I called the first Hawkins number in Arlington Heights. No soap. Nor was there any soap at the next two.
The fourth number didn’t answer. But unless they were the ones when I finally got them, I was going to have to wonder about old Linda. I looked at my watch: 4:30. Three thirty in Illinois. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. I went over to Jake Wirth’s, had some sauerbraten and dark beer, came back to the office at five forty-five, and called the fourth Hawkins again. A woman answered who had never heard of Linda Hawkins.
I swung my chair around and propped my feet on the windowsill and looked out at the top floor of the garment loft across the street. It was empty. Everyone had gone home.
There are a lot of reasons why someone doesn’t check out right off quick when you begin to look into her background.
But most of them have to do with deceit, and most deceit is based on having something to hide. Two pigeons settled down onto the window ledge of the loft and looked at me looking at them. I looked at my watch: 6:10. After supper on a summer evening. Twilight softball leagues were getting under way at this hour. Kids were going out to hang out on the corner till dark. Men were watering their lawns, their wives sitting nearby in lawn chairs. I was looking at two pigeons.
Linda Rabb was not what she was supposed to be, and that bothered me, like it bothered me that she met Rabb at a ball game even though she wasn’t interested in baseball till she married him. Little things, but they weren’t right. The pigeons flew off. The traffic sounds were dwindling. I’d have to find out about Linda Rabb. The Sox had a night game tonight, which meant Rabb wouldn’t be home. But Linda Rabb probably would be because of the kid. I called. She was.
“I wonder if I could drop by just for a minute,” I said.
“Just want to get the wife’s angle on things. You know, what it’s like to be home while the game’s on, that sort of thing.”
What a writer I’d make, get the wife’s angle. Slick. Probably should have said “little woman’s angle.”
“That’s okay, Mr. Spenser, I’m just giving the baby his bath. If you drop around in an hour or so, I’ll be watching the game on television, but we can talk.”
I thanked her and hung up. I looked at the window ledge on the garment loft some more. My office door opened behind me. I swiveled the chair around. A short fat man in a Hawaiian shirt and a panama hat came in and left the door open behind him. The shirt hung outside his maroon double knit pants. He wore wraparound black-rimmed sunglasses and smoked a cigar. He looked around my office without saying anything. I put my feet up on my desk and looked at him.
He stepped aside, and another man came in and sat down in front of my desk. He was wearing a tan suit, dark brown shirt, and a wide red-striped tie in browns, whites, and yellows. His tan loafers were gleaming; his hands were manicured; his face was tanned. His hair was bright gray and expensively barbered, curling over his collar in the back, falling in a single ringlet over his forehead. Despite the gray hair, his face was young and unlined. I knew him. His name was Frank Doerr.
“I’d like to talk with you, Spenser.”
“Oh golly,” I said, “you heard about my whipped cream biscuits and you were hoping I’d give you the recipe.”
The fat guy in the panama hat had closed the door behind Doerr and was leaning against it with his arms folded.
Akim Tamiroff.
Doerr said, “You know who I am, Spenser?”
“Aren’t you Julia Child?” I said.
“My name’s Doerr. I want to know what business you’re doing with the Red Sox.”
A master of disguise, the man of 1,000 faces. “Red Sox?” I said.
“Red Sox,” he said.
“Jesus, I didn’t think the word would get out that quickly. How’d you find out?”
“Never mind how I found out, I want answers.”
“Sure, sure thing, Mr. Doerr. You any relation to Bobby?”
“Don’t irritate me, Spenser. I am used to getting answers.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t know you had anything against Bobby Doerr, I thought he was a hell of a second baseman.”
Doerr said, “Wally,” without looking around, and the fat man at the door brought a gun out from under his flowered shirt. “Now knock off the bullshit, Spenser. I haven’t got a lot of time to spend in this roach hole.”
I thought “roach hole” was a little unkind, but I thought the gun in Wally’s hand was a little unkind too.
“Okay,” I said, “no need to get sore. I was a regional winner in the Leon Culberson look-alike contest, and the Sox wanted to talk to me about being a designated hitter.”
Doerr and Wally looked at me. The silence got to be quite long. “You don’t think I look like Leon Culberson?” I said.
Doerr leaned forward. “I asked around a little about you, Spenser. I heard you think you’re a riot. I think you’re a roach in a roach hole. I think you’re a thirty-five-cent piece of hamburg, and I think you need to learn some manners.”
The building was quiet; the traffic sounds were less frequent through the open window. Wally’s gun pointed at me without moving. Wally sucked on one of his canine teeth. My stomach hurt a little.
Doerr went on. “You are hanging around Fenway Park, hanging around the broadcast booth, talking with people, pretending you’re a writer, and not telling anyone at all that you’re only a goddamned egg-sucking snoop, a nickeland-dime cheapie. I want to know why, and I want to know right now or Wally will make you wish you’d never
