Five Classic Spenser Mysteries

by Robert B. Parker

  “Original sin,” I said.

  As I came out of Tyler Costigan’s building a maroon four-door Pontiac slid up along the curb beside me. The doors, front and back, opened on the sidewalk side and a guy got out of each of them. The one who came from the front wore a gray glen plaid suit and a black shirt open at the neck with the collar points spread out over the lapels of his jacket. He was taller than I am and had his slick black hair combed straight back in even waves. The guy from the backseat wore designer jeans and stack-heeled boots and a shiny brown leather jacket with a short mandarin collar. There was a strap on the collar in case a typhoon hit. He had a brown beard trimmed very short, and short brown curly hair. A block up the street a gray Plymouth swung around the corner onto the drive and idled by the curb.

  The man in the suit said, “Get in the car, we want to talk with you.” His partner with the curly hair stood to my left. His jacket was unzipped.

  “You from Costigan?” I said.

  The guy in the suit said, “Mm hm,” and jerked his head at the open back door of the Pontiac.

  “What do you want to talk with me about?” I said.

  “We want to talk with you about fucking around where you got no business fucking around.”

  “Oh,” I said. “You want to talk with me about that too.”

  “Come on, come on,” he said and flashed his coat open to show me the gun on his belt.

  “Show me that again,” I said.

  He opened his coat again and I hit him a gorgeous left hand in the V under his ribs where the sternum ends. It paralyzed his diaphragm and he gasped and doubled over and then pitched forward onto the sidewalk. Curly’s hand went inside the jacket toward his left armpit and the driver of the Pontiac threw open the door on his side and came out of the car. I looped my right fist over-hand in a movement that developed out of the left to the stomach and hit Curly square on the nose. Blood came at once. He had the gun half out of the holster, his hand still under the jacket, when I grabbed his wrist with my left hand and held his gun hand against his chest, the gun caught under the jacket, and I hit him twice more with my right, square in the nose. He sagged and I shoved him away, ducking as I did so, feeling the driver more than seeing him. He had his gun out and brought it to rest on the roof of the car, his door swinging wide into the street, when the gray Plymouth swung in beside the Pontiac and picked the driver off and the open door and scattered them onto Lake Shore Drive. I ducked around the Pontiac and jumped in on the passenger side of the Plymouth.

  “You want to run over the other two,” Hawk said.

  I shook my head and Hawk pulled the Plymouth away and we headed down the Drive.

  I said, “Did you take the insurance option when you rented this thing?”

  “Sure,” Hawk said, “but since I used a fake ID and a phony credit card, I don’t guess it make a big difference.”

  “There’s that,” I said.

  Hawk pulled onto North Michigan Avenue.

  “Those folks from Costigan?” he said.

  “Yes. Said they were going to talk with me about fucking around where I have no business fucking around.”

  “You explain that your profession?” Hawk said.

  “I was going to,” I said, “but he kept showing me his gun and frightening me.”

  Hawk turned right onto Ontario Street heading for the Kennedy Expressway.

  “Find out anything from the broad?” Hawk said. “You in there long enough.”

  “It took her a while,” I said. “Something I learned that I didn’t expect to, she loves the son of a bitch. She hates him too, but she loves him.”

  “Don’t care about who loves him and who don’t,” Hawk said. We pulled up onto the Kennedy heading for O’Hare Airport. “She got any idea where he might be?”

  “Yeah,” I said and told him, in sequence, just what Tyler Costigan had told me. Telling him that way helped me sort through and see if there was anything that I hadn’t noticed first time through. Hawk listened silently, driving with the barest movement of his hands, his eyes steady on the road.

  “Connecticut,” he said when I was through. “Christ. We should have enrolled in one of those frequent flyer programs when this started. Get ourselves a free trip to Dallas or something.”

  “Second prize is two free trips to Dallas,” I said.

