hands, clasped on the desk in front of him, were rigid, white-knuckled like his wife’s had been on the New Bedford- Fairhaven bridge. Probably for the same reason. He was scared to death.
”One last try, Shepard. Are you doing business with King Powers?“
”I told you, Spenser, it is not your business.“ His voice did a chord change. ”Stop trying to hustle yourself up some business. You and I are through. I want a check for five hundred dollars in the mail to me tomorrow or you’ll find yourself in court.“ His voice was hitting the upper registers now. The tin clatter of hysteria.
”You know where to reach me,“ I said and walked out.
Living around Boston for a long time you tend to think of Cape Cod as the promised land. Sea, sun, sky, health, ease, boisterous camaraderie, a kind of real-life beer commercial. Since I’d arrived no one had liked me, and several people had told me to go away. Two had assaulted me. You’re sure to fall in love with old Cape Cod.
I drove to the end of Sea Street and parked illegally and walked on the beach. I seemed to be unemployed. There was no reason I could not pack up and go home. I looked at my watch. I could call Susan Silverman from the motel and in two hours we could be having a late lunch and going to the Museum of Fine Arts to look at the Vermeer exhibit that had just arrived. Giving Shepard back his retainer didn’t thrill me, maybe Suze would pick up the lunch tab, but telling Shepard where his wife was didn’t thrill me either.
I liked the idea of seeing Susan. I hadn’t seen her in four days. Lately I had found myself missing her when I didn’t see her. It made me nervous.
The beach was crowded and a lot of kids were swimming off a float anchored fifty yards from shore. Down the curve of the beach there was a point and beyond I could see part of the Kennedy compound. I found some open beach and sat down and took off my shirt. A fat woman in a flowered bathing suit eyed the gun clipped to my belt. I took it off and wrapped it in the shirt and used the package for a pillow. The woman got up and folded her beach chair and moved to a different spot. At least people were consistent in their response. I closed my eyes and listened to the sound of the water and the children and occasionally a dog. Down the beach someone’s portable radio was playing something about a man who’d been crying for a million years, so many tears. Where have you gone, Cole Porter?
It was a mess, too big a mess. I couldn’t walk away from it. How big a mess, I didn’t know, but a mess. More mess than even Shepard could handle, I thought.
I got up, clipped the gun back on my hip, stuck the holster in my hip pocket, put on my pale blue madras shirt with the epaulets and let it hang out to cover up the gun. I walked back to my car, got in and drove to my motel. It was nearly noontime.
From my room I called Susan Silverman at home. No answer. I went to the restaurant and had oyster stew and two draft beers and came back and called again. No answer. I called Deke Slade. He was in.
”Spenser,“ I said, ”known in crime-detection circles as Mr. Sleuth.“
”Yeah?“
”I have a couple of theories I’d like to share with you on some possible criminal activity in your jurisdiction. Want me to come in?“
”Criminal activity in my jurisdiction? You gotta stop watching those TV crime shows. You sound like Perry Mason.“
”Just because you don’t know how to talk right, Slade, is no reason to put me down. You want to hear my theories or not.“
”Come on in,“ he said and hung up. He didn’t sound excited.
Chapter 11
”What’s Hawk’s full name?“ Slade said.
”I don’t know,“ I said. ”Just Hawk.“
”He’s gotta have a full name.“
”Yeah, I know, but I don’t know what it is. I’ve known him about twenty years and I’ve never heard him called anything but Hawk.“
Slade shrugged and wrote Hawk on his pad of yellow, legal sized lined paper. ”Okay,“ he said. ”So you figure that Shepard owes money and isn’t paying and the guy he owes it to has sent a bone-breaker down. What’s Shepard’s story?“
”He has none,“ I said. ”He says he’s in business with Hawk and it’s got nothing to do with me.“
”And you don’t believe him.“
”Nope. First place Hawk doesn’t do business, with a big B like Shepard means. Hawk’s a free spirit.“
”Like you,“ Slade said.
I shook my head. ”Nope, not like me. I don’t hire out for the things Hawk does.“
”I heard you might,“ Slade said.
”From who?“
”Oh, guys I know up in Boston. I made a couple of calls about you.“
”I thought you were too busy keeping a close tail on the litterbugs,“ I said.
”I did it on my lunch hour,“ Slade said.
”Well, don’t believe all you hear,“ I said.
Slade almost smiled. ”Not likely,“ he said. ”How sure are you he was beat up?“
