Rough Weather - By Robert B. Parker Page 0,17

you to say yea or nay on its own merits. I know you. You believe in favors. If you thought I wanted you to do it, or needed you to do it, you’d do it.”

I nodded. Rita sipped her champagne cocktail. Then she put it down and leaned her forearms on the table and looked at me for a long moment.

“You were there, I assume, when the ball went up,” she said.

“Yep.”

“What did you do?” Rita said.

“Mostly I wandered around in the hurricane like Lear on the heath,” I said.

“Change places and handy dandy,” Rita said.

“Which is the justice,” I said, “which is the thief?”

“Think we got the quotes right?”

“Close enough,” I said.

“Was Susan there?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I’ll bet your heath wandering was in her interest,” Rita said.

“You think?” I said.

“You are as predictable as sunrise.”

“Or sunset,” I said.

“I’m a glass-half-full girl,” Rita said. “Even though you have rejected me for twenty years.”

“It hasn’t been easy,” I said.

“That’s comforting,” Rita said.

She opened her menu.

“They have the best meatloaf in the known universe,” I said.

“For lunch?” Rita said.

“Sometimes.”

“A nice salad will do for me,” she said. “Criminal defense lawyers shouldn’t have a fat ass.”

“You seem in little danger,” I said.

“How would you know?” she said.

“I pay close attention to such matters,” I said.

“Not close enough,” she said.

“Well, I have a lot of eyewitness testimony to support my position,” I said.

Rita giggled, which was always fun to see.

“Oh, fuck you,” she said.

“Or not,” I said.

She giggled again.

“How long have we been dancing this dance?” Rita said.

“More than twenty years,” I said.

“And I’ve never gotten you into bed,” she said.

“Not many men can claim that,” I said.

She put her hand out and I put mine on top of it.

“I hope the music never stops,” she said.

I patted her hand for a moment.

“They don’t seem to have meatloaf on the lunch menu today,” I said.

“Life is not without disappointment,” Rita said.

“So far,” I said.

We were quiet.

Then Rita said, “You want me to call Jimmy? Tell him you’ll be stopping by?”

“If you would,” I said.

17

Gabriel and Whitcomb had offices in a recycled warehouse near the waterfront. Old brick, exposed beams, a lot of hanging greenery, some stained glass. It could have been a cocktail lounge in San Diego. From his corner office, Jimmy could look out at the bridge to Fairhaven, where the waters of the Acushnet River began to mingle with the harbor. On a small sideboard near the windows were pictures of a handsome blonde woman in golf clothes, and two soon-to-be-handsome blonde girls in riding clothes.

Jimmy himself was slim and sharp-faced with longish black hair combed straight back. He wore a blue blazer and a white shirt, no tie, gray slacks, and black loafers, no socks. There was a Rolex on his left wrist. Casual elegance. His dark eyes studied me with piercing sincerity.

“Any friend of Rita’s,” he said.

“Rita has a lot of friends,” I said.

“You got that right,” Jimmy said.

His smile was wide and warm, and just as sincere as his eyes.

“You represent Heidi Bradshaw,” I said.

“The firm does,” Jimmy said.

“In all legal matters?”

“Oh, God, no,” Jimmy said. “At her level, she needs all sorts of expertise. We are sort of legal triage for her; we field her problems, solve them when it’s our area, find the right people to solve them if it’s another area.”

“Which is how you got to me,” I said.

“We respect Rita’s recommendation, and may I say, hers for you was absolutely glowing.”

“And richly deserved,” I said. “Why did Heidi want someone in the first place?”

Jimmy did several noncommittal things with his head, shoulders, and hands.

“Heidi is Heidi,” he said.

“I noticed that,” I said. “What did she say she wanted someone for?”

“Goddamn,” Jimmy said. “I’m sorry. But I can’t . . . you know, privilege and all that.”

“How did she phrase her request to you?” I said.

“Geez,” Jimmy said, “you were there, weren’t you, for all the trouble.”

“I was,” I said.

“God, I’m sorry. What a tragedy.”

“How did she ask for the someone that turned out to be me?” I said.

“God, Spenser, I’m sorry. I really am,” Jimmy said. “Rita told me about you when she called to say you’d be coming by.”

“That I was articulate and charming?”

“She said that you wouldn’t let it alone. That since you were there you’d take it personal and all that. I know you are just trying to find Adelaide.”

“I am,” I said.

“But I can’t talk about clients, you know? I start doing that, how many do I have left after a while?”

I