Small Vices (8 page)

"Lila know you're looking at her?" I said.

"Un huh."

"She looking right back?"

"Un huh."

"This could be the start of something big," I said.

"Be big," Hawk said. "Won't be often."

"Chatting with Lila in the morning might be wearing," I said.

"I let you know."

I was starting back through my list to see which ones I wanted to follow up when some guys came in without knocking and barred Hawk's view of Lila by closing the door behind them. I knew this would annoy Hawk, and it did. But unless you knew him like I did, you wouldn't notice. It was mostly the way his head cocked when he looked at them.

There were four of them. All chosen apparently for heft more than beauty. Two of them, who might have been related, slid to either side of the closed door and stood against the wall and looked at Hawk. The other two walked past Hawk and stood in front of my desk and looked at me. Symmetry.

"You Spenser?"

The speaker was wearing a watch cap and a pea coat. The coat, which hung open, was too long, as all his jackets would be. He was built like a beer keg.

"I am he," I said.

I saw Hawk smile as he stood without apparent effort and went without any hurry to the olive green office supply cabinet next to the coat rack. The two guys that might have been related watched him carefully.

"You're working on the Ellis Alves case," he said.

"Day and night," I said.

"I was told to make this plain to you," Beer Keg said. "You leave that case alone from here on."

Hawk opened the supply cabinet and took a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun off the top shelf and cocked both barrels. The guys by the door watched him closely as he did it, but by the time they reacted the shotgun was cocked and pointed. The sound of the hammers going back made the other two guys turn and look.

"Ten gauge," Hawk said. "Ain't even fair at close range."

Hawk leaned against the wall with the shotgun in his right hand laid idly across the crook of his left arm. He smiled at them. They looked at me. While they had been looking at Hawk I had taken the occasion to take my Smith and Wesson.357 out of the side drawer of my desk. As they looked I cocked it, and keeping it in my right hand, let it rest on the desktop. I smiled at them.

"You should have been prepared," I said. "For the off chance that we wouldn't be paralyzed by fear."

Beer Keg was a stand-up guy.

"Today was just a warning anyway," he said.

"Might be our day to shoot you in the nose, though."

Beer Keg waded right past that.

"Guy say we was just supposed to rough you up today."

"What guy?" I said.

Beer Keg shook his head. His partner was wearing a black and red Mackinaw. Mackinaw's head was shaved above the ears with long hair on top. He was taller than Beer Keg, so his coat fit better.

"Nobody you know," he said.

I raised the Smith and Wesson and sighted at Mackinaw's forehead.

"I might know him," I said.

"I don't think you'll do it," Mackinaw said and turned and walked to the door. I saw Hawk glance at me. I shook my head. Mackinaw opened the door and walked out and left it open behind him. The other three, frozen for a moment waiting for me to shoot, suddenly burst into action when I didn't and jostled each other going out the door.

"Bad luck," Hawk said. "You picked the wrong one to bluff."

"I know," I said.

Hawk walked back to the chair and sat where he could see Lila again. He put the shotgun, still cocked, in his lap. I got out of my chair with the gun still in my hand and walked to my window. In maybe a minute I saw all four of them gathered on the corner of Berkeley and Providence Street, which ran between Arlington and Berkeley behind my building. In another moment a maroon Chevy station wagon drove down Providence Street and stopped. They got in. The wagon pulled out onto Berkeley and headed toward the river. It had Massachusetts plates. I turned from the window and wrote the number on my desk calendar.

"You'd shot him dead, the others would have told you everything they knew and more."

"I know."

"Lucky you got me around," Hawk said, "to keep them from inducting you into the Girl Scouts."

"It's the physical," I said. "I always have trouble with the physical."

"You Irish, ain't you?"

"Sure and I am, bucko."

"So you don't have a lot of trouble with the physical," Hawk said.

"Just enough."

When I came into his office at the field house he knew me right off.

"Spenser," he said, "you son of a bitch."

"Don't get sentimental on me, Dixie," I said.

The office was pretty much the same. A VCR, a cabinet full of video tapes, a big desk, a couple of chairs.

Above Dixie's desk there was still a picture of the Portland Trailblazers point guard, Troy Murphy. Murphy had played his college ball for Dixie. Beside it there was now a picture of Dwayne Woodcock. Dixie was pretty much the same, too. He had on a gray tee-shirt, blue sweat pants with a white stripe down the leg, gray shorts over the sweats, and a pair of fancy high-cut basketball shoes, which I happened to know he got free by the case, as part of his consulting deal.

