Greg Rucka - A gentleman_s game

"I'm a terrible lady."

The barman's lower lip worked, rising up and out as he gave Chace a second appraisal before barking out a short laugh and taking the half back. He pulled a fresh pint for her, and she moved off to join Wallace at their table to begin the work of serious drinking and less serious catching up. Over the course of three pints and most of the pack of Silk Cut they traded recent history, and Wallace confirmed most of what Chace had already determined for herself. He was doing well, he told her, relaxed and recovering from a life of abuse at the hands of SIS.

Certainly his appearance supported the claim, and Chace couldn't recall when Tom Wallace had ever looked so good, or so relaxed. He had ten years and an inch in height on her, but sitting in the pub, he seemed both younger and even taller. The lines on his face had softened, and color had returned to his complexion. He'd put on some weight as well, but it was appropriate to his frame, and she thought he looked as fit now as he ever had. His black hair, streaked with gray, was still as sloppily trimmed, but the brown eyes that watched her were no longer bloodshot or red-rimmed, and the mirth in them had begun to return. With his summer slacks and white trainers he looked more like an architect or an ad executive than a spy-turned-instructor.

Most Minders left the job in one of three ways, either sacrificed on the Altar of Bureaucracy in a discharge, promoted up the ladder in SIS-as Crocker had been-or killed in action. Wallace was unique in the history of the Section. A twelve-year veteran, he'd left on his own accord but still remained in the Service via lateral transfer to the School. Now, four days a week, he lectured to new recruits in the wood-paneled and electronically secured classrooms of the Manor House, a living legend passing on his pearls of wisdom.

And if the students gathered in his classroom knew who he was, had heard rumors about this operation or that mission, about this daring escape or that piece of unbelievable luck, it was a given that Wallace, bound by the Official Secrets Act, could neither refute nor deny the story. The most he would ever say was that he'd done his job, and he was proud to have done it, and now he was doing this one, and the students had damn well better feel the same.

"You look remarkably good for a man who's gone soft," Chace told him.

"I sleep a full night. No fear of the phone waking me. You have no idea what a pleasure that is."

"Full night is right. You turning your ringer off? I tried raising you last night, didn't get an answer."

Wallace glanced away from her, toward the rest of the room, and the weathered lines creased at the corners of his eyes, giving away the smile even as he tried to hide it. Chace leaned around, to see him full on, and that did it, flushed the grin from hiding and onto his face.

"Oh, dear Lord," Chace said. "You've got yourself some bint tied to your bedposts, haven't you?"

"I prefer to say that she's got me."

"And how long has this been going on?"

"Three weeks, if it's any of your business, and I'm reasonably certain that it isn't. You don't have to fear, Tara, she's been cleared. Safe for government work."

"Is that what you call it these days?"

"I'm an old man. I can use whatever euphemism I choose."

"You're not old, Tom, you're just randy."

He laughed, drained the last of his pint, and rose, saying that he'd found a good Indian place nearby, and that they'd better get some food before they were too pissed to manage the utensils. Chace agreed, emptied the last of her own glass, followed him out. Ducking beneath the blackened crossbeam at the pub's entrance, climbing the steps into the fresh air off the Channel, she felt it again, the pang of jealousy, and it annoyed her enough that she voiced it.

"She'd better be worthy, or else I'll find her house and burn it to the ground."

Wallace stopped to light a fresh smoke, handed it off to her, then lit a new one for himself. "It's down this way; we can walk."

"Her house? But I don't have my arson kit."

"The restaurant, you daft cow. Her place is over in Portsmouth, and that's the only clue you get."

"No, tell me more about her. I find myself possessed of the same fascination I normally feel when viewing accident scenes."

"Or causing them."

"I can't say. I never stick around long enough to admire my work."

Wallace chuckled, leaking smoke. They continued down the lane, turning onto the High Street. It was a pleasant night, and the streets were alive with traffic, but not crowded, and it made walking a pleasure.

"You needn't worry, Tara," Wallace said after they had traveled several blocks in silence. "She'll never replace you in my affections."

Enough sincerity had crept into his voice that Chace wasn't certain if they'd left the realm of jokes and crossed the border to someplace more serious. • They found a newsagent's on the High Street and bought more cigarettes, then made their way to the Magna Tandoori Restaurant, on Bemisters Lane. The curry was devastatingly hot, the way they both liked it, and each washed the meal down with more beer, spending most of the meal bitching about everything from expense reimbursement to the bastards in the Motor Pool who wanted seventeen forms for every time you needed a car on the job. It was late and they were both drunk when they finally staggered back onto the street, and when Wallace offered to give Chace the couch at his place, she agreed without hesitating.

It was only when they were back in the Triumph, the night chill of sea air forcing some sobriety back into her brain, that Chace recognized the danger of what they were doing. • Wallace had found himself a two-bedroom flat on the third floor on a block of surprisingly posh-looking homes on Marine Parade Drive. He parked the Triumph in his garage, cluttered with auto parts and tools, then guided Chace through the front door and into the building. There was a videophone in the alcove, and another set of doors, triple-locked, and inside doors to two ground-floor flats, a flight of stairs, and a lift. They took the stairs as a matter of habit.

His flat was cramped and plain, with two large curtained windows facing toward the seafront. Chace dropped her leather jacket over the back of the couch, then pulled the curtains to take in the view of the water and, in the distance, the lights shining from the Isle of Wight. In the kitchen behind her, she could hear Wallace rattling around, opening cabinets, clinking glasses.

He offered her a glass of whiskey when he joined her, holding the bottle and a glass of his own, which he then attempted to juggle while opening one of the windows. It swung outward, and he stepped over the sill and onto the small balcony. Chace followed him out, and they stood together, drinking their drinks and listening to the sounds of the sea and the distant horns and clatter from below.

"What do you think?" Wallace asked.

"It's spectacular. I'm wondering who you robbed to pay for this place."

"That's not really what I was asking."

Chace took more of her drink.

Wallace sighed, refilled his glass from the bottle, then hers. "We could, you know."

"Oh, trust me, Tom, I know. I'm drunk, but I know."

"I didn't mean to… I mean, when I offered, it wasn't because I was planning on anything. It's the truth, I don't know if you believe me."

"I believe you."

"Then I have to ask it again, Tara. What do you think?"

Chace almost laughed. "I wish I knew."

After a moment, Wallace broke open one of the new packs, offering a cigarette to her before taking one for himself. They smoked them down in silence.

"The whole thing with Kittering," Chace said. "The thing with Ed, you know. You never told Crocker."

"I never told him, but he knew."