  CHAPTER 27

  Pequod stands on the Farmington River, twenty miles west of Hartford in a green hilly section of Connecticut. There was a small bend in the river and as you came around a curve in the road that hugged the river, there it was. A three-story brick building with a cupola on the roof, a restaurant on the first floor with some hanging plants in the window. There was also a Sunoco station, a Cumberland Farms convenience store made as rustic as a Cumberland Farms was likely to get, with texture 1–11 plywood siding stained gray. Across from the restaurant was another three-story brick building. No cupola this time, but across the second story an open balcony ran the length of the building. There were two or three white Victorian-vintage houses with wide verandas that sat on the small slope that ran up from the road, and then you were through Pequod, and the hills and the river were all there was again.

  “Look like a dynamite liberty port,” Hawk said.

  “Throbbing,” I said.

  “Only thing they don’t seem to have is a …” Hawk flipped open the manila folder on his lap and read from Rachel Wallace’s notes. “Diversified Weapons Fabrication and Testing Facility.”

  “A subsidiary of Transpan International,” I said.

  Five miles past Pequod we turned left at a sign that said DEVILS KINGDOM, with an arrow, and crossed the river on a small bridge. Instead of paving, the roadbed of the bridge was made of criss-crossed steel bars, rather like a grating, so that if you looked straight down out the side window you could see the river moving below.

  Coming off the bridge the road forked, the main macadam two-lane highway stretching straight north toward Massachusetts, a smaller road veering left along the river and disappearing in a copse of sugar maples. We went along the small road. Past the trees a plain stretched out north from the river and on it stood a long cinderblock building, a small frame building, and perhaps six Quonset huts painted gray. A chain link fence stood ten feet high, topped with razor wire, around the buildings. At each corner was a watchtower.

  “Look like a prison,” Hawk said.

  “Transpan International,” I said. “Unless Rachel Wallace is badly confused.”

  “I bet she ain’t,” Hawk said.

  We drove slowly past. There was a large gate with a guard shack beside it. Beyond the fenced area there was a firing range and past that something that looked like it might be an obstacle course that led into the woods. There was no one on the range but there was movement on the obstacle course; people in camouflage fatigues ran and jumped among the trees, hard to see through the foliage at a distance.

  Hawk watched silently as we drove past.

  “Fire on the range,” he said, “run the obstacle course, that get you a twenty-four-hour pass to Pequod.”

  “Makes you want to re-up,” I said.

  “But whose army?” Hawk said. “Who these guys in the dappled threads?”

  A hundred yards up the road I stopped the car and we sat looking back at the complex.

  “What Rachel say they have government trouble about?” Hawk said.

  The big metal roll-up door at one end of the nearer cinderblock building opened and a forklift truck bearing several stacked crates beetled from the door and across the open mill yard and into the next building.

  “Federated Munitions Workers tried to organize the place. Transpan did a lockout. Federated sued, the NLRB got involved in mediation. Transpan brought in non-union workers. There was some violence. The thing’s been in the courts since 1981.”

  “Security look excellent,” Hawk said. “See the dogs.”

  “Yes.” Inside the perimeter of the chain link fence a guard in mottled fatigues
walked with a German shepherd on a short leash. The guard had an automatic weapon slung on his shoulder.

  “There’s three more,” I said.

  “Yep, walking so that one is always along each side of the square.”

  “And the watchtowers on the corners,” I said.

  “And you want to bet they got the fence wired,” Hawk said. “Rachel say what they doing in there?”

  “No. Arms manufacturing. But what arms, and what the assorted doughboys are for, she doesn’t say.”

  “What you want to do,” Hawk said.

  “Figure there’s no place else around here. If these guys are going to drink they’ll have to come into Pequod. Maybe we can hang around the bar there and see what we can learn. Unless you want to shoot our way in.”

  Hawk grinned. “Not yet,” he said.

  A dark blue Jeep came out of the front gate and drove up the road toward us. Hawk slid his handgun out from under his warm-up jacket and held it down beside his right leg between the seat and the door.

