Cold Service

32

CECILE HAD A condominium in a gated enclosure on Cambridge Street, at the foot of Beacon Hill, right across from Mass. General, so she could walk to work. She and Hawk had Susan and me to brunch there on the Sunday after we met with Boots and Tony.

The big loft space on the second floor had full-length arched windows, which Cecile had opened. The big ivory drapes that spilled out onto the floor were too heavy to blow in the spring breeze, but their edges fluttered a little while Hawk made each of us a Bloody Mary. Domestic.

We drank a couple of Bloody Marys, thus ensuring that I would nap when I got home. Cecile and Susan talked about their respective practices, and I shared occasional thoughts on sex and baseball, which, by and large, were all I had for thoughts. As usual, Hawk said little, though he seemed to enjoy listening. I had been reading a book about the human genome. We talked about that for a while. Cecile served us a variation of a dish my father called "shrimp wiggle": shrimp and peas in a cream sauce. Cecile served hers in pastry shells. My father didn't know what a pastry shell was, and with good reason. We had a little white wine with the shrimp. When I went to get a little more from the ice bucket, I noticed that Hawk's big.44 Mag was lying holstered on the sideboard among the wineglasses. The stainless-steel frame was good, but the brass edge of the cartridges that showed in the cylinder clashed with the cutlery.

We were nearly, and mercifully, through the shrimp wiggle when Cecile put her wineglass down suddenly and sat, staring at her plate. Sitting beside her, Hawk put his hand on her thigh. Her shoulders began to shake and then she looked up and there were tears running down her face. Hawk patted her thigh softly.

"This is so awful," Cecile said.

Her voice was shaky.

"We had a fight about this before you came."

She dabbed carefully at her eyes with her napkin. There were still tears.

"We sit here and eat and drink and make small talk," she said, and pointed at Hawk.

"And he was almost shot and killed and now he's going to kill other people, probably already has, to get even, or get killed trying to get even, and"-she pointed at me-"he's helping. And no one will tell me anything about it or explain it or even talk about it, so we sit here and chit-chat and gossip and pretend."

Hawk continued to pat her thigh. Otherwise it was as if he hadn't heard her.

"It's not pretend, Cecile," Susan said. "Because these men aren't like other men you know doesn't mean that they are simply different. Because they are engaged in life-and-death matters sometimes doesn't mean that they can't waste time other times talking about sex or baseball."

"It's not wasting time," I said.

Susan glared at me, but flickering at the edge of the glare was amusement.

"I could accept that," Cecile said, "maybe. If only somebody could explain to me what the hell they are doing and why."

"It's a terrible left-out feeling, isn't it," Susan said.

"I'm terrified. I'm horrified. I can't understand it. And the man who is supposed to love me won't even explain himself."

I know Susan heard "supposed to love me," and I knew she knew that it could mean more than one thing. But Susan was not a proponent of freelance shrinkage over drinks on a Sunday afternoon. Thank God!

"Maybe he can't explain it," Susan said.

"So let him say he can't explain it," Cecile said.

Susan was quiet. So was I. Hawk gently took his hand from Cecile's thigh and stood and walked to the sideboard. He picked up the holstered gun and turned and walked out the front door, and closed it gently behind him. All of us were quiet for a moment.

Then Cecile said, "Oh my God!" and began to cry. We were quiet while she cried. Finally she eased up and dabbed some more at her eyes with her napkin. Some of her eye makeup had run a little in the big cry.

"I'm sorry," she finally said.

"Loving Hawk is not easy work," I said.

"It seems easy for you."

"Apples and pears," I said.

Cecile tossed her chin at me. It was not completely affectionate.

"Does Spenser talk to you?" she said to Susan.

"I'm afraid he does," Susan said.

"And you understand him?"

"Yes."

"How do you stand it-the guns, the tough-guy stuff?"

"The relationship seems worth it," Susan said.

"And you can't change him?"

"He has changed," Susan said. "You should have seen him when we first met."

She smiled for a moment and looked at me.

"How did you do it?" Cecile said.

"I didn't. He did," Susan said.

Cecile looked at me aggressively, as if somehow Hawk were my fault.

"Is that right?"

"I learned things from her," I said. "I do, after all, love her."

The minute I said it I knew it was the perfect wrong thing.

"And Hawk doesn't love me?" Cecile said.

"He loves you better than anyone else I've ever seen him with," I said.

"Oh, goodie," Cecile said.

With Hawk unavailable, she was mad at me.

"Have you told Cecile about the time the Gray Man shot you?" Susan said to me.

"Some."

"He was almost killed. It took about a year to recover. Hawk and I took him to a place in Santa Barbara, and Hawk rehabbed him."

Cecile nodded.

"What did you do," Susan said, "when you were sufficiently rehabbed."

"I found him and put him in jail."

"Did he stay in jail?"

"No, we made a deal; he solved a case for me, DA let him go."

"Did you mind?" Susan said.

"That he got let go? No. We were even anyway."

Susan looked at Cecile as if they both had a secret.

"Why did you track him down?" Susan said.

"I can't let somebody shoot me and get away with it."

"Why?"

"Very bad for business," I said.

"Any other reasons?"

"I needed him to solve the case."

"Did the police help you find him?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I needed to do it myself."

Susan didn't say anything. She and Cecile shared their secret again. I sipped a little white wine. Some sort of mediocre Chardonnay. I didn't like it much, but any port in a storm. Then I saw it: where Susan had taken me, and why.

"I was afraid," I said to Cecile. "I was afraid of the Gray Man, and of dying, and of not seeing her again."

"Not seeing Susan," Cecile said.

"Yes. It was intolerable. I can't do what I do, or be who I am, if I'm afraid."

"So you had to get back up and ride the horse again," Cecile said.

"Yes."

Cecile was silent, looking at me and at Susan.

"He's afraid," she said finally. "Like you were."

Susan nodded.

"And he can't say it."

"He may not even know it," Susan said.

"He knows," I said.

Susan nodded. Cecile drank some of her wine. She didn't seem to notice it was mediocre.

"But"-Cecile spoke slowly as if she were watching the sun rise gradually-"either way, he has to prove that they can't kill him."

"Yes," I said.

"And you will help Hawk do that," she said to me.

"Yes."

Cecile looked at Susan.

"And you'll let him do that?" she said.

"Wrong word," Susan said. "I know why he is helping, and I don't try to stop him."

"Because?"

"Because I love him," Susan said, "and not someone I might make him into, if I could, which I can't."

"What if you could make me into Brad Pitt?" I said.

"That would be different," Susan said.