Cold Service

by Robert B. Parker

  "I've got him on standby."

  "Might need him," Hawk said.

  "I thought you didn't want him."

  "Didn't want him protecting me," Hawk said. "Liberatin' Marshport be different."

  "How Tony going to be feeling 'bout this?" I said.

  Hawk stared at me.

  "How come you talking funny?" he said.

  "Been spending too much time with you."

  "No such thing as too much time with me," Hawk said.

  "So how's Tony going to react to this?" I said.

  "Don't know," Hawk said.

  "We don't want to fight a two-front war," I said.

  " 'Less we have to."

  "Think about it from where Tony's standing," I said. "He doesn't like Podolak any better than anyone else does. He's just allied so his son-in-law can feel like a big shot and his daughter won't be widowed."

  "None of that my problem," Hawk said.

  "So you knock off one of the Ukulele soldiers and Podolak will see it as not part of the deal."

  "And Podolak get on Tony's case. Tony supposed to protect the Ukes, like Podolak s'posed to protect… what's that kid's name?"

  "How could you forget," I said. "Brock Rimbaud."

  "Yeah. But if I tell Tony I ain't killing no more street soldiers, Tony takes credit for it, and all be well."

  "And when Podolak's ready to fall over," I said, "Tony might even help you push."

  "So we don't fight Tony. We get him on our side."

  "For the moment."

  "Like Hitler and Stalin and the nonaggression pact," Hawk said.

  "How you know about Hitler and Stalin," I said.

  "Heard some white guys talking," Hawk said.

  "Think Tony will buy it?" I said.

  "Sure," Hawk said. "Easier than fighting us about it."

  "You think?" I said.

  "We hard to fight," Hawk said.

  "But oh so easy to love," I said.

  I went to the refrigerator and got out two more cans of beer. It was late. I stood beside Hawk and looked down at the quiet street. A yellow cab cruised down Boylston Street. Probably going to the Four Seasons.

  "So if Tony buys it," I said, "all we got to do is go up to Marshport and take over the city."

  "That be the plan," Hawk said.

  "Any operational details?" I said. "Like, how?"

  "I already give you the big picture," Hawk said. "You supposed to contribute something."

  "How about I learn to say 'don't shoot' in Ukrainian?" I said.

  31

  WE ROLLED SLOWLY along Revere Beach Boulevard, looking for a parking spot. The spring was too early for there to be a lot of people at the beach, and Hawk pulled in half a block from the small pavilion on the beachfront where we were meeting Tony and Boots. We sat in the car and looked at the meeting site.

  "Tony buys it," Hawk said. "But he want to be sure Boots buy it, and Boots wants this meeting."

  "Ty Bop and Junior," I said.

  Hawk nodded.

  "Leaning on the front fender of the black Escalade," he said. "Junior liable to break it."

  A silver Mercedes sedan pulled up and double-parked by the pavilion. There were two Marshport police cars with it, fore and aft.

  "That would be Boots," I said.

  "With escort," Hawk said.

  "He is the mayor of Marshport," I said.

  Hawk grinned at me.

  "So far," he said.

  Four Marshport cops got out of the police cars and walked to the pavilion, and stood, one in each corner, and waited. Tony got out of the Escalade and walked to the pavilion with Leonard, the handsome black guy we'd met before. Leonard was wearing a dark cashmere overcoat that fitted him perfectly. You know you're with a clothes guy when he gets his overcoats made.

  "Our turn," Hawk said. "Boots like to make the grand entrance."

  It was breezy on the beachfront, and I wanted to zip up my leather jacket, but it would have meant zipping my gun inside the jacket, so I settled for shivering a little. Hawk showed no sign of cold. He never did. He never seemed hot, either. Mortality rested very lightly on him. As we passed Ty Bop, I pretended to shoot him, dropping my thumb on my forefinger. Junior smiled faintly. Ty Bop ignored me. He may not have even seen me as he stood, jittering in place by the big SUV, thinking long thoughts about shooting somebody.

  "Kid gets any skinnier," I said to Hawk, "his gun will be shooting him."

  "Don't be dissing Ty Bop," Hawk said. "Ain't many people can shoot better."

  "Or more willingly," I said.

