "Gladiatorial combat?" Z said. "You are one weird white eye."

  We walked under the stands to the field.

  "Well, see," I said. "It's got a kind of Roman Colosseum design to it."

  We stood on the fifty-yard line and waited. Z's breathing was maybe a little fast, but it was steady. If there was tension in him, it was the tension of a drawn bow. He was focused on the entrance we'd come through.

  "Two reminders," I said. "One, try to stay on your feet. Two, stay in close. Guy your size especially."

  "Three," Z said. "Remember what I've learned."

  "Let that flow," I said. "Don't think about it."

  Four men came out of the entrance tunnel and onto the field.

  "You've trained enough," I said. "It should come as needed. Like riding a bicycle."

  One of the four men was squat, with big hands, longish black hair, and a fat neck.

  "You Spenser?" he said to me.

  "We gonna fight?" I said.

  "Not for long," the squat man said.

  He put out a hard left. I checked it with my right and stepped around it as I blocked it with my left. I slid my left hand down, caught his wrist, pulled it toward me, and drove my right forearm against his elbow. He grunted with pain. I drove my forearm into his elbow again, harder, and felt the elbow break. He screamed. Someone hit me in the back of the head. I spun and hit him with the side of my clenched left fist, and continued turning, into a right cross that put the second guy down. I glanced at Z in time to see him bob under a big right hand from a tall kid with a gelled Mohawk and a weight lifter's build. Z turned his right shoulder into the bodybuilder's chest and drove a right upper cut up into the bodybuilder's chin that looked like it might loosen the guy's head. Mohawk took a step back, and Z hit him with a left hook just as the fourth guy put an arm around Z's neck. Mohawk took two more steps backward and fell down. The fourth guy, too, was an obvious bodybuilder, with his head shaved for scariness. Z dropped his chin and turned his head, which prevented Baldy from getting his forearm on Z's windpipe. Then Z quite thoughtfully located Baldy's feet and stomped his right heel down hard on Baldy's toes. Discouraged, Baldy let go, and Z introduced a move we hadn't taught him. He grabbed the guy by the throat with his left hand, and by the crotch with his right, lifted him chest-high, and slammed him to the ground. He wasn't out, but he didn't get up. The guy I had put down with a right cross had gotten to his hands and knees, and, like me, was watching Z. He decided to stay down as well. Mohawk was out. And the squat guy with the broken elbow was hunched up in pain and not threatening anybody.

  "You boys local?" I said.

  "You broke my fucking arm," the squat man said.

  "I know," I said. "Hospital right across the river got an emergency room. You guys local?"

  Nobody spoke. I bent over the guy whom Z had bodyslammed.

  "Where you from?" I said.

  He mumbled, "Charlestown."

  I nodded.

  "Who hired you?"

  He looked at the squat man.

  "Bull," he mumbled.

  I nodded.

  "Bull," I said. "You were the contractor on this. Who hired you?"

  Bull shook his head.

  "Soon as you tell me, we're outta here," I said. "And you can get to the hospital."

  Bull shook his head.

  "Or," I said, "I could break the other one."

  Bull stood with his head down, trying to find a place that didn't hurt to put his left arm.

  "Guy named Silver," he said.

  "Hospital's right at the head of the Charles," I said. "You'll see it when you get out of the stadium. Go west on either side of the river."

  Then I turned to Z and held up my hand; he gave me a high-five.

  "What about our intervals?" he said.

  "I think we've done them," I said.

  40

  Z AND I WENT to the bar in Grill 23 for a victory drink.

  I had a Dewar's and soda. He had Maker's Mark on the rocks.

  "You have learned well, grasshopper," I said.

  Z nodded. I sipped my scotch. He looked at his bourbon.

  "Where'd you get the bodyslam?" I said.

  "Television," Z said. "WWF."

  "I suggest you lose it," I said.

  "Worked like a charm today," Z said.

