Robert B. Parker’s Someone to Watch Over Me

6

At five minutes until ten, just as I finished Arlo & Janis, Mattie opened my office door and held it wide. A man in a black suit with a red tie entered the room. He was a smaller, fit-looking guy with lots of black hair, a prominent nose, and a toothy grin. He looked to me, stuck out his hand, and said, “You must be Spense.”

He had the face and manner of someone selling jewelry on late-night television. I disliked him immediately.

I closed the pages of my morning paper, folded my arms, and leaned back in my office chair. The rain fell pleasantly outside, making tapping sounds against my bay window. The man had a small black backpack slung across his shoulder. When I didn’t respond, he retracted his hand, set the backpack on the floor, and took a seat without being asked.

“My name is Greebel.”

“You look like a Greebel,” I said.

“What does that mean?”

“Do you have an appointment, Mr. Greebel?”

“I’m in the employ of a certain party who’s asked me to deliver a particular item.”

“Sorry,” I said. “Could you be any more circumspect?”

He motioned to the backpack. Mattie leaned against the doorframe.

“There you go,” he said. “And there is an envelope inside to make up for a truly unfortunate misunderstanding.”

“There was no misunderstanding,” Mattie said. “A man whipped it out in front of a freakin’ kid.”

Greebel continue to smile. His teeth were so big and white that I wondered if they were capped. So I asked.

“No,” Greebel said, the smile fading and his lips covering the chompers. “They’re my own teeth.”

“You must be the rock star at the dentist’s office,” I said.

Mattie pushed herself off the doorframe and walked toward my desk. She took a seat at the edge.

“A most generous gift,” Greebel said. “Along with the return of the lost item.”

“The backpack wasn’t lost,” Mattie said. “My client ran off. She was scared shitless.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” he said. “But I hope this will all remain confidential. If you have any further questions, please contact my law firm.”

“Were you sent by the Blackstone Club?” I said.

He shook his head.

“T. W. Shaw?”

He shook his head again.

“Jimmy Hoffa?” I said.

Mattie shook her head. “This guy wouldn’t say shit if his mouth was full of it.”

Greebel started to grin again, wearing a bemused expression while standing up. “Are we through here?”

“Perhaps your client, whoever that might be, might have started off by returning the bag to its rightful owner rather than playing a game of keep-away,” I said.

“I apologize if there was any misunderstanding.”

“The Blackstone Club, of which your client is a member, sent two men to follow my assistant here,” I said. “One of whom was carrying a gun.”

“I have no knowledge of that.”

“No big deal,” Mattie said. “They were fucking idiots.”

“Amateurs,” I said.

“I really have no idea what you’re talking about,” Greebel said.

“So your client isn’t the Blackstone Club or T. W. Shaw?”

“Or the fucking Easter Bunny,” Mattie said.

“My client will remain nameless,” Greebel said, turning on a heel. “And I hope your client is pleased by the generous gift.”

“And what if they’re not?” Mattie said.

Greebel smiled even bigger. You could play “Sweet Rosie O’Grady” on those teeth. The lawyer held out his hands, showing his palms, and nodded at the backpack before leaving the room.

He left the door open, and we soon heard the hallway door open and close.

“What a freakin’ douche,” Mattie said.

“But a conscientious flosser.”

Mattie scooted off the desk and reached for the bag. She unzipped it, removed the laptop and what looked like a small makeup bag. She continued to pull out notepads and packs of pens until she found the envelope. It was white and sealed and looked to be bulging at the seams. Mattie slit it with a fingernail and began to shuffle through a wad of cash.

“How much?” I said.

“Thousand bucks.”

“Are you satisfied with the offer?” I said.

Mattie held my gaze. And then slowly shook her head.

“Nope,” she said. “No fucking way.”