"So you come to make trouble for my program again?" Dixie said.

"I saved your damn program," I said. "You hear anything from Dwayne?"

"My players stay in touch," Dixie said. "I hear from them or I hear about them."

"How's Dwayne doing?"

"Fifteen points a game, eleven rebounds for the Nuggets," Dixie said. "But he still plays a little soft. He toughens up, he'll double that."

"Can he read yet?"

"Hell, he's a college graduate," Dixie said.

"This place?" I said.

"Absolutely."

"Can he read yet?"

"Sure," Dixie said.

"He still with Chantel?" I said.

"Heard they got married."

"Good."

"So what brings you nosing around out here. Miss me?"

"Young woman over at Pemberton," I said. "Got killed a year and a half ago."

"Yeah, I heard about it. Some black guy, right? Raped her and strangled her?"

"No rape," I said. "I'm trying to clean up a few loose ends on that case."

"Yeah, so whaddya want from me, buddy? I didn't touch her."

"I've seen a picture of her," I said, "wearing a Taft tennis letter sweater that's obviously much too big for her."

"So you figure she was dating somebody on the Taft tennis team."

"Yes."

"And you want me to point you at the tennis coach."

"Yes."

Dixie Dunham made a low ugly sound which he probably thought was a laugh.

"Be glad to," he said. "The sonova bitch. Tried to recruit one of my players last year, right off my team."

"Tennis is a spring sport, isn't it?" I said.

"When you think the Tourney is played, buddy boy?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Coach's name is Chuck Arnold. I'll walk on down the hall with you and introduce y' all."

Chuck looked like a tennis coach. He was tall and flexible and lean and had the look of self-contentment that only expensive private education can confer. He wore a white cable stitched tennis sweater without a shirt, khaki pants, soft tan loafers, and no socks. The sleeves of the tennis sweater were pushed up over his tan forearms.

"That's him," Dixie said. "Tried to steal my back-up two guard for his fucking sissy-boy team."

Arnold smiled as if he were tired.

"Oh, give it a rest, Dixie," he said and put out a firm hand to me. "Chuck Arnold, what can I do for you?"

"Keep a hand on your wallet," Dixie said. "Fucker'll take it right out of your pocket, you're not careful."

He turned away and rumbled back down the drab corridor toward his office. Arnold stared after him with no trace of affection. Then he looked back at me.

"What did you say your name was?" he said.

"Spenser. I'm a detective. I'm looking for a guy who played tennis here sometime in the last few years. He dated a girl at Pemberton and gave her his letter sweater."

"I'm supposed to keep track of their love life?" Arnold said.

"Her name was Melissa Henderson. She was murdered about eighteen months ago."

"Yes, of course, I remember that. Some black guy raped her and killed her."

"Actually there was no evidence of rape."

"Whatever," Arnold said. "I already talked to the other detective."

"Which one?"

"I don't remember, big man, short blond hair."

"Miller?" I said.

"I don't remember."

"What did he want to know?"

"He was asking about Clint Stapleton."

"Melissa's boyfriend?"

"That's what he said."

"Who?"

"The other detective, for crissake. I try to teach them tennis. I don't delve into their sex lives."

"Is Stapleton the captain of the tennis team?"

"Yes."

"Where do I find him?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"Because I want to find him and talk with him about the murder of his girlfriend."

"Are you sure she was his girlfriend?" Arnold said.

"Perhaps she was a one-night stand."

"He gave her his letter sweater."

"How do you know that?"

"I'm a trained sleuth," I said. "Where do I find him?"

"Well," he said, "I guess I really must, mustn't I?"

"Yes."

"He should be working on the bang board in the cage."

"Thank you," I said and started out.

"I'd, ah, I'd be just as happy if you didn't mention that I told you about him."

"It is quite possible," I said, "that I will never mention your name again, Chuckster."

I walked around the track to a doorway on the far side. It opened into the tennis area where two red composition courts occupied most of the space. Along the back wall behind the baselines were solid green boards against which a tall rangy kid wearing a blue-and-white kerchief on his head was banging a tennis ball with a graphite racquet. He was wearing a set of blue and white sweats, and white tennis shoes, to go with the kerchief. He alternated slicing backhands and top spin forehands, hitting effortlessly and hard, without mis-hitting: backhand, forehand, backhand, forehand, alone in the big empty space. The sound of the ball was almost metronomic as it whanged off the racquet, banged off the board, and popped off the floor. If he was aware of me he didn't show it. I waited for him to take a break. He didn't. So I said, "Clint Stapleton?"

