Now and Then

“If you not,” Hawk said, “I have you paged.”

Moira smiled.

“Please,” she said.

Hawk looked at me.

“Car here,” Hawk said.

“Farrell driving?”

“Yeah.”

“Any sign of Belson?”

“Nope.”

“There wouldn’t be,” I said. “He’ll be there. Vinnie and Chollo where they’re supposed to be.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” I said. “Time for you to go out on the front porch and lounge on the railing and catch some air. When the woman comes out you pay her no attention.”

“You already tole me that,” Hawk said.

“Oh good,” I said. “You remembered.”

Hawk went. I looked at my watch. Twelve minutes past eleven o’clock.

“Okay, toots,” I said to Susan. “Get into your disguise.”

She smiled and nodded and put on the long coat and the wraparound shades.

Susan paused and looked around her offi ce for a moment.

“It won’t be long,” I said.

She nodded.

“Be very, very careful,” she said.

“Yes,” I said.

She put her arms around me and kissed me. I put the red hat on her head and tilted it over her face the way Moira had worn it coming in.

“My hair,” Susan said.

“You can fi x it when you get there,” I said.

“Yes,” she said. “I can.”

We looked at each other for a moment, then she turned and went out the door past Hawk, who ignored her, down the steps, and got into the passenger side of the green Toyota beside Farrell. They drove away. Hawk remained where he was taking the air happily. Not a care in the world. Seeing everything that moved on Linnaean Street.

63.

After a proper interval I drove Moira Mahoney up to Central Square and went on into Boston, parked on a hydrant on Beacon Street, and walked down across the Common to Locke-Ober’s on Winter Place. Epstein was at the bar in the foyer when I got there. He had a Gibson in front of him.

“Nice to see you again,” he said.

“Always seems too long,” I said. “Doesn’t it.”

“Yeah. What have you got?”

“You’re ahead of me,” I said. “Lemme get a drink.”

He nodded. I ordered. The bartender brought it. It was a quiet afternoon at Locke’s bar. Later, people would come in and have a cocktail while waiting to be seated, but at 5:10 in the afternoon there was only one guy, reading the Wall Street Jour- nal and nursing a Gibson.

“You got anything?” I said.

“We’ve gotten a look at Alderson’s finances,” Epstein said.

“He’s got about a hundred and forty thousand in a money market. No checking account. No savings.”

“Better than I’m doing,” I said.

“True,” Epstein said.

He poked the pickled onion around in the bottom of his glass.

“Odd that there’s no checking account,” I said.

“True,” Epstein said.