”Yes.“
”Okay. Willing to make another trip out in the rain?“
”Yes.“
”I’m in a Dunkin‘ Donut frenzy,“ I said. ”If you went up Boylston Street and bought some, and coffee to go, and hurried back before the coffee got cold, I might be able to make it until afternoon.“
He grinned. ”Since I’ve known you you’ve been a health food freak.“
I gave him five dollars. He put on the yellow slicker jacket I’d bought him and left.
I called a guy in Chicago named Flaherty at Colton Insurance Company of Illinois. He told me that they had insured property in the name of Elaine Brooks, that six months later the building burned, and that while everyone guessed it was arson, no one could prove it and they paid and privately agreed not to insure Elaine again.
”Thing is,“ he said, ”if it was arson, it was also murder. Two winos were apparently cooping up in there and never got out. What they found was mostly charred bones and a muscatel bottle that had half melted.“
I said, ”Thanks, Jack,“ and noted the information on my master list.
He said, ”You got anything I should know about on this thing, Spenser?“
”No, I’m into something else, this is just collateral, you know.“
”Well, don’t hold out on us. I throw a lot of investigative work your way.“
”Yeah, and it’s real exciting too,“ I said.
”Don’t knock it, money’s good.“
”Money’s not everything, Jack,“ I said.
”Maybe not, but you ever try spending sex?“
”There’s something wrong with that argument,“ I said, ”but I can’t think what right now. I may call you later with my comeback.“
”Keep in touch,“ Flaherty said.
We hung up. Murder, two counts. Better and better. Or worse and worse, depending on where you stood. From where I stood it looked like enough to keep Mel Giacomin in line.
Paul came back with coffee and doughnuts. Plain for me. Two Boston creams for him-disgusting. I made some more of my calls. Everything was clicking in. Giacomin was involved with some kind of arson ring, and there was no doubt, though at the moment, no proof, that Harry Cotton was in it with him.
Susan showed up in the MG at two thirty. She had on a soft felt hat with a big floppy brim and a brass ring on the hatband. She also wore a light leather trench coat and high-heeled boots of the same color. I wished I were going to look at ballet schools with her. ”This will be the real test,“ I said to Susan. ”If the instructional staff doesn’t attempt to seduce you en masse it will prove they’re gay.“
She wrinkled her nose at me. ”I’ll tell them how big and tough you are,“ she said. ”Maybe they’ll hesitate long enough for us to escape.“
Paul said, ”What if they attempt to seduce me?“
I grinned. ”That would be further proof, I think.“
They left and I finished up my phone calls. There were no surprises.
I made the final notes on my master sheet and then got out some fresh bond paper and typed it all out neatly and went out to a copy shop and had two copies made and came back and filed the original in my office. I mailed the second one to myself at my apartment and stuck the third copy in my pocket for handy reference. Also maybe for showing to Mel Giacomin along with threats. I looked at my watch. Four twenty. I had to get away from the desk.
I locked up the office, got into the Bronco, and cruised down to the waterfront. Henry Cimoli was sitting behind the office desk in the Harbour Health Club in white pants, sneakers, and a white T-shirt He looked like the world’s toughest jockey. He had in fact been one of the best lightweight fighters around and gone fifteen rounds once and lost a split decision to Willie Pep. His arms bulged against the T-shirt and his short body moved like a compressed spring, a great deal of contained energy.
”Come to try and rescue what’s left, kid?“ he said.
”Yeah. You think it’s too late?“
”Almost“
I went to my locker and changed. In the exercise room there were weight machines, barbells, dumbbells, a heavy bag, two speed bags. The walls were mirrored. I started working on bench presses.
I was almost through my workout when Hawk came in at about seven. He wore silky-looking warm-up pants with the bottoms unzipped, and high white boxer’s shoes and no shirt He had a pair of speed gloves in the hip pocket of the warmup pants and he carried a jump rope. Most of the people in the room eyed him covertly. He nodded at me, did a few stretching exercises, and began to jump rope. He jumped rope for a half hour, varying the step and speed, crisscrossing the rope.
As he finished I started on the speed bag. He hung the rope up and came over beside me and started on the other bag. As I began to get a rhythm down on the bag he began to punch in counterpoint. I grinned and started to whistle ”Sweet Georgia Brown.“
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
