said. “And every day she’s not out of it is a long and wearing day.”
“We’ll move with judicious speed, young Lochinvar. Sit tight.”
“Do it in the evening when Hawk and I are sitting around the bar in the Pequod House.”
“We know our business,” Ives said. “We don’t need too much advice.”
“Didn’t you guys engineer the Bay of Pigs.”
“Before my time, laddie buck. I’ll call you at the Pequod House when it’s done and tell you your order has been delayed.”
I hung up and went into the diner. Hawk was on a stool eating steak and eggs. There was a teen-age girl behind the counter wearing cutoff jeans and rubber shower clogs. She looked at me when I sat down.
“Coffee,” I said. “Cream and sugar.”
She brought it black in a thick diner mug and pushed the cream pitcher and the sugar shaker at me.
“Ives gonna do it?” Hawk said.
“Yeah.”
“He gonna fuck it up?”
“Maybe not,” I said.
“Folk at Transpan might think it funny that these guys disappear right when we come on the scene.”
“Maybe, but if they do what have we lost. We’re outside looking in now.”
“They get suspicious,” Hawk said, “maybe they decide to clip us.”
“They’ll decide to try that sooner or later,” I said. “I still don’t see us being any worse off for trying.”
Hawk wiped up some egg yolk with his toast. He put the piece of toast in his mouth and wiped his fingers on a napkin.
“And it might work,” he said.
“We never lost money yet,” I said, “underestimating the intelligence of the Costigans.”
Hawk put the last piece of steak in his mouth and chewed carefully. He wiped his mouth with the napkin. “Good point,” he said.
CHAPTER 31
HAWK AND I HUNG AROUND PEQUOD, CONNECTICUT, for the next twelve days. During that time I ran about seventy-five miles, did more than a thousand push-ups, the same number of sit-ups, ate badly, drank thirty-four long-neck bottles of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, read The March of Folly and One Writer’s Beginnings, reread The Road Less Traveled, studied 203 box scores in The Hartford Courant, and discussed with Hawk whether there was a difference between good sex and bad.
On the thirteenth day, Hawk said, “I think I in love with Doreen.”
“Don’t blame you,” I said.
“How you feel about interracial marriage,” Hawk said.
“Against the law of God,” I said.
“You sure?” Hawk said.
“Says right in the Bible,” I said. “Thou shalt not marry a spook.”
“Shit,” Hawk said, “you right. I remember that part. How ‘bout I just fuck her?”
“Far as I know that’s okay,” I said.
We were at the bar. Red came in wearing fatigue clothes and a John Deere hat. The shirt hung out over his belt and he looked like an ambulatory mess tent coming toward us.
“Might have a job for you guys,” Red said. “Cadre chief wants to see you.”
“Let’s go,” I said.
We went in a Transpan jeep driven by one of the security people in blue coveralls. At the gate the driver said something to the gate man and we went on through and into the compound. To the right was a square-frame one- story building. We stopped in front of it and got out. The jeep pulled away. A black lettered sign over the door said ADMINISTRATION.
“You guys wait here,” Red said and went into the building. The frame building was central to the layout of the place. The metal Quonsets ranged along the far line of fence, and the manufacturing plant itself loomed directly behind the administration building. Past the factory and to the right of it was a white colonial house, partially concealed by trees. A white picket fence separated it from the rest of the compound.
Red came out of the administration building. With him was Chico, with his hat on backward, and a tall angular man wearing starched fatigues and gleaming engineer’s boots.
“This here’s Mr. Plante,” Red said. “He’s the cadre chief.”
Plante nodded. “Red tells me you gentlemen are hand-to-hand combat experts.”
I said, “Un huh.”
“We have an opening for two men, to instruct in that area. Are you interested.”
“Sure,” I said.
