“I hope so,” Graff said.
“And if she did, would you have any candidates?”
“For fucking Mary?” Graff said. “Hard to narrow it down.”
“She was promiscuous?”
“Oh,” Graff said. “I don’t know, really. I was being facetious.”
“So when you’re not being facetious,” I said, “who would be a good candidate to, ah, help Mary out.”
“I’d say,” Larson almost giggled, “I’d say the fickle finger of suspicion points at Roy.”
“Roy Levesque?” I said. “The former boyfriend?”
“Maybe once and future,” Graff said.
“Any dates and places?” I said.
“No. Just a guess.”
“Okay. You know anything about Smith’s banking business?”
“No.” Larson was working on his fourth glass of Chablis. “That’s not the business he and I shared an interest in.”
“Soldiers Field Development?” I said.
Graff shook his head.
I said, “Marvin Conroy? Felton Shawcross? Amy Peters? Jack DeRosa? Kevin McGonigle? Margaret McDermott?”
“I don’t know any of those people,” he said. “Conroy and Shawcross sound familiar. They might have been on Mary’s invitation list. The others…” He shrugged, putting a lot into it.
“You have any idea,” I said, “who killed Nathan Smith?”
“None,” he said.
He stood. So I stood.
“Thanks for lunch,” he said. “I really do have to get back to the office.”
We shook hands. I watched him go. I thought of Jay Gatsby. Somewhere back there, when he was a kid, Joey Bucci had invented just the kind of Larson Graff that a kid was likely to invent, and to that invention he was remaining faithful. I paid the check and when I left, Hawk eased off his bar stool and left with me. Which was comforting.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Hawk and I reported in to Rita Fiore. Actually I was reporting to Rita, Hawk was along to help keep me from getting shot. Rita didn’t mind. I knew she wouldn’t. Hawk fascinated her. Among other things he was male, which gave him a running start on fascinating Rita.
“I think I want a raise,” I said.
“And you don’t want to take it out in trade?” Rita said.
“Perhaps my associate,” I said.
Hawk smiled serenely.
“You think?” Rita said.
“One never knows,” Hawk said. “Do one.”
“Keep me in mind,” Rita said, and to me, “Why do you need a raise?”
“Wear and tear on my brain,” I said. “Every time I turn over a rock, there’s three more rocks.”
“I’ll help you,” Rita said. “Tell me about it.”
She sat back in her big leather swivel chair and crossed her admirable legs and listened, while I told her about it. As far as I could tell, when she slipped into her professional mode, she banished all thoughts of sexual excess.
“Okay,” she said when I finished. “Obviously there’s something going on between Pequod Bank, and Soldiers Field Development, and Marvin Conroy.”
“Yep.”
“And there’s probably something going on among Larson Graff, and Mary Smith, and the boyfriend, whatsisname.”
“Roy Levesque.”
“And maybe Ann Kiley is in there somewhere.”
“Or maybe she’s just Conroy’s girlfriend and loved not wisely but too well,” I said.
“Don’t we all,” Rita said. She looked at Hawk. “Except maybe you,” she said.
Hawk smiled at her. Rita swung her crossed leg thoughtfully. She was wearing a red suit with a just barely street-legal skirt. The suit went surprisingly well with her red hair.
