The Judas Goat

25

Next day Susan drove me to the airport. We stopped on the way in the hot bright summer morning at a Dunkin‘ Donut shop, and had coffee and two plain donuts apiece. “A night of ecstasy followed by a morning of delight,” I said, and bit into a donut. “Did William Powell take Myrna Loy to a Dunkin’ Donut shop?”

“He didn’t know enough,” I said. I raised my coffee cup toward her. She said, “Here’s looking at you, kid.” I said, “How’d you know what I was going to say?”

“Lucky guess,” she said. We were quiet on the ride to the airport. Susan was a terrible driver and I spent a lot of time stomping my right foot on the floorboards. When she stopped at the terminal she said, “I’m getting sick of doing this. How long this time?”

“Not long,” I said. “Maybe a week, no longer than the Olympic games.”

“You promised me London,” she said. “If you don’t make it back to pay off I’ll be really angry with you.” I kissed her on “I love you, Suze.” She said, “I love you too,” and I got out and went into the terminal. Two hours and twenty minutes later I was back in Montreal at the house near Henri Bourassa Boulevard. It was empty. There was O’Keefe’s ale in the refrigerator along with several bottles of champagne. Hawk had been shopping. I opened a bottle of O’Keefe’s and sat in the living room and watched some of the games on television. At about two-thirty a man knocked at the front door. I stuck my gun in my hip pocket, just in case, and answered. “Mr. Spenser?” The man was wearing a seersucker suit and a small-brimmed straw hat with a big blue band. He sounded American, although so did half the people in Canada. At the curb with the motor running was a Dodge Monaco with Quebec plates. “Yeah,” I said, very snappy. “I’m from Dixon Industries. I have an envelope for you, but first could I see some ID?” I showed him my PI license with my picture on it. I looked like one of the friends of Eddie Coyle. “Yeah,” he said, “that’s you.”

“It disappoints me too,” I said. He smiled automatically, gave me back my license and took a thick envelope out of his side coat pocket. It had my name on it, and the Dixon Industries logo up in the left-hand comer. I took the envelope. The man in the seersucker suit said, “Goodbye, have a nice day,” went back to his waiting Monaco, and drove off. I went in the house and opened the envelope. It was three sets of tickets for all the events at the Olympic stadium for the duration of the games. There was nothing else. Not even a preprinted card that said HAVE A NICE DAY. The world becomes impersonal. Hawk and Kathie returned while I was on my fourth O’Keefe’s. Hawk opened some champagne and poured a glass for Kathie and one for him. “Haw old Suze doing?” he asked. He sat on the couch, Kathie sat beside him. She didn’t say anything. “Fine. She said hello.”

“Dixon go along?”

“Yeah. I think it gave him another purpose. Something else to think about.”

“Better than watching daytime TV,” Hawk said. “You turn up anything yesterday or today?” He shook his head. “Me and Kathie been looking, but we haven’t seen anyone she know. Stadium’s big. We haven’t looked at it all yet.”

“You scalp some tickets?” Hawk smiled. “Yeah. Hated to. But it’s your bread. Been my bread I might have taken them away. Hate scalpers.”

“Yeah. How’s the security?” Hawk shrugged. “Tight, but you know. How you gonna be airtight with seventy, eighty thousand people walking in and out two, three times a day. There’s a lot of buttons around, but if I wanted to do somebody in there, I could. No sweat.”

“And get out?”

“Sure, with a little luck. It’s a big place, man. Lot of people. ”

“Well, tomorrow I’ll see. I got us all tickets so we don’t have to deal with the scalpers.”

“All right,” Hawk said. “Hate corruption in all its aspects, don’t you, Hawk.”

“Been fighting it all my life, bawse.” Hawk drank some more champagne. Kathie filled his glass as soon as he put it down. She sat so that her thigh touched his and watched him all the time. I drank some ale. “Been enjoying the games, Kath?” She nodded without looking at me. Hawk grinned at me. “She don’t like you,” he said. “She say you ain’t much of a man. Say you weak, you soft, say her and me we should shake you. I getting the feeling she don’t care for you. She think you a degenerate.”

“I got a real way with the broads,” I said. Kathie reddened but was silent, still looking at Hawk. “I told her she was a little hasty in her judgment.”

“She believe you?”

“No. You buy anything besides booze, like for supper.”

“Naw, man, you was telling me about a place called Bacco’s. Figured you’d like to take me and Kath out and show her you ain’t no degenerate. Treat her to a fine meal. Me too.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Okay. Let me take a shower.”

“See that, Kath,” Hawk said. “He very clean.” Bacco’s was on the second floor in the old section of Montreal not far from Victoria Square. The cuisine was French Canadian and they had one of the better country pates that I’d eaten. It also had good French bread and Labatt 50 ale. Hawk and I had a very nice time. I was thinking that Kathie probably did not have nice times. Ever. But she was passive and polite while we ate. She’d bought a kind of dungaree suit with a vest and long coat that she was wearing, and her hair was neat and she looked good. Old Montreal was jumping during the Olympics. There was outdoor entertainment in a square nearby, and throngs of young people drinking beer and wine and smoking and listening to the rock music. We got in our rented car and drove back to our rented house. Hawk and Kathie went upstairs to what had become their room. I sat for a while and finished the O’Keefe’s and watched the evening events, wrestling and some of the weightlifting, alone in the rented living room, on the funny old TV set with the illuminated border. At nine o’clock I went to bed. Alone. I hadn’t had much sleep the night before and I was tired. I felt middle-aged. I was lonely. It kept me awake till nine-fifteen.