Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn (Spenser, #44)(39)

“Sharper than when I saw you here last.”

“King Powers.” Hawk grinned. He looked to be sipping a gin and tonic. “Folks lookin’ for you in Boston.”

“I know.”

“Had to reason with a couple at the gym.”

“How’d you do?”

“As always.”

“You see Stefanakos?”

“That big-ass Greek?”

I nodded.

“No,” he said. “Been waiting on it. You and him got some unfinished business.”

I nodded and took a seat on the bar stool. Hawk sipped his drink. “You don’t think they’ll come here?”

Hawk shrugged. “Depends on who you told.”

“You, Z, and Henry.”

Hawk nodded. “I guess I made a long drive for nothing.”

“You could’ve just called.”

“No answer,” Hawk said.

“Hmm.” I smiled and scratched my head. “Maybe I turned it off.”

“Just try not to break or pull anything.”

I asked the bartender for a Harpoon IPA on draft. Next to Hawk, I looked slovenly and wrinkled. I had on Top-Siders and I needed a shave. I looked like I might belong on Gilligan’s Island. He didn’t seem to mind and ordered another gin and tonic. Extra limes.

“Don’t want to get in the way of your, uh, retreat.”

“Join us for dinner,” I said. “It’s Susan’s birthday. Although I’m not sure she’s thrilled with the prospect.”

“Susan look too good to worry about a number,” he said.

“I think we’re both aware that Z could quite respectably be our son,” I said.

“No way a thick-necked honkie and a Jewish shrink can make a full-blooded Cree Indian.”

“You make an excellent point.”

Hawk drank some more from the glass. I drank my beer and ordered another. By the time the bartender set down the glass, Susan walked into the room. She’d showered and changed into a black maxi-dress. Her hair was in a tight bun, accentuating the diamond studs in her ears. My heart felt like Gene Krupa was practicing in my chest.

“Mm-mm,” Hawk said.

She kissed him on the cheek and took a seat between us.

“Hawk was in the neighborhood.”

“I know what it means,” she said. “Anyone else coming?”

Hawk grinned. “Ain’t nobody here but us chickens.”

Susan joined Hawk with a vodka gimlet. He began to softly whistle “Happy Birthday.” She slugged him in the arm.





33


I showered, shaved, and changed into a pair of crisp jeans and a short-sleeved black polo. Thirty minutes later, we were having dinner at a place called the Naked Oyster on Main Street. The building was long and narrow, with bright, splashy paintings hung on brick walls. An oyster bar ran against the wall with shellfish in ice waiting to be shucked.

We ate outside, directly across from the JFK museum and post office. The night was warm, but a nice breeze came off the water. The air smelled like the sea. Families strolled by eating ice cream and eyeing all the boutiques lit up on Main. Susan ordered tuna tartare, Hawk had the duck confit, and I decided on a plate of haddock tacos.

“What if Hawk had snuck up on you?” Susan said. “Someone could’ve been hurt.”

“Impossible,” I said. “I have a sixth sense. Besides, how’s he going to sneak up in that jacket?”

“I like it,” Susan said. “It looks terrific on you.”

Hawk grinned. He nodded in appreciation of Susan’s style.

“Can you stay?” she said.

“Nope,” Hawk said. “Just came down to warn white boy about some trouble in River City.”

“Helps you cultivate horse sense and a cool head and a keen eye,” I said. “Bad?”

Hawk shook his head. “Just wind.”

“About the arson?” Susan said.

Hawk shook his head. “More about Jackie DeMarco’s pride,” Hawk said. “Man can’t have anyone questioning what he does.”

“Has he ever met you two?” Susan said. “You question everyone’s pride.”

Hawk looked to me and smiled. “She got a point.”

An appetizer of oysters arrived, French-style, on a bed of salt with a mignonette. Hawk and I split the order. Susan had a rare second gimlet. “Cut it with Rose’s lime,” I said. “Half and with half gin. Terry Lennox says it beats martinis hollow.”

Susan and Hawk ignored me. Hawk drained the oyster off each shell without spilling a drop on his jacket. Susan drained maybe two teaspoons of the gimlet. Hawk checked out a young woman in a long black skirt and a revealing white tank top.

Hawk could check out a woman so furtively she never knew. Unless he wanted her to know.

We ate and laughed. We talked about old times in Cambridge, Montecito, and Vegas. Not one word was mentioned about our time in Mill River. The food came. We ate and drank. I tipped the waitress to add a bunch of sparklers atop a large slice of key lime pie.

Susan distributed three forks for the piece. She pointed hers directly at my chest. “Anyone tries to sing and they’ll get hurt,” she said.

Hawk and I did not disagree.