Five Classic Spenser Mysteries

by Robert B. Parker

  “Au courant,” I said.

  “Yeah, Yvonne trendy,” Hawk said.

  “She got a shower?” I said.

  Hawk nodded and walked to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator.

  “She got ’bout fifteen bottles of Steinlager beer, too, honey.”

  “Lawzy me,” I said. “I’ve died and gone to heaven.”

  “Done died,” Hawk said. “Ah done died and gone to heaven. Haven’t you ever watched any Mantan Moreland movies?”

  “Give me a beer,” I said. “I’ll drink it in the shower.”

  CHAPTER 21

  At eight fifteen the next morning Hawk and I were eating fried egg sandwiches on whole wheat toast and drinking pot-brewed coffee in Yvonne’s sun-splashed living room.

  “No way to know what Susan knows,” I said. “She will assume I got her letter and came out to California. After that she may not know anything.”

  “She’ll know you won’t stop looking for her,” Hawk said.

  We were both naked, our clothes churning through Yvonne’s washer-dryer. A double treat for Yvonne if she came home suddenly.

  “Okay,” I said. “So she won’t expect me to be at home or at the office.”

  Hawk nodded.

  “So she’d try Paul,” I said.

  “She figure you’ll stay in touch with him.”

  “Yes. It’s a good time to call him. He’ll be asleep for sure. Once he’s up you can never get him.”

  I called Sarah Lawrence and got the switch-board and asked for Paul’s dorm. After eight rings a kid answered. I asked for Paul. The kid went away and I could hear him holler in the background. Then he came back and said, “He’s asleep.”

  “Wake him up,” I said. “It’s very important.”

  The kid said, “Okay,” in a tone that implied nothing could be so important as to wake Paul Giacomin up at eight twenty-five in the morning. There was more hollering and a long pause and then Paul said, “Hello,” in a voice thick with sleep.

  I said, “Do you know who this is?”

  He said, “My God, yes.”

  I said, “Okay. Is it safe to talk?”

  “Sure. What’s happening?”

  “A lot. But first, have you heard from Susan?”

  “No. But Lieutenant Quirk wants you to call him.”

  “Quirk?”

  “Yes. He called me up and left a message I should call him, so I did and he says if I hear from you that you should call him.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’m with Hawk at … what’s the street address?”

  Hawk told me and I relayed it to Paul. I also read him the number off the phone. “You and you alone are to know where I am. You understand. Except Susan, and her, only directly. No one calling for her, or anything. You understand?”

  “Sure. What’s going on?”

  I told him, as briefly as I could.

  “Jesus Christ,” he said when I was through.

  “That will wake you up in the morning, won’t it?”

  “Clears up the old sinuses,” he said. “Want me to come home?”

  “No,” I said. “There’s not enough room here as it is and if Yvonne shows … No, you stay put.”

  “You’ll get her back,” Paul said.

  “Yes,” I said. “We will.”

  “Kid’s okay?” Hawk said when I hung up.

  “Yes,” I said. “Quirk wants me to call him.”

  Hawk raised his eyebrows. “God damn,” he said. “Give you a chance to surrender?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “I doubt it too. But one thing about Quirk. He won’t cross your ass. He ask you to call him, he won’t have a trace on the line.”

  “I know.”

  The dryer clunked to a stop in the kitchenette and I went and got my clothes out and put them on still warm from the machine. Hawk dressed too.

  “Let’s see what he wants,” I said and called police headquarters and asked for Homicide, and when I got it I asked for Quirk and in about ten seconds he came on the line.

  “Spenser,” I said.

  “I know that name,” Quirk said. “You are, I believe, wanted for violating the entire California penal code. You and your fucking soulmate appear to have pissed off every law enforcement agency west of the Rockies.”

  “It was nothing,” I said. “Hawk gets a lot of the credit.”

  “I want to talk,” Quirk said. “Be on a corner of your choice and I’ll pick you up. Both of you.”

  “Charles and Chestnut,” I said.