  "Did," I said. "But the guy was a little quicker, or knew a little more, he'd have had time and opportunity to get a firm hold on your windpipe."

  "What instead?" Z said.

  "Stay on top of him. 'Specially a guy as big and strong as you are. Bombard him with more than he can prevent."

  Z nodded. I had a little more scotch.

  "Makes sense," he said. "On the other hand, I hadn't been there, they'd have had your ass."

  "If you hadn't been there," I said, "I wouldn't have gone into the stadium in the first place."

  "So you trusted me," Z said.

  "Yep."

  Z hadn't taken a drink yet.

  "And you'll trust me again," he said.

  "Yep."

  "You had other people you could have called on," Z said.

  "Yep."

  "Why me?"

  "Why not you?" I said.

  "How'd you know I could do what you taught me?"

  "This was a way to find out," I said.

  "Christ," Z said. "A test run?"

  "Yeah."

  "What if I'd tanked," Z said.

  "I figured they'd hire some local stiffs," I said. "And just on size, strength, and enthusiasm, you could distract them while I did my stomp."

  Z looked at me for a while, then picked up his bourbon and drank some. He put the glass down on the glistening mahogany bar and looked at it. I looked at it, too. It looked so good, the amber liquid, the translucent ice, the squat, clear glass.

  "I don't want to give this up," Z said.

  "Maybe you don't need to," I said.

  "I drink a lot," Z said.

  "Maybe you cut back," I said.

  "Everybody says that won't work."

  "Everybody is generally wrong," I said. "Not everybody has to go all or nothing."

  "You know that?" Z said.

  "I did it," I said.

  "You cut back?"

  "I went from too much to not too much."

  "You ever get drunk?" he said.

  "Now and then," I said. "Not often."

  "What if I quit for a little while?" he said.

  "You think you're an alcoholic?" I said.

  "I don't think so," Z said. "How do you know?"

  "Something about you controlling the drinking or the drinking controlling you," I said.

  "So if I could quit?" Z said. "For a while."

  "Worth trying," I said.

  "Maybe I'd know," Z said.

  "Maybe."

  "So what if I lay off for a month and go back and after my first drink I'm right back into the booze?"

  "Then you'll know more about yourself than you do now."

  "And I'd have to quit for good," Z said.

  "Maybe."

  "Be like a test run," Z said.

  "Uh-huh."

  "Like today," Z said.

  "Uh-huh."

  "No way to know if you don't try it out," Z said.

  "Sort of like the scientific method," I said.

  "What's that," Z said.

  "Form a hypothesis and test it," I said.

  "A hypothesis."

  "Yep."

  Z picked up his bourbon and drank the rest of it. I looked at the colorful pattern of the booze bottles stacked behind the bar. I listened to the soft human sound of the half-full bar. I thought about the evenings alone, perhaps with Pearl asleep on the couch, when I would have a couple of drinks before supper and think about me and Susan and all that had happened and all that we h
ad done. No matter how many moments I had like that, they were all intensely moving for me.

  "I don't want to start today," Z said.

  "You're not doing it for me," I said.

  "Meaning?"

  "You don't drink because I'm watching," I said. "Doesn't really count much."

  "So you're saying I shouldn't start not drinking while you're watching."

  "Start when you're alone," I said. "And remember, it may be temporary."

  "A hypothesis," he said.

  "That you're testing," I said.

  "Like today," Z said again.

  "Which worked out quite well," I said.

  "I'll drink to that," he said.

  "Me too," I said.

  I signaled the bartender.

  41

  A YOUNG MAN who needed a haircut came into my office wearing a seersucker suit, a white shirt, a blue tie, and a woven straw snap-brim hat.

  "Spenser," he said.

  "I am he," I said.

  "My name is Corky Corrigan," he said. "From the law offices of Morris Hardy."

  He took a card from his shirt pocket and laid it on my desk.

