“We’ll be in touch before the weekend,” Ives said. “I think we’re going to be very happy together.” He stood up and put the notebook in his coat pocket. “But remember one thing. I am not your wife. Don’t try to fuck me.”
“You sweet-talking bastard,” Hawk said, and we went out of the diner.
CHAPTER 23
THEY PUT US IN AN APARTMENT ON MAIN STREET in Charlestown, just out of City Square. It was on the second floor of a recycled brick building. There was a living room and kitchen across the front and two bedrooms and a bath across the back. If you looked out the front window you could see the Charlestown down ramp from the Mystic River Bridge. The kitchen was stocked with food. There was beer in the refrigerator and fresh linen on the beds. There were new toothbrushes in the bathroom. Hawk and I stayed there for two days drinking beer, doing push-ups and watching cable television before Ives came with another guy to brief us. The other guy looked like Buddy Holly.
“As I’m sure you are aware,” Buddy Holly said, “our agency has no authorization for internal matters, so this briefing is entirely informal and off the record.” His heavy horn-rimmed glasses slipped down his thin nose a little and he pushed them back up with his left forefinger. He had a three-ring binder on the table in front of him.
Hawk and I didn’t say anything. We were sitting at the dining table at the end of the living room next to the kitchen. Buddy Holly sat opposite us and Ives sat on the couch with his legs stretched out and his arms resting on the back of the couch. Today’s bow tie appeared to have a maroon dolphin motif. A big leather suitcase lay on the floor in the middle of the living room. There was a duffel bag beside it.
“Perhaps we should open the gifts, first,” Ives said. He was running his eyes over the contours of the room as he spoke.
“Right,” Buddy Holly said. He stood and went to the suitcases. “First,” he said, “clothes.” He opened the suitcase and began to lay the contents out in two piles.
“Underwear,” he said. “Jeans, socks, polo shirts.”
“I’m not wearing no shirt with a reptile on it,” Hawk said.
“These seem to have small foxes on them,” Buddy Holly said.
He continued to unpack. “Sweaters, a watch cap for each of you, a belt for each of you. Two new pair of Puma running shoes, one size nine, one size nine and a half. Six handkerchiefs apiece.” He looked up at us and smiled.
“Handkerchiefs?” I said.
“Well, yes. You don’t use handkerchiefs?”
“Only to tuck in my suitcoat pocket,” I said.
“I’m afraid these aren’t that kind.”
I shrugged. “Don’t seem to have a suit anyway.”
Buddy Holly smiled. “No. We felt you would have no need for dressing up on this mission. But if it becomes a necessary expense I’m sure the agency will approve it.”
“Enough of the software,” Ives said from the couch. “Give them a gander in the duffel.”
The duffel bag contained: two folding knives, with stainless steel handles and four-inch blades; two Smith & Wesson Model 13 .357 magnum revolvers with three-inch barrels in a bluesteel finish, still in their nice blue boxes; a Winchester .30-.30 rifle with lever action, and a walnut stock; a Mossberg 12-gauge shotgun with pump action; two boxes of .357 cartridges, one box of .30-.30, and a box of 12-gauge shotgun shells. There were shoulder rigs for the revolvers and belt-threaded ammo pouches. There were two Westwind warmup jackets with quilted linings. There was a pair of binoculars, and two black leather saps. Buddy Holly set each of these items out with a brief description of its value and potential use to us. When he was through Ives said, “If you think you’ll need anything else, let me know. If you need more ammunition say so.”
“We use up all this,” I said, “either we won’t need more, or more won’t help us.”
“We can provide automatic weapons if you think you’ll need them,” Buddy Holly said.
I shook my head. “This will be fine,” I said.
Buddy Holly glanced at Ives. He did that every few minutes. Then he said, “Good, well, let’s get to the paper work.”
He came back to the table, and sat down across from Hawk and me and opened his three-ring binder, and turned it so that Hawk and I could look at it as he spoke of its contents and pointed at it upside down, the way an insurance agent does when he points out the advantages of a Mod 5-10 in case you should, sir, God forbid, step out of the picture.
