Sixkill

by Robert B. Parker

  "Yeah," he said. "You got a bathroom?"

  I pointed. He got painfully up and went into the bathroom. He was in there a long time. When he came out he looked as if he might have washed his face.

  I pointed to a chair.

  "You got a drink?" Zebulon Sixkill said.

  I took the bottle of Dewar's out of my desk drawer and put it on the desk along with a lowball glass. He took a couple of deep breaths as if to steady himself and carefully poured some. He looked at the glass for a moment, then picked it up with both hands and drank some whiskey. He showed no sign of pleasure. He drank it the way you take aspirin for a headache.

  "You're lucky," I said. "Lila across the hall had seen you, she'd have called the cops and you'd be waking up in the drunk tank."

  "That's me," Zebulon Sixkill said. "Lucky."

  "You functional?" I said.

  "I will be in a minute," he said. "You got any ice?"

  "Wow," I said. "A picky drunk."

  I got him some ice in a second lowball glass. He poured the remains of his drink over it and drank some. I waited. He sat.

  After a while he said, "I'm in trouble."

  I nodded.

  "I can see that," I said.

  He shook his head and poured a little scotch over the ice in his glass.

  "All my life I been a tough guy. You know?"

  "Till now," I said.

  Z looked at me. I looked back.

  "Whaddya want?" I said finally.

  He shook his head again. We sat. He drank a little of his drink.

  "I never lost a fight before," he said.

  "Have many?"

  "People always careful around me."

  "Ever fight somebody knew what they were doing?" I said.

  He held his glass of whiskey and looked at it some more.

  "Guess not," he said.

  We were quiet again. He drank a little. I was watching something happening. I wasn't sure what. But I kept watching.

  "You know what you're doing," he said.

  "Yep."

  "I want you to show me how," he said.

  "If you don't get the booze under control, it's a waste of time," I said.

  "I can not drink," he said.

  "You just got no reason not to," I said.

  "No," he said.

  "You been juicing?"

  "Like HGH?" he said. "That kind of thing?"

  "Yeah."

  "Little," he said.

  "Rock bottom," I said.

  "Yeah."

  We sat for a time, contemplating how rock-bottom he was.

  Finally I said, "Good place to start."

  "Good as any," he said.

  Zebulon Sixkill III

  Her name was Lucy, and he'd never seen anything like her. She was a Southern California sorority girl, and she was the color of honey. Golden hair, golden tan. Golden prospects. She was homecoming queen during his second season. The first time they had sex, he discovered that her golden tan was all over. He loved that. He loved the fresh smell of her. Expensive soap. Shampoo. Cologne. She always sat close to him. She always looked right at him when he talked. Her lips were glossy and parted slightly when she listened to him. She was rapturous when they made love, and she was always waiting outside the locker room after a game. He could talk to her. He talked about his parents, and their friend Mr. Booze. About his grandfather, and the loss of him. About being a Cree. They went together to dinners at Mr. Calhoun's home in Bel Air. On the weekends they went to uproarious parties at Mr. Calhoun's place in Malibu. They clubbed on Sunset. They came to know a lot about good wine and fine whiskey. They became increasingly sophisticated about which drug to use for which effect. Their pictures were in the style section. Paparazzi began to notice them coming out of clubs. At the end of sophomore year, they moved into a condo owned by Mr. Calhoun, near the campus.

  Zebulon loved her so intensely that he felt somehow submerged in it. He saw everything through the golden haze of it. He felt as if he were fully breathing for the first time. When he was small and lived with his mother and father, they were mostly drunk, or gone. He remembered feeling mostly afraid. He had felt safe with Bob. He admired Mr. Calhoun, and he respected Coach Stockard. But Lucy was something he had no words for. She seemed to contain him, to roll over him like surf. She seemed to be reality. And nothing else did.

  13

  "WHERE IS HE NOW?" Susan said.

  We were having breakfast in the cafe at the Taj hotel, which used to be the Ritz. Our table was in the small bay that looks out on Newbury Street, and the spring morning was about perfect.

