"The hell it will," I said. "I've talked to Ronan. He's in earnest."
"Well, I'm not hiring some legal eagle to fiddle and diddle until he turns this into a case that he can retire on."
"I can put you in touch with a really good lawyer," I said, "who will neither fiddle nor diddle."
"I don't need him."
"Her. Rita Fiore. Used to be a prosecutor."
"She a looker?" Sterling said and smiled and wiggled his eyebrows like Groucho Marx and flicked the ash from an imaginary cigar.
"Oh good," I said. "'That'll knock 'em dead in court."
Sterling laughed.
"We'll never get to court," he said. "You can bet your biscuits."
He drank some Chartreuse. Then he lowered his voice and said, "Don't look right now, but there's a man across the street watching us."
"Black man?" I said. "Big, shaved head, shades."
"Yes."
"He's on our side," I said.
"Well, what the hell is he doing over there?"
"Couple of guys came by my office the other day, threatened me if I didn't drop your case."
"Threatened you?"
"Offered me a bribe first."
"And you wouldn't take the bribe."
"Yeah."
"Well, that's damned white of you, Spenser, I must say. Noble, sort of."
"You should probably try to avoid using the word `white' as an accolade," I said.
"What? Oh hell, Spenser, it's just a damned phrase. So is the Negro a body guard?"
"Not exactly," I said. "I thought it might be useful while I was with you to see if anybody was watching us. Apparently not."
"How can you tell."
"Because if there were someone, you wouldn't see Hawk."
"That's his name?"
"Uh huh. So give me an example of how you kidded these women."
"Boy, you don't give up, do you. Suzy Q got herself a good one."
"Suzy Q?"
Sterling shrugged and laughed and made his little dismissive hand motion.
"I'm glad she got a good one," he said. "She deserves it."
"You touch any of these woman?" I said.
"Hell no."
"They work for you?"
"Haven't we already gone over this ground?" Sterling said.
"I was hoping to find out something this time over," I said.
Sterling grinned at me and sipped his Chartreuse and tipped his head back in pleasure at the taste.
"They work for you?" I said.
"As I mentioned," Sterling said and took any sting out of it by grinning broadly, "these are volunteers. I directed them, in the sense that I was in charge of the whole bubble bath, but none of them was"-he made air quote marks with his fingertips-"working for me."
"So you didn't touch them. You made no sexual innuendoes at them. You didn't use your position of power to create a sexually hostile environment?" Sterling laughed happily.
"Whoa," he said. "A `sexually hostile environment'? Holy moley."
"So why did four women suddenly get it into their heads to bring charges against you?" I said.
He got a leather cigar case out of his inside jacket pocket and opened it and offered me one. I shook my head. He took out a long dark cigar and put the case away. With a small pocket knife he trimmed the cigar, put it in his mouth, and lit it carefully, turning it slowly to get the ignition even. When it was going right, he took a big inhale, let the smoke out slowly.
"Maybe it was that time of month," Sterling said, "and they were cranky."
Again the big infectious grin to take any sting out of his words.
"Do you suppose they threatened you because they know they've got no case?"
"You figure it was the four women who sent the sluggers?" I said.
"Or her husband," Sterling said, looking at the end of his cigar, admiring the glow. "He used to be a criminal lawyer, I heard. He'd probably know somebody."
" `Her,' meaning Jeanette Ronan," I said.
"Sure."
"Why her rather than, say, Olivia Hanson, or Marcia Albright, or Penny Putnam?"
"By golly, Miss Molly," Sterling said, "you are a detective, aren't you?"
I thought about getting up and going home. I could almost see myself standing and walking off down Newbury Street. I knew if I really could have seen myself walking away I would have looked happy. But I wasn't walking away. I was sitting here trying not to inhale the smoke that spiraled my way from his large cigar.
"How come you focused on Jeanette?" I said. "She's the one with the husband," Sterling said. "I mean, the other three are currently single, I believe."
