Sixkill

by Robert B. Parker

  "Did you?"

  "I liked her okay," Perry said.

  "With or without sex?"

  "Sure," he said.

  He looked down, and while he was looking down, he adjusted the hammer in his hammer holster.

  "Honestly?" he said.

  "I'd prefer it," I said.

  "She wasn't the brightest bulb in the chandelier," he said.

  "Uh-huh."

  "I was nineteen," he said.

  "Uh-huh."

  "Oh, hell," he said. "Course not. She wasn't coming across, I wouldn'ta dated her."

  I nodded.

  "So her fears were well founded," I said.

  "Yeah," he said.

  "And most of the people she dated felt that way?"

  "Yeah."

  He shook his head.

  "She was kind of a joke," he said.

  I nodded. We were quiet. Perry absently jiggled the hammer in its holster.

  "I feel kind of bad for her," he said.

  "Me too," I said.

  "And I feel kind of bad about myself and how I was with her."

  "Probably should," I said. "On the other hand, nineteen and male is nineteen and male."

  "I know that, too," Perry said.

  24

  IT WAS RAINY again this April. I worked out at the Harbor Health Club, and when I got through I went into Henry Cimoli's office and drank some coffee with him, and watched the gray rain make circular patterns on the gray ocean through Henry's big picture window.

  "Got some donuts," Henry said. "Cinnamon. Want one?"

  "How many you got," I said.

  Henry opened the bottom drawer of his desk and took out a box and looked in.

  "Ten," he said.

  "You're not having any?" I said.

  "I was hoping we could share," Henry said.

  I took a donut.

  "Like the view?" Henry said.

  "Better than the blank wall that used to be there," I said. "With the torn boxing poster of you."

  Henry grinned and leaned back and put his feet up on his desk. His sneakers were silver and black. He was wearing white sweats and a white sleeveless jacket with the collar turned up, and a gold chain around his neck.

  "Bought this place 'cause it was a dump and it was cheap, and the clientele I was serving were guys like you and Hawk, and you wasn't afraid to come down to the waterfront to work out," Henry said. "People think I am really smart to have jumped in ahead of the next big real estate trend."

  "You had no idea," I said.

  "None," he said. "And about five years after I bought the place, the waterfront went sky-high fucking yuppie."

  "As did you," I said.

  "You like my outfit?" he said.

  "You look like a very short Elvis impersonator," I said.

  "Hey, it's a costume. I put one like it on every day. We don't have spit buckets in the corners anymore. Health-club business is aimed at women. They think it's adorable to belong to a swishy club on the waterfront run by an actual live former boxer."

  He grinned and flexed his arms.

  "With visible biceps," he said.

  "Cute," I said.

  "Why I like Z working out here. He looks like every housewife's dream: dark, big, muscular, sort of dangerous. Hot damn," Henry said. "An orgasm waiting to happen. Some of them would jump him in the boxing room if they wasn't afraid I'd yank their membership."

  "Which you wouldn't," I said.

  "Course I wouldn't."

  "Z says you been working with him," I said.

  "Since he moved in here," Henry said.

  "How's that going?" I said.

  "Fine. I got a couple rooms here I keep, case I need to stay late, or whatever."

  "You're too old for whatever," I said.

  "Depends how often whatever comes my way," Henry said. "Lately I've been trying to cut back to one a day."

  "Successfully, I'll bet."

  "Sure," Henry said. "Anyway, Z's got a lot of potential. And it looks cool to the ladies for me to be boxing with the Big O."

  "I like his potential, too," I said.

  "He's quick," Henry said. "He's very strong. And he's a real good athlete, you know? He picks everything up quick. Got a woman here, teaches martial arts, she's been showing him a few moves. He doesn't mind learning from a woman. He gets it at once, and . . . he's amazing."

  "And he's tough," I said.

  "Absolutely. He'll work himself until he gets sick."

  "He wants it," I said.

  "Whatever it is," Henry said.