  "He's asleep on my couch," I said.

  "You've taken him in," Susan said.

  "For the moment," I said.

  "Good God," Susan said.

  I smiled becomingly.

  "Sometimes," Susan said, "I think you are far too kind for your own good."

  I ate a bite of hash.

  "And some other times?" I said.

  "I think you are the hardest man I've ever seen," she said.

  "So to speak," I said.

  "No sexual allusion intended," Susan said.

  She broke off the end of a croissant, put very little strawberry jam on it, and popped it in her mouth.

  "Do I have to be one or the other?" I said.

  She finished chewing her croissant, and touched her mouth with her napkin.

  "No," she said, "you don't. And in fact, you are both. But it's an unusual combination."

  "So are we," I said.

  Susan smiled.

  "We surely are," she said.

  "But a good one," I said.

  "Very good," Susan said. "What are you going to do with him?"

  "Try and fix him," I said. "After all, he might be able to help me with Dawn Lopata."

  "Ah," Susan said. "A practical purpose."

  "Keeps me from being a do-gooder," I said.

  Susan nodded.

  "Successfully," she said. "I'm sure you can get him in shape and teach him to box and all, if he sticks with you. Do you think you can get him off the booze?"

  "I don't think he's an alcoholic," I said.

  "Why?"

  "Informed guess," I said. "You ever work with alcoholics?"

  "People become dependent on alcohol for many different reasons," Susan said. "If the reasons are amenable to psychotherapy, sometimes I can help."

  "Such as?" I said.

  "Reasons?" she said. "Oh, childhood abuse leading to feelings of low self-worth, maybe. Whatever it is, for me, it is a process of curing the whole person."

  "Not everyone wants that," I said. "Some of them just want to stop drinking."

  "And they perhaps go elsewhere."

  "And if they stop drinking, they're still the same person they were, except they don't drink," I said.

  "Possibly," Susan said.

  "But doesn't what caused them to drink in the first place remain undisturbed?"

  "Might," Susan said.

  "And maybe work its way out in another form?" I said.

  "Could," Susan said.

  "Try not to be so dogmatic about this," I said.

  She smiled. Which was like moonlight on the Seine.

  "We are both in uncertain professions," Susan said.

  She shrugged.

  "Can't hurt if I train him," I said.

  "Probably can't," Susan said. "But you might wish to remind yourself that people develop a means of coping with stress, and, even after the stress is gone, the coping mechanism is there and working."

  "Which can cause a lot of trouble," I said.

  "A lot," Susan said.

  "On the other hand," I said, "you gotta start somewhere."

  "Or," Susan said, "you could tell him to peddle his problems someplace else."

  "I think I'll start somewhere," I said.

  "There's a shock," Susan said.

  14

  THE INN ON THE WHARF was a new boutique hotel for the very uppermost crust, which translated rou
ghly into those who could afford it. It was on the waterfront, and all rooms had a view of the harbor. The top-floor suites, where Jumbo had been, probably had a view of Lisbon.

  I was off the lobby, in a windowless little office, talking to the director of hotel security, a former FBI agent named Dean Delmar. Hotel counsel was also present.

  "Nice view," I said.

  Delmar shrugged.

  "Our job is not ostentatious," he said.

  "I can see that," I said. "What can you tell me about the night Dawn Lopata died?"

  "I went over this with a couple of detectives already," Delmar said. "Can't you just access their notes?"

  "I like to start from scratch," I said. "That way, my mind is uncluttered, so to speak."

  "We have no legal obligation to tell you anything," Hotel Counsel said.

  He looked like someone from casting had sent him over to play the corporate lawyer. He was youngish, and lean, with dark hair cut short and a pair of blue-framed half-glasses that he wore low on his nose, so he could look over them at you.

  "Of course you don't," I said. "But I know that both of you, like good citizens everywhere, want this terrible incident resolved, and would prefer it be resolved with a minimum of media attention."

  "Are you threatening to involve the media if we don't talk with you?" Hotel Counsel said.

  "Are you suggesting that I am the kind of sleazy gumshoe that would do such a thing?" I said.