  "Yeah," Hawk said. "Ty Bop like the work."

  We stepped into the pavilion with Tony and Leonard and the four Marshport cops. As soon as we did, Boots stepped out of his Mercedes. With him was Fadeyushka Badyrka, the big Ukrainian gunboat that Hawk had declined to kill.

  "We may be forming a lasting friendship with Fadeyushka," Hawk said.

  "Remembering his name is a good start," I said.

  It was early April and cool with the wind coming off the water. But Boots was dressed for deep January. He had on a fur-lined cap with earflaps that tied under the chin, and a heavy, dark woolen overcoat with a black mouton collar snuggled up under his mean chin. His hands were in his pockets. His narrow shoulders were hunched. He walked straight up to Hawk and stood about a foot away.

  "Okay," he said, "tell me."

  I was standing a little back from Hawk and Boots and Tony, trying to find a spot where I could be useful if the ball went up. It was hard to find a place where someone couldn't shoot me dead. But it almost always is, if you think about it. I did what I could. I noticed that Leonard was having the same locational problems. The cops at each corner of the pavilion were sort of an issue for both of us. There were a few people on the beach. Some were walking dogs or small children, or both. Some were picking up things. I was never quite clear on what it was that people collected on beaches. No one paid any attention to the group in the pavilion.

  "I shot one of your people," Hawk said. "Not realizin' he under Tony's protection. Apologize for that. Told Tony and I'll tell you. Long as you and Tony got a deal goin', I honor it."

  "What kind of deal you think Tony and I got," Boots said.

  "Don't know," Hawk said, "don't care. Tony says your people are protected. That be my deal."

  Fadeyushka was looking at Hawk. I was looking at Fadeyushka. So was the handsome guy with Tony.

  "You agree with that?" Boots said to Tony.

  Tony nodded.

  "Speak up," Boots said.

  "I agree," Tony said.

  I knew Tony wanted to kick Boots right out into the traffic on Revere Beach Boulevard, but he didn't show it. He seemed almost respectful when he spoke to Boots. Which I knew to be a crock. Nobody respected Boots. People were afraid of him, and with good reason. But it had little to do with respect. I was pretty sure Boots didn't know about this distinction, and if he did know, he didn't care. Boots glanced at me for the first time.

  "How about this jerk-off?" he said.

  I nodded at Hawk.

  "I'm with him," I said.

  "And you do what he says?" Boots asked me.

  "I do."

  Boots sort of snorted. He turned to the big Ukrainian.

  "You down with this?" he said.

  "Down?" Fadeyushka said.

  "Learn the fucking language," Boots said. "Are you fucking okay with it."

  Fadeyushka looked straight at Hawk for a time.

  "For now," he said. "I am down."

  Some seagulls hopped near the pavilion, looking for food. The wind blew a hamburger wrapper past them. Two of them flew up and lighted on it and tore at it and found no sustenance, and turned away.

  "Remember something valuable," Boots said to Hawk. "Do not fuck with me."

  Hawk seemed to smile a little.

  "Long as you down with Tony," Hawk said. "You down with me."

  Boots looked hard at Hawk for another moment, then turned and walked to the c
ar. Fadeyushka followed him and the cops peeled off behind them. The rest of us stood as the procession pulled away, leaving us alone with the wind and the seagulls.

  32

  CECILE HAD A condominium in a gated enclosure on Cambridge Street, at the foot of Beacon Hill, right across from Mass. General, so she could walk to work. She and Hawk had Susan and me to brunch there on the Sunday after we met with Boots and Tony. The big loft space on the second floor had full-length arched windows, which Cecile had opened. The big ivory drapes that spilled out onto the floor were too heavy to blow in the spring breeze, but their edges fluttered a little while Hawk made each of us a Bloody Mary. Domestic.