  I picked up another donut.

  "You know what it is," I said. "You used to want it, too."

  Henry smiled.

  "I got it," he said. "He juiced?"

  "He was," I said.

  "Has the look," Henry said. "He needs to get off them."

  "I'll make the suggestion," I said.

  Zebulon Sixkill VII

  The club was in Hollywood, and the haul back and forth from Garden Grove was long. So when his month of grace ran out, Z got a one-room apartment on Franklin Avenue, from which he could walk to work.

  The club had a fancy front facade with a scary-looking black guy named Deevo working the door. He had a Mohawk, and a scar on his jawline. Z worked inside, where there was a long bar, a lot of waitresses in short skirts, and a small stage upon which nude women danced and did stand-up comedy. The crowd was largely male. But there were always some couples there that got heated up by the naked performers. Many of the people who came were regulars, including a famous movie comedian named Jumbo Nelson, who was there several nights a week, usually with young women, and a tall bodyguard in a black suit who used to lean on the bar near Z and watch Jumbo.

  Z had been working the club for six months when, on a crowded Friday night, with a heavy rain coming down outside, Jumbo Nelson slid his hand up the dress of a dark-haired woman sitting at the next table with a male companion.

  "Hey," the woman said, and slapped at his hand. "You see what he done, Ray?"

  "I seen," Ray said.

  He stood and walked to Jumbo and grabbed him by the collar. Z started over, but the bodyguard got there first.

  The bodyguard said, "Ease off, pal."

  Ray picked up a beer bottle from Jumbo's table and swung it against the bodyguard's forehead. The bottle broke and the blood began to run down the bodyguard's face. Z arrived and gave Ray the same kind of forearm that he had used to ward off tacklers. It put Ray down. Deevo arrived, and he and Z got Ray on his feet and walked him out with the wronged woman behind them screaming that they wanted their fucking money back. Deevo stayed outside and put them in a cab. Z came back in and put a folded Kleenex over the cut on the bodyguard's face. He taped it in place.

  The bodyguard said he'd get it stitched later, after he drove Jumbo home. Later, on his way out, Jumbo gave Deevo and Z each a one-hundred-dollar bill. He also gave Z a business card.

  "I like your style, Tonto," Jumbo said. "Gimme a call, might hire you."

  25

  IT HAD RAINED fourteen out of the first nineteen days of this month. And it was at it again. I was in my office, reading Doonesbury, Arlo & Janis, and Tank McNamara. I spent a lot of time on Doonesbury, because I had to read it twice. When I finished, I poured some fresh coffee and began to think about Dawn Lopata.

  That she had spent sexual time with Jumbo seemed certain. That during that time she had died also seemed certain. Who was responsible for that, and why, was not certain. After being at this for a month, I knew more about everybody involved. But I didn't know how Dawn Lopata died. I looked down through the rain at Berkeley Street, where there was a jangle of colorful umbrellas.

  "Progress," I said to the street, "is our most important product." My office door opened behind me. I swiveled around. And two men came in. Maybe progress had come knocking. The taller man was evenly tanned, with a big mustache and silvery hair worn long. He was wearing pressed jeans and black lizardskin cowboy boots, with a black velvet blazer and
a white shirt unbuttoned to his sternum. His partner was a little shorter. He was wearing a full Brad Pitt. Black shoes, black suit, white shirt, black tie. His tan was darker than the other guy's, and his black hair was slicked back tight against his scalp.

  "Where's Moe?" I said.

  "What?" the tall guy said.

  I shook my head.

  "A little Three Stooges humor," I said. "Pay it no mind."

  I gestured the men toward my client chairs.

  "My name's Silver," the tall guy said. "Elliot Silver. I run Silver Star Security."

  He took a card and placed it on my desk where I could look at it.

  "Wow," I said. "I feel safer already."

  "This is Carson Ratoff," Silver said.

  Ratoff put his card next to Silver's and sat down beside him.

  "I'm an attorney," Ratoff said.