  “I’ll be there at nine,” Quirk said and hung up.

  At 9:02 a tan Chevrolet sedan pulled up at the corner of Charles and Chestnut. Belson was driving. Quirk sat beside him. Hawk and I got in the backseat and Belson eased the car back into traffic, heading toward the Common. Quirk half turned, rested his left arm on the back of the seat and looked at Hawk and me. His shirt was radiantly white, and brisk with starch. His camel’s hair jacket was fresh from the cleaners and fitted across his thick back without a wrinkle. His brown knit tie was knotted precisely the right size to highlight the small roll in his collar. His thick black hair was cut short and newly barbered. I’d never seen it when it wasn’t.

  “You guys look like you shipped back here in a crate,” Quirk said.

  “Clothes are fresh from the dryer,” I said. “Just need a little ironing.”

  “So does your life,” Belson said. He turned at Beacon Street.

  Hawk leaned back in the seat and folded his arms and lapsed into stillness. The Public Garden was on our left with its ornate wrought-iron fence. The foot of Beacon Hill was on our right with its high-windowed apartments. Belson was thinner than Quirk, with graying hair, and the blue shadow of a heavy beard, an hour after he shaved. He was chewing on a dead cigar.

  Quirk said, “Tell me your side of things.”

  “What do you know?” I said.

  “I know Hawk’s wanted for murder, and you for accessory after. I know you’re both wanted for jailbreak, assault on a police officer, two counts for you, more than I can remember for Hawk. I know you’re wanted for breaking and entering, assault—Christ, maybe a dozen counts—violation of the California hostage statutes, destruction of property, suspicion of arson, theft of a rental car, theft of two handguns … other stuff. I don’t have the warrants.”

  “They missed some of the good stuff,” Hawk said.

  “You,” Quirk said, looking at Hawk, “would do all of that stuff for any simple reason. Like someone paid you to. Spenser’s reasons would be more complicated. I want to hear his reasons.”

  I looked at Hawk. “Anything you want left out?”

  He shook his head, his face blank and peaceful.

  “Okay,” I said. “Susan is in trouble.”

  “Her too,” Belson said as if talking to himself. We were driving along Beacon Street outbound.

  “She has taken up with a guy named Russell Costigan. She called Hawk and said she wanted to leave Costigan but couldn’t. Hawk went out to help her. Got set up, probably not by Susan, the cops and Costigan were in on an assault frame, but they underrated Hawk and one of Costigan’s people got killed. Hawk was jailed in Mill River, California, which is a company town with company cops and Costigan’s old man is the company.”

  “Jerry Costigan,” Quirk said.

  “Uh huh. So Susan got a letter to me telling me Hawk’s in jail. I go out and bust him out and we start looking for Susan. We had to roust some people at Costigan’s house …”

  “Including Jerry,” Quirk said.

  “Yes. But she wasn’t there and we had to look for her at the Costigan lodge in Washington State.”

  “Which you burned down.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Hawk murmured. “On purpose?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I like it,” Hawk said.

  “But she wasn’t there either,” Quirk said.

  “No. So we headed home to regroup.”

  Belson stopped the Chevy at a red
light where Mass Avenue crosses Beacon. Then he turned right and started across the bridge toward Cambridge. Quirk rested his chin on his forearm. On the Cambridge side, Belson made an illegal left turn and headed out along the river on Memorial Drive.

  “There’s a couple of federal guys want to talk with you,” Quirk said.

  “FBI?” I said.

  “One of them.”

  “What do they want to talk about?”

  Quirk shifted in his seat so that he was faced back around front, talking without looking at me, staring out the front window while he spoke.

  “They want to talk about helping you with the California authorities.”

  “Mighty white of them,” Hawk said.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Isn’t that nice.”

  “And then maybe you can help them with something,” Quirk said.

  “Ah yes,” I said.

  “They want you to take Costigan out,” Quirk said.

