Robert B. Parker's Someone to Watch Over Me (Spenser #48)(5)

“Listen, Shaggy,” I said. “I’ll give you two Scooby Snacks if you guys tell me why you’re following this young lady.”

“None of your fucking business,” he said. “Now get lost if you don’t want to go and get yourself shot.”

The man opened his jacket to show an automatic tucked into his jeans. I reached out, snatched the gun, and slapped the man across the face.

“What the hell?” he said.

I looked to his buddy. “You have a gun, too?”

“No,” he said, backing away. “I don’t.”

I slipped the gun into my right front pocket, opened the bald guy’s jacket, and patted him down. He was telling the truth. Mattie eyed both of them and shook her head. “Christ,” she said. “What a shitshow.”

“Who sent you?” I said.

“Guy from the club,” Shaggy said.

“Why?”

“They wanted to scare the girl,” Baldy said.

I looked to Mattie. “You scared?”

“Fucking frightened,” Mattie said. “My knees won’t quit knocking.”

“You work at the club?” I said.

They shook their heads.

“Know anything about a man who likes to get massages from kids?”

“No,” the bald guy said. “That’s sick.”

“’Tis.”

“Why’d they want you to scare this young lady?”

They both shrugged, looking convincingly stupid and ignorant of the situation.

“My brother knows Luther who works the door for that place,” Baldy said. “Sometimes they get trouble with someone getting drunk and smart. People pound on that door, piss all over that back alley. You know. We rough ’em up and get paid. That’s it. That’s all. I don’t know jack about this girl. Okay? Can we go? Can I please have my gun back?”

“Don’t tell the club what happened here.”

Both men shook their heads.

“Tell them you chased this girl through the Public Garden and lost her.”

They nodded. I pulled out the man’s gun, a cheap little .32-cal, and ejected the magazine. I thumbed out the bullets and handed it back.

“We don’t want no trouble,” Shaggy said.

“Follow this girl again . . .” I said.

“And I’ll kick your fucking teeth in,” Mattie said.

The bald guy started to answer. But I pursed my mouth and shook my head. He shut up and turned back toward Arlington. We watched the two men go and disappear around the corner.

“Morons,” Mattie said again, shaking her head. “You really think they’ll keep quiet?”

“Nope.”

“How are we gonna get that backpack?”

“Let me make some calls,” I said. “And perhaps change my clothes.”

“You going back there?”

I shrugged. “Okay by you, boss?”

Mattie thought about it for a moment. She then nodded back and said, “Sure. Okay. But don’t expect a big cut of the reward.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”





4


“MR. SPENSER, WE are delighted to have you at the Blackstone Club,” T. W. Shaw said, sweeping his hand into a wood-paneled lounge the size of an airplane hangar with lots of dark brown leather furniture and floor-to-ceiling shelves stuffed with old books. “You were highly recommended by two of our top members.”

“I got a smoking jacket for Christmas,” I said. “And no place to wear it.”

A thin smile crossed his lips “Well, we do have a large smoking room with a walk-in humidor. Two saunas, a dining room, and an exercise facility.”

“And the club is men only?”

“But of course.”

“No women at all?”

“Except for staff,” he said. “We are quite old-fashioned in our membership.”

“Mother will be so pleased,” I said.

Shaw looked perplexed for a moment before placing his right hand against an onyx side table that looked as if it might weigh as much as a mastodon. He was a smallish round guy with slick black hair and a thin mustache. The hair and mustache were as dark as shoe polish. His suit was navy single-breasted with a baby-blue bow tie. Few men could carry off a bow tie. Shaw wasn’t one of them.

“And what is the annual membership?” I said.

He told me.

I let out a low whistle.

Shaw gave me a look as if whistling was unseemly. He then smiled at me for a moment. If he tried any harder to put a twinkle into his eye, the bow tie might start to unravel.

“Would you like to sit down?” he said. “Perhaps have an early cocktail?”

“I always like a cocktail,” I said. “But perhaps you’re the one who should sit down.”

“Excuse me?”

“Sit down, T.W.,” I said. “I want to talk to you about two lackeys you sent to pester a young woman who stopped by earlier today.”

His face and the tips of his ears turned a variety of different colors. He licked his lips and pulled the hankie out from his breast pocket.

“Please don’t tell me you’re getting the vapors,” I said.