glanced up at me, looked around at the number of empty tables still available, and looked back at me with a frown.
“Do I know you?” he said.
“This is very disappointing,” I said. “The CEO of a multibranch bank and you’re eating in the Galleria food court.”
“Cut the crap,” he said. “Who the hell are you?”
He had a very cold gaze. There was something cruel about the way his forehead sloped down over his little sharp eyes, something about the aggressive jut of his prominent nose, and the thickness of his wide jaw.
“Who are any of us,” I said. “Why’d you fire Amy Peters?”
“What?”
“It was a two-part question. I raised the metaphysical question about human identity, and the more worldly question of why you fired Amy Peters.”
“What the hell business is it of yours?”
“Human identity is a concern to us all,” I said.
“Goddamn it, I’m talking about Amy Peters. Why are you asking me about her?”
“Amy Peters is dead,” I said. “I want to know why.”
A couple of teenaged kids passed by wearing baggy jeans and do-rags. They each had a tray of french fries and a giant Coke. I wondered if there were such a thing as negative nourishment.
“Are you a policeman?” Conroy said.
I gave him my most coppish deadpan stare.
“What was she fired for?” I said.
“I know nothing of her death,” Conroy said. “She was fired because she was incompetent.”
“She was bringing suit against you for gender discrimination.”
“Of course she was. They all do. You fire somebody and it’s suddenly un-American.”
“Can you tell me about her incompetence?”
Conroy leaned back in his chair a little, and gave me a hard CEO look.
“I guess I’d better see some identification,” he said.
“Amy Peters told me she was fired because she talked to me.”
“You’re that fucking private detective,” Conroy said.
I smiled at him.
“I am he,” I said.
Conroy stared at me and opened his mouth and thought about what he was going to say and decided not to say it and closed his mouth. Then he thought of something else.
“Fuck you,” he said.
He stood abruptly and walked through the food court and out into the mall. I got up and strolled into the mall after him. At the far end I saw Vinnie Morris come out of a music store wearing a Walkman and earphones. He went out through the mall door onto the street ahead of Conroy. After Conroy went out, Hawk stopped window-shopping and drifted out after him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“You seem down,” I said to Susan. “Would you like me to have sex with you and brighten up your week?”
She shook her head. We were at a small table in the high-ceilinged bar at the Hotel Meridien. I had beer. Susan was barely touching a cosmopolitan.
“That’s the answer everybody gives me,” I said.
“The parents of the boy who committed suicide are suing me,” Susan said.
“They blame you,” I said.
“Yes.”
“I guess they’d probably have to,” I said.
“I know.”
“You’ve seen a lawyer?”
“I talked with Rita.”
“Rita? I thought you didn’t trust Rita.”
“I don’t trust her with you,” Susan said. “I think she’s a good lawyer.”
“She is,” I said. “And a big firm like Cone Oakes has a lot of resources.”
Susan smiled without much pleasure. “So I’m employing Rita,” Susan said. “And she’s employing you.”
“What’s she say about the lawsuit?”
“She feels it’s groundless.”
The Hotel Meridien was in a building that had once been a bank. The bar was in a room where they probably used to keep the money. The ornate ceiling looked fifty feet high.
“How do you feel?”
“I feel guilty.”
I ate a few peanuts. Eating a few peanuts was not easy. Mostly, I tended to eat them all.
“Be surprising if you didn’t,” I said.
“I know. I know the guilty feeling comes from my reaction to the event. Not the event itself.”
“Still feels bad, though,” I said.
“Yes.”
I ate
“Do I know you?” he said.
“This is very disappointing,” I said. “The CEO of a multibranch bank and you’re eating in the Galleria food court.”
“Cut the crap,” he said. “Who the hell are you?”
He had a very cold gaze. There was something cruel about the way his forehead sloped down over his little sharp eyes, something about the aggressive jut of his prominent nose, and the thickness of his wide jaw.
“Who are any of us,” I said. “Why’d you fire Amy Peters?”
“What?”
“It was a two-part question. I raised the metaphysical question about human identity, and the more worldly question of why you fired Amy Peters.”
“What the hell business is it of yours?”
“Human identity is a concern to us all,” I said.
“Goddamn it, I’m talking about Amy Peters. Why are you asking me about her?”
“Amy Peters is dead,” I said. “I want to know why.”
A couple of teenaged kids passed by wearing baggy jeans and do-rags. They each had a tray of french fries and a giant Coke. I wondered if there were such a thing as negative nourishment.
“Are you a policeman?” Conroy said.
I gave him my most coppish deadpan stare.
“What was she fired for?” I said.
“I know nothing of her death,” Conroy said. “She was fired because she was incompetent.”
“She was bringing suit against you for gender discrimination.”
“Of course she was. They all do. You fire somebody and it’s suddenly un-American.”
“Can you tell me about her incompetence?”
Conroy leaned back in his chair a little, and gave me a hard CEO look.
“I guess I’d better see some identification,” he said.
“Amy Peters told me she was fired because she talked to me.”
“You’re that fucking private detective,” Conroy said.
I smiled at him.
“I am he,” I said.
Conroy stared at me and opened his mouth and thought about what he was going to say and decided not to say it and closed his mouth. Then he thought of something else.
“Fuck you,” he said.
He stood abruptly and walked through the food court and out into the mall. I got up and strolled into the mall after him. At the far end I saw Vinnie Morris come out of a music store wearing a Walkman and earphones. He went out through the mall door onto the street ahead of Conroy. After Conroy went out, Hawk stopped window-shopping and drifted out after him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“You seem down,” I said to Susan. “Would you like me to have sex with you and brighten up your week?”
She shook her head. We were at a small table in the high-ceilinged bar at the Hotel Meridien. I had beer. Susan was barely touching a cosmopolitan.
“That’s the answer everybody gives me,” I said.
“The parents of the boy who committed suicide are suing me,” Susan said.
“They blame you,” I said.
“Yes.”
“I guess they’d probably have to,” I said.
“I know.”
“You’ve seen a lawyer?”
“I talked with Rita.”
“Rita? I thought you didn’t trust Rita.”
“I don’t trust her with you,” Susan said. “I think she’s a good lawyer.”
“She is,” I said. “And a big firm like Cone Oakes has a lot of resources.”
Susan smiled without much pleasure. “So I’m employing Rita,” Susan said. “And she’s employing you.”
“What’s she say about the lawsuit?”
“She feels it’s groundless.”
The Hotel Meridien was in a building that had once been a bank. The bar was in a room where they probably used to keep the money. The ornate ceiling looked fifty feet high.
“How do you feel?”
“I feel guilty.”
I ate a few peanuts. Eating a few peanuts was not easy. Mostly, I tended to eat them all.
“Be surprising if you didn’t,” I said.
“I know. I know the guilty feeling comes from my reaction to the event. Not the event itself.”
“Still feels bad, though,” I said.
“Yes.”
I ate
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