The Professional Part 25

Gary laughed and sipped some bourbon.

"So," I said. "I think you owe me more than two beers."

"How many?" Gary said.

"I think you need to stop blackmailing these women," I said.

"Ones that hired you?"

"Yep."

"You get some kind of bonus?" he said.

"Nope."

"You got a bonus, maybe we could split it."

"Stop blackmailing these women," I said.

"What if I f.u.c.k them for free?" Gary said.

"That's between you and them," I said. "But no blackmail."

"And I pick up this tab?" Gary said.

"Nope," I said. "I'll get the tab.

Gary grinned and put out his hand.

"Deal," he said.

And we shook on it.

Chapter40.

IT WAS DECEMBER NOW. Gray, cold, low clouds, snow expected in the afternoon. I was in my office, drinking coffee and writing out my report on a missing child I'd located. My door opened without a knock, and Chet Jackson came in wearing a double-breasted camel-hair overcoat.

"The mountain comes to Mohammed," I said.

"Whatever," Chet said. "Mind if I sit down?"

I said I didn't, and he unb.u.t.toned his overcoat and sat without taking it off.

"I want you to keep an eye on my wife," he said.

"To what purpose?"

"You know to what purpose," Chet said. "I want to make sure she's faithful."

"Eisenhower?" I said.

"That's one worry," he said.

"Hard to tail someone who knows you," I said.

"That's fine," he said. "If she spots you, she won't do it."

"Because she knows I'll report it to you," I said.

"Yes."

"And you'll divorce her and cut her off without a penny."

"Yes," he said. "I will."

"So I provide both information and a certain degree of prevention," I said.

"Exactly," he said.

"How long would you plan to keep track of her like this?" I said.

Chet looked startled.

"I . . . there's no timetable," he said. "We'll play it by ear."

I tilted my chair back and put a foot up on my desk.

"You want her to be faithful, but you don't trust her, and you're trying to compel her," I said.

"I love her," he said.

"And she loves you?"

"She's been with me for ten years," he said. "The s.e.x is still good."

"You ever read Machiavelli?" I said.

"I imagine somebody mentioned him to me at Harvard."

"He argued that it is better to be feared than loved," I said. "Because you can make someone fear you, but you can't make them love you."

"I'll settle for what I can get," Chet said.

"I understand that," I said. "But I'm not your man."

I thought I saw a glitter of panic in Chet's eyes.

"Why not?"

"Couple of things," I said. "One, I'm sick of all of you. All the women and their husbands and the whole cheating rigmarole. Two, it's emotional suicide. And I'm not going to help you commit it."

"What are you, some kind of f.u.c.king shrink?"

"Doesn't matter what I am," I said. "I'm not going to work for you."

"What if I pay you more than you're worth?" Chet said.

"There is no such amount," I said. "But it's not about money. I won't dance."

Chet was rich. He had clout. People didn't turn him down. He was breathing as if he had just run a race. His wife didn't love him, and he didn't think he could live without her.

"I need some help here," he said.

His voice was hoa.r.s.e.

"You do," I said. "But not the kind I can give you."

"You talking about a shrink?" he said.

"I can get you some names," I said.

"f.u.c.k that," he said.

I didn't say anything.

"f.u.c.k that," he said again, and got up and walked out.

Outside my office window, a couple of solitary snowflakes spiraled down. I watched them as they pa.s.sed.

"Apres vous," I said, "le deluge."

Chapter41.

NORMALLY WHEN WE ATE TOGETHER at my place, Susan and I sat at the kitchen counter. But it was Christmas, so Susan set the table at one end of the living room: tablecloth, crystal, good china, good silver, candles, and napkins in gold napkin rings.

"What do you think?" Susan said.

"Zowie," I said.

"Zowie?"

"You heard me," I said.

"Would Martha Stewart say 'zowie'?"

"If she wouldn't, she should," I said.

I had a fire going, and Pearl the Wonder Dog was in front of it on the couch, resting up after the rigors of the ride from Cambridge.

"What's for eats?" Susan said.

"I was thinking pizza," I said. "How 'bout you?"

Susan looked at me without expression.

"Or Chinese?" I said. "I bet PF Chang's is open. Pork fried rice?"

Susan's expression didn't change.

"I suppose subs wouldn't do it, either," I said.

"The baby and I are going home," Susan said.

"Boy, are you picky," I said. "Okay, how about we start with bay scallops seviche, then we have slow-roasted duck, snow peas, corn pudding, and brown rice cooked with cranberries?"

"And dessert?" Susan said.

"Blackberry pie."

"With ice cream?" Susan said.

"Ice cream or cheddar cheese that I bought at Formaggio."

"Or both?"

"Or both," I said.

"Oh, all right," Susan said. "We'll stay."

"Good girls," I said. "Would either of you care for some pink champagne?"

"Pearl's underage," Susan said.