He had described them originally, I thought, as the wives of rich husbands. I filed that for future consideration.
"These bad buys actually rough you up?" Sterling said.
"No."
"But they threatened to."
"Yes."
"And they didn't say who they were, ah, representing?"
"No."
"It's got to be Ronan."
"We'll see," I said. Sterling glanced over at Hawk across the street.
"Why doesn't he join us?" Sterling said.
"I thought you might be more at ease talking alone."
"You're a considerate pilgrim, aren't you."
"Yeah, you want to meet him?"
"Love to."
I gestured to Hawk to join us, and he walked across the street. Hawk always walked in a straight line from where he was to where he was going, and people always got out of his way. He pulled out a chair from another table, turned it around, and sat. He looked at me and shook his head once. No one was following Sterling. I introduced them.
"Good to see ya," Sterling said. "Didn't want you getting lonely over there by yourself."
Hawk looked at Sterling without expression, then looked at me.
"Lonely," he said.
"Want a libation?" Sterling said.
"Champagne be nice."
Sterling gestured at the waiter and ordered. The waiter brought Sterling another Chartreuse, me another beer, and Hawk a bottle of Perrier Jouet in an ice bucket. He poured Hawk a glass and left the bucket handy.
"Seen any bad guys sneaking around Newbury Street?"
I didn't smile, but I wanted to. Hawk was as close to conflicted as he could get. He liked Susan nearly as much as I did, and he knew we were doing this for her and he was determined to be pleasant.
"Just him," Hawk said, pointing at me with his chin.
"He a bad guy?"
"Depends," Hawk said, "if he on your side or not."
"But he's pretty dangerous?"
Hawk smiled. It was an expression of real pleasure. He did his upper class WASP accent where he sounds a lot like James Mason.
"Brad, my man," Hawk said, "you simply have no idea."
"When I was playing football," Sterling said, and I watched Hawk's face go blank again as his attention closed down, "we had some pretty good battles…"
Hawk finished his champagne, pulled the bottle from the ice bucket, poured another glass, and drank most of it in a swallow.
chapter thirteen
HAWK'S CURRENT GIRLFRIEND had a town house in the South End, off Clarendon Street close to the Ballet. Susan and Hawk and I were there with her, and maybe fifty of her closest friends, milling about in too little space. The talk was mostly medical, because Andrea was a cardiologist and most of her friends were doctors. "It's a natural fit," I said to Hawk. "They need patients, you supply them."
"She love me 'cause ah is sensitive," Hawk said.
"Of course she does," Susan said. "Plus your wonderful Amos and Andy accent."
"You'd prefer me to sound like an upward mobile WASP," Hawk said, sounding remarkably like an upward mobile WASP
"I love you just the way you are," Susan said.
"Anyone would," Hawk said.
Andrea came over in a little red satin dress, carrying a glass of white wine.
"You wear that outfit to w
ork," I said, "you may cause more heart attacks than you prevent."
"Is that a sexist remark?" Andrea said.
"Probably," I said.
"And God bless it," she said. "Hawk, will you please come over here and meet my department head?"
"Impress him," I said to Hawk. "Go with the upward mobile WASP accent."
Andrea stuck her tongue out at me and took Hawk's arm as they walked into the next room.
Susan and I hunkered down in our corner of the party and watched.
"Speaking," Susan said, "of sexism. You haven't told me how things are going with Brad."
"I didn't know that you wanted me to," I said.
"I'm interested, of course."
"Okay. It's kind of a hard one to get hold of. I mean, the charge has been made, apparently the lawsuit is moving forward, but I can't get anybody to tell me what happened, exactly."
"What did you think of Brad?"
"Well, you were right, I kind of like him, but he's either deliberately evasive, or so unfocused that he can't track an idea."
"Like how?"
"I can't get a real sense of whether he harassed these women or not. He's so out of touch with the current standards of male-female propriety that he could have sinned without realizing it."
"What does his lawyer say."
"He hasn't got one."
