to check in.”
I nodded.
“You people did pretty good in Pequod with the two instructors,” I said.
“We have our moments,” Ives said. “You guys didn’t do so bad either. The Transpan facility is a shambles. Connecticut State arson people are climbing all over it. Federal Immigration people are chasing illegal aliens all over Connecticut… hell, all over the Northeast. They will have many questions to ask Transpan.”
“What about the aliens,” Hawk said.
“You sound like Steven Spielberg,” Ives said and laughed.
Hawk didn’t say anything.
“We’ll do what we can,” Ives said. “Remember, we made no promises beyond doing what we could.”
Hawk nodded.
A cycle cart selling chocolate chip ice-cream sandwiches cruised by us, turned in by the Marriott and set up shop near the railing along the water. A fat old woman with short hair was selling helium-filled balloons at the crosswalk on Atlantic Avenue. Ives was leaning on the capstan gazing at the cabin cruisers moored in the slip.
“How do you expect to find Costigan,” he said.
“We have a private intelligence service,” I said.
“Well, be sure that we coordinate,” Ives said. “We don’t want a lot of people churning around in the mud obliterating the footprints.”
“We’ll be careful,” I said.
Ives nodded, straightened, and turned toward Quincy Market.
“Tally ho the fox,” he said.
I nodded. Hawk nodded. Ives left, crossing Atlantic Avenue toward the market.
“You think the Russians maybe winning,” Hawk said.
“Maybe their people are worse,” I said.
“Hard to picture,” Hawk said.
CHAPTER 40
SUSAN HAD SET UP RESIDENCE IN MY BEDROOM and I had moved in with Hawk. The safe house had twin beds in both bedrooms so nobody had to sleep with anybody. Even if somebody wanted to. Which they didn’t.
“I assume this is not because you prefer me,” Hawk said.
I was getting a clean shirt from the top drawer of the other bureau-a squat thing with a warping mahogany veneer and ugly glass knobs.
“There’s a book by a guy named Leslie Fiedler,” I said. “Claims guys like us are really repressing homoerotic impulses.”
“Doing a hell of a job of it too,” Hawk said. He was lying on the bed wearing a Sony Walkman with the earphones on.
“Who you listening to,” I said. I had the shirt on and was buttoning down the collar. Not easy with a lot of starch in the shirt.
“Mongo Santamaria,” he said.
“God bless the earphones,” I said and went out into the living room. Susan was on the couch reading Psychoanalysis: The Impossible Profession. I tucked my shirt in and sat on the couch beside her.
“Coffee?” I said. “Juice? A twelve-course breakfast elegantly prepared by me and gracefully served by me also?”
She dog-eared the page to mark her place and smiled at me.
“I’ve started water boiling,” she said. “Why don’t I make you breakfast?”
“Certainly,” I said. “Mind if I sit on the stool and gaze at you across the pass-through?”
“My pleasure,” she said.
In the kitchen she put coffee in the filter and poured boiling water over it. While it dripped she squeezed some orange juice and poured three glasses.
“Is Hawk decent,” she said.
“He’s dressed,” I said.
She took him a glass of juice and when she came back the coffee had dripped so she poured three cups and brought one to Hawk. She wore white linen shorts and a pink sleeveless shirt with a big collar. Her legs and arms were tan. She turned on the oven.
I drank my juice and took a sip of coffee. Susan got out cornmeal and eggs and milk. “No corn flour,” she said.
“I didn’t do the shopping,” I said. “This stuff is all government issue.”
She took out a bag of whole wheat flour. “We’ll make do,” she said. She put dry ingredients in a bowl, added milk and eggs, and began to stir it with a wire whisk. I drank some more coffee.