  "Wow," I said. "I've seen Morris's ads on television. He looks implacable."

  "Right," Corrigan said. "We represent Thomas and Beatrice Lopata."

  "You and Morris," I said.

  "Yes," Corky said.

  "Have you ever met Morris Hardy?" I said.

  "Certainly," Corky said. "He spoke at one of our associate meetings."

  "You work for Morris?" I said.

  "We are associated," he said.

  "And you do the case," I said. "And Morris looks implacable and takes a third of the fee."

  Corky gave a little head shake, as if there was a bug on his nose.

  "We are bringing a wrongful-death suit," he said, "against Jeremy Franklin Nelson in the death of Dawn Ellen Lopata."

  "Good for you," I said.

  "I know you've been investigating the case," he said. "And as we assemble our witness list, I thought it might be wise to see what you've learned."

  "I've learned that I don't know what happened," I said.

  "But you must have a slant on things," Corky said.

  He had a little notebook resting on his thigh, and had his Bic pen poised to transcribe things.

  "My slant is pretty much a combination of subjective impressions and hearsay," I said.

  Corky nodded.

  "Useful background," he said.

  "It is," I said.

  "So go ahead," Corky said with a smile. "Don't worry about hearsay, leave the legal stuff to me, just relax and tell me what you've found and what you suspect."

  "Where'd you go to law school, Corky?" I said.

  "Bradford School of Law," he said.

  "In Haverhill," I said.

  He nodded.

  "And you graduated?"

  "Three years ago."

  "And passed the bar?"

  "Last year," he said.

  I nodded.

  "Mum's the word," I said.

  "Excuse me?" Corky said.

  "I don't want to tell you what I've found and what I suspect," I said.

  Corky seemed startled.

  "Why not?" he said.

  "Don't see anything in there for me," I said.

  "Don't you care about justice?"

  "I do," I said. "Also truth, and the American way. But I am not so sure about civil litigation."

  "Are you asking to be paid?" Corky said.

  "No."

  "Then I don't understand," Corky said.

  "I'm sure you don't," I said. "I am still working on the case, and I don't want you, or even the implacable Morris, stepping on leads and tripping over suspects while I'm trying to work."

  "Who is your client?" Corky asked.

  "Nope," I said.

  "Well, who do you recommend I talk with?" he said.

  "Captain Martin Quirk," I said. "Boston Police Department. He's in charge of the case."

  Corky wrote it down.

  "Do you think he'll cooperate?" Corky said.

  "Serve and protect," I said. "But it would be good not to annoy him."

  "Do I annoy you?" Corky said.

  "Let me count the ways," I said.

  42

  I WAS DRINKING BEER from the bottle, and Susan had a plastic glass of pinot grigio. We were sitting on the deck of the Institute of Contemporary Art in South Boston. Generally I found the art at the Institute somewhat too contemporary for me. I was more a Hudson River School guy. But the view of the Boston waterfront along the curve of the harbor was peerless. And in nice weather, we both liked to sit there and look at it.

  "Wouldn't it be wiser for the Lopatas to wait?" Susan said. "I should think it would make their case stronger if he were convicted in criminal court."

  "One would think," I said.

  A big glassy excursion boat full of people drunk in the mid-afternoon cruised past us, heading for a tour of the harbor and islands.

  "And maybe they wouldn't need to sue," Susan said.

  "If they were after revenge," I said.

  Susan sipped a small amount of white wine.

  "Yes," Susan said. "If the criminal trial seemed to be a miscarriage of justice, then you could bring civil suit, try for some justice."

  "Seems so," I said.

  "But if you wanted money . . ." Susan said.

  "Then maybe you'd get right to it," I said. "Greed being what it is."

  "It seems to argue that justice is not the motivation," Susan said.

  "Does," I said. "Of course, human motivation is generally more than one thing."

  "How do you know that?"

  "Close observation of the human condition," I said.

  "Uh-huh?"

