Cold Service

24

THE GRAY MAN wanted a public place, so Hawk and I met him in the central rotunda at Quincy Market. It was a high-domed circular space in the center of the old market building. There were tables and benches for eating. Food stalls occupied both the wings that ran off the rotunda, and the room was normally full of tourists and high-school kids from Melrose. Hawk and I were drinking coffee at a table next to a wall where we could see the whole space.

And there he came.

He was still gray, a gray trench coat, gray slacks, black shoes, his gray hair smoothed back, his gray turtleneck showing at the top of his trench coat. He was still tall, and he still wore an emerald in his right earlobe. He walked straight across the floor of the rotunda and sat down at the table across from Hawk and me.

"No one has killed you yet," he said to me.

Hawk looked at him without expression.

"You've come the closest," I said. "We still calling you Rugar?"

He shrugged. "Might as well."

"You speak Ukrainian?" I said.

"Yes," Rugar said.

If he was aware of Hawk's stare, he didn't show it. He showed nothing. He seemed to feel nothing. He moved only as required and then with great economy of motion.

"You know me?" Hawk said to Rugar.

"Hawk."

"You scared of trouble?" Hawk said.

"No," Rugar said.

"What's your ask," Hawk said.

"To translate only?" Rugar said.

"Yes."

"No other duties?"

"Other duties be up to you," Hawk said. "I'm hiring you to translate."

Rugar gave him a price.

"Okay," Hawk said.

Rugar looked at me.

"You're in this?"

"Yes."

"You have no problem with me?"

"No."

"And I have none with you."

"We could join hands," I said, "and dance around the table."

"You got a right to know," Hawk said. "Be a lotta shooting, sooner or later."

Rugar nodded.

"Ain't hiring you to jump in," Hawk said.

"I understand."

"You want to jump in, be sure it on our side."

Rugar's face moved slightly. He might have been smiling.

"Fair enough," he said.