The Professional (3 page)

“I took it when he was asleep,” she said, “with the camera in my telephone.”

“He doesn’t know?” I said.

“No.”

She took an envelope from her purse.

“It’s a bit salacious,” she said.

“Me, too,” I said, and put my hand out.

She smiled brightly again and handed me the envelope. I opened it. In the envelope was a computer printout of a digital photograph of a naked man lying on his back on a bed in what was probably a motel room. It was not my kind of salacious. And even if it had been, Nancy had edited out the groin area with a Magic Marker.

Decorum.

ALL OF MY CLIENTS were members of Pinnacle Fitness. Which was a pattern. Which gave me something to do. Of course they might also have gone to the same gynecologist, or belonged to the same square-dance club. But a pattern was a pattern. And it was better than having nothing to do. So I walked over to Tremont Street and took a look.

The club was on the top of a newish building across Tremont Street from the Common. Until I was a grown man, I had never even been in any place as glossy as Pinnacle Fitness. It was a monument to the fitness illusion that somehow working out was fun and glamorous. I thought about the gyms where I’d trained as a kid, when I was a fighter. I had started in Boston at Henry Cimoli’s decrepit dump on the waterfront, when the waterfront was decrepit. Henry used to say the location was perfect for screening out the frauds, because only a legitimate tough guy would dare to go down there. Then the waterfront yuppified and so did Henry, and when I went there now I felt sort of misanthropic for not wearing spandex. But there are things that can’t be compromised. I refused to dress up to work out.

The lobby of Pinnacle Fitness had sofas and coffee tables and a snack bar where you could get juices and smoothies and tofu sandwiches on seven-grain bread. It was probably not a good place to get a linguica sandwich. I went to the front desk.

“Gary Eisenhower here?” I said.

The young woman at the front desk had a blond ponytail and very white teeth. She was wearing a white polo shirt with the club logo on it and black satin workout pants.

“Excuse me?” she said.

“Gary Eisenhower,” I said. “Is he here?”

“Does he work here?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

She frowned cutely.

“I don’t believe we have anyone by that name working here,” she said.

“Oh,” I said. “Good. So he’s a member, then?”

“I, ah, I don’t recognize the name,” she said.

“Could you look him up for me?” I said.

“I . . . I’m sure the client-services manager can help you,” the young woman said. “That’s her office right there.”

The client-services manager had an open-door policy. I knocked on the open door and she turned in her swivel chair and smiled at me radiantly and stood. She, too, had a blond ponytail and very white teeth. But she was wearing a white top and a black skirt. The skirt was short, and there was a lot of in-shape leg showing between the hem and the top of her black boots.

“Hi, I’m Margi,” she said. “How can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Gary Eisenhower,” I said.

“Is he a member here?” Margi said.

“That’s what I was going to ask you,” I said.

“Why do you wish to know?” Margi said.

“I’d like to get in touch with him,” I said.

“It is club policy, sir, not to give out member information.”

“Something illicit going on here?” I said.

“Of course not,” Margi said. “It is simply that we respect our members’ privacy.”

“Me, too,” I said. “So he is a member?”

Margi was getting brisker by the minute; no wonder she made client-services manager.

“I didn’t say that, sir.”

“Of course not,” I said. “But if he’s not a member, then there’s no privacy issue, is there.”

“Of course not,” Margi said. “May I ask why you are interested?”

“So what you can do is check your membership records, and if he is not a member, you can tell me.”

She frowned. The reasoning had become too convoluted for her. I thought her frown was even perkier than the one I’d seen at the front desk. But I feared that she would never advance beyond client services.

“Are you some kind of policeman or something?” she said.

“I am,” I said.

I used to be a policeman, and “or something” covers a lot.

“I don’t mean to give you grief, Margi. Just check. If he’s not a member, tell me and I’ll move on,” I said.

I was interested as well as to what she’d do if he was a member.

She looked at me, still frowning, giving it as much thought as she was able. Then she heaved a big sigh and turned to her computer.

“Eisenhower,” she said. “Does that start with an I?”

“E,” I said, and spelled it for her.

She clicked at her computer for a little while, and then I could see her face relax.

