The Professional (5 page)

“Damn,” he said. “Probably used one of those phone cameras.”

“Yep.”

He grinned wider.

“Fucking technology,” he said. “Want to go someplace and have a drink and talk about things?”

“We’d be fools not to,” I said.

WE WALKED OVER to the Four Seasons and got a table in The Bristol Lounge. Gary ordered a “Maker’s Mark, rocks, water back.” I had a beer. Gary put his shopping bags on the floor beside him and unbuttoned his overcoat but didn’t take it off. Under the coat he had on a coffee-colored coarse-weave turtleneck sweater. He took a long swallow of his bourbon when it arrived, and sipped a little water.

“Oh, Momma,” he said. “Nothing like it when you need it.”

“Or even when you don’t,” I said.

“You got that right,” he said.

He looked around.

“Nice room,” he said.

“Yes, it is.”

“One of the places I bring them,” he said.

“Nothing but the best,” I said. “You ever pay?”

He grinned at me and sipped more bourbon.

“Not often,” he said.

He stirred the remaining bourbon and ice with his forefinger for a moment.

“Nice gig,” he said. “I hope we can work something out. I’d hate to give it up.”

“Tell me about the gig,” I said.

“You probably got most of it figured out,” he said.

“Tell me anyway,” I said. “I’m much dumber than I seem.” Gary leaned back in his chair and laughed hard.

“Aren’t we all,” he said.

He drank the rest of his bourbon, spotted the waitress, pointed to the glass. She nodded and looked at me. I shook my head.

“Okay,” Gary said. “I’m good with women, you know? They like me. For a while I used that to get a lot of tail.”

“Good to have a hobby,” I said.

He grinned.

“That’s what it was at first, a hobby,” he said. “But I like a lot of action.”

“And you believe in diversity,” I said.

“I do,” he said. “And that makes the hobby get kind of expensive.”

“Lot of wining and dining before you even get to the hobby part,” I said.

“Pretty much at first,” Gary said. “After you sort of get established it gets cheaper, you know? You cut out the wining and dining, get right to the hobby.”

I nodded. The waitress came with Gary’s drink. It made him happy. He drank some of it.

“But one day,” I said, “it occurred to you that you might be able to turn the hobby into a living.”

He pointed to me.

“Exactly,” he said. “You sure you’re not smart?”

“Pretty sure,” I said.

“I think you’re too modest,” Gary said.

“That, too,” I said. “So how did you do the blackmail?”

“Hey, dude, what a terrible word,” he said.

“Okay,” I said. “How did you go about professionalizing your hobby?”

“First time I tried it,” Gary said, “I rented a motel room for a couple days. I got some software in my computer that allows pictures to be taken through the screen. I set it up focused on the bed, so it looked like it was just on the table, where I’d been typing or something. And I set it to go off every few seconds. As backup, I put a tape recorder under the bed. So when the action started I made sure the positions were right for pictures and sound. It worked. And as time went along, I refined it. Got a tiny video camera, set it up in the corner of the room. In a shadow. Taped sight and sound.”

Gary sipped some bourbon. As he swallowed, he held the glass up in front of him and gave it a little kiss.

“In some ways, the sound is better than the pictures,” he said.

“But harder to identify,” I said.

“Yeah. That’s why you need the pictures. But the stuff they said . . .” He shook his head. “You know how a lot of women say stuff during sex?”

“I recall something about that,” I said.

“You married?” Gary said.

“No, but I’m with the girl of my dreams,” I said.

“Girl of your dreams?” Gary said.

“Uh-huh.”

“She say stuff?”

I didn’t say anything.

Gary shrugged.

“À chacun son goût,” he said.

“Oui,” I said.

He grinned.

“Anyway, I got some excellent action,” he said. “Some of it pretty kinky.”

I nodded.

“You want to hear about it?” Gary said.

“Another time,” I said.

“You got a problem with kinky, Spense?”

“Not among consenting adults,” I said. “And don’t call me Spense.”

“Oh, sure, apologize,” he said. “Anyway, it was duck soup. So I started doing it regular. I made sure the women were married and had money, preferably married to older rich men, so they might be looking for action but would never want to give up the husband and his money.”

“Estelle help you with that?” I said.