  Belson took his dead cigar out of his mouth and threw it out the window. He took a thin cheap cigar from the breast pocket of his corduroy sport coat. He stripped the cellophane from it and stuck it in his mouth and lit it with a wooden match that he snapped into flame with his thumbnail. We passed the Hyatt Regency and went up the little hill and over the underpass where the BU bridge comes in.

  “Jerry?” I said.

  “Un huh.”

  “How about Russell?”

  “Your option, I think,” Quirk said. “They’ll give you details.”

  “Be an honor,” Hawk said, “help our government in time of need.”

  “An honor,” I said.

  Without looking back Quirk said, “And maybe we can give you a little help finding Susan,”

  “How about if the deal with the feds falls through?”

  Quirk turned again and looked at me.

  “I’m a cop,” he said. “I been a cop for thirty-one years. I’m serious about it. You understand. I wasn’t serious about it, I’d have done something else for thirty-one years. You’re wanted for murder, I got to arrest you. And I’m not claiming it would break my heart. You are a world-class pain in the balls. And the goddamned phantom beside you is a lot worse. But if I don’t have to arrest you, I won’t. And I might feel okay about that too. Either way, I’ll help you with Susan. I like her.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “You’re welcome,” Quirk said.

  We picked up Mt. Auburn Street, past the hospital. Belson’s cigar smelled like a burning shoe.

  “Phantom?” Hawk said.

  “The ghost who walks,” I said.

  “Oh shut the fuck up,” Quirk said.

  CHAPTER 22

  Belson pulled the Chevy in by the curb of a yellow diner in Watertown. Quirk and Hawk and I got out. Belson sat in the car with the motor idling.

  “You want me to bring coffee out?” Quirk said.

  “Yeah,” Belson said. “Black.”

  The three of us went into the diner. There was a long counter opposite the door and along the right wall four booths. In the back booth two men sat with thick white china mugs in front of them. The wall behind the counter was mirrored and two large coffee urns loomed at each end. On the counter there were slices of pie in glass cases, and muffins, and plates of donuts. We went to the back booth and slipped in opposite the two men. I knew one of them slightly, McKinnon, an FBI agent. Both of them wore gaberdine raincoats although it was sunny and not very cold. A very fat middle-aged woman with dark skin and a mole on her chin came to take our order. I ordered black coffee. Quirk ordered two black, one to go. Hawk ordered hot chocolate and a double order of French toast. The two feds accepted a refill on the coffee. The waitress brought everything except Hawk’s French toast. Quirk took the black coffee to go out to the car and gave it to Belson, then he came back in. Nobody said anything while he was gone. He came back in and sat down and picked up his mug and sipped the coffee. He looked at Hawk.

  “French fucking toast?” he said.

  “I give you a bite when it comes,” Hawk said.

  McKinnon said, “McKinnon, FBI. This is Ives.”

  Ives looked like a salt cod. He was lean and weathered and gray-haired. His raincoat was open and under it I could see a green bow tie with little pink pigs on it.

  “I’m with the three-letter agency,” he said.

  “You with the Tennessee Valley Authority,” I said. “Well damn, I always wanted to meet someone like you. TVA is my favorite.”

  “Not TVA,” Ives said.

  “He’s with the fucking CIA,” Quirk said.

  When Quirk said the sacred letters Ives looked uncomfortable, like he was fighting the impulse to turn his coat collar up.

  He said, “Let’s not broadcast it, Lieutenant.”

  Hawk said in a full voice, “Broadcast what?” and Quirk looked away trying not to smile.

  McKinnon said, “Come on, we know you’re both funnier than a case of the clap. You’ve proved it, now let’s move on.”

  “We are trying to pursue this informally,” Ives said. “We don’t need to. I can have Lieutenant Quirk place you under arrest and the discussion can be held more formally.”

  Quirk looked carefully at Ives and spoke very distinctly. “You can’t have Lieutenant Quirk do anything at all, Ives. The closest you can come is to ask.”