“Here’s a picture of Jerry Costigan,” he said, pointing with the eraser end of a pencil at the 81/2-by-11 glossy in its clear plastic envelope. “And this is Russell.” He pointed at another 81/2-by-11 glossy on the facing page.
Russell still had ordinary features in a smallish face. The features seemed a little close to one another, as if his face were cluster zoned. His hair looked artfully tousled. Hawk leaned slightly forward, looking at the picture. I was leaning forward too.
“That Russell,” he said.
“Recent?” I said to Hawk.
Hawk shrugged. “Still look like that,” he said. We both looked at the still glossy of Russell.
Finally Buddy Holly said, “Ah, now, is that enough? Will you remember his face?”
Hawk nodded. I said, “Yes.”
“Good,” Buddy Holly said. “Now, the pictures I’m going to show you are those of some of the men with whom the Costigans deal.” He turned the page. There was a dark man with a large mustache wearing an ornate uniform.
“No,” I said.
“No?”
“No. I don’t care who Costigan deals with. What I need is information as to where Susan Silverman might be.”
Buddy Holly glanced sideways at Ives. “Susan Silverman,” Buddy Holly said.
“This too hard for you?” I said. He looked at Ives again.
“The maiden in the tower,” Ives said. “She’s part of the deal.”
Hawk’s head lifted and he glanced at me. I turned slowly toward Ives. “She is the deal,” I said.
“Absolutely,” Ives said. “No question about it.”
Buddy Holly looked confused. “Then they don’t get the whole briefing?” he said to Ives.
Ives shrugged. “It’s not stamped on their dog tags that they have to,” he said.
“We need to know where Susan might be,” I said. “Homes, apartments, resorts, hotels Russell often stays in, places he often goes. If you have anybody on his tail it would be good if you knew where he was now.”
“We’re not allowed to do domestic surveillance,” Buddy Holly said.
Hawk got up and went into the kitchen, which was separated from the living room by a low counter. He looked over the wine bottles on the counter, took a Napa Valley Pinot Noir, uncorked it, poured some in a big wineglass, and came back in carrying the bottle and the glass. He gestured with the bottle at Ives.
“Too early in the day for me,” Ives said.
“Probably always will be,” Hawk said. He took a sip of wine and walked over to the front window and stood looking out at the off ramp.
“What have you got on the domestic habits of Russell Costigan?” I said.
“He lives with his parents,” Buddy Holly said, on Costigan Drive in Mill Valley, California.“
Hawk turned slowly from the window. He was smiling widely, his eyes bright with pleasure. “Mill Valley?” he said.
Buddy Holly said, “Yes.” He glanced at some notes in his folder. “Costigan Drive, it’s on Mill River Avenue in Mill Valley. Mill Valley is north of San Francisco, I believe.”
Hawk smiled some more. He looked at me. “Good to know they’re keeping the Russians at bay,” I said.
“It’s Mill River,” I said. “Mill River is south of San Francisco.”
“And it Mill River Boulevard,” Hawk said. “Not avenue.”
Buddy Holly studied his folder. some more.
“I have here Mill Valley,” he said. “And they maintained a hunting lodge in the state of Washington. The lodge was recently destroyed
by a fire of suspicious origin.”
Hawk turned back toward the window. He poured some more wine from the bottle to the glass, and sipped some more as he looked out. “You folks get a chance, you want to send in some champagne?” he said.
“French? Moet and Chandon, Taittinger, Dom Perignon, something like that?”
I got up from the table and walked to the kitchen and rested my hands on the kitchen sink and looked out the kitchen window.
“Good spot to hide us out,” I said. “Hawk’ll blend in perfect with all the other blacks in Charlestown.”
“Maybe I use a disguise,” Hawk said. “Faith and begorra, motherfucker.”
“Listen,” Ives said. “We don’t keep these furnished nurseries everywhere. This is the best we had.”
Buddy Holly said, “I really don’t have too much else in domestic terms.”
“Most of the domestic bird-dogging is done by our cousins in the Bureau,” Ives said. “Perhaps Brother McKinnon can help you.”
