Cold Night

There was a tiny intake of breath, and for a moment Paine thought he had hung up. Then the voice said slowly, as if it wanted to remember everything about his answer, 'Who is this?'

'A friend of Lucas Druckman.'

There was more argument between the two voices on the other end of the phone, then the voice came back.

'Druckman had no friends.'

Paine looked at the number on the slip of paper, 33,000, and repeated it into the phone.

There was a new intake of breath, a big one. The voice said, 'Who gave you that figure?'

Paine played the fear in the voice. 'Druckman gave it to me.'

'When?'

'Recently.'

'Bullshit.'

'Why is that bullshit?'

Paine heard the female in the background yelling at Izzy to hang up. He kept telling her to shut up. 'I'll take care of it!' he shouted, and she answered, 'Shit you will.' It sounded like an exchange they had often.

Izzy's voice came back to Paine.

'Who are you?'

'A friend-'

'I'll tell you,' Izzy interrupted. His words trembled with suppressed fear. 'I don't know who gave you that figure, or what you did to get it, but that was between Druckman and me.'

Paine heard the female yell something loud and Izzy's voice shouted back at her and the phone went dead.

Paine called the number back and let it ring for five minutes. Nobody answered. He pictured the two of them, Izzy a short punk with a spreading bald head, the woman a frowzy blonde in her fifties with thick legs, the two of them packing suitcases, Izzy stopping every minute or so to say to her maybe it was just a joke, maybe it didn't mean anything, and the frowzy blonde yelling at him to remember what happened to what's-his-name, what happened when he didn't pay and thought he could get away with it, why didn't you pay Druckman, why didn't you do this and that, and then Izzy continuing to pack, the woman throwing things into suitcases now, imagining the knock at the door, imagining herself dead, a stupid old bleached blonde hooked up with an asshole named Izzy, her whole life reeling across the back of her eyes as she jammed black negligees into a suitcase and, down at the bottom, hidden, Dr. Scholl's footpads for her aching feet and a girdle she wore when they went out, which was almost never, anyway, but if Izzy knew she wore a girdle and Dr. Scholl's footpads he might dump her, even though he was an asshole, what would she do then, and Izzy pausing again, saying, 'Maybe-'

Paine dialed Bob Petty. Someone told him that Petty wasn't there. He was about to hang up when Petty got on the phone.

'Glad you called, Jack.'

He sounded tired and mad.

'Something wrong, Bobby?'

'Some asshole over here decided I shouldn't talk with you. I can handle it. Dannon's been on my case, just like I told you.'

'You're the only guy I'd back off for, Bobby. Just ask.' He could almost hear Petty's back stiffen. 'Fuck you,' he said. Then he added, 'Hold on, Jack, let me take the call in an empty office.'

Paine heard emptiness, then Bobby came back on. He sounded like he was in another country; the usual background of typewriters and voices was gone.

Petty said, 'Dannon's bringing the whole thing out again.' Petty emphasized the word 'whole.'

'I told you I'd chuck it,' Paine said.

'And I said fuck you. It's just that it was hard enough on Terry the first time around. She still thinks all the grief I got after backing you caused the miscarriage. And now to drag it all into the open again-'

'She's pregnant?' Paine interrupted. He knew there were only a few things that would get Petty to go on like this.

'Yeah,' Bob answered. He laughed gruffly. 'You know she always wanted three.'

She would have had them hung between the words.

It would do no good to give in to Dannon. If he tried to do that, Bobby would scream and kick his butt until they both called Dannon and told him to fuck himself. Petty was marine stock, and Irish, and nothing could get him to change his mind. If he thought Paine was giving up on something because of him, it would be worse for everybody — for Paine, for Terry, for Bobby himself. He could almost hear Petty berating himself for letting any emotion show. 'Why did you call, Jack?'

'There's another creep, named Lucas Druckman. A loan shark, probably. He's from California, might be here now.'

'I have a friend named Ray at LAPD.' There was silence, then Bobby said gingerly, 'You know, if Dannon gets his way, it's going to open all the holes up for you again.'

'I know that.'

'All of them, Jack.'

'Yeah.'

'What I mean is. .'

'Will I fall apart? Try to kill myself?'

'Well. .' Two beats of silence. 'Don't forget I'm here for you, if you need me.'

'Don't worry about me, Bobby.'

Another beat of silence. 'Let me go punch out that bastard who said I wasn't here.'

'Do that, Bobby.'

Paine sat staring at the phone. There was a noise at the door and he looked up to see Margie. She wore her typical pained expression.

'He wants you,' she said.

'My body or mind?'

Margie smiled grimly and turned back to the reception area.

The music in Barker's office was still Rachmaninoff, but the tape loop had been changed. Now it was Variations on a Theme by Paganini. A big showstopper in pop classical concerts. It was another piece that Paine liked, and now, he knew, would come to hate.

Fucking idiot.

As he sank into the chair opposite Barker the tape ended.

Then, seconds later, it started again.

'You're going to Boston,' Barker said, staring out the window at a place above Paine's head. 'Gloria Fulman wants to talk to you.'

'Why can't she talk to me on the phone?'

Barker affected disinterest. 'Because that's what she wants. She's paying for it.'

'She's not a client.'

'She is now.'

'Did she sign a contract, or just buy you?'

Now Barker looked at him. It was the kind of gaze a man gives a sample of pond scum under a microscope.

'Go,' he said.

He turned to some work on his desk, pretending that Paine had already left.

After a while, Paine had.

FIFTEEN

The limousine picked him up at Logan Airport. Paine had been in Boston once on police