  We looked at each other.

  "Let us agree," Hotel Counsel said, "that what is said here stays here."

  "Is there a big secret?" I said.

  "No," Hotel Counsel said. "Of course not. But I don't want any loose talk besmirching the hotel."

  "No besmirching," I said.

  "It is not a frivolous request," Hotel Counsel said. "The public perception of this hotel can mean the difference between success and failure."

  "I am employed by Cone, Oakes, and Baldwin," I said. "I will share what I learn with them."

  "And no one else."

  "Within the guidelines of legality," I said.

  Hotel Counsel glanced at Delmar and shrugged and nodded.

  "Whaddya need?" Delmar said to me.

  "Run through it for me," I said. "When did you first learn that something was amiss in Jumbo Nelson's suite?"

  "Call to the front desk, around eleven-thirty," Delmar said.

  "From?"

  "Not entirely clear," Delmar said. "Best guess is the bodyguard."

  "Zebulon Sixkill," I said.

  "Yep."

  "Could it have been Jumbo?" I said.

  "Clerk said she thought it was the Indian," Delmar said. "But it was sort of a crisis call, so she may be wrong."

  "In public," Hotel Counsel said, "you might not want to refer to him as 'the Indian.' The bodyguard is all right. Or Mr. Sixkill. But not 'the Indian.' "

  "You bet," Delmar said.

  "What did the caller say?" I asked.

  "Said there was a medical emergency and to call an ambulance," Delmar said.

  "Which you did."

  "Of course, and the desk clerk called me and I sent a couple of my people up; one had EMT training. The Indian . . . The bodyguard let them in. Found the girl lying on her back on the bed."

  "Clothed?" I said.

  "Yes," Delmar said. "My guys couldn't get a pulse. They tried to resuscitate her, but . . ." He spread his hands. "One of them called me, said he thought she was dead. I said, 'Of what?' He said he didn't know. I called the cops."

  "Where was Jumbo?" I said.

  "Sitting in the living room," Delmar said. "Fully dressed."

  "Doing what?" I said.

  "Nothing," Delmar said. "My guys said he just sat there."

  "Say anything?" I asked.

  "Nope."

  I looked at Hotel Counsel.

  "Mr. Sixkill speak?" I said.

  "No," Delmar said. "Not a word."

  "And then the city arrived," I said.

  "Ambulance came," Delmar said. "Cops came, and it was pretty well out of our hands after that."

  "Theories?" I said.

  "I think they were having rough sex and it got out of hand," Delmar said.

  "That is, of course, Mr. Delmar's personal speculation only," Hotel Counsel said.

  "You weren't quoting somebody else?" I said to Delmar.

  Delmar smiled faintly.

  "Just so we're clear," Hotel Counsel said.

  "They took her to Boston City?" I said.

  "Yes," Delmar said.

  "May I talk with the two hotel security people who first went up to the room?"

  "I prefer all discussion to go through Mr. Delmar and myself," Hotel Counsel said.

  "I prefer that you be less of a horse's ass," I said.

  "No need to be abusive," Hotel Counsel said.

  "Just so we're clear," I said.

  15

  ZEBULON SIXKILL AND I went to the Harbor Health Club in the early afternoon. He looked great in a black tank top and sweats. The muscles in his arms and shoulders were startling, and bulged or relaxed smoothly with every movement. People looked at him when he came, the way people often looked at Hawk. Being a trained investigator, I concluded that he'd probably done some weight work.

  "How much can you bench, Zebulon?"

  "Z," he said.

  "Got it," I said. "How much do you bench."

  "Four-fifty," he said.

  "Let's start with half that," I said.

  "No fighting?" Z said.

  "We will," I said. "Just see how many reps you can do with two-twenty-five. The machine is fine."

  Z nodded and slid into the reclining bench-press machine and set the pin at two-twenty-five and did fifteen reps.

  "How many can you do?" Z said.

  I shrugged and got into the machine and did twenty-five.

  "Jesus Christ," Z said.

  "On the other hand," I said. "I've never done four-fifty in my life."