  The Jeep stopped beside us and two men in blue coveralls and blue baseball hats got out and walked over to the car. One stood behind our car, the other came around to the driver’s side. Both wore army-style flapped holsters on web belts. A patch on the sleeve of the jump suit said TRANSPAN SECURITY. The guard leaned down and looked in the car window. He wore reflecting sunglasses and a dark beard and very little of his face showed under the down-pulled bill of his hat.

  “Excuse me,” the guard said, “may I ask why you gentlemen are parked here?”

  “Gee,” I said, “we didn’t mean any harm. We were just wondering what this place was. Is it an army base?”

  “I’m sorry,” the guard said, “but this is a restricted area and I’ll have to ask you to move on.”

  “This area? I didn’t know. I thought it was a regular public road.”

  The guard shook his head. “I’ll have to ask you to drive on.”

  “Sure, officer,” I said. “We’re from out of state. Is there anyplace good around here to get a steak and a few beers?”

  “Pequod House,” he said. “Go down here, cross the bridge, and about five miles east you’ll find it.”

  “You go there?” I said. “Is it good?”

  He grinned, his teeth suddenly bright in his beard. “Good, bad, doesn’t matter. It’s the only place in fifty miles.”

  “Oh,” I said, “I gotcha. Okay, thanks. We’ll go there then. You guys Army?”

  “No, private operation. Turn it around now and move out.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “Thanks for the tip.”

  I U-turned and we drove slowly back down the way we’d come. The Jeep followed us, past the Transpan complex and all the way to the bridge.

  Across the bridge Hawk slid the magnum back under his coat.

  “You kept your dignity,” Hawk said. “You didn’t jump out and kiss his ass.”

  “Humble but proud,” I said. “And we know where the guards hang out off duty.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Hawk and I got a room on the second floor of the Pequod House, dumped our luggage in it, and went down to the bar.

  It was a big square room with a bar along one wall and tables filling the rest. There were three men at the bar and one middle-aged couple at the far end of the room sitting at a table having early supper. The waitress had stiff blond hair and bright pink lipstick. She was thin and her brown waitress uniform was too big for her. She put two mimeographed menus down in front of us.

  “Specials tonight are chicken pot pie and calves’ liver with bacon,” she said.

  “You have steak,” Hawk said.

  “Yes, sir,” she said, “best in the Valley.”

  “I believe that,” Hawk said. “I’ll have one, medium rare. And a double vodka martini on the rocks with a twist.”

  “You want that before the meal, sir?”

  “Un huh.”

  I ordered the same thing. And the waitress went briskly to the bar.

  “You gonna ask her, she seen Susan Silverman,” Hawk said.

  “Not yet.”

  The waitress came back with the martinis.

  “Go good with dinner,” Hawk said. “But I thought they’d serve it in a jelly glass with a straw.”

  I drank a little of the martini.

  “I think I know your plan,” Hawk said. “You figure we sit here till Russell and Susan decide to go out to dinner and catch them when they come here.”

  “Hell, I don’t have a plan that good,” I said.

  “You know what you doing?”

  “No.”

  Hawk drank some martini. “Not bad,” he said.

  “Even bad martinis aren’t bad,” I said.

  We drank again. “Didn’t want to order champagne,” Hawk said. “This the kind of place you order champagne they bring you Cold Duck in a styrofoam cup.”

  I finished mine and waved at the waitress and put up two fingers. She came over.

  “Did you wish something, sir?”

  “Two more,” I said.

  “Two more drinks?”

  I smiled attractively. “Yes,” I said.

  “What kind, sir?”

  I smiled harder. “Two more martinis,” I said. “On the rocks, with a twist. Actually with two twists, one in each martini.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She raced off toward the bar.

  “Probably hurrying so she won’t forget ’fore she get there,” Hawk said.

  “No wasted motion,” I said.