“Where’d you get this stuff?” I said, pointing with my chin toward Buddy Holly and his folder.
“The FBI supplies us with most of our domestic intelligence,” Buddy Holly said.
“Sure,” I said. A red Ford Bronco like Susan used to have came down the ramp from the bridge and turned left onto Main Street heading toward City Square. “We’ll get them to help us.”
Ives stood. “Punch in with us now and anon,” he said. “We’ll keep our nose right on the ground and feed you anything we catch.”
I nodded. I could hear the click as Hawk poured himself some more wine. Buddy Holly closed his folder and slipped it into his briefcase and stood.
Ives opened the door. “Happy trails,” he said. He went out.
Buddy Holly followed. “Glad to be able to help,” he said. “Good luck.”
“Sure,” I said. “And it’s a damned shame about you and the Big Bopper.”
CHAPTER 24
HAWK WAS DOING HANDSTAND PUSH-UPS against the far wall of the living room when Rachel Wallace arrived. I introduced them and Hawk said hello upside down, and kept doing push-ups.
“We haven’t had much chance to work out,” I said. “And we’re both getting feverish.”
Rachel Wallace smiled and put her face up and kissed me. She looked good. Her dark hair was nicely brushed back from her pleasant face. Her makeup was careful and quiet. She wore gray slacks and a white blouse open at the throat. She had on a black velvet blazer and black boots with considerable heels. She took my hand when she kissed me and held it a moment after the kiss, as she stepped back and looked at me. Her nails gleamed with clear polish. On a chain around her neck were black-rimmed half glasses.
“How are you,” she said.
“Functional,” I said. “Perhaps even efficient. Thank you for coming up.”
“Easy,” she said. “And since my publisher is in Boston I can deduct the costs as business travel. Before I go back I’ll have lunch with John Ticknor and make it all legitimate. Do you remember John?”
“Yes,” I said. “But I’m a licensed investigator and I’m afraid I’ll have to turn you in on the tax rap.”
“I understand,” she said. “But first can we make some martinis?”
I shook my head. “We’re subsisting on government issue,” I said. “There is a bottle of Scotch, blended, but after a couple you barely notice. And it gets the stains off your teeth.”
Hawk rolled out of his hundredth or so push-up and into some sit-ups. I poured Rachel Wallace some Scotch over ice. And one for me, straight up. “No beer?” she said.
“Scotch is quicker,” I said.
“Yes it is,” she said. “Are you drinking much?”
“Not as much as I want to,” I said.
“Why not?”
“Need to be sober,” I said. “I’m working.”
Rachel Wallace nodded, touched my glass with hers, and drank about an ounce of the Scotch. We were leaning our hips against the kitchen counter. “You want to talk about your feelings a little?” Rachel Wallace said.
I shook my head. “No, not now.”
She looked at Hawk. “Would you like to go somewhere else and talk?”
“No,” I said. “I have a lot of feelings. And I’m not embarrassed to talk in front of Hawk. It’s just that the feelings won’t help me now. Now I have other stuff I have to do. When it’s done, maybe.”
“I understand,” she said. She took another whack of her Scotch. “Well, let’s get to work. How are we going to do this?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “But I know how we’re not. We’re not going to ask the feds to help us. The people I’ve talked with would have trouble finding Rin Tin Tin at a cat show.”
Hawk came into the kitchen. He had his shirt off and a faint gloss of sweat covered his torso, head, and face. His breathing was easy and peaceful. He took a bottle of Moet and Chandon White Star champagne from the refrigerator and opened it. The bottle made a soft sigh as the cork came out. Hawk poured champagne into a large wineglass and shook his head.
“No wonder the country is going to hell,” he said. “Goddamned government don’t even know enough to stock champagne glasses.”
I nodded. “You’d figure a Republican administration would at least get that right.”
