The Professional - By Robert B. Parker Page 0,34

Gary said.

“Junior would have killed him,” I said.

“The huge black dude is named Junior?” Gary said.

“Yep.”

“Man,” Gary said. “I’d hate to see Senior.”

I nodded.

“Why do you care if Junior kills Boo?” Gary said.

“No need for it,” I said.

“Boo’s not much,” Gary said. “Except mean.”

“I know.”

“Why would he go with the biggest guy in the room?”

“It’s all he’s got,” I said. “He’s a tough guy. He doesn’t have that, he has nothing. He isn’t anybody.”

“And you took that away from him,” Gary said.

“I did,” I said. “But he’s alive. And in a few days he’ll beat up some car salesman who’s fallen behind on the vig, and his sense of self will be restored.”

“That easy?” Gary said.

“Boo’s not very smart,” I said.

“I’ll say.”

Gary ordered another bourbon. I ordered another beer.

“Zel was, like, looking out for him,” Gary said.

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know this game like you do,” Gary said. “But I saw Zel move a little away from Boo when the trouble started, and focus in on the skinny black kid.”

“Ty-Bop,” I said.

“And I figure if things went bad for Boo,” Gary said, “Zel would start shooting.”

“Unless Ty-Bop beat him,” I said.

“Either way,” Gary said. “We weren’t far from a shoot-out right there.”

“True.”

“In which several people might have got killed,” he said.

“True.”

“Including Beth,” he said.

“Including Beth.”

“You thinking about that,” Gary said, “when you stepped up?”

“Sure,” I said.

“Christ,” Gary said. “A fucking hero.”

“But you knew that anyway,” I said.

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 fuck 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 unbuttoned 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 sex 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 fucking 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