"Isn't that a mistake, to be faced with a lawsuit and have no lawyer?"
"Certainly. But he says he doesn't want to waste money on a lawyer for a case that isn't going anywhere."
"But how can he be sure?"
"I don't know. He seems entirely unfazed by the whole deal, which seems at odds with the way he presented his situation to you."
"Are you saying I misunderstood?"
"No."
"Because I didn't," she said. "He came to me and said he was desperate. That he had no money. That even if he won, the case would destitute him."
"He says that is not the situation. He says he's doing fine."
"What does he say when you tell him what I told you?"
"He says you were always a little dramatic."
Susan was silent. She swirled her glass of wine and looked at it as if something might be floating in it.
"And how did you respond to that?" Susan said.
"I disagreed."
She looked at her wine some more.
"I hate the image," she said. "Two men sitting around discussing whether I am dramatic."
I nodded. The cocktail party mingled loudly around us. I could see Hawk, taller than most of the room, listening impassively to some guy wearing round gold rimmed glasses, who was making a chopping gesture with his right hand. Probably talking about HMO fee structures.
"Did you get to discuss sleeping with me?" Susan said.
"No."
"I hate this."
"Would you like me to drop it?" I said.
"No."
"Sort of narrows the options," I said.
"Oh don't be so goddamned male," Susan said. "This is very painful. My ex-husband, my current, ah, lover, sitting there talking about me."
"Why?" I said.
"Why? Why wouldn't it be?"
I had a sense that asking why it would be, while symmetrical, wasn't going to get us anywhere.
"Susan," I said. "He doesn't mind that you're with me now. And I don't mind that you were with him then. He appears to like you. I love you. We both speak well of you."
"I don't like it that you speak of me at all."
"I never expected that I would be the only man you had ever been with," I said. "Hell, even after we were together there was Russell."
"Don't speak of him," she said.
"Suze…"
"I would like us to pretend that he never happened," Susan said. "That Brad never happened. That there was nothing and no one prior to that snowy Sunday after I came back from San Francisco."
"Isn't that what you shrinks call denial?" I said.
"Denial is when you tell yourself lies," Susan said.
"What is it when we tell each other lies?"
"Why is it a lie not to talk about the other men in my life? I should think you'd be thrilled not to talk about them."
"Everything in your life interests me. There's nothing I mind talking about."
"Well, I do."
"And yet you asked me to save him," I said.
"It doesn't mean we have to talk about it."
I decided that it would also be counterproductive to remind her that the conversation had started by her asking about Brad.
Instead I said, "Okay with me."
"I couldn't forgive myself," Susan said, "if I let my pathologies contribute to his ruin."
"How about our ruin?" I said.
Susan put her hand on my arm.
"This is a rough patch, and you'll have to help me through it. But nothing can ruin us."
"Good point," I said.
chapter fourteen
I SAT IN THE periodical room at the Boston Public Library reading back issues of the Globe and taking notes. Sterling's event at the Convention Center had gotten a lot of press. It had been called Galapalooza. It featured food, drink, celebrities, a message from the President of the United States, and music from a hot singer named Sister Sass. A long list of charities participated and each received a share of the profits. I took down the list of charities, in alphabetical order, and went calling. The first place was an AIDS support organization operating out of the first-floor front of a three-decker on Hampden Street in Roxbury down back of the Newmarket. The director was a short thin woman with a fierce tangle of blonde hair. Her name was Mattie Clayman.
"You got something says who you are," she said.
I showed her my license.
"So how come a private detective is asking about Galapalooza?"
"I'm trying to investigate a case of sexual harassment that is alleged to have taken place during the production of the event," I said.
Mattie Clayman snorted and said, "So?"
"So I can't get anybody to tell me anything."
"You try asking the victims?"
"I have tried asking everybody. Now I'm asking you."
"I was not sexually harassed," she said.
"I imagine you weren't," I said.
"No? Well, I have been in my life."