We went into the living room and Rachel Wallace sat on the couch and put her boots on the coffee table and took a small note pad out of her purse. I sat at the kitchen table and nursed my Scotch. Hawk leaned against the doorframe that led to the kitchen. He held his glass in his left hand and the bottle in his right. He was looking at Rachel Wallace. She looked up at him and smiled. Hawk smiled back. There was nothing in Hawk’s smile. Neither warmth nor insincerity. Hawk only communicated when he wished to.
“Why are you looking at me?” Rachel Wallace said. There was no hostility in her voice. Only curiosity.
“You a nice-looking woman,” Hawk said.
“Thank you,” she said. Hawk continued to look at her, and Rachel looked amused and turned to me.
“Hawk cannot believe,” I said, “that any woman who is not ugly can fail to feel lust for him.” Rachel Wallace’s smile widened and she nodded her head.
“Of course,” she said. She looked back at Hawk. “It is difficult even for me,” she said.
Hawk nodded and poured champagne. “That’s heartening,” he said in a North Shore twang. “I hate feeling insecure.”
“I imagine so,” Rachel Wallace said. “I’m sure you’re not used to it.”
“You want some more Scotch,” Hawk said.
“Yes,” Rachel Wallace said.
Hawk went and got the bottle and poured her another shot, over the ice that remained in her glass.
“You really a lesbian,” Hawk said.
“I really am,” Rachel Wallace said.
“Well,” Hawk said, “save money on diaphragms I guess.”
Rachel Wallace, halfway into a sip of Scotch, burst into laughter and nearly spilled all of her drink. Hawk grinned. This time there was warmth. I patted Rachel Wallace on the back until she stopped choking on the half-swallowed whiskey.
“Hawk has that special insight into minority situations,” I said. “You have anything new on Costigan?”
Rachel Wallace took a deep breath. “Yes,” she said. “Specifically I have the address of his wife.”
“Not ex-wife,” I said.
“As far as I can find out they are not divorced,” Rachel Wallace said.
“Where’s she live?”
“Chicago, Lake Shore Drive.” She gave me the address, tearing the page from her notebook.
“What else?” I said.
“About the wife? Nothing else. I’ve already told you her name, Tyler Smithson. The two children live with her. She doesn’t seem to work, though I’m not sure. Microfilm can take you only so far.”
“What else do you have on any of the Costigans?”
“Transpan had labor problems at one time. There was a matter befor
e the NLRB stemming from problems at a manufacturing site in Connecticut. I have only a secondhand reference to it yet, but I’ll track it down. Once it gets into the government process it’s just a matter of time.”
I sipped a little more Scotch. The glass was empty. Hawk poured a little Scotch into my glass and took Rachel Wallace’s glass and got more ice and poured Scotch into it and brought it back. She smiled at him.
“Thank you,” she said. She was looking at him almost as he had looked at her. Then she looked at me and back at Hawk.
“He commands loyalty,” she said, “doesn’t he?”
“Spenser?” Hawk said.
“Yes,” Rachel Wallace said. “Here you are, and here I am.” She drank some of her Scotch. “Remarkable,” she said.
Hawk poured some champagne into his glass and drank half of it. He didn’t sip champagne, he drank it as if he was thirsty.
“I in jail in California, he come and got me out,” Hawk said. “Turn it around, I do the same thing. But that ain’t it. You see a black guy and a white guy working on something, you think the black guy helping the white guy. Lawzy me, Marse Spenser, let me lie down in front of dis heah truck fo‘ ya’ll.”
Rachel Wallace was still, looking very intently at Hawk.
“He dead,” Hawk said, “and I be doing exactly the same thing. Susan need help, I help her.”
Rachel Wallace looked down into her Scotch for a moment, then back up at Hawk, and her gaze was steady.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I treated you as his side kick.”
“That’s right.”
“I can’t undo it,” she said, “but I won’t do it again.”
“That’s progress.”
Rachel Wallace drank the rest of her Scotch. She reached for the bottle and Hawk beat her to it.
“Allow me,” he said.
“Chicago in the morning?” I said to Hawk.
“First thing,” he said.
“That leaves the rest of the day open,” Rachel Wallace said. “Shall we get drunk?”
“We’d be fools not to,” I said.
A Catskill Eagle Page 11
