Five Classic Spenser Mysteries

by Robert B. Parker

  He nodded and picked up the beat. We began to alternate, picking up the pace. Like a battle of two drummers from the forties. Hawk picked up the tempo, I picked it up a little more. Hawk used his elbows and fists. I alternated one hand then the other. People began to group around us and the rhythm of the bag and the sense of competition began to carry me. I concentrated as the bag was a wine-colored blur in time with Hawk’s. We did paradiddles and rolls, and some of the men in the exercise room cheered at one or another of us. Then they began to clap in rhythm to the bags and Hawk and I carried them with us until the place was in an uproar and Henry came in from the front desk and yelled at Hawk, “Telephone.”

  Hawk did shave-and-a-haircut-two-bits on his bag and I responded and we stopped, and Hawk, grinning widely, went to the phone. The rest of the room cheered and clapped. I yelled after him.

  “Hey, gee whiz, my dad’s got a barn, maybe we can put on a show.”

  Hawk disappeared around the corner and I went to the heavy bag. When he came back his grin wasn’t as wide, but his face had a look of real pleasure.

  He leaned on the other side of the bag while I pounded it.

  “You going to like this, babe,” he said.

  “You been drafted,” I said.

  “You been messing with Harry Cotton, haven’t you?”

  I dug a hook into the bag. “I spoke with him.”

  “You got that slick way, you know, how you talk so sweet to people. Harry putting out a hit on you.”

  “He’s too sensitive,” I said. “Call a guy a weasel and tell him he smells bad and he goes right into a goddamned swivet,” I said.

  “He do smell bad, that’s a fact,” Hawk said.

  “You know Harry?”

  “Oh, yes. Harry’s an important person in this town.”

  “That him on the phone?”

  “Yeah. He want me to whack you.” Hawk’s smile got wider. “He ask me if I know who you are. I say, yeah, I think so.”

  I did a left jab and an overhand right.

  “How much he offering?” I said.

  “Five G’s.”

  “That’s insulting,” I said.

  “You’d have been proud of me,” Hawk said. “I told him that. I said I wouldn’t do it for less than ten. He say lot of people be happy to do it for five. I said that wasn’t the point. I said lot of people be happy to do it for nothing, but they can’t, ’cause they ain’t good enough. I said it’s a ten-thousand-dollar job at least. He say no.”

  “Harry was always cheap,” I said.

  “So I said no. Guess you safe again.”

  “From you at least.” I did some low body punches into the bag. Hawk held it steady.

  “Harry will hire cheap,” Hawk said. “He’ll hire some bum, don’t know no better. You’ll bury him and.…” Hawk spread his hands. “I got nothing going for a while. Maybe I hang around with you some.”

  “What would the rate for hitting us both be?” I said.

  “ ’Bout one hundred and thirty-two trillion,” Hawk said.

  “Harry’s too cheap for that,” I said.

  CHAPTER 29

  At nine o’clock I was at the Giacomin house in Lexington. I forced the back door and went in and turned on the lights. In Patty Giacomin’s bedroom was a small secretary with slender curving legs and gold stenciling. Her picture in a leather frame was on it. I opened the leaf and sat down on the small rush-bottomed stool in front of it and began to go through the contents. When I’d been here I’d seen Patty do her bills here, and there wasn’t much else but bill-payment receipts and canceled checks. The only handle I had besides her sweet Stephen was her periodic trips to New York.

  In a half hour I found what I wanted: American Express receipts from the New York Hilton dated roughly a month apart going back several years. They were all room charges, she’d paid them all with her American Express card, and she’d kept the receipts. She kept all receipts apparently without discrimination. So there was nothing terribly significant about her keeping these. She probably didn’t know what was important, so she kept them all.

  I went through everything else in the house and there was nothing else worth looking at. I took all the American Express receipts and Patty’s picture, turned off the lights, and closed the door.