  "Can't have too many of them," I said.

  "We represent Jumbo Nelson," Ratoff said.

  "Me too," I said.

  "We would like to discuss that with you," Ratoff said.

  "Let's," I said.

  "Since local counsel, whom we employed, has been fired, and since you were employed by local counsel, why are you still investigating?"

  "An unquenchable thirst for knowledge?" I said.

  Ratoff looked at Silver. Silver nodded slowly.

  "That must be it," he said.

  "Sometimes I work for tips," I said.

  Silver looked down for a moment and rubbed his forehead with the fingertips of his left hand. Then he looked up.

  "So you don't have anybody paying you right now?" he said.

  "Sadly . . . no."

  "Maybe you could work for us," Silver said.

  "Great," I said. "What do you want to hire me to do?"

  "That depends," Silver said.

  I smiled my friendly neighborhood gumshoe smile.

  "On what?" I said.

  I was pretty sure I knew.

  "Lemme put it to you this way," he said. "You investigate your ass off, as far as it takes you, and you conclude that Jumbo is guilty as hell. Whaddya gonna do?"

  "What would you like me to do?" I said.

  "Tell us," Silver said.

  "Happy to," I said.

  "And nobody else," Silver said.

  "Just the cops," I said. "Maybe the DA."

  "And if you conclude he's innocent?" Silver said.

  "I'll tell you at once," I said. "And the cops and the DA."

  "Got no problem," Silver said. "But we'd like to see if there's something we could do about the guilty part."

  "Like I tell you, and then shut up about it?"

  "That'd be about right," Silver said.

  "Our firm," Ratoff said, "pays consultants very well."

  "That's what I'd be?" I said. "A consultant?"

  "Yes."

  "How much is my consulting fee?" I said.

  "Six figures would not be unreasonable," Ratoff said.

  "Wow," I said.

  "There'd be a confidentiality agreement, of course," Ratoff said.

  "Of course," I said.

  "So you'll do it?" Ratoff said.

  "No," I said.

  Ratoff sat back and stared at me.

  "Why?" he said.

  "My dog would know," I said.

  "Your dog?"

  "Pearl," I said. "When she sniffed me, I would no longer smell like rain."

  "Rain?" Ratoff said.

  "What the fuck are you talking about," Silver said.

  "Faulkner?" I said. "Surely you read The Sound and the Fury?"

  "Never heard of it," Silver said.

  "There's this guy, Benjy," I said, "who's retarded, and his sister Caddy always smells like rain to him. . . ."

  "Shut up," Silver said.

  I was quiet.

  "We tried the easy way," Silver said. "It's not the only way."

  "You could grovel," I said.

  Silver shook his head.

  "Don't fuck around with this," Silver said. "There's some very important people involved in this. L.A. people. You don't know them, and they like it that way. But trust me, they are important."

  "To whom?" I said.

  Ratoff took a try at it.

  "There is a great deal of money invested not only in the current film," he said, "but in Jumbo Nelson."

  I nodded.

  "They are astute businessmen," Ratoff said. "They protect their investment. And their approach to protecting their investment is often quite direct."

  "You work for them?" I said.

  "I represent them upon occasion."

  "Who are they?" I said.

  "They prefer anonymity," Ratoff said.

  "I'll bet they do," I said.

  I looked at Silver.

  "You?" I said.

  "I am on retainer to Mr. Ratoff's firm," Silver said.

  "My clients," Ratoff said, "consider you a loose cannon in this situation, and they want you out of it, whatever way is most efficacious, and they don't care what it requires."

  "Efficacious," I said. "You sure you haven't read The Sound and the Fury?"

  "I looked into you," Silver said. "Everybody said you thought you were tough and funny."

  "But good-natured," I said.

  "Well, I don't think you are either," Silver said.

  "Not even funny?" I said. "That's cold."

  "One way or another," Ratoff said, "this situation is going to evolve without you."

  "Do your damnedest," I said. "Unless this was it."