  We drank a couple of Bloody Marys, thus ensuring that I would nap when I got home. Cecile and Susan talked about their respective practices, and I shared occasional thoughts on sex and baseball, which, by and large, were all I had for thoughts. As usual, Hawk said little, though he seemed to enjoy listening. I had been reading a book about the human genome. We talked about that for a while. Cecile served us a variation of a dish my father called "shrimp wiggle": shrimp and peas in a cream sauce. Cecile served hers in pastry shells. My father didn't know what a pastry shell was, and with good reason. We had a little white wine with the shrimp. When I went to get a little more from the ice bucket, I noticed that Hawk's big.44 Mag was lying holstered on the sideboard among the wineglasses. The stainless-steel frame was good, but the brass edge of the cartridges that showed in the cylinder clashed with the cutlery.

  We were nearly, and mercifully, through the shrimp wiggle when Cecile put her wineglass down suddenly and sat, staring at her plate. Sitting beside her, Hawk put his hand on her thigh. Her shoulders began to shake and then she looked up and there were tears running down her face. Hawk patted her thigh softly.

  "This is so awful," Cecile said.

  Her voice was shaky.

  "We had a fight about this before you came."

  She dabbed carefully at her eyes with her napkin. There were still tears.

  "We sit here and eat and drink and make small talk," she said, and pointed at Hawk.

  "And he was almost shot and killed and now he's going to kill other people, probably already has, to get even, or get killed trying to get even, and"-she pointed at me-"he's helping. And no one will tell me anything about it or explain it or even talk about it, so we sit here and chit-chat and gossip and pretend."

  Hawk continued to pat her thigh. Otherwise it was as if he hadn't heard her.

  "It's not pretend, Cecile," Susan said. "Because these men aren't like other men you know doesn't mean that they are simply different. Because they are engaged in life-and-death matters sometimes doesn't mean that they can't waste time other times talking about sex or baseball."

  "It's not wasting time," I said.

  Susan glared at me, but flickering at the edge of the glare was amusement.

  "I could accept that," Cecile said, "maybe. If only somebody could explain to me what the hell they are doing and why."

  "It's a terrible left-out feeling, isn't it," Susan said.

  "I'm terrified. I'm horrified. I can't understand it. And the man who is supposed to love me won't even explain himself."

  I know Susan heard "supposed to love me," and I knew she knew that it could mean more than one thing. But Susan was not a proponent of freelance shrinkage over drinks on a Sunday afternoon. Thank God!

  "Maybe he can't explain it," Susan said.

  "So let him say he can't explain it," Cecile said.

  Susan was quiet. So was I. Hawk gently took his hand from Cecile's thigh and stood and walked to the sideboard. He picked up the holstered gun and turned and walked out the front door, and closed it gently behind him. All of us were quiet for a moment.

  Then Cecile said, "Oh my God!" and began to cry. We were quiet while she cried. Finally she eased up and dabbed some more at her eyes with her napkin. Some of her eye makeup had run a little in the big cry.

  "I'm sorry," she finally said.

  "Loving Hawk is not easy work," I said.

  "It seems easy for you."

  "Apples and pears," I said.

  Cecile tossed her chin at me. It was not completely affectionate.

  "Does Spenser talk to you?" she said to Susan.

  "I'm afraid he does," Susan said.

  "And you understand him?"

  "Yes."

  "How do you stand it-the guns, the tough-guy stuff?"

  "The relationship seems worth it," Susan said.

  "And you can't change him?"

  "He has changed," Susan said. "You should have seen him when we first met."

  She smiled for a moment and looked at me.

  "How did you do it?" Cecile said.

  "I didn't. He did," Susan said.

  Cecile looked at me aggressively, as if somehow Hawk were my fault.

  "Is that right?"

  "I learned things from her," I said. "I do, after all, love her."

  The minute I said it I knew it was the perfect wrong thing.

  "And Hawk doesn't love me?" Cecile said.

  "He loves you better than anyone else I've ever seen him with," I said.

  "Oh, goodie," Cecile said.

  With Hawk unavailable, she was mad at me.

  "Have you told Cecile about the time the Gray Man shot you?" Susan said to me.

  "Some."

  "He was almost killed. It took about a year to recover. Hawk and I took him to a place in Santa Barbara, and Hawk rehabbed him."

  Cecile nodded.

  "What did you do," Susan said, "when you were sufficiently rehabbed."

  "I found him and put him in jail."

  "Did he stay in jail?"

  "No, we made a deal; he solved a case for me, DA let him go."

  "Did you mind?" Susan said.