  The spring night was quiet in Lexington. The rain had stopped. Lights shone in people’s houses and there were open windows. Voices drifted out occasionally, and the sounds of television. It was late, but there were still cooking smells in the air. As I went toward my car, a cat slid past me and into the shrubs in the next yard. I thought about Harry Cotton’s contract. I touched the gun on my hip. The street, when I got to the car, was empty. In the circle of the streetlights moths flew without apparent purpose. The cat appeared from the shrubs and sat on its haunches under the streetlight and looked up at the moths. It was a yellow-striped cat with white chest and face and paws.

  I got into the Bronco and started up and drove away from Emerson Road. The ball game was coming in from Milwaukee and it made the sound it always made, soft crowd murmur in the background, the voices of the announcers in familiar pattern, the occasional sound of the bat hitting the ball, the metallic stilted voice of the P.A. announcer, repeating the hitter’s last name. The sound seemed almost eternal.

  It was nearly midnight when I got back to my apartment. Susan and Paul were still up watching a movie on television. Susan said, “There’s a sub out there if you haven’t eaten.”

  I got the sandwich and a beer and came back into the living room. The movie was An American in Paris. “How was the Laurel School?” I said.

  “The admissions guy was a feeb,” Paul said.

  I looked at Susan. She nodded. “Regrettable but true,” she said. “Everything you hoped he wouldn’t be.”

  “Effeminate?”

  “Effeminate, affected, supercilious,” Susan said.

  “Susan yelled at him,” Paul said. His eyes were bright.

  I looked at Susan. “He was a pompous little twerp,” she said.

  “Is he now aware of that?” I said.

  “That’s what she told him,” Paul said.

  “Did he get scared?” I said.

  Susan said, “I think so.”

  “Well,” I said. “It can’t be the only school in the world.”

  There was an extended dance scene on the television screen. Paul watched it closely. We were quiet while I finished the sub and the beer. I went to the kitchen and put the can in the wastebasket and the plate in the dishwasher. I washed my hands and face at the kitchen sink and came back into the livingroom. There was a commercial on the tube.

  I said to Paul, “You ever been to New York?”

  He said, “No.”

  “Want to go tomorrow?”

  “Okay.”

  “How about you, sugarplum?” I said to Susan.

  “I’ve been,” she said.

  “I know,” I said. “Want to go again?”

  “Yes.”

  I felt the softening of relief and pleasure in the area of my diaphragm.

  “We’ll hit the shuttle, bright and early.”

  “Bright maybe,” Susan said, “but not too early. I have to call in sick and I have to pack.”

  “We’ll go when you’re ready, my love,” I said.

  And the next day we did. We got the one o’clock shuttle from Logan to LaGuardia. I had my stuff and Paul’s in a single suitcase. Susan had two. As I drove to the airport I noticed Hawk’s silver Jag parked outside my house. It followed me to the airport garage and as I turned in, it drove by and headed out the exit road. Neither Susan nor Paul noticed. I didn’t remark on it.

  We got into New York at about one thirty and into the New York Hilton at about two fifteen. We got adjoining rooms. Paul and me in one, Susan in the other. The New York Hilton is big and conveniently located on Sixth Avenue. It is efficient, flossy, and as charming as an electric razor.

  Paul was looking out the window of the hotel, starin
g down into Fifty-fourth Street far below. I remembered the first time I’d come to New York. I’d come with my father at about Paul’s age. My father had brought me to go to ball games and tour Rockefeller Center and eat in an Italian restaurant he knew of. He’d pinned half his money to his undershirt in the hotel room, and put the other half back into his wallet. I remembered his grin when he pinned the money to his undershirt. Always tell a country boy, he’d said. I remembered the smell of the city and the sound of it, and the sense of it boiling at all hours, and almost always the sound of a siren somewhere at the edge of the sound. I had stood as Paul was standing, staring out. I’d never seen anything like it. And since then I never have.

  I went through the connecting door into Susan’s room. She was carefully hanging her clothes up.

  I said, “Have you ever noticed what happens to me when I enter a hotel room?”

  She said, “Yes. Actually it seems to happen in the elevator going up to the hotel room. But what are we going to tell Paul?”

