Rough Weather

29

Hawk and I met Ives at the bar in the Seaport Hotel on a Friday night. The hotel was an easy walk from the federal court-house, where Ives had a desk. He was sandy-haired and tweedy, with a blue oxford shirt and a rep-stripe tie.

“Ah, Lochinvar,” Ives said, “and his raptor friend.”

“How about the end of the bar,” I said.

We sat on the first three bar stools, Ives between me and Hawk. “I assume you are seeking information,” Ives said, “to which you have no legal right, and for which you have no clearance.”

“Exactly,” I said.

“And you are planning to pay for the drinks.”

“I am,” I said.

Ives smiled and ordered Johnnie Walker Blue on the rocks. I had the same thing with soda. Hawk ordered champagne.

“We don’t sell Krug by the glass, sir,” the bartender said. “I can give you a list of what we do serve.”

“I’ll have a bottle,” Hawk said.

“I assume you wish to discuss our mutual friend the Gray Man,” Ives said.

“You know what I’m involved in?”

“Tashtego,” Ives said.

“Pretty good,” I said.

“I’m a listener,” Ives said. “It is my profession.”

“He still working with you guys?”

“Mr. Gray has joined the private sector.”

“No more money from his uncle?” I said.

“Not to my knowledge.”

“So who pays him now?” I said.

“I don’t know,” Ives said.

“Can you find out?” I said.

Ives smiled and sipped some scotch.

“Probably,” he said.

“Have any idea what he’s been doing recently?”

“Other than Tashtego? No.”

“Can you find that out?” I said.

“Probably,” he said.

Hawk was silently drinking champagne, alert to every movement of a young woman in a tight black dress at the end of the bar. You could never be sure where danger lay. I had typed up a list of salient people in the Tashtego affair. I took the list from my inside pocket and placed it in front of Ives on the bar.

“Recognize any of the names?” I said.

Ives took some glasses from his breast pocket and studied the list.

“There are several names anyone would know,” he said after a time. “Reubens, for instance. Everyone who loves music knows who he is. The Lessards are prominent residents of the Main Line. Of course, Peter Van Meer right here in Boston. Great wealth.”

“You know what I’m after,” I said. “Anyone who had a connection to Tashtego and would have the wherewithal to hire Rugar.”

“Bradshaw,” Ives said.

“What about him?”

“Government employee,” Ives said.

“Information adviser, I’m told.”

Ives smiled.

“Aren’t we all,” he said.

“He with you guys?”

Ives didn’t answer.

“What can you tell me about him?” I said.

“Nothing,” Ives said.

“If you were me,” I said, “would you look into him?”

“Yes,” Ives said.

“Anyplace you’d start?”

Ives shrugged. He finished his scotch, put the glass on the bar, and stood.

“That’s it?” I said. “That’s what I get for buying you Johnnie Walker Blue?”

“It’s a lot for one shot of scotch,” Ives said.

“Do you know how much the stuff costs?” I said.

Ives shrugged slightly and walked out of the bar.

Still looking at the woman in the black dress, Hawk said, “Bradshaw.”

“You were listening.”

“Sort of,” Hawk said. “Babe in the black dress might be a security risk.”

“You think we should frisk her?”

“We? I was thinking I frisk her while you fight the boyfriend.”

I looked down the bar. The woman in the black dress was sitting with an outsized young man jammed into an expensive suit, who looked, by himself, like an offensive line.

“Good deal for me,” I said.

“I could fight the boyfriend and you could frisk her,” Hawk said. “But what’s she get out of that?”

“Her loss,” I said.

Hawk nodded.

“What you gonna do ’bout Bradshaw?” he said.

“I think I’ll look into him,” I said.

“’Stead of fighting the boyfriend?”

“Yeah.”

Hawk shook his head sadly.

“All work and no play…” he said.