  "That he got let go? No. We were even anyway."

  Susan looked at Cecile as if they both had a secret.

  "Why did you track him down?" Susan said.

  "I can't let somebody shoot me and get away with it."

  "Why?"

  "Very bad for business," I said.

  "Any other reasons?"

  "I needed him to solve the case."

  "Did the police help you find him?"

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "I needed to do it myself."

  Susan didn't say anything. She and Cecile shared their secret again. I sipped a little white wine. Some sort of mediocre Chardonnay. I didn't like it much, but any port in a storm. Then I saw it: where Susan had taken me, and why.

  "I was afraid," I said to Cecile. "I was afraid of the Gray Man, and of dying, and of not seeing her again."

  "Not seeing Susan," Cecile said.

  "Yes. It was intolerable. I can't do what I do, or be who I am, if I'm afraid."

  "So you had to get back up and ride the horse again," Cecile said.

  "Yes."

  Cecile was silent, looking at me and at Susan.

  "He's afraid," she said finally. "Like you were."

  Susan nodded.

  "And he can't say it."

  "He may not even know it," Susan said.

  "He knows," I said.

  Susan nodded. Cecile drank some of her wine. She didn't seem to notice it was mediocre.

  "But"-Cecile spoke slowly as if she were watching the sun rise gradually-"either way, he has to prove that they can't kill him."

  "Yes," I said.

  "And you will help Hawk do that," she said to me.

  "Yes."

  Cecile looked at Susan.

  "And you'll let him do that?" she said.

  "Wrong word," Susan said. "I know why he is helping, and I don't try to stop him."

  "Because?"

  "Because I love him," Susan said, "and not someone I might make him into, if I could, which I can't."

  "What if you could make me into Brad Pitt?" I said.

  "That would be different," Susan said.

  33

  BROCK RIMBAUD
RAN his operation out of a storefront at number five Naugus Street, which was a street just wider than an alley and not as long. There were five buildings on the street, all flat-roofed three-decker tenements, where the kitchens probably still smelled of kerosene. The storefront was on the first floor of the second three-decker in. The building was sided in yellowish asphalt shingles, with sagging porches across the face of the second and third floors. There were clotheslines in use on both porches. On the plate-glass window that formed the front of Rimbaud's digs on the first floor was a black-letter sign that readRIMBAUD ENTERPRISES. The black lettering was edged with gold. Nicely coherent with the neighborhood.

  "You know what we're going to do here?" I said to Hawk.

  "Talk with the Brockster," Hawk said.

  "Aside from the pure pleasure of it," I said. "What are we trying to accomplish?"

  "Hell," Hawk said, "you ought to know how this works. Start in, poke around, talk to people, ask questions, see what happens? I learned it from you all these years."

  "It's known in forensic circles as the Spenser method," I said.

  "Also known as I don't have any idea what the fuck I'm doing, " Hawk said.

  "Also known as that," I said. "Nice to know you've been paying attention."

  "Learning from the master," Hawk said.

  I took my gun in its clip-on holster off my hip and put it on under my blazer in front where I could get at it easily while sitting down. I knew Hawk had a shoulder rig. We got out of the car and walked to Rimbaud's office.

  "What the fuck do you want," Rimbaud said when we went in.

  He was sitting in a high-backed red leather swivel chair behind a gray metal desk. There was a pigskin-leather humidor on the desk, and a phone, and a nine-millimeter handgun.

  "See," Hawk said, "he remember us."

  "And fondly," I said.

  Rimbaud didn't seem to know what else to say, so he gave us a mean look. There were two skinny black Hispanic men in the room with him each wearing a colorful long-sleeved shirt unbuttoned over a ribbed undershirt-one gray, one white. Their shirttails were out, and the cuffs were rolled back over their slim forearms. They each gave us a mean look.

  "Mind if we sit?" Hawk said.

  Rimbaud nodded toward a couple of straight chairs near his desk. He was wearing a white shirt with the top three buttons undone and the cuffs turned loosely back over his forearms. We sat. The room was empty except for the desk and a few chairs. On a back wall was the only ornamentation, a large movie poster of Al Pacino in Scarface. Hawk smiled at Brock. I smiled at Brock.