  The waitress came hurrying back, carrying a tray. She put steak and french fries down in front of us. She put out two small dishes of canned carrots, and a basket of rolls. There were squares of foil-wrapped butter in the basket with the rolls.

  “I’ll get your drinks right away,” she said.

  Hawk looked at his plate and then at me. The steaks were wide and flat, covering nearly the whole plate, and about a half-inch thick at best. There was a large bone in each steak.

  “Better wait and drink the second martini,” I said.

  “What kind of steak you figure this is,” Hawk said.

  “Camel.”

  Hawk nodded. “Well, we didn’t actually say beef steak, did we.”

  The waitress brought the second martinis. Hawk and I each drank some.

  “Gin,” we said simultaneously.

  “We could send them back,” Hawk said.

  “Yeah, but the next one might be made with Kool-Aid,” I said.

  “You right,” Hawk said and drank some more.

  The steak looked better than it tasted. The french fries were not edible. The carrots had been cooked for maybe an hour and a half. The rolls tasted like sugarless marshmallows.

  “Wow, you boys must have been hungry,” the waitress said when she cleared the plates.

  The place was filling up, some diners and a lot of drinkers. I paid the check and we moved to the bar. We each ordered beer.

  “What do people do for a living around here,” I said to the bartender.

  “Transpan mostly,” he said. “Half the people in here tonight work out at the facility.”

  “What’s Transpan,” Hawk said.

  “They make guns,” the bartender said. He had on a white shirt and a black string tie. His gray hair was short. “They got a big factory about five miles from here. There’s a range and a test course. Big facility.”

  “They hiring?” I said.

  “Hard to get hired,” the bartender said. “Need specialist skills, you know? Gunsmith, heavy-weapons specialist, that kind of stuff. I never heard of them hiring anyone local.”

  “We know a little about weapons,” I said. “And we’re not local. Who do we talk to?”

  The bartender shrugged. “Got me,” he said. “Guys at the big round table work there. Maybe they can help. Was me I’d go down to the state employment office in Hartford.”

  He moved away.

  I turned away and leaned my elbows on the bar and sipped
the draft beer and looked at the big round table. They were drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon beer from long-necked bottles and a number of them had collected on the table. They had placed a ring of lit cigarettes on the table and were arm wrestling inside the ring, the loser getting his knuckles burned. The winner of the first two matches was a fat guy with crew-cut red hair and a full beard. He had on a denim shirt with the sleeves cut off and his arms were bright pink and thick as country hams.

  I said to Hawk, “Let’s get in on this?”

  “Which of us?”

  “Whichever one sees the chance,” I said.

  “Should we win or lose?”

  “See how it goes,” I said.

  We went with our beers in hand and stood near the group watching the contests. The fat man won another, slowly overpowering a lean black man and pressing his knuckles briefly against the cigarette. The rest of the table whooped.

  The fat man looked around the table. There was another black, a squat man with long arms, wearing a baseball cap backward.

  “You want to hold up the honor of the spooks, Chico?”

  The black man shrugged and moved over beside the fat man. He set his elbow on the table and they locked hands.

  “Anytime,” the fat man said. Chico turned his wrist sharply, trying to catch the fat man unready, and he almost made it. The fat man’s arm went maybe forty-five degrees down before he began to hunch his shoulder and steadily press Chico’s arm back and down toward the cigarettes. Chico held for a moment six inches from the tabletop, then his arm gave way and the back of his hand pressed against the burning cigarettes. The fat man held it there.

  “Got to yell, Chico. Got to say ow.”

  Chico said, “Ow.”

  The fat man grinned. “Goddamned near got me, Cheeks. Goddamned near made it. Be a son of a bitch if I lost my first time to a goddamned spook.”

  Chico grinned and put the back of his hand to his mouth.

  Hawk said, “How about me?”

  The fat man looked up. “Hell yes,” he said. “How about a little money on it. With friends I do it for fun. But strangers …” Hawk took a twenty out and tossed it on the table.