“Boy, you don’t miss much,” Gary said. “How’d you know that?”

“She fingered me for you,” I said.

“Oh,” he said. “Yeah.”

“She’d have access to the membership records,” I said.

“She does,” Gary said. “She knows what we’re looking for.”

“Many failures?” I said.

“Now and then,” Gary said. “Not as often as you’d think.”

He was a very handsome man. Six feet tall, maybe a little more, wide shoulders, narrow hips, good color, dressed like a male model.

“She doesn’t mind you having sex with all these women?” I said.

“I think she likes it,” he said.

I nodded.

“So how often do you practice your, ah, profession,” I said.

“It’s still a hobby, too,” Gary said. “I do it every day.”

“Why?” I said.

“Why?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Why?”

“’Cause I can, for crissake.”

“Well,” I said, “it’s nice to like your work.”

GARY WAS ON HIS THIRD bourbon. But it was going in much more slowly, and he showed little effect from the first two. I had my second beer.

“So where do we stand?” Gary said.

“What’s the E stand for,” I said.

“E?”

“As in E. Herzog.”

Gary looked at me for a long moment.

“Oh, shit,” he said.

I waited.

After a while, Gary grinned at me.

“Okay,” he said. “You’re smart. That dumb stuff is just a ploy.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But what I’ve done so far doesn’t prove anything.”

“You think?” he said.

“Your big mistake was trying to tail me. If you hadn’t made it, I would have had a much harder time finding you.”

“You spotted me following you the other day and turned it around and followed me.”

“Yep.”

Gary shook his head.

“Amateurs and professionals, huh?”

“What’s the E stand for?” I said.

“Elliot,” he said.

“Is Elliot Herzog your real name?” I said.

Again, Gary grinned at me.

“One of them,” he said.

I nodded.

“So what are your plans,” I said, “for the ladies who employed me?”

He smiled.

“Abigail, Beth, Nancy, Regina,” he said. “The gang of four.”

“Are they the only ones with whom you are at the moment practicing your profession?”

“Not hardly,” Gary said.

“Maybe you should plan to stick with them,” I said. “And leave my gang alone.”

He picked up a butter knife and tapped a little beat on the table with it while he looked at me.

“I got no reason to change my plans,” he said.

“I’m supposed to give you a reason,” I said.

He shrugged.

“What are you gonna do?” he said. “These ladies are willing to pay because they don’t want their husbands to know. That hasn’t changed. None of them will press charges. If you tell the cops or whatever, every one of them will deny that they ever had anything to do with me.”

“I could keep punching your lights out,” I said, “until we reach an agreement.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he said. “I have a sense that it might not be your style. But say it was. If you did it once, okay, I’m sore for a few days. I might be tougher than you think I am. And when I felt better, I’d get hold of your employers and they’d call you off, for fear I’d expose them.”

“And if they didn’t?” I said.

“I’d expose them,” he said. “They’re not the only fish in my creel, you know?”

“I don’t seem to terrify you,” I said.

“I been living this life for a long time,” he said. “I’m pretty light on my feet.”

“And the cops don’t terrify you,” I said.

“Nothing much does,” he said. “You got the tab on this?”

“Sure,” I said. “Expense account.”

“Sort of like me,” he said, and stood up.

“See you around,” he said.

“Yep,” I said.

He picked up his shopping bags and strolled out of the lounge. I watched him go and smiled. I kind of liked him. I picked up his butter knife by the blade and slipped it into my coat pocket. Then I paid the bill, tipped handsomely, and strolled out of the lounge, too.

GOT SIX E. HERZOGS,” Quirk said to me. “None of them named Elliot. Got no Gary Eisenhowers.”

“There’s a surprise,” I said.

We were having lunch at Locke-Ober.

“How come you know everybody?” I said.

“Been coming here a long time, most of them are politicians or lawyers.”

“That you met in your work,” I said.

“Yep,” Quirk said.

He grinned.

“Arrested some of them,” he said.

“Not enough,” I said.

“Everybody got arrested that should get arrested,” Quirk said, “we wouldn’t have no place to put them.”

“How about the butter knife?” I said.

Quirk nodded.

“There were prints on the butter knife,” he said. “Yours were on the blade, and there were two others.”

“One would be whoever set the table,” I said.

