“You sweet-talking bastard,” Hawk said, and we went out of the diner.
CHAPTER 23
THEY PUT US IN AN APARTMENT ON MAIN STREET in Charlestown, just out of City Square. It was on the second floor of a recycled brick building. There was a living room and kitchen across the front and two bedrooms and a bath across the back. If you looked out the front window you could see the Charlestown down ramp from the Mystic River Bridge. The kitchen was stocked with food. There was beer in the refrigerator and fresh linen on the beds. There were new toothbrushes in the bathroom. Hawk and I stayed there for two days drinking beer, doing push-ups and watching cable television before Ives came with another guy to brief us. The other guy looked like Buddy Holly.
“As I’m sure you are aware,” Buddy Holly said, “our agency has no authorization for internal matters, so this briefing is entirely informal and off the record.” His heavy horn-rimmed glasses slipped down his thin nose a little and he pushed them back up with his left forefinger. He had a three-ring binder on the table in front of him.
Hawk and I didn’t say anything. We were sitting at the dining table at the end of the living room next to the kitchen. Buddy Holly sat opposite us and Ives sat on the couch with his legs stretched out and his arms resting on the back of the couch. Today’s bow tie appeared to have a maroon dolphin motif. A big leather suitcase lay on the floor in the middle of the living room. There was a duffel bag beside it.
“Perhaps we should open the gifts, first,” Ives said. He was running his eyes over the contours of the room as he spoke.
“Right,” Buddy Holly said. He stood and went to the suitcases. “First,” he said, “clothes.” He opened the suitcase and began to lay the contents out in two piles.
“Underwear,” he said. “Jeans, socks, polo shirts.”
“I’m not wearing no shirt with a reptile on it,” Hawk said.
“These seem to have small foxes on them,” Buddy Holly said.
He continued to unpack. “Sweaters, a watch cap for each of you, a belt for each of you. Two new pair of Puma running shoes, one size nine, one size nine and a half. Six handkerchiefs apiece.” He looked up at us and smiled.
“Handkerchiefs?” I said.
“Well, yes. You don’t use handkerchiefs?”
“Only to tuck in my suitcoat pocket,” I said.
“I’m afraid these aren’t that kind.”
I shrugged. “Don’t seem to have a suit anyway.”
Buddy Holly smiled. “No. We felt you would have no need for dressing up on this mission. But if it becomes a necessary expense I’m sure the agency will approve it.”
“Enough of the software,” Ives said from the couch. “Give them a gander in the duffel.”
The duffel bag contained: two folding knives, with stainless steel handles and four-inch blades; two Smith & Wesson Model 13 .357 magnum revolvers with three-inch barrels in a bluesteel finish, still in their nice blue boxes; a Winchester .30-.30 rifle with lever action, and a walnut stock; a Mossberg 12-gauge shotgun with pump action; two boxes of .357 cartridges, one box of .30-.30, and a box of 12-gauge shotgun shells. There were shoulder rigs for the revolvers and belt-threaded ammo pouches. There were two Westwind warmup jackets with quilted linings. There was a pair of binoculars, and two black leather saps. Buddy Holly set each of these items out with a brief description of its value and potential use to us. When he was through Ives said, “If you think you’ll need anything else, let me know. If you need more ammunition say so.”
“We use up all this,” I said, “either we won’t need more, or more won’t help us.”
“We can provide automatic weapons if you think you’ll need them,” Buddy Holly said.
I shook my head. “This will be fine,” I said.
Buddy Holly glanced at Ives. He did that every few minutes. Then he said, “Good, well, let’s get to the paper work.”
He came back to the table, and sat down across from Hawk and me and opened his three-ring binder, and turned it so that Hawk and I could look at it as he spoke of its contents and pointed at it upside down, the way an insurance agent does when he points out the advantages of a Mod 5-10 in case you should, sir, God forbid, step out of the picture.
“Here’s a picture of Jerry Costigan,” he said, pointing with the eraser end of a pencil at the 81/2-by-11 glossy in its clear plastic envelope. “And this is Russell.” He pointed at another 81/2-by-11 glossy on the facing page.
Russell still had ordinary features in a smallish face. The features seemed a little close to one another, as if his face were cluster zoned. His hair looked artfully tousled. Hawk leaned slightly forward, looking at the picture. I was leaning forward too.
“That Russell,” he said.
“Recent?” I said to Hawk.
Hawk shrugged. “Still look like that,” he said. We both looked at the still glossy of Russell.
Finally Buddy Holly said, “Ah, now, is that enough? Will you remember his face?”
Hawk nodded. I said, “Yes.”
“Good,” Buddy Holly said. “Now, the pictures I’m going to show you are those of some of the men with whom the Costigans deal.” He turned the page. There was a dark man with a large mustache wearing an ornate uniform.
“No,” I said.
“No?”