  “Maybe later,” I said. “The little fella has to sleep sometime, doesn’t he?”

  “Let us hope so,” Susan said. “Now that we’re here, what are we here for?”

  “I want to look into Patty Giacomin. She came here about once a month and stayed overnight. It’s all I could find that seemed in any way unusual. I thought I’d ask around.”

  She looked at her watch. “Do you think Paul would care for a tour of Radio City?”

  “I would think so,” I said. “Can you stand to take him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you.”

  She smiled. “You’re welcome. If he’s very tired tonight, he may go to sleep early.”

  I nodded.

  “Do you suppose they have champagne on the room service menu?” she said.

  “They better,” I said.

  Her clothes were all hung up. She was very careful with them. She checked herself in the mirror, made an unidentifiable adjustment to her hair, went to the other room and said, “Come on, Paul. We’ll go for a mystery walk.”

  “What’s that?” Paul said.

  “You’ll find out,” Susan said.

  Paul opned the door. Susan paused in it and said to me, “I want the Four Seasons,” she said.

  “Tonight,” I said. “It’s yours.”

  When they were gone I made the reservation and then took Patty’s picture and went down to the lobby. There was an assistant manager’s desk near the elevator bank. The assistant manager was behind it, in a three-piece black pinstripe suit and a pink shirt with a pin collar. I took my license out and placed it on the desk in front of him. He read it without expression. Then he looked at me. “Yes?” he said.

  “Who’s your security man and/or woman as the case may be?”

  “What can we do for you?”

  “Gee,” I said. “The sign says assistant manager.”

  “A harmless euphemism,” he said. He had receding hair and a neat mustache and good color. I noticed that his hands were manicured and his fingernails were buffed. “Euphemism?” I said. “What kind of security person says euphemism?”

  “I was a cop in this city for twenty-two years, sailor. You want to try me out.”

  I shook my head. “Not me,” I said, “I need to find out about this lady here.”

  I showed him Patty Giacomin’s picture.

  “In what context?” the assistant manager said.

  Trying to explain what I was doing was too complicated. “She’s missing,” I said. “Husband’s worried. Asked me to come down and look.

  “She stayed here overnight about once every month,” I said. “Last time was about three weeks ago.”

  “She’s not here now?”

  “No.” I said, “I already checked.”

  He looked at me for a moment. His shaving lotion was strong and expensive. “You got somebody to vouch for you?” he said. “I don’t like talking hotel business with every jerk that comes in here and waves a license at me.”

  “I liked you better when you were saying things like euphemism,” I said.

  “I don’t care what you like. You got somebody to vouch for you?”

  “How about Nicky Hilton?”

  He almost smiled. “Best you can do?”

  “Look at me in profile,” I said. “Could I be anything but trustworthy?”

  He heaved a sigh. “Come on,” he said. He came out from behind the desk and we walked down the lobby to a cocktail lounge. It was almost empty at three in the afternoon. The bartender was a tall trim black man with a tight Afro and big handlebar mustache. The assistant manager gestured him down the bar with his head.

  “What’ll it be, Mr. Ritchie,” the bartender said.

  Assistant Manager Ritchie said, “Jerry, you know this babe?” I held up the picture of Patty Giacomin. Jerry looked at it carefully, his hazel eyes expressionless. He looked at Ritchie.

  Ritchie said, “Tell him, Jerry. He’s okay.”

  “Sure,” Jerry said, “I know her. She comes in here about once a month, gets fried on Chablis, picks up a guy, and goes out with him. To her room, I assume.”

  Ritchie nodded. “Yeah, to her room. Next day she checks out, pays her bill, and we don’t see her for a month.”

  “Different guy each time?” I said.

  “Yeah. I guess so,” Jerry said. “Couldn’t swear there was never somebody twice, but if it was, it was an accident. She was in here to get laid. She didn’t care who.”

  “Know any of the guys?” I said.

  Jerry looked at Ritchie. Ritchie said, “No.”

