Free The Judas Goat by Robert B. Parker Page B

to London and call me at the Mayfair Hotel when he gets to Heathrow.”
    “Mm hmm.”
    “Tell him money is no problem. He can name his price. But I want him now. Or sooner.”
    “It’s bad,” Susan said. “What’s bad?”
    “Whatever you’re doing. I know Hawk, I know what he’s good at. If you need him it means that it’s bad.”
    “No, not too bad. I need him to see that it doesn’t get bad. I’m okay, but tell Henry to make sure that Hawk gets here. I don’t want Hawk to come to the hotel. I want him to call me from Heathrow, and I’ll get to him. Okay?”
    “Okay. Who is Henry Cimoli?”
    “He’s like the pro at the Harbor Health Club. Little guy, used to fight. Pound for pound he’s probably the strongest man I know. Before it got fancy, the Harbor Health Club used to be a gym. Hawk and I both trained there when we were fighting. Henry sort of trained us. He’ll know where Hawk is.”
    “I gather you don’t have Hawk’s address. I would be willing to talk with him direct.”
    “I know you would. But Hawk doesn’t have an address. He lives mostly with women, and between women he lives in hotels.”
    “What if he won’t come?”
    “He’ll come.”
    “How can you be sure?”
    “He’ll come,” I said. “How’s Techniques of Counseling doing?”
    “Fine, I got an A - on the midterm.”
    “Minus,” I said. “That sonovabitch. When I come home I want his address.”
    “First thing?”
    “No.” There was a small pause. “It’s hard on the phone,” I said. “I know. It’s hard at long distance in any event. And… it’s like having someone in the war. I don’t like you sending for Hawk.”
    “It’s just to help me do surveillance. Even Lord Peter Wimsey has to whiz occasionally.” Susan’s laugh across the ocean, only slightly distorted by distance, made me want to cry. “I believe,” she said. “that Lord Peter’s butler does it for him.”
    “When this is over maybe you and I can come,” I said. “It should be very fine for you and me to go around and look at the sights and maybe up to Stratford or down to Stonehenge. London gives me that feeling, you know. That excited feeling, like New York.”
    “If a man tires of London, he is tired of life,” Susan said. “Would you come over?”
    “When?”
    “Whenever I’m through. I’ll send you some of my profits and meet you here. Would you come?”
    “Yes,” she said. There was another small pause. “We’d better hang up,” she said. “This must be costing a great deal of money.”
    “Yeah, okay. It’s Dixon’s money, but there’s not much else to say. I’ll call tomorrow at this same time to see if Henry got Hawk. Okay?”
    “Yes, I’ll be home.”
    “Okay. I love you, Suze. ”
    “Love.”
    “Goodbye.”
    “Goodbye.” She hung up and I listened to the transoceanic buzz for a minute. Then I put the phone down, leaned back on the bed, and fell asleep fully dressed with the lights on and my folded handkerchief still pressed against my chin. When I woke up in the morning the dried blood made the handkerchief, now unfurled, stick to my chin, and the first thing I had to do when I got up was to soak it off in cold water in the sink in the bathroom. Getting the handkerchief off started the cut bleeding again, and I got a butterfly bandage out of my bag and put it on. I showered even more carefully than yesterday, keeping the water off both bandages. Not easy. If they kept after me in a while I’d have to start going dirty. 
    I shaved around the new cut and toweled off. I changed the dressing on my bullet wound, turning half around and watching in the mirror to do it. There didn’t seem to be any infection. I bundled last night’s clothes into a laundry bag and left it for the hotel laundry. My shirt was a mess. I didn’t have much hope for it. If I stayed here long enough they’d probably hire a blood removal specialist. I had juice, oatmeal and coffee for breakfast, and went back out to watch my