"Not twice, I'll bet."
She smiled a little bit.
"Not twice," she said.
"So what can you tell me about Galapalooza?" I said.
"Who is supposed to have harassed who?" she said.
"Brad Sterling is alleged to have harassed Jeanette Ronan, Penny Putnam, Olivia Hanson, and Marcia Albright."
"Busy man," Mattie said.
"You know Sterling?" I said.
"Yep."
"Think he'd have harassed these women?"
"Sure."
"Why do you think so?"
"He's a man."
"Any other reason?"
"Don't need another reason."
"Some of my best friends are women," I said.
"That supposed to be funny?"
"I was hoping," I said.
"There's nothing much to laugh at in the way men treat women."
"How about `some men treat some women'?"
"You've never been a woman, pal."
"Hard point to argue," I said. "You didn't see any instances of harassment."
"No."
"What else can you tell me," I said. "About Galapalooza?"
She snorted again.
"Something," I said.
She shook her head.
"Don't get me started," she said.
"Au contraire," I said. "It's what I'm trying to do."
She made an aw-go-on gesture with her hand.
"How much did you realize from the event," I said.
She looked at me for quite a long time without expression.
Finally she said, "Zip."
"Zip."
"No, actually worse than zip. Th
e people who usually would be giving us money spent it at Galapalooza. So we actually lost the money they would have donated if they hadn't spent it on Galapalooza."
"What happened?" I said.
She shrugged.
"Expenses," she said.
"You see the figures?"
"Yes. Everything was explained," she said. "The costs got ahead of them. The turnout was smaller than they'd hoped."
"So nobody got any money out of it?"
"No."
"Could they have cooked the books?"
"Look at my operation," she said and waved her hand at the small front room of the small apartment that looked out at the narrow street. "Does it look like we have a CPA budgeted?"
"So they could have cooked them."
"Of course they could have cooked them. The deal was that they'd do this big fund-raiser for all the charities too small to do a big fund-raiser. Share mailing lists, pool our volunteers. Because we're small and poor we're in no position to contest their figures. Operations like this are hand to mouth. We scramble every day, for crissake. We haven't got next Monday budgeted."
"Maybe they were just inept," I said.
"Maybe," she said. "Way down below here, where we work, it really doesn't matter if they were inept or dishonest. We don't get money, people die."
I looked at the bare plaster walls, the cheap metal desk and filing cabinet, the curtainless windows with a shirt cardboard neatly taped over a broken pane.
"How long you been doing this work?" I said.
"Ten years."
"If it matters to you," I said, "I will find out what happened and when I do I'll let you know."
"How you going to find out?" she said.
"Don't know yet."
"But you will?" she said.
"Always do," I said.
She put out her hand.
"Maybe you will," she said. "You don't look like someone gives up easy."
I took her hand and we shook.
"You should be proud of yourself," I said. "What you do."
"I am," she said.
chapter fifteen
I TALKED TO some other do-gooders: people who delivered hot meals, people who ran a hospice, people who ran a support group for breast cancer survivors. They were all different, but they had several things in common. They were all tougher than an Irish pizza, their offices were uniformly low budget, and they'd all been screwed by Galapalooza. It was a really nice day for early spring in Boston, and the temperature was in the sixties when I went to a storefront in Stoneham Square. It was the offices of Civil Streets, the final name on the list I'd culled from the Globe, and it was closed. There was a discreet sign in the window that said Civil Streets in black letters on a white background. One of those sorry-we're-closed signs hung in the front door window. The little clock face said they'd be back at 1:15. I looked at my watch. Three fifteen. I looked in through the front window. The place had the impermanent look of a campaign headquarters. A gray metal desk with a phone on it, a matching file cabinet, a couple of folding chairs. I tried the doorknob, nothing ventured, nothing gained. The door was locked. Nothing gained anyway. Maybe they meant 1:15 in the morning. There was a hardware store across the street. I went in and asked the clerk when Civil Streets was usually open.
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