rainy again, and Ives was under a colorful golf umbrella. I was wearing my leather jacket and my Boston Braves cap (circa 1948). Umbrellas are for sissies.
“You called?” I said.
Even though there was no one within twenty yards of us, Ives softened his voice when he answered. Maybe you had to have a heightened sense of drama to be a spook.
“The Gray Man,” Ives said, “was in our employ in Bucharest in the early 1980s.”
It was too late in the year for swan boats. They were put away. But the ducks were still here, and they cruised the pond hopefully.
“He was probably fun-loving and carefree in those days,” I said.
“Mr. Bradshaw was, at that time, at the American embassy in Bucharest.”
“Small world,” I said.
“It gets smaller,” Ives said. “In 1984 Mrs. Van Meer visited Bradshaw in Bucharest.”
“Heidi Van Meer?” I said. “Now Heidi Bradshaw?”
“Yes.”
“In 1984 she was married to Peter Van Meer,” I said.
Ives shrugged. We were silent as two very dressed-up women strolled past us. We both watched them as they passed and for a time afterward.
“You think they might be enemy agents?” I said, as Ives stared after them.
“No,” Ives said. “The woman on the right, I was admiring her ass.”
“Discriminating,” I said. “I was admiring both.”
“My dear Lochinvar,” Ives said. “I went to Yale.”
“And never recovered,” I said. “So we have Heidi, Bradshaw, and Rugar all in Bucharest in 1984. Rugar and Bradshaw both working for the Yankee dollar.”
“And Mrs. Van Meer, involved romantically with Bradshaw.”
“Any concrete connection,” I said, “between Rugar and Bradshaw?”
“They worked out of the same building,” Ives said. “Beyond that I don’t know, and can’t find out.”
“Even though you went to Yale?” I said.
Ives smiled.
“All of us,” he said, “went to Yale, Lochinvar.”
“I know,” I said. “Why aren’t there any spooks from, say, Gonzaga, or Florida State?”
“Imponderable,” Ives said.
“How long was Heidi in Bucharest?” I said.
“Don’t know,” Ives said. “Mr. Bradshaw was there through 1986.”
“Rugar?”
“Don’t know.”
“Is he working for you now?” I said.
“No.”
“You know who he is working for?” I said.
“To my knowledge Mr. Rugar is not currently working for anyone.”
Below us a small vee of ducks paddled industriously under the bridge in the fond possibility that there’d be peanuts.
“Anything else?” I said.
“No, I appear to have emptied the purse,” Ives said.
“I appreciate it.”
Ives nodded his head to accept my thanks.
“We both live in worlds where the cynicism is age-old and millennium-deep,” Ives said. “We are both cynical, and with good reason. But you are not just cynical, Lochinvar. I find it refreshing.”
“How about you,” I said. “Are you just cynical?”
“Yes,” Ives said.
We both smiled and were quiet, and watched the ducks for a while before Ives went his way and I went mine.
42
“Have we had Thanksgiving together before?” Susan said.
“Can’t recall it,” Hawk said.
“Why on earth not,” Susan said.
“Most holidays nobody trying to shoot him,” Hawk said. “Which seem kinda strange to me, too.”
“Does that mean that you are often alone on Thanksgiving?” Susan said.
Hawk smiled.
“No, Missy,” he said. “It don’t.”
Hawk and Susan were drinking vintage Krug champagne, which Hawk had contributed, at the kitchen counter. Pearl was deeply into the couch in front of the fire. There was a football game on the tube, with the sound off, in deference to Susan, and I was cooking.
“What’s for dinner?” Hawk said.
“I thought I’d experiment with roast turkey this year,” I said.
“Nice choice,” Susan said.
“Stuffing?” Hawk said.
“Yep, and cranberry sauce.”
“Clever additions,” Susan said.
“Paul with his girlfriend?” Susan asked.
“Yes, in Chicago. They said they were going to stay home and cook for each other.”
“Eek!” Susan said.
“He living out there now?” Hawk said.
“Yes. They’re both with a theater company.”
I opened the oven and pulled out the oven rack with the turkey on it. I basted the turkey with a mixture of applejack and orange juice.
“How will you know when it’s done,” Susan said.
“Cook’s intuition,” I said, and shoved the turkey back into the oven and closed the door.
“Plus the little red plastic thing in the turkey,” Hawk said, “that pops up when it’s ready.”
“Big mouth,” I said to Hawk.
“It’s all right,” Susan said. “I love you anyway.”
“How come?” Hawk said.
“Damned if I know,” Susan said.
Thanksgiving at Spenser’s: Hawk and Susan sipping champagne, Pearl asleep in front of the fire, the rich scent of the roasting bird filling the room, the dining room table set and beautified by Susan, Hawk’s shotgun leaning on the corner of my bookcase.
When I got the food to the table my duties were over. Hawk carved surgically. Susan served meticulously. I ate. Pearl watched each mouthful closely. Susan had ruled that it was absolutely forbidden to feed her from the table. All three of us ignored the rule.
“Wonder what Rugar doing for Thanksgiving,” Hawk said.
“And Adelaide,” I said.
“No,” Susan said. “Not on Thanksgiving. On Thanksgiving we worry about whether we’ll be hungry enough before bedtime to have a turkey-and-stuffing sandwich with cranberry sauce and mayo.”
“No business?” I said.
“None,” Susan said.
