“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 middleaged 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.