  "And you told me," I said.

  "Uh-huh."

  Some gulls sat alertly on the pilings, watching people eat. Occasionally, for no apparent reason, one would suddenly unfold his wings and sweep into the air. Then he would fly off, and return. Of course, since gulls look very much alike, I couldn't say for sure if it was the same gull.

  "Do you think they can win?" Susan said.

  "Not with Corky Corrigan running their suit," I said.

  "Not even if Morris Hardy steps in?" Susan said.

  "Morris Hardy will step in to take his third of the fee, if Corky manages to win," I said.

  "Maybe Jumbo's people will settle."

  "Probably," I said. "Which is what probably attracted Morris Hardy and his law offices in the first place."

  "Because," Susan said, "he knows that Jumbo's people want all this to go away before the world finds out what Jumbo really is."

  "Not calculus," I said.

  "Can you do calculus?" Susan said.

  "No."

  "Do you actually know what calculus is?" Susan said.

  "No."

  "Me either," she said.

  "And you a Harvard girl," I said.

  "It's distasteful, isn't it?" Susan said.

  "Calculus?" I said.

  "That, too," she said. "But I meant the lawsuit."

  "Distasteful," I said.

  "Yes," Susan said. "I mean, I know it does the dead daughter no harm, and they might need the money, but . . . would you do it?"

  "No."

  "I'd do it to try and get even," Susan said. "For revenge. But for the money? No."

  "Maybe they're doing it for revenge," I said. "Maybe they're trying to goose the criminal justice system."

  "Or maybe it's the money," Susan said.

  "Maybe."

  We were quiet for a time, looking at the gulls and the boat traffic, and the cityscape across the water.

  Susan said, "Something I keep meaning to ask you. It doesn't seem important, which is why I probably keep forgetting, but it's bothered me since you started talking about the case."

  "Maybe you keep forgetting because you are lost in adoration of me," I said. "And it preoccupies you."

  Susan nodded.r />
  "That is often a problem," she said. "But in those moments when I can focus elsewhere . . . As you recall, I used to live in Smithfield."

  "I believe it's where we met."

  "Yes," she said. "Anyway, I always have wondered how she got from Smithfield to Boston."

  "Dawn Lopata," I said.

  "Yes."

  I was silent for a moment.

  Then I said, "Why do you ask?"

  "Well, there's no public transportation in Smithfield. She'd have to drive. And if she drove, where's her car?"

  "Maybe she went with friends," I said.

  "The day she met Jumbo," Susan said, "wasn't she with college friends who live in Boston?"

  "Yes."

  "So?"

  "Maybe they picked her up," I said.

  "Maybe," Susan said. "Either of them own a car?"

  "I don't know," I said.

  "Another thing," Susan said, "that makes me wonder, is what I know about girls."

  "You've had some experience at being one," I said.

  "And treating many," Susan said. "I think if she were going to visit a movie star in his hotel room, she would go home first and shower and put on clean clothes as appropriate."

  "You think?" I said.

  "If nothing else," Susan said, "she'd want to shave her legs."

  "Maybe she did all that in the morning, before she went to see the shoot," I said.

  "On the off chance that one of the movie stars would invite her to his room for sex?" Susan said.

  I shrugged.

  "Ever hopeful?" I said.

  "That could certainly be described as optimistic," Susan said.

  "It could," I said.

  "Probably nothing," Susan said. "But I'm curious. And I wanted to mention it."

  "I'm curious, too," I said.

  "Good," Susan said.

  I had finished my beer.

  "Shall I get us another drink?" I said.

  "No," Susan said. "I think I need you to take me home, now."

  "How come?" I said.

  She smiled at me the way Eve must have smiled at Adam when she handed him the apple.

  "I want to shave my legs," she said.

  43

  I CALLED THE SMITHFIELD POLICE and talked with a cop named Cataldo, with whom I had done some business years ago. He confirmed that there was no public transportation.