Роберт Паркер - Sixkill

“My appointment in Samara has arrived,” I said. “I don’t want to lead him to you.”

She was silent for a little while.

Then she said, “Don’t let him succeed.”

“You know I wouldn’t do that to you,” I said.

“God, you’re thoughtful,” she said. “Can you stay in touch?”

“I can call,” I said. “And I will.”

“You sound like this will take a while,” she said.

“I think so,” I said. “I think he likes foreplay.”

“So he is a sadist,” Susan said.

“I would guess.”

“While he’s enjoying the foreplay, why don’t you kill him?”

“I’m hoping to learn a little,” I said.

“Besides which,” Susan said, “you don’t do that, do you.”

“Only if it were about you,” I said.

“You just plow along,” Susan said. “You care about other people, but they don’t dissuade you, or distract you.”

“Except you,” I said.

“Except me,” Susan said. “You continue to be who and what you are, and you continue to do what you set out to do.”

“Born to plow,” I said.

“It scares the hell out of me,” Susan said.

“Scares the hell out of me too,” I said. “Sometimes.”

“But I greatly admire it,” she said.

“Good,” I said.

“You might want to exploit his sadism in some way,” Susan said.

“Suggestions?” I said.

“I don’t have one,” she said. “But if someone wants to stall for a while before he kills you, an opportunity might be lurking.”

“Might at that,” I said.

“Is Z with you?” Susan said.

“Yes,” I said. “Though not at this moment.”

“Where are you?”

“Home,” I said. “With the door locked.”

“At least you’ve locked the doors,” she said.

“I always lock the doors,” I said. “There’s no advantage to not locking them.”

“Always so logical,” she said.

“Except when I’m not,” I said.

“Except for then,” Susan said.

We were quiet again. It wasn’t awkward. Nothing was awkward with Susan. We both knew there was nothing left to say, but neither of us wanted to hang up.

“But Z will be staying with you when you are out and about,” she said.

“He will,” I said. “He’ll come and walk me to my office in the morning. We’ll probably have breakfast on the way.”

“At the Taj?”

“Probably,” I said.

“Don’t overeat and get logy,” she said.

I grinned silently.

“I’ll be careful,” I said.

“When do you suppose he’ll have enough foreplay,” Susan said.

“Same as everybody,” I said. “When consummation becomes irresistible.”

“I know the feeling,” Susan said. “In a different context.”

“Yes,” I said.

“I hope to experience it soon again,” she said.

“I’ll do my very best to survive,” I said.

“Call me when you can,” she said.

After we hung up, I wandered to the front window and looked down at Marlborough Street. Stephano was there, under a streetlight, leaning against a car. There were three other men with him. Stephano was smoking. All of them were looking up at my apartment.

I opened the window and leaned out.

“Can you guys do harmony on ‘Old Gang of Mine’?” I said.

They looked up at me silently.

“How about ‘Danny Boy’? ‘Won’t You Come Home, Bill Bailey’?”

Silence.

“Want me to lead?” I said. “ ‘Up a Lazy River’? You know that one?”

Nobody said anything; nobody moved except Stephano, who took a long drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke out slowly.

“Aw, you’re no fun,” I said, and closed the window.

I checked the lock on the front door, set the security alarm, and went to bed with a gun on my bedside table. There have been nights when I’ve slept better.

When Z arrived in the morning, I was showered and shaved and dressed for work. I had the little .38 in an ankle holster, and my new .40 S&W semiautomatic on my right hip. I still had the Browning nine-millimeter, but I kept it locked in the hall closet, as a spare.

Last night’s quartet was no longer in front of my house, and we saw nothing of them as we walked to the Taj, but as we ate near the window on Newbury Street, Stephano stood outside and looked at us through the window. I smiled and shot him with my forefinger. He showed no reaction, and after a time, he walked away.

Z stared at the empty window for a time. Then he looked at me.

“You know,” he said, “this is kind of fun.”

“Except if we get killed,” I said.

“But if we didn’t run that risk,” Z said, “what would be the fun?”

“Christ,” I said. “A philosopher.”

“Well, it’s true. I mean, how exciting would this be if the winner got to capture the fucking flag? You know?”

“You played capture the flag?”

“Indian school,” he said. “When I was little.”

“ ‘Death is the mother of beauty,’” I said.

“What the hell does that mean?” Z said.

“Pretty much what you’re talking about,” I said. “It’s from a poem.”

“Oh,” Z said. “That’s why there’s the part about beauty.”

“You sure you weren’t an English major at Cal Wesleyan?”

“Football,” Z said. “What’s that about death and beauty?”

“If there were no death, how valuable would life be?”

“Yeah,” Z said. “Like supply and demand.”

“It is,” I said. “You got a weapon?”

“Got the .357,” Z said. “And a bowie knife.”

“A bowie knife,” I said.

“I am a Cree Indian,” he said. “The blood of Cree warriors runs in my veins.”

“I’d forgotten that,” I said. “You planning to scalp Stephano?”

“Get a chance and I’ll cut his throat,” Z said. “I’m good with a knife.”

I nodded.

“Time to plow,” I said.

“Plow?” Z said.

“Just an expression, I heard.”

We finished our coffee. I paid the bill for breakfast and we left. There was no sign of Stephano and friends on Newbury Street. I looked at Z; he looked happy.

Maybe he’s getting in touch with his warrior heritage.

I lowered my voice on the assumption that all warriors had deep voices.

“It is a good day to die,” I said.

He glanced at me.

“For who?” he said.

“Old Indian saying.”

“Paleface see-um too many movies,” Z said.

I had a small idea.

It was late afternoon and raining hard when Z and I got in my car in the Public Alley behind my building, and pulled out onto Arlington Street. We circled the block and went down Berkeley Street to Storrow, into the tunnel under the city, southbound, and exited in time to cross Atlantic Ave and drive into South Boston. Stephano and his colleagues picked us up on Arlington Street and stayed close behind us, even bumping the rear of my car a little at the Boylston Street stoplight. I ignored them.

Jumbo’s movie was shooting in the big alley between the Design Center and the Black Falcon Terminal in Southie. And when we parked near the set, Stephano and friends parked near us, and made a show of walking behind us onto the set.

So far, so good.

Jumbo was in his trailer, having lunch. Z and I went in without knocking. Don came to his feet, and put his hand inside his coat.

“Hey,” he said. “You can’t come in here.”

“Can, too,” I said.

I hit Don with a left hook and a right cross and knocked him over backward. It stunned him, and while he was recovering, Z bent over and took the gun from inside Don’s coat and put it in the side pocket of his own raincoat.