  Z nodded.

  "Different approach," I said. "You run?"

  "Ten miles," Z said.

  "Ever do intervals?"

  "Fast and slow?" Z said.

  "Sort of," I said.

  "Football," he said.

  I nodded.

  Mostly in deference to Hawk and me, and also with a nod to his own years as a ranked lightweight, Henry Cimoli had salvaged a boxing room when the club went upscale. Z and I went in, away from the bright, tight workout clothes and the mirrors and the chrome weight machines, and the upbeat listen-while-you-sweat music. There was a speed bag, a heavy bag, a little two-ended jeeter bag that even Hawk had trouble with, a couple of body bags, and an open space with rubber floor mats for sparring.

  Henry Cimoli came in wearing a white satin sweat suit. And custom sneakers.

  "Thought I saw you come in," Henry said. "New sparring partner?"

  "Sort of," I said. "Henry, this is Z. Z, Henry."

  They shook hands. When they finished, Henry shook his as if it hurt.

  "Nice grip you got there, Z," Henry said.

  Z nodded.

  "Hawk still in East Bumfuck?" Henry said to me.

  "Central Asia," I said.

  "When's he coming home," Henry said.

  "Whenever he wants to," I said.

  Henry nodded.

  "That would be Hawk," he said. "You guys gonna box?"

  "I'm conducting a little introduction for Z," I said. "Wanna sit in?"

  "He want to be a pro or just win the fights in the alley?"

  "Alley," Z said.

  "Probably win most of those now, being so big and strong," Henry said.

  "Wanna win all," Z said.

  "But no one ever taught him," I said to Henry.

  Henry looked at Z.

  "Okay," Henry said. "I fought at one-thirty-two. Long time ago. I weigh about one-forty-five now. And, if you don't know, I'd clean your clock."

  Z shook his head.

  "Can he take a punch?" Henry asked me.
r />   "Yes."

  "You've tested that?"

  "Yes."

  Henry nodded.

  "Wanna try it?" he said.

  "Me and you?" Z said.

  "Sure, open hand, we'll just slap. Nobody gets hurt."

  Z looked at me.

  "It'll be instructive," I said. "You won't hurt him."

  He shrugged.

  "Right here?" he said.

  "Sure," Henry said. "That'll be your corner. This'll be mine. Spenser will ref."

  "No need to worry about hitting him below the belt," I said to Z. "He's so short nobody can reach that low."

  Z stood in his corner.

  I said, "Bong!"

  Henry went into his fighting stance. Left foot forward, knees bent, hands high on either side of his face. Z came from his corner with his hands held loosely a little above his waist. He put out a left jab at Henry, who moved around it. Z followed with a right cross, and Henry moved around it. They went around the room that way for more than a minute, with Z throwing openhanded punches, and Henry bobbing and weaving just enough to make him miss.

  Z was breathing hard.

  "Stay still," he said.

  Henry grinned at him.

  "Okay," he said, and stopped.

  Z closed with him. Henry leaned and rolled and bobbed without moving his feet and Z still couldn't hit him. Z was arm-weary. His hands were low. He tried a left. Henry checked it with his right, and stepped around it. Henry put two open-right-hand punches into the body, and as Z wheeled toward him, Henry put an open left hook onto Z's chin. Z shook his head and tried a right. Henry checked it with his left hand and put an overhand left onto Z's jaw. Z lunged at Henry, trying to grab him. Henry put out a left jab that Z ran into, and then rolled around Z so that he was behind him. He hit him a couple of times in the kidneys. And as Z turned wearily, his hands down, his voice rasping, Henry slapped him left, right, left, right on the cheeks.

  "Bong," I said.

  Z stared at Henry.

  "Annoying," I said. "Isn't it."

  "Do that to you?" Z said.

  "No," Henry said. "I couldn't. He knows how. He's as quick as I am, and he's in shape."

  "And me?" Z said.

  "You, Kemo Sabe, are quick enough," Henry said. "But you don't know how and you're not in shape."

  "Kemo Sabe?" Z said, and looked at me.