Robert B. Parker’s Someone to Watch Over Me

4

“Mr. Spenser, we are delighted to have you at the Blackstone Club,” T. W. Shaw said, sweeping his hand into a wood-paneled lounge the size of an airplane hangar with lots of dark brown leather furniture and floor-to-ceiling shelves stuffed with old books. “You were highly recommended by two of our top members.”

“I got a smoking jacket for Christmas,” I said. “And no place to wear it.”

A thin smile crossed his lips “Well, we do have a large smoking room with a walk-in humidor. Two saunas, a dining room, and an exercise facility.”

“And the club is men only?”

“But of course.”

“No women at all?”

“Except for staff,” he said. “We are quite old-fashioned in our membership.”

“Mother will be so pleased,” I said.

Shaw looked perplexed for a moment before placing his right hand against an onyx side table that looked as if it might weigh as much as a mastodon. He was a smallish round guy with slick black hair and a thin mustache. The hair and mustache were as dark as shoe polish. His suit was navy single-breasted with a baby-blue bow tie. Few men could carry off a bow tie. Shaw wasn’t one of them.

“And what is the annual membership?” I said.

He told me.

I let out a low whistle.

Shaw gave me a look as if whistling was unseemly. He then smiled at me for a moment. If he tried any harder to put a twinkle into his eye, the bow tie might start to unravel.

“Would you like to sit down?” he said. “Perhaps have an early cocktail?”

“I always like a cocktail,” I said. “But perhaps you’re the one who should sit down.”

“Excuse me?”

“Sit down, T.W.,” I said. “I want to talk to you about two lackeys you sent to pester a young woman who stopped by earlier today.”

His face and the tips of his ears turned a variety of different colors. He licked his lips and pulled the hankie out from his breast pocket.

“Please don’t tell me you’re getting the vapors,” I said.

“Who are you?”

“Two of your top members already told you.”

“But you don’t wish to join the club.”

I shook my head. T.W. sat, forearms across his fat little thighs and hands clasped together. He looked like a child who had just been caught placing thumbtacks on his teacher’s chair.

“Last week, a young woman came here under the auspices of giving a man a massage,” I said. “She was paid five hundred dollars. But while she was massaging the man’s feet, he stood up and performed a string rendition of ‘Camp Town Ladies’ on himself.”

“Not here,” he said. “Not at the Blackstone Club. This is an elite club, sir. For more than a century, this club has offered refuge to Boston’s finest gentlemen.”

“How long has the club existed?”

“Since 1883.”

“Perhaps some men of lesser character have oozed through the cracks.”

Shaw looked up, smoothing down his slick little mustache with his thumb and forefinger. “Are you asking me for money?” he said. “Would that make you go away?”

“Nope,” I said. “I’m asking you for the girl’s belongings and the name of the man who brought her here.”

“Our membership is closely guarded and highly confidential.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I will make inquiries into this allegation.”

“It’s not an allegation,” I said. “You already know that. Something very bad and very icky happened here. And you’re the one cleaning up the mess.”

Shaw again wet his lips. His eyes wandered above my shoulder as a young black man in a waiter’s uniform entered and asked what we would be drinking today. Shaw let out a long breath and flailed his hand for the waiter to go away.

“Mr. Shaw would like a double bourbon,” I said. “No chaser.”

“And you, sir?”

I shook my head, and he went away, silently, from the library. Shaw lifted his eyes toward me and swallowed. “Anyone who would bring a child here under those circumstances would have their membership immediately revoked.”

“Of course, T.W.”

Shaw swallowed, and we waited in silence. I gave a reassuring smile to T.W. He did not smile back.

The waiter returned with a short whiskey on a silver tray. It was served neat, a cocktail napkin under the crystal glass. As T.W. reached for it, I noted a slight tremble in his hand.

“The backpack contained a computer,” I said. “And the girl’s personal belongings.”

“I will get to the bottom of it, Mr. Spenser,” he said. “You have my word.”

“Immediately.”

He sipped at the whiskey, holding it in his hand as he tried to steady his breathing and compose his thoughts.

“I understand this man had a woman set up this massage,” I said.

“We have no women here,” he said. “Except for serving staff. That’s against the rules.”

“And what about letting in fifteen-year-old girls to massage men’s feet?”

“Well, um.”

“Happy to hear it.” I stood up. I looked around the library at all the books, the framed oil portraits of past elite members. Many ascots and mustaches. The air smelled of tobacco, leather, and money.

“I expect to hear from you bright and early.”

“Excuse me?”

“You have until ten a.m. tomorrow,” I said. “And then we will alert the local media.”

I laid down my business card. Simple and elegant on heavy stock with only my name, profession, address, and phone number. No need to show him the one with the skull and crossbones.

I would never be that gauche. Not at the Blackstone Club.

“Surely you don’t think I can conduct an internal investigation in a day?” he said, looking down at his gold watch.

“I look forward to hearing from you.”

Shaw lifted the drink and took another long sip.