The Professional

Chapter 40

IT WAS DECEMBER NOW. Gray, cold, low clouds, snow expected in the afternoon. I was in my office, drinking coffee and writing out my report on a missing child I’d located. My door opened without a knock, and Chet Jackson came in wearing a double-breasted camel-hair overcoat.

“The mountain comes to Mohammed,” I said.

“Whatever,” Chet said. “Mind if I sit down?”

I said I didn’t, and he unbuttoned his overcoat and sat without taking it off.

“I want you to keep an eye on my wife,” he said.

“To what purpose?”

“You know to what purpose,” Chet said. “I want to make sure she’s faithful.”

“Eisenhower?” I said.

“That’s one worry,” he said.

“Hard to tail someone who knows you,” I said.

“That’s fine,” he said. “If she spots you, she won’t do it.”

“Because she knows I’ll report it to you,” I said.

“Yes.”

“And you’ll divorce her and cut her off without a penny.”

“Yes,” he said. “I will.”

“So I provide both information and a certain degree of prevention,” I said.

“Exactly,” he said.

“How long would you plan to keep track of her like this?” I said.

Chet looked startled.

“I… there’s no timetable,” he said. “We’ll play it by ear.”

I tilted my chair back and put a foot up on my desk.

“You want her to be faithful, but you don’t trust her, and you’re trying to compel her,” I said.

“I love her,” he said.

“And she loves you?”

“She’s been with me for ten years,” he said. “The sex is still good.”

“You ever read Machiavelli?” I said.

“I imagine somebody mentioned him to me at Harvard.”

“He argued that it is better to be feared than loved,” I said. “Because you can make someone fear you, but you can’t make them love you.”

“I’ll settle for what I can get,” Chet said.

“I understand that,” I said. “But I’m not your man.”

I thought I saw a glitter of panic in Chet’s eyes.

“Why not?”

“Couple of things,” I said. “One, I’m sick of all of you. All the women and their husbands and the whole cheating rigmarole. Two, it’s emotional suicide. And I’m not going to help you commit it.”

“What are you, some kind of fucking shrink?”

“Doesn’t matter what I am,” I said. “I’m not going to work for you.”

“What if I pay you more than you’re worth?” Chet said.

“There is no such amount,” I said. “But it’s not about money. I won’t dance.”

Chet was rich. He had clout. People didn’t turn him down. He was breathing as if he had just run a race. His wife didn’t love him, and he didn’t think he could live without her.

“I need some help here,” he said.

His voice was hoarse.

“You do,” I said. “But not the kind I can give you.”

“You talking about a shrink?” he said.

“I can get you some names,” I said.

“Fuck that,” he said.

I didn’t say anything.

“Fuck that,” he said again, and got up and walked out.

Outside my office window, a couple of solitary snowflakes spiraled down. I watched them as they passed.

“Après vous,” I said, “le déluge.”