'Name?'
'Barely matters,' Ives said. 'He called himself Rugar when he was with us.'
'How was his English?'
'American accent,' Ives said. 'I believe he was born in this country.'
'You know where he is now?'
'No.'
'Any suggestion where I might look for him?'
'None.'
'Anything else?'
'He had gray hair and a sallow complexion. Attempting, presumably, to turn a liability into an asset, he affected a completely gray wardrobe.'
'Funny,' I said. 'A guy in his line of work trying to give himself an identity.'
Ives turned from the window. 'How so?'
'It's in his best interest to have no identity,' I said.
'By God,' he said. 'You know, I never thought of it that way.'
'Bureaucracy clogs the imagination,' I said. 'Is there anything else you can tell me about this guy?'
Ives pursed his lips faintly. He was turning the eraser at belt level now using both hands. There were liver spots on his hands.
'He is,' Ives said gently, 'the most deadly man I have met in forty years.'
'Wait'll you get a load of me,' I said.
'I've gotten a load of you and the black fellow, too.'
'Hawk,' I said.
'Yes, Mister Hawk. He's still alive?'
'Yes.'
'He's still your friend?'
'Yes.'
'You are a stable man,' Ives said. 'In an unstable profession. But I stand by what I said of our friend Rugar.'
He smiled softly and squeezed his eraser and didn't say anything else.
Chapter 42
I SLID THE pin into the bottom notch of the weight stack on one of the chest-press machines at the Harbor Health Club, and sidled in under it, and took a wide spread grip and inhaled and pushed the weight up as I exhaled. Things creaked in my right shoulder, but the bar went up. I eased it down, pushed it up again. I did this eight more times and let the bar come back to rest. Henry Cimoli was watching me.
'Ten reps,' he said. 'You got another set in you.'
I nodded, breathing deeply, waiting. Then I did ten more reps, struggling to keep form. And rested and did ten more.
'That's as good as you did before,' Henry said.
I slid off of the machine and stood waiting for my oxygen levels to normalize, watching the rest of the club members exercise. Most of them were women in spandex. Across the room was a bank of treadmills and Stair Climbers each with a small television screen so that you could exercise while watching an assortment of daytime talk shows, with maybe a videotape of a public dismemberment thrown in to cleanse the palate.
'Weigh in,' Henry said, and we walked to the balance scale. I got on, Henry adjusted the weights. I weighed to 210. The same weight I'd carried into the river almost a year ago.
'I'd say you're as good as new,' Henry said.
'Too bad,' I said. 'I was hoping for better.'
'We all were,' Henry said. 'But you can't shine shit.'
'You're awfully short for a philosopher,' I said.
'Hell,' Henry said. 'I'm awful short for a person. But I'm fun.'
I got off the scale and went and drank some water and wiped my face with a hand towel. There were mirrors on all the walls so that you could admire yourself from every angle. I was doing that when Vinnie Morris came in and glanced around the room and walked over to me.
'I tried your office and you weren't there,' Vinnie said. 'Figured you'd be here.'
'Ever consider a career as a private investigator?'
'Naw,' Vinnie said. 'Gino wants to see you.'