  “And if you did?” I said.

  “I wouldn’t tell you,” Ritchie said.

  “Unless I come back with somebody from your old outfit,” I said.

  “Come back with a New York cop on a missing person’s investigation, we’ll spill our guts. Otherwise, you have found out all you’re going to.”

  “Maybe enough,” I said.

  CHAPTER 30

  We had dinner at the Four Seasons, in the pool room, under the high ceiling near a window on the Fifty-third Street side. Paul had pheasant, among other things, and paid very close attention to everything Susan and I did. We had some wine, and the bill came to $182.37. I have bought cars for less. The next day we went to the Metropolitan Museum in the afternoon and in the evening we took Paul up to Riverside Church to see Alvin Ailey and his group dance.

  In the cab going back downtown Paul said, “That’s not exactly ballet, is it?”

  “Program says contemporary dance,” I said.

  “I like that too.”

  “There are surely lots of variations,” Susan said, “Tap dance too.”

  Paul nodded. He stared out the cab window as we went down the West Side Highway and off at Fifty-seventh Street. We were alone, the three of us, going up in the hotel elevator and Paul said, “I want to learn. I’m going to learn how to do that. If I have to go away to school or whatever. I’m going to do that.”

  Sunday we slept late and in the early afternoon went up to Asia House and looked at nineteenth-century photographs of China. The faces looking back at us from 130 years were as remote and unknowable as patterns on another planet, and yet there they were; human and real, maybe feeling at the moment the shutter clicked a rolling of the stomach, a stirring of the loins.

  We took a late-afternoon shuttle back to Boston and drove Susan out to her house. It was after six when we got there. I pulled the Bronco in next to my MG and parked and ran the back window down with the lever on the dash. Susan and Paul got out on their side, I got out on mine. As we walked back to get the luggage, I heard a car engine kick in. I looked up and a 1968 Buick was rolling down the street toward us. The barrel of a long gun appeared in the window. I jumped at Paul and Susan, got my arms around both of them, and took them to the ground with me on top, scrambling to get us all behind the car. The long gun made the urgent bubbling sound an automatic weapon makes and slugs ripped into the sheet metal of the Bronco and
then passed and the Buick was around the corner and gone before I could even get my gun out.

  “Lay still,” I said. “They could make a U-turn.” I had the gun out now and crouched behind the engine block. The car didn’t come back and the street was quiet again. The neighbors didn’t even open a door. Probably didn’t know what they’d heard. Automatic fire doesn’t sound like a gunshot.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s unpack.”

  Susan said, “Jesus Christ,” as she got up. The front of her dress was littered with grass blades and small leaves. Paul didn’t say anything, but he stayed close to me as we carried the bags into the house.

  “What was that about?” Susan said in her kitchen.

  “I annoyed a guy,” I said. “Probably Harry Cotton, Paul.”

  Paul nodded.

  “Who’s Harry Cotton?” Susan said. She was making coffee.

  “Guy that Mel Giacomin did business with.”

  “And why is he shooting at you, and, incidentally, us?”

  “I have been looking into the relationship between Harry and Mel Giacomin. And Harry doesn’t like it.”

  “Are we going to call the police?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “It would blow what I’m working on.”

  “Maybe you’d better tell me in more detail what you’re working on,” Susan said. “Since it seems to be getting me shot at.”

  “Okay,” I said. “You know I have been trying for some purchase on Paul’s parents so I could get them off his back.”

  “Blackmail,” Susan said.

  “Yes. Well, I’ve got it. I can produce a batch of evidence that Mel Giacomin was involved in a major arson scheme to burn down buildings for the insurance. He was in it with Harry Cotton, who’s a big-league bad person in town. I can’t prove Harry’s part, but if I give what I’ve got to Marty Quirk, it’s only time till the fuzz can. So I got something fairly heavy on Mel. To get it I’ve had to lean on some people including Harry Cotton and he’s mad at me. He put out a contract.”

  “To kill you?” Susan said.

  “Yes, he’s employed people to kill me.”