Robert B. Parker’s Someone to Watch Over Me

45

I spotted a crew from Cerberus the following night.

Susan and I had just left Henrietta’s Table inside the Charles Hotel and were walking back to Harvard Square. I was extolling the many virtues of their Yankee pot roast while still lamenting the loss of Rialto. Susan and I both very much missed our after-dinner conversations with Chef Jody Adams.

“Is there a game afoot?” Susan said.

“Perhaps.”

“Someone following us?”

“Two men,” I said. “One followed us from the Charles. The other joined him at the bus stop. They’re both following us now.”

“Are you sure?”

“Does a one-legged duck swim in circles?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know any one-legged ducks.”

We passed Charlie’s Kitchen and walked on toward Brattle Square. A classical trio had set up by the T station, students playing a violin, a cello, and an electric keyboard. The music was lively and feverish and added much to the pursuit.

“I’ve never beaten anyone up to Mozart,” I said.

“Is that what you plan to do?”

“I would like you to walk into the Coop and order us two coffees,” I said. “I will join you in just a moment.”

“I’d rather not leave you.”

“If they wanted to shoot me, it wouldn’t be in plain sight on the Harvard Square,” I said. “I promise.”

“Then what are they doing?”

“Keeping tabs,” I said. “And reporting in.”

“And you want to give them a little reminder before they do so?”

“Probably.”

“As a trained therapist, might I suggest joint counseling?”

“You may.”

Susan had her arm hooked in mine, both of us strolling and window shopping. We took our time, making our way to the Coop. We stopped in front of the Ray-Ban store and Rebekah Brooks jewelry. Susan admired an antique pearl necklace on display. We continued on past the Beat Hotel and then the Coop, where we parted ways. I kissed her on the cheek as if we were saying good night, and I continued down Brattle Street toward the T station. I took my time, stopping off at the newsstand and catching a glimpse of one of the men following me.

It was one of the same men I’d met with Poppy Palmer in Boca. He’d ditched the pastel colors for a summer-weight blue jacket, presumably to hide his gun. He was a young and fit Latin man with a neatly trimmed mustache and goatee, wearing sunglasses even though it was past nine o’clock.

I purchased a copy of Sports Illustrated and continued down the steps and into the T station, bustling with passengers headed back south and into Boston. I took my time at the foot of the stairs, looking down into the river of people flowing to the trains. I waited a beat, making sure I was spotted, and then strolled into the bathroom.

As I walked, I rolled up my copy of SI into a nice tidy tube.

Inside the small bathroom, a young white kid was combing his hair in the mirror. He had on a crimson Harvard T-shirt just in case anyone might mistake him for the great unwashed.

“I know this sounds strange,” I said. “Perhaps even off-putting. But I’ll pay you ten bucks to tell a guy outside that you saw me leave through the back door.”

“We’re down in the station,” he said, smirking. “There is no back door.”

“Ah, you are a Harvard student,” I said. “But he isn’t. He’s from Miami.”

“Miami?”

I might as well have said Timbuktu. I reached into my wallet and pulled out two fives.

“Is this some kind of kinky game?” the kid said.

“What if I told you I was a private investigator and this man was part of a multinational security company with ties to some really bad people?”

The kid shook his head and took my money. I walked into a stall and unrolled the Sports Illustrated. There was a cover story on the Women’s World Cup. I read about the USA’s victory over the Netherlands until I heard the door open and shoes upon the dirty tile floor. I closed the issue and again rolled it back up tightly.

I heard the man kick in the first stall and then walk in front of mine. I snatched open the door fast and smacked him three times across the face with the magazine.

“Bad doggie.”

He wasn’t expecting it.

“Sit.”

The man fought back.

I dropped the magazine and punched him twice in the gut, reaching for the lapels on his crisp summer jacket and launching him at the sinks. He landed hard against his back, all the wind going out of him, and stuck his hand into his jacket for his gun.

The bathroom was very small, and I stopped him before he found it. I tossed the gun onto the floor, grabbed up a good bit of his hair, and dragged him into one of the stalls. I dunked his head over and over into the toilet until the fight was gone in him.

I left him there, hands on each side of the rim, trying to get to his feet.

I reached down and pocketed his little automatic, washed my hands in the sink, and reached for a paper towel.

I didn’t look back until I was aboveground again. I didn’t see the second man anywhere.

I crossed the street and headed upstairs at the Coop. Susan was seated by the elevators, perusing a copy of Raising Boys to Be Good Men by Aaron Gouveia. Two coffees in the center of the table.

“Should I ask?” Susan said.

“Nope.”

“Has it started raining?”

I looked at the water across the front of my shirt and then reached for the coffee. I removed the lid. “Just a sprinkle.”

“Sugar?” I said.

“Of course.”

“How’s the book?”

“The author says young boys are seeing too much anger, dysfunction, and violence and are being suffocated by their social codes.”

“Do tell.”

“The author says showing your emotions and being physically demonstrative is a good thing.”

“Would you be okay with me saying I stuck a man’s head in a toilet but feel bad about it?”

“Was he working for Steiner?”

I blew across the coffee even though I knew it had grown cold. Habits were hard to break.

I nodded.

“Then yes,” Susan said, putting the book onto the table and reaching for the coffee. “I’d be fine with that.”

“We won’t be bothered any more tonight.”

Susan lifted her coffee cup, and we touched the rims.

“I wish I could reward you,” Susan said. “But we have a full house.”

“Plus two cops watching the street.”

“Maybe the pup can sleep with us tonight.”

I looked up from my coffee and raised my eyebrows, as this was a new development.

“But don’t get any ideas,” she said. “I think she’s been lonely and confused. I’m just trying to be responsible and ethical.”

“Of course,” I said.

“Why are you smiling?”

“No reason at all.”