Free The Judas Goat by Robert B. Parker Page A

weapon, assault.”
    “You assaulted me, you red sucking son of a bitch,” he said. “Using profanity in front of a police officer,” I said. “We’ll find an appropriate charge,” Downes said. “Right now I’d like to hear the story.” I told him. The young lady wrote down everything we said. “And the other one ran off on you,” Downes said. “Unfortunate. You’d have had the start, perhaps, on another car.”
    “I could have killed him,” I said. “I am aware of that, Spenser. It’s one reason I am not pressing you harder about all this.” He looked at the bobby. “Gates,” he said. “Take this gentleman down to the car. Be careful of his arm. I’ll be right along and we’ll take him to the hospital. Murray,” he said to the young lady, “you go along with them.” The three of them left. The kid never looked at me. I was still holding the handkerchief to my chin. “You ought to clean that up and get a bandage on it,” Downes said. “I will in a minute,” I said. “Yes, well, I have two things I wish to say, Spenser. One, I would get some help, were I you. They’ve tried twice in two days. There’s no reason to think that they will not try again. I don’t think this is a one-man job.”
    “I was thinking the same thing. I’ll put in a call to the States tonight.”
    “That’s the second thing I wish to say. I am ambivalent about this entire adventure. So far you have probably done the British government and the city of London a favor by taking three terrorists out of circulation. I appreciate that. But I am not comfortable about an armed counterinsurgency movement developing in my city, conducted by Americans who operate without very much concern for British law or indeed for British custom. If you must import help, I will not allow an army of hired thugs to run loose in my city shooting terrorists on sight, and, in passing, making my department look rather bad.”
    “No sweat, Downes. If I get help it will be just one guy, and we’ll stay out of the papers.”
    “You hope to stay out of the papers. But it will not be easy. The Evening Standard and the Evening News have been very insistent on getting the story of last night’s shooting. I’ve put them off but inevitably someone will give them your name.”
    “I don’t want ink,” I said. “I’ll shoot them away.”
    “I hope so,” Downes said. “I hope too that you’ll not be staying with us a great many more days, hmm?”
    “We’ll see,” I said. “Yes,” Downes said. “Of course we will.” 

11
     I sat on the bed and read the dialing instructions on the phone. I was exhausted. It was hard even to read the instructions. I had to run through them twice before I figured out that by dialing a combination of area codes I could call Susan Silverman direct. I tried it. The first time nothing happened. The second time I got a recorded message that I had screwed up. The third time it worked. The wires hummed a little bit, relays clicked in beneath the hum, a sound of distance and electricity hovered in the background, and then the phone rang and Susan answered, sounding just as she did. Mr. Watson, come here, I need you. “It’s your darling,” I said. “Which one,” she said. “Don’t be a smartass,” I said. “Where are you?” she said. “Still in London. I just dialed a few numbers and here we are.”
    “Oh, I had hoped you were at the airport wanting a ride home.”
    “Not yet, lovey,” I said. “I called for two reasons. One to say that I love your ass. And second, to ask you to do me a service.”
    “Over the phone?”
    “Not that kind of service,” I said. “I want you to make a phone call for me. Got a pencil?”
    “Just a minute… okay.”
    “Call Henry Cimoli”-I spelled it-“at the Harbor Health Club in Boston. It’s in the book. Tell him to get hold of Hawk and tell Hawk I’ve got work for him over here. You got that so far?”
    “Yes.”
    “Tell him to get the first plane he can