“We have no one by that name as a member,” she said.

She could have been lying to get rid of me. But I didn’t think she was smart enough to fake the look of relief when she didn’t find him. I thanked her.

“Could I buy you a linguica sandwich?” I said.

She looked horrified.

“On Portuguese sweet bread?” I said.

“No,” she said, and smiled at me brightly. “But thanks for asking.”

IT WAS NEARLY NOVEMBER. Baseball season was over. And the wind off the Charles River was beginning to have an edge. I was at my desk, with my feet up, thinking about pattern, when two men came in without knocking and closed the door behind them. I opened the right-hand drawer on my desk. The bigger of the two was bald, with biceps that strained against the sleeves of a shiny leather jacket. The other guy was slim and dark, with deep-set eyes and graceful hands.

“Lemme guess,” I said. “You’re George, and you’re Lenny.”

The muscular guy looked at the slim guy.

“He’s being a wiseass,” the dark, slim guy said.

“Maybe he should stop,” the muscle guy said.

There was scar tissue around his eyes, and his nose was flat and thick.

“You used to be a fighter?” I said to him.

“Yeah.”

“You any good?”

“I look like I was any good?” he said.

“No,” I said.

“Do a lot better outside the ring,” he said.

The slim, dark guy said, “Shut up, Boo.”

“ ‘Boo’?” I said.

The dark, slim guy looked at me.

“He’s Boo,” the dark, slim guy said. “I’m Zel. Why you interested in Gary Eisenhower?”

“Why do you ask?” I said.

“Guy I work for wants to know,” Zel said.

“Who is he?” I said.

Zel nodded quietly to himself, as if confirming a suspicion.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s how it nearly always goes.”

“How’s that?” I said.

“Everybody’s a wiseguy,” Zel said. “Everybody’s a tough guy.”

“Must be disappointing for you,” I said.

“That’s what Boo’s for,” he said.

“Glad he’s for something,” I said.

Zel nodded again in the same sad way.

“So what’s your interest in Gary Eisenhower?”

“Who wants to know?”

Zel shrugged.

“Okay,” he said. “Boo?”

Boo smiled happily and started around my desk. I took a gun out of my open desk drawer and pointed it at both of them. Boo stopped. He looked disappointed.

“I got one of those, too,” Zel said.

“But yours is under your coat,” I said.

“True,” Zel said. “Back off, Boo.”

Boo looked more disappointed, but he stepped back in front of the desk.

“Hard on Boo,” Zel said. “He gets all juiced to smack somebody around and then he can’t.”

“Loving your work is a good thing,” I said. “Maybe another time.”

“You think you can handle Boo?” Zel said.

“Sure,” I said.

“Without the piece?” Zel said.

“Yeah,” I said.

“I heard you were good,” Zel said.

Boo stared at me. Apparently, he hadn’t heard that. Or it hadn’t impressed him.

“Kind of like to watch,” Zel said. “You decide to try it.”

“Been a while,” I said, “since I had a fight to prove I could.”

“Yeah, I know,” Zel said. “Seems kind of pointless, don’t it.”

“Tiring, too,” I said.

“Boo ain’t to that point yet,” Zel said.

“Probably won’t get there soon,” I said.

“’Less he starts losing a few,” Zel said.

“You want to know my interest in Eisenhower. I want to know who wants to know,” I said.

“You show me yours, I show you mine?” Zel said.

“Might work,” I said.

“And if it don’t?” Zel said.

“I could shoot you,” I said.

“But you won’t,” Zel said.

“Probably not,” I said. “Unless Boo becomes a distraction.”

Zel nodded. He looked at me for a while. Then he nodded to himself slowly.

“I work for a guy name of Chester Jackson,” Zel said.

“What’s his interest?” I said.

“Don’t know,” Zel said. “Show me yours.”

“Guy is blackmailing a group of women he had affairs with,” I said. “They want me to make him stop.”

“Who are the women?”

“Nope,” I said.

Zel nodded.

After a while he said, “I think Mr. Jackson will want to talk with you.”

“Sure,” I said.

Zel took a business card out of his shirt pocket and put it on my desk. Chester Jackson had offices at International Place. I picked up the card and put it in my shirt pocket.

