Robert B. Parker's Someone to Watch Over Me (Spenser #48)(6)

“Who are you?”

“Two of your top members already told you.”

“But you don’t wish to join the club.”

I shook my head. T.W. sat, forearms across his fat little thighs and hands clasped together. He looked like a child who had just been caught placing thumbtacks on his teacher’s chair.

“Last week, a young woman came here under the auspices of giving a man a massage,” I said. “She was paid five hundred dollars. But while she was massaging the man’s feet, he stood up and performed a string rendition of ‘Camp Town Ladies’ on himself.”

“Not here,” he said. “Not at the Blackstone Club. This is an elite club, sir. For more than a century, this club has offered refuge to Boston’s finest gentlemen.”

“How long has the club existed?”

“Since 1883.”

“Perhaps some men of lesser character have oozed through the cracks.”

Shaw looked up, smoothing down his slick little mustache with his thumb and forefinger. “Are you asking me for money?” he said. “Would that make you go away?”

“Nope,” I said. “I’m asking you for the girl’s belongings and the name of the man who brought her here.”

“Our membership is closely guarded and highly confidential.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I will make inquiries into this allegation.”

“It’s not an allegation,” I said. “You already know that. Something very bad and very icky happened here. And you’re the one cleaning up the mess.”

Shaw again wet his lips. His eyes wandered above my shoulder as a young black man in a waiter’s uniform entered and asked what we would be drinking today. Shaw let out a long breath and flailed his hand for the waiter to go away.

“Mr. Shaw would like a double bourbon,” I said. “No chaser.”

“And you, sir?”

I shook my head, and he went away, silently, from the library. Shaw lifted his eyes toward me and swallowed. “Anyone who would bring a child here under those circumstances would have their membership immediately revoked.”

“Of course, T.W.”

Shaw swallowed, and we waited in silence. I gave a reassuring smile to T.W. He did not smile back.

The waiter returned with a short whiskey on a silver tray. It was served neat, a cocktail napkin under the crystal glass. As T.W. reached for it, I noted a slight tremble in his hand.

“The backpack contained a computer,” I said. “And the girl’s personal belongings.”

“I will get to the bottom of it, Mr. Spenser,” he said. “You have my word.”

“Immediately.”

He sipped at the whiskey, holding it in his hand as he tried to steady his breathing and compose his thoughts.

“I understand this man had a woman set up this massage,” I said.

“We have no women here,” he said. “Except for serving staff. That’s against the rules.”

“And what about letting in fifteen-year-old girls to massage men’s feet?”

“Well, um.”

“Happy to hear it.” I stood up. I looked around the library at all the books, the framed oil portraits of past elite members. Many ascots and mustaches. The air smelled of tobacco, leather, and money.

“I expect to hear from you bright and early.”

“Excuse me?”

“You have until ten a.m. tomorrow,” I said. “And then we will alert the local media.”

I laid down my business card. Simple and elegant on heavy stock with only my name, profession, address, and phone number. No need to show him the one with the skull and crossbones.

I would never be that gauche. Not at the Blackstone Club.

“Surely you don’t think I can conduct an internal investigation in a day?” he said, looking down at his gold watch.

“I look forward to hearing from you.”

Shaw lifted the drink and took another long sip.





5


“THERE’S A FASTER way through this shit,” Hawk said.

“Do tell.”

“We snatch up that man who chased Mattie off and toss him into the trunk,” Hawk said. “What’s his name again?”

“T.W.,” I said. “T. W. Shaw.”

“We take T.W. for a little joyride,” Hawk said. “When we get back, I guarantee we get the laptop and the sicko who wanted his toes sucked.”

“It was a foot massage,” I said. “Let’s not take it too far.”

It was early at the Harbor Health Club, the waterfront and harbor covered in darkness and shadows. Rain fell over the moored cabin cruisers and sailboats, the ferry running from the Boston Harbor Hotel to the airport. Hawk shook his head and started back into the heavy bag. He worked out a quick delivery of body blows and head shots that sent the bag jumping up into the air and jangling from the chains.

Two young women in black yoga pants and tight white tops with spaghetti straps over shapely shoulders stopped to watch Hawk. Hawk added a bit of flair to the round, and they stayed until he’d finished. He wore a white sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off, his upper arms larger than most grown men’s legs.

“Some sick puppies out there,” Hawk said, wiping down his bald head.