  “Aw, Jesus Christ, Marty,” McKinnon said. “Come on. Let’s see if we can’t just talk business here and stop fucking around.”

  The fat waitress appeared with a huge platter of French toast and a pitcher of syrup.

  “Who gets the toast,” she said.

  “Here,” Hawk said.

  The waitress put the food down and went away.

  “Be hard,” I said, “for anyone to distinguish you from the rest of us.”

  “Yeah,” Hawk said. “Me and four honkies, how could she remember?”

  “That’s real progress, I should think,” Ives said.

  “That someone confuse me with you?” Hawk said.

  Ives cleared his throat. “Let’s begin again,” he said. “We may be in a position to trade marbles.”

  I nodded. Hawk cut a square off one of the pieces of French toast and held it across the table toward Quirk. Quirk lipped it off the fork and ate it.

  “Costigan has chips on a lot of squares,” Ives said. “One is selling armaments. He is licensed and in and of itself there is nothing illegal about being an arms dealer, as I’m sure you people know. But Costigan deals covertly with proscribed nations.”

  “Heavens,” I said.

  “There’s nothing frivolous about this,” Ives said. “It translates into a lot of human suffering. Moreover, Costigan or his representatives not infrequently act as agents provocateurs, burning the oil on troubled waters in sensitive parts of the world. It enhances their marketing posture.”

  Hawk finished his second piece of French toast. The waitress came over and asked if we wanted anything else.

  McKinnon said, “No.”

  The waitress slapped a check down in front of him and went away.

  “We, that is the government, have penetrated Costigan’s schoolyard several times. Each time the agent has disappeared. We have had the organization under surveillance for five years. Nothing. For God’s sake, we do better infiltrating a foreign national organization. That’s where most of our information comes from, the buying end of Costigan’s business. But no paper. No records. No bills of lading. No invoices. No checks. No letters of credit. Everything appears to be cash and numbered bank accounts. Over the years we have had two eyewitnesses. Both of them were killed.”

  The waitress came back and looked at the check still lying facedown in front of Ives. She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and went away again.

  “Now we have information which suggests that he may begin dealing nuclear weapons. Not the big bang, but tactical weapons, and tacs are plenty bad enough. You might wish to pause and think about the implications of atomic weaponry in the hands of, say,
Idi Amin.”

  “I thought he was out of business,” McKinnon said.

  “He is,” Ives said. “I chose to use him as a hypothetical example for just that reason. But we all know that there are leaders in the Middle East and Africa and other suburbs of civilization who are just as irrational and savage. You can understand our concern.”

  Hawk gestured toward the waitress. She came over, looking at the check. “I’ll have another hot chocolate, please,” Hawk said.

  The waitress looked as if she was going to say something. Hawk smiled pleasantly at her. She paused, then she picked up the check and huffed away. Ives was silent while she went for the hot chocolate, and silent when she came back and put it down and slapped the revised check down beside it and cleared Hawk’s dish and cutlery away.

  When she had gone again he said, “We had decided to recruit someone to de-effectuate Costigan. All of this is, of course, off the record.”

  “Deep background,” I said.

  “When, fortuitously …” Ives said.

  “He mean lucky,” Hawk said to McKinnon.

  Ives sounded a little impatient, “Fortuitously, perhaps, for all of us, it was brought to our attention that you two were already involved in a pissing contest with Costigan.”

  “How did that come to your attention?” I said.

  “McKinnon.”

  “How did it come to your attention?” I said.

  McKinnon nodded at Quirk.

  “You knew about Costigan?” I said to Quirk.

  Quirk shrugged and tipped his cup so as to drain the last of his coffee without lifting his elbow from the table.

  McKinnon said, “He won’t tell you, so I will. He didn’t know Costigan except as a famous name any more than you did. When the arrest warrants for you two started flowing in from California, he came in to see me. See if we could do anything to get your ass out of the crack, you know? I’d been talking with other people”—he nodded at Ives—“about their problem with Costigan and I got hold of them, and here we are.”