“Chester married?” I said.

Zel shrugged.

“Maybe to a younger woman?” I said.

Zel smiled faintly and shrugged again.

“I’ll stop by,” I said.

Zel nodded.

“Adiós,” he said. “Come on, Boo.”

They walked out. At the door Boo turned and looked at me hard.

“I ain’t forgetting you,” he said.

“Few people do,” I said.

THE SECRETARY HAD a British accent. She ushered me in to see Mr. Jackson as though it was an audience. We were high up. There was the usual spectacular view of the harbor. And in front of the view, on a credenza, was a big photograph of Beth. Chet stood up and came around his desk when I came in.

“Chet Jackson,” he said, and put out his hand.

He had a big chin and short black hair with a lot of gray showing. The hair was receding from his forehead. His face was unlined. He smelled of very good cologne. His grip was strong. He had on a blue suit with a blue-and-white striped tie against a gleaming white shirt. There was a white handkerchief in his breast pocket.

I sat. He sat.

“Coffee?” he said. “Tea? water? Something stronger?”

“No, thanks.”

Chet nodded decisively.

“Okay,” he said. “What can you tell me about Gary Eisenhower?”

“He’s blackmailing a number of women,” I said. “They asked me to find him and make him stop.”

“Have you found him?”

“No.”

“But you’ve been looking for him at Pinnacle Fitness,” Chet said.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Thought I might find him there,” I said.

“What made you think that?”

“Probably,” I said, “same thing that made you go there.”

“What makes you think I went there?”

“I’m a trained investigator,” I said. “One day I ask about Eisenhower there, next day Zel and Boo come around.”

“Who are these women who employed you?”

I shook my head.

“I am a man of considerable leverage,” Chet said.

“How nice for you,” I said.

“And I don’t like flippant,” Chet said.

“What a shame,” I said.

Chet swiveled in his chair and with his back to me looked out his window at his view. After a suitable pause he swiveled back and looked hard at me.

“I want to know who you represent,” he said. “And I want to know what led you to Pinnacle.”

“I’ll be damned,” I said. “That’s pretty much what I want to learn from you.”

We sat silently then, looking at each other. Then Chet smiled at me.

“You’re not scared of me, are you?” he said.

“I’m trying to be,” I said.

Chet leaned back in his chair a little and laughed. “Goddamn it,” he said. “I like your style.”

“That’s grand,” I said.

We sat again.

I looked around the office.

“What do you do for a living?” I said.

“I make money,” Chet said.

“How?” I said.

“Little of this,” Chet said. “Little of that.”

“Folks that employ people like Zel and Boo,” I said, “and make their money by doing a little of this, a little of that, most of those folks have offices in the back of billiard parlors.”

“I played football at Harvard,” Chet said.

“Wow,” I said.

Chet was rubbing his chin with the palm of his left hand. “Okay,” he said. “I’m going to take a chance on you.”

He nodded at the picture of Beth on the credenza.

“That’s my wife,” he said. “Beth. I think she’s been involved with Eisenhower.”

“Uh-huh,” I said.

“Can you confirm or deny that?” Chet said.

“Nope.”

“Is she one of your clients?”

I shook my head.

“You wouldn’t tell me if she was,” Chet said. “Would you?”

I shook my head.

“Can you tell me anything?”

“I figured Gary had a plan ahead of time,” I said. “All the women I represent have a common pattern. Young, older husbands of significant wealth. And all of them belonged to Pinnacle Fitness.”

Chet nodded.

“Beth belongs,” he said.

I nodded. He stopped rubbing his chin and massaged his forehead with both hands for a minute. Then he put his hands flat on his desktop and leaned a little toward me.

“I’m a tough guy,” he said. “I make a lot of money in a lot of different ways, and none of the ways is easy.”

I nodded.

“I don’t mind that,” he said. “I don’t care too much about too many things. People get in my way, I don’t mind moving them out of the way.”

I nodded.

“But this is hard,” he said.

I was sick of nodding, so I just waited.

“And the reason it’s hard is that I made a mistake.”

He paused and looked at the back of his hands on the desktop, and breathed a couple of times.