The Professional by Robert B. Parker Page A

He showed no sign of recognition, although he’d seen me probably a hundred times. His eyes were empty. His face was empty. He shot at what Tony told him to shoot at and, as best as I could tell, had no other interests except controlled substances and whatever music he was listening to. I don’t think I’d ever heard him speak. But he could shoot. He might have been as good as Vinnie, maybe even Chollo, who was the best I’d ever seen.
    “Wait here,” Junior said.
    He went past the bar and down a hall. Ty-Bop looked at me blankly. I grinned at him.
    “How are things, Ty-Bop?” I said.
    He jived a little and his head might have moved, but it was probably to the music.
    “Listening to a different drummer?” I said.
    Ty-Bop’s expression didn’t change.
    “Good,” I said. “I like an upbeat approach.”
    The room showed little sign that the South End had undergone considerable social change in the last twenty years. I was still the only white face in the room. Junior returned and jerked his head at me. I gave Ty-Bop a friendly thumbs-up and followed Junior past the bar. He was so big he could barely fit into the hallway, and both of us were too much. He stepped aside and gestured for me to walk past him.
    “You know the door,” he said.
    “Like my own,” I said, and walked on down the hall.
    Tony’s office was small and without much in the way of ostentation. Tony was in there with Arnold, who was his driver. Arnold didn’t shoot as well as Ty-Bop or muscle as well as Junior. But he was a nice combination of both skills, and he had a little class. He was handsome as hell. And dressed great.
    “Arnold,” I said.
    “Spenser.”
    Arnold was sitting on a straight chair, turned around so he could rest his forearms on the chair back. Tony was behind his desk. A little soft around the neck and jawline. But very dignified-looking, with a scatter of gray in his short hair, and none in his carefully trimmed mustache. As always, he was dressed up. Dark suit, white shirt, maroon silk tie and pocket hankie. He was smoking a long, thin cigar.
    “Tony,” I said. “Do you color your mustache?”
    Tony Marcus smiled.
    “Actually, motherfucker,” he said, “I color my whole body. In real life, I’m a honkie.”
    “Nope,” I said. “No white guy can say ‘motherfucker’ like you do.”
    Tony nodded.
    “Whaddya want?” he said.
    “Need a favor,” I said.
    “Oh, good,” Tony said. “Been hoping some wiseass snow cone would come in and ask for a favor.”
    “You want me to pat him down?” Arnold said to Tony.
    “No need,” Tony said.
    “He’s got a gun,” Arnold said. “I can tell the way his coat hangs.”
    Tony looked at Arnold.
    “You done work with him, you think we need to worry ’bout the gun?”
    “No.”
    “Okay,” Tony said, and turned to me, and raised his eyebrows.
    “Know a guy named Chet Jackson?” I said.
    “Who wants to know?” Tony said.
    “That would be me,” I said. “I look like some kind of bicycle messenger?”
    “Why do you want to know?”
    “He’s a danger to someone I sort of represent,” I said.
    “And you can’t stop him?”
    “Not without killing somebody,” I said.
    “So?” Tony said.
    “Not my style,” I said.
    “So have Hawk do it for you,” Tony said.
    “Also not my style.”
    “But it your style to come ask me,” Tony said. “A simple African-American trying to get along in a flounder-belly world?”
    “Exactly,” I said.
    Tony smiled.
    “I know Chet Jackson,” he said.
    “You have any clout with him?”
    “I might,” Tony said. “Pretty much got clout wherever I need it.”
    “So much for the simple African-American,” I said.
    Tony smiled again.
    “You knew that was bullshit when you heard it,” he said. “I don’t know if I owe you anything or not. But you done me some favors.”
    “Cast your bread upon the waters,” I said.
    “Sure,” Tony said. “Tell me a story.”
    I told him as much as he needed to know. Tony