affectionate.
"Does Spenser talk to you?" she said to Susan.
"I'm afraid he does," Susan said.
"And you understand him?"
"Yes."
"How do you stand it-the guns, the tough-guy stuff?"
"The relationship seems worth it," Susan said.
"And you can't change him?"
"He has changed," Susan said. "You should have seen him when we first met."
She smiled for a moment and looked at me.
"How did you do it?" Cecile said.
"I didn't. He did," Susan said.
Cecile looked at me aggressively, as if somehow Hawk were my fault.
"Is that right?"
"I learned things from her," I said. "I do, after all, love her."
The minute I said it I knew it was the perfect wrong thing.
"And Hawk doesn't love me?" Cecile said.
"He loves you better than anyone else I've ever seen him with," I said.
"Oh, goodie," Cecile said.
With Hawk unavailable, she was mad at me.
"Have you told Cecile about the time the Gray Man shot you?" Susan said to me.
"Some."
"He was almost killed. It took about a year to recover. Hawk and I took him to a place in Santa Barbara, and Hawk rehabbed him."
Cecile nodded.
"What did you do," Susan said, "when you were sufficiently rehabbed."
"I found him and put him in jail."
"Did he stay in jail?"
"No, we made a deal; he solved a case for me, DA let him go."
"Did you mind?" Susan said.
"That he got let go? No. We were even anyway."
Susan looked at Cecile as if they both had a secret.
"Why did you track him down?" Susan said.
"I can't let somebody shoot me and get away with it."
"Why?"
"Very bad for business," I said.
"Any other reasons?"
"I needed him to solve the case."
"Did the police help you find him?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I needed to do it myself."
Susan didn't say anything. She and Cecile shared their secret again. I sipped a little white wine. Some sort of mediocre Chardonnay. I didn't like it much, but any port in a storm. Then I saw it: where Susan had taken me, and why.
"I was afraid," I said to Cecile. "I was afraid of the Gray Man, and of dying, and of not seeing her again."
"Not seeing Susan," Cecile said.
"Yes. It was intolerable. I can't do what I do, or be who I am, if I'm afraid."
"So you had to get back up and ride the horse again," Cecile said.
"Yes."
Cecile was silent, looking at me and at Susan.
"He's afraid," she said finally. "Like you were."
Susan nodded.
"And he can't say it."
"He may not even know it," Susan said.
"He knows," I said.
Susan nodded. Cecile drank some of her wine. She didn't seem to notice it was mediocre.
"But"-Cecile spoke slowly as if she were watching the sun rise gradually-"either way, he has to prove that they can't kill him."
"Yes," I said.
"And you will help Hawk do that," she said to me.
"Yes."
Cecile looked at Susan.
"And you'll let him do that?" she said.
"Wrong word," Susan said. "I know why he is helping, and I don't try to stop him."
"Because?"
"Because I love him," Susan said, "and not someone I might make him into, if I could, which I can't."
"What if you could make me into Brad Pitt?" I said.
"That would be different," Susan said.
33
BROCK RIMBAUD RAN his operation out of a storefront at number five Naugus Street, which was a street just wider than an alley and not as long. There were five buildings on the street, all flat-roofed three-decker tenements, where the kitchens probably still smelled of kerosene. The storefront was on the first floor of the second three-decker in. The building was sided in yellowish asphalt shingles, with sagging porches across the face of the second and third floors. There were clotheslines in use on both porches.
On the plate-glass window that formed the front of Rimbaud's digs on the first floor was a black-letter sign that readRIMBAUD ENTERPRISES. The black lettering was edged with gold. Nicely coherent with the neighborhood.
"You know what we're going to do here?" I said to Hawk.
"Talk with the Brockster," Hawk said.
"Aside from the pure pleasure of it," I said. "What are we trying to
"Does Spenser talk to you?" she said to Susan.
"I'm afraid he does," Susan said.
"And you understand him?"
"Yes."
"How do you stand it-the guns, the tough-guy stuff?"
"The relationship seems worth it," Susan said.
"And you can't change him?"
"He has changed," Susan said. "You should have seen him when we first met."
She smiled for a moment and looked at me.
"How did you do it?" Cecile said.
"I didn't. He did," Susan said.
Cecile looked at me aggressively, as if somehow Hawk were my fault.
"Is that right?"
"I learned things from her," I said. "I do, after all, love her."
The minute I said it I knew it was the perfect wrong thing.
"And Hawk doesn't love me?" Cecile said.
"He loves you better than anyone else I've ever seen him with," I said.
"Oh, goodie," Cecile said.
With Hawk unavailable, she was mad at me.
"Have you told Cecile about the time the Gray Man shot you?" Susan said to me.
"Some."
"He was almost killed. It took about a year to recover. Hawk and I took him to a place in Santa Barbara, and Hawk rehabbed him."
Cecile nodded.
"What did you do," Susan said, "when you were sufficiently rehabbed."
"I found him and put him in jail."
"Did he stay in jail?"
"No, we made a deal; he solved a case for me, DA let him go."
"Did you mind?" Susan said.
"That he got let go? No. We were even anyway."
Susan looked at Cecile as if they both had a secret.
"Why did you track him down?" Susan said.
"I can't let somebody shoot me and get away with it."
"Why?"
"Very bad for business," I said.
"Any other reasons?"
"I needed him to solve the case."
"Did the police help you find him?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I needed to do it myself."
Susan didn't say anything. She and Cecile shared their secret again. I sipped a little white wine. Some sort of mediocre Chardonnay. I didn't like it much, but any port in a storm. Then I saw it: where Susan had taken me, and why.
"I was afraid," I said to Cecile. "I was afraid of the Gray Man, and of dying, and of not seeing her again."
"Not seeing Susan," Cecile said.
"Yes. It was intolerable. I can't do what I do, or be who I am, if I'm afraid."
"So you had to get back up and ride the horse again," Cecile said.
"Yes."
Cecile was silent, looking at me and at Susan.
"He's afraid," she said finally. "Like you were."
Susan nodded.
"And he can't say it."
"He may not even know it," Susan said.
"He knows," I said.
Susan nodded. Cecile drank some of her wine. She didn't seem to notice it was mediocre.
"But"-Cecile spoke slowly as if she were watching the sun rise gradually-"either way, he has to prove that they can't kill him."
"Yes," I said.
"And you will help Hawk do that," she said to me.
"Yes."
Cecile looked at Susan.
"And you'll let him do that?" she said.
"Wrong word," Susan said. "I know why he is helping, and I don't try to stop him."
"Because?"
"Because I love him," Susan said, "and not someone I might make him into, if I could, which I can't."
"What if you could make me into Brad Pitt?" I said.
"That would be different," Susan said.
33
BROCK RIMBAUD RAN his operation out of a storefront at number five Naugus Street, which was a street just wider than an alley and not as long. There were five buildings on the street, all flat-roofed three-decker tenements, where the kitchens probably still smelled of kerosene. The storefront was on the first floor of the second three-decker in. The building was sided in yellowish asphalt shingles, with sagging porches across the face of the second and third floors. There were clotheslines in use on both porches.
On the plate-glass window that formed the front of Rimbaud's digs on the first floor was a black-letter sign that readRIMBAUD ENTERPRISES. The black lettering was edged with gold. Nicely coherent with the neighborhood.
"You know what we're going to do here?" I said to Hawk.
"Talk with the Brockster," Hawk said.
"Aside from the pure pleasure of it," I said. "What are we trying to
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