“Young woman named Lucille Malinkowski,” Quirk said.

“Why have you got her prints on file?”

“Don’t know, nothing criminal. Maybe she was in the army, maybe she has a gun license, maybe she used to work someplace where she had to have clearance. I didn’t know you’d care.”

“And the other one?

“Belongs to a guy named Goran Pappas,” Quirk said.

“ ‘Goran’?”

“Aka Gary Pappas,” Quirk said.

“Why is Gary in the system,” I said.

“He did three in MCI-Shirley for swindling,” Quirk said.

“From a woman?” I said.

“Yes.”

“What’d Gary look like?” I said.

“Six feet one inch, one hundred seventy pounds, dark hair, brown eyes, even features, age thirty-eight at the time of his arrest.”

“Which was?”

“In 2002,” Quirk said.

He produced a computer printout of Gary Pappas’s mug shot. It was Gary Eisenhower.

“Anybody want him now for anything?” I said.

“He’s not in the system,” Quirk said. “Course, the system’s imperfect.”

“It is?” I said. “How did that happen?”

Quirk didn’t bother to answer.

“You want to discuss Gary with me?” he said.

“He’s blackmailing a bunch of women,” I said.

“Tell me about it,” Quirk said.

I told him most of it, leaving out the names.

“Not a bad gig,” Quirk said. “Banging good-looking women every day, getting money for it.”

“It might get boring,” I said.

Quirk looked at me.

“Or not,” I said.

Quirk nodded.

“So they hired you to make him stop,” Quirk said.

“Yes.”

“You got any evidence?” Quirk said.

“Got no evidence we can use.”

“Women won’t testify?”

“No.”

“So what are you supposed to do?” Quirk said. “Scare him?”

“I tried that,” I said.

“How’d that work for you?” Quirk said.

“It didn’t,” I said.

“Disappointing,” Quirk said.

“Makes me feel old,” I said.

“Want me to stop by and have a talk with him?” Quirk said. “Unofficially?”

I shook my head.

“Don’t think he’d care,” I said.

“About the homicide commander?” Quirk said.

“I don’t think cops worry him,” I said.

“Now I feel old,” Quirk said.

“This is a pretty cool guy,” I said. “He knows what he’s doing, and he doesn’t seem to scare.”

“Like you and me,” Quirk said.

“Yeah, but he’s better-looking,” I said.

“Than you and me?” Quirk said. “How is that possible?”

SUSAN AND I made love on Sunday morning at her place with the bedroom door closed and Pearl grumbling unhappily outside it. When we were through, Susan whisked the covers up over us, as she always did, and we lay quietly on the bed for a while.

“You know, don’t you,” Susan said, “that I was a cheerleader at Swampscott High School?”

“I do know that,” I said.

Susan flipped the covers back and rolled out of bed, and stood naked beside it.

“Sis-boom-bah,” she said, and jumped into the air and kicked her heels back.

“Is that in honor of my performance?” I said.

“Ours,” she said. “And us.”

I nodded.

“Sis-boom-bah,” I said.

Susan opened the bedroom door and Pearl bounded in, jumped on the bed, turned around maybe fifteen times, and flopped down where Susan had been. I looked at her. Then I looked at Susan.

“There’s a definite difference,” I said.

“Pearl was never a cheerleader,” Susan said.

We showered and dressed, which took me considerably less time than it took Susan. She was just snapping her bra when I headed for the kitchen to start breakfast. Pearl stayed where she was.

By the time I had made my whole-wheat blackberry pancakes and put them on the plates, she came out with her face on and her clothes in place. It was weekend informal, a scoop-neck black T-shirt, jeans, and loafers. But everything fit her so perfectly and she was so beautiful that I felt the same rush of amazement and triumph I always felt in moments like these.

She sat at the table and sipped her orange juice. I put the pot of coffee on the table and sat across from her and looked at her. She looked back at me, and finished her orange juice, and said something that sounded like “hum,” which I knew to be positive. I drank some orange juice and poured us some coffee. Pearl sat attentively beside the table. I would have been quite willing to discuss the particulars of what Susan and I had just done together, but I knew it violated some inward standard of privacy that she maintained. Sex is good; talking about it afterward is not good. So I shut up. Shutting up rarely leads to anything bad.