  "This was not it," Silver said.

  "Good," I said. " 'Cause this was pathetic."

  Both men stood.

  "You'll hear from us again," Silver said.

  "Words to live by," I said. "Now get the hell out of my office."

  Which they did.

  26

  Z AND I WENT a couple of rounds for the first time. Z did well. Even with the big, soft sixteen-ounce mittens, he rocked me a couple of times. When we were done he was breathing hard, but so was I. I was breathing normally a little before he was. But his recovery time was pretty good.

  "You're a quick study," I said.

  He grunted. It was hard to tell what the grunt meant, because the gloves had Velcro closures instead of laces, and Z was pulling on the closure strap with his teeth. I took it as "thanks."

  We took a shower.

  "Probably can ease off on the intervals today," I said as we were toweling off.

  "No," he said. "Starting to feel in shape."

  "Your wind is good," I said.

  "Not good enough," he said.

  I nodded.

  "You know a guy named Elliot Silver?" I said.

  Z shook his head.

  "Nope."

  "How about Carson Ratoff?"

  "Nope."

  "Anything unusual about the financing of Jumbo's picture?"

  "I don't know," Z said. "Nobody told me."

  "Window dressing," I said.

  "What?"

  "Part of his costume," I said. "I'm so important I have to have a bodyguard, and not just any bodyguard, I got one looks like Jim Thorpe, all-American."

  "I'm lucky he didn't want me to wear a feather," Z said. "They making a threat?"

  "Sounds like one," I said.

  "It bother you?" Z said.

  "I've been threatened before," I said.

  "But you won't back off," Z said.

  "Can't," I said. "I start backing off, and I'll be looking for another kind of work."

  "What would you do instead of this?"

  "Can't think of anything," I said.

  "So you just don't allow it to bother you," Z said.

  "That's about right," I said.

  He nodded slowly.

  "Maybe I should sort of hang around with you," he said.

  "Backup?" I said.

  "Sure," Z said.

  "Can you shoot?"

  "Hunted since I could walk," he said. "Five hundred yards, I can knock down a running an
telope. It wasn't a sport for us. We were after meat."

  "How about a handgun."

  "Got one, never really used it," Z said. "I guess if you're close enough."

  "You got a license in Massachusetts?"

  "Yeah, production company got it for me, through the Film Bureau, I suppose. Somebody took me over for fingerprints and a picture."

  "There's a range in Dorchester," I said. "We can go over there and shoot a little, part of the training program."

  "So I'm in?" Z said. "Be like your bodyguard?"

  "Give you an opportunity to emulate my sophistication," I said.

  27

  SUSAN AND I MET for supper at Scampo, which was located in the recently rehabbed building that had once been the Charles Street Jail.

  "You must feel at home here," Susan said, looking around.

  "Anywhere you are is home," I said.

  "You silver-tongued devil," Susan said.

  She ordered a martini. I asked for scotch and soda. The waitress went eagerly off to get it. While she was gone, I brought Susan up-to-date on the Jumbo Nelson affair.

  "You think the threat is real?" Susan said.

  "Probably," I said.

  "And Z's going to--how do they say it on TV?--watch your back?"

  "That's 'bout the size of it, little lady," I said.

  "The Indian," Susan said.

  "Yes," I said.

  "Whom you are attempting to rescue?"

  "Exactly," I said.

  The waitress returned with our drinks, and told us about the specials and left us to decide. We touched glasses. I took a swallow. Susan took a sip.

  "Well," she said. "He's not Hawk."

  "No," I said.

  "On the other hand, Hawk has had his whole life to perfect being Hawk," Susan said.

  "True."

  "Z's only had a little while."

  "He may never be Hawk; no one else is, either. But he'll get to a place where he'll do."

  "Unless the booze gets him," Susan said.

  "Unless that," I said.

  "How is his drinking?"

  "Seems to have cut back," I said.

  "You don't talk about it?"

  "Not much."