Rogers.
'Her doctor makes hospital rounds after five today,' I said. 'His name's Wagner.'
'Internist?' Susan said.
'Yeah, I looked him up in the phone book.'
'I'll speak to him. Sedation helps, but only for so long. After a point it delays the process of reintegration.'
'Don't want to do that,' Hawk said.
Susan smiled at him. 'Different kind,' she said. She looked at me and back at Hawk. 'Take care of each other,' she said. Then she pulled away, spinning her tires, going a little too fast, as she always did.
We got in Hawk's Jaguar.
'Where we going?' Hawk said.
'Might as well go talk with Esteva,' I said.
'Any chance he might want to shoot us a little?' Hawk said.
'Some,' I said.
'Bet he can't,' Hawk said. He slid the car into first and we glided out of the parking lot. The stereo was playing softly.
'What the hell is that?' I said.
'Waylon Jennings,' Hawk said. He reached over and ejected the tape.
'You?'
Hawked looked over at me. 'Naw, man. Susan. She into that hillbilly stuff.'
'Yeah,' I said, 'I know. She's smart though, and a good dancer.'
People looked at the Jaguar as we went through Wheaton. There were some workers in the yard at Esteva's produce warehouse when we pulled up. They stared at the Jaguar. When we got out, they stared at Hawk. He glanced at them and they turned quickly away and went about their business, or made some up to be about.
There was a door near the front of the warehouse. Over it a small rustic sign hung from a wrought-iron arm. It said OFFICE. We went in. There was a desk opposite the door and filing cabinets on the wall behind it. A round- shouldered man with thick black hair and a long nose sat at the desk. The sign on his desk said SHIPPER. 'Arthur' was lettered in white script above the pocket of his dark blue work shirt.
'Help you?' he said. He glanced at me and then at Hawk and then quickly back to me.
'Esteva?' I said.
'Mr. Esteva's got a meeting,' Arthur said. 'What's it about?'
'Tell him Spenser's here,' I said.
Arthur picked up the phone and dialed. 'Arthur,' he said into the phone. 'Tell Mr. Esteva there's a guy named Spenser out here to see him. Another guy with him, too.'
He listened at the phone for about a minute. Then he nodded. 'Okay,' he said, and hung up. He pointed toward a door in the wall to our right. 'Through there, turn left. There's some stairs at the far side of the warehouse. Go up the stairs.'
I said, 'Thank you.'
We went through the door and were in the warehouse proper. There were roller conveyors and long flat tables and wide aisles through which forklift trucks moved. Crates of vegetables were piled on the tables and workers repacked them and sent them on down the rollers to the next station as orders were packed. Most of the workers were Hispanic.
The wooden stairs went up at right angles, along the far wall of the building. At the top of the stairs an office with frosted-glass windows perched like a tree house halfway up the wall. When I reached the door, it opened and I stepped inside. Hawk stopped outside. Esteva was at his desk. Cesar was standing against the wall to his left. Hands hanging at his side., His small hat sitting squarely on top of his head. I glanced behind the door that had just opened. The guy in the Celtics jacket was behind me.
'Tell your friend to come in,' he said.
'How about you walk over near the desk,' I said, 'where we can see you. Then he'll come in.'
Celtics Jacket looked at Esteva. Esteva made a barely perceptible nod of his chin. Celtics Jacket shrugged. He left the door open and walked over to stand against the wall to Esteva's right.
Hawk stepped through the door and closed it quietly behind him. He looked at Cesar. Cesar looked back, with no expression. I looked at Esteva. He looked back: No one was looking at Celtics Jacket. He'd had his turn. The silence lasted for a long time, for a silence.
'Esteva's the one in the middle,' I said to Hawk. 'Guy with the funny hat is named Cesar. Guy with the Celtics jacket, I don't know his name.'
'How come he wearing his jacket indoors,' Hawk said.
'Probably doesn't own a shirt,' I said.
'What do we call him,' Celtics Jacket said. 'He got a name or we just call him Schwartze?'
'They call me Mr. Tibbs,' Hawk said. He still hadn't taken his eyes off Cesar.
'Tibbs, huh? Sounds like a fucking schwartze name . . .'