The ball clanged off the rim of his racquet and dribbled away from him. He looked up at me.

"Goddammit," he said. "I'm trying to concentrate."

"And doing a hell of a job of it," I said. "My name's Spenser. You Stapleton?"

"Yeah, but I'm busy."

"We need to talk."

"No we don't," he said. "I need to hit for another half hour and you need to get lost."

He was looking straight at me and I realized that he was… black certainly didn't cover it. His skin color was about the same color as mine… of African heritage, or partly so, seemed to say it better. I don't think I'd have noticed if the kerchief hadn't predisposed me.

"I can wait," I said.

"I don't like anyone watching me."

"Clint," I said. "Under ordinary circumstances worrying about what you like and don't like would occupy my every waking hour. But these are desperate times. And I'll have to hang around until I can talk with you."

"Maybe I could wrap this racquet around your head," Clint said.

"No, you couldn't," I said. "I'd take it away from you and play Steamboat Willie on it."

Stapleton stood and studied me for a time, slapping the racquet gently against his leg, looking as arrogant as he was able to, making sure that I knew he feared nothing.

"What do you want?" he said finally.

There was weariness in his voice, as if he was fighting off his darker impulses, trying to be civil. I was fairly sure that if I had been a short person with small bones he would have given in to his darker impulses.

"I want you to tell me about Melissa Henderson."

"Who?"

He said it too fast, and too loudly.

"Melissa Henderson, whom you used to go out with, who was murdered."

"Oh, Melissa?"

"Yeah. Melissa. Tell me about her."

"Nothing to tell. We dated a few times. Then she got killed."

"Don't you hate when that happens," I said.

He shrugged.

"How many times?" I said.

"How many times what?"

"How many times did you date her."

"How the hell would I know? I go out with a lot of girls. I don't keep track of every date."

"More than five times?" I said.

He shrugged again.

"Yeah, I imagine."

"More than ten?"

"For crissake," he said. "I told you I don't keep fucking track."

He rolled a yellow tennis ball up onto his racquet and began to bounce it on the racquet, studying the bounce as if it was important.

"You got a girlfriend?" I said.

"What are you, Ricki Lake? Yeah, I got a girl I'm going with."

"Who?"

"None of your goddamned business."

"You give her your letter sweater?"

"No. What the hell are you asking all this crap for?"

"You gave Melissa Henderson your letter sweater."

"How the hell do you know?"

"I am wise far beyond my years," I said.

"Yeah?" he said. "Well, bullshit."

I had no idea where I was going. There was something phony about him. I didn't believe a kid would give away his letter sweater to someone he dated casually. And I wanted to keep him talking and see what came out.

"So how come you gave Melissa your letter sweater?" He continued to watch the tennis ball bounce rapidly on the racquet face. Then he gave it a little sharper bounce and it went up in the air. As it started down he whanged the ball across the length of the tennis facility and watched it burrow into the netting that hung around the outside of the courts.

"I'm sick of you, pal," he said. "I got better things to do than hang around here and talk shit with you."

"Good for you," I said. "You know a State Police Detective named Miller?"

"Never heard of him," Stapleton said.

He zipped his racquet up in its case.

"Talk to any cops at all about this case?" I said.

"Hell, no," he said.

He put his racquet under his arm and walked away across the courts toward the exit, leaving the court area littered with yellow tennis balls. I wanted to tell him that it was bad form not to pick up the balls. I wanted to scuttle alongside him and ask more questions. But his legs were longer than mine and I decided to work on dignity. I'd already been compared to Ricki Lake. So I went looking for the Sports Information Office, instead, and found it in a wing attached to the field house.

"My name is Peter Parker, the photographer," I said to the young woman at the reception desk. "We're publishing a photo essay on Clint Stapleton, and I need some bio."

The receptionist was clearly a student, probably a cheerleader in her other life, cuter than the Easter Bunny, but nowhere near as smart.

"Could you spell the last name, sir?"

I spelled it. She wrote it down on a piece of note paper. I could see the tip of her tongue resting tentatively on her lower lip as she wrote.

She read it aloud when she'd finished writing it down. "Stapleton, yes, sir. Now what did you want about him?"

"Biographical material," I said.

She looked a little uncertain.

I said, "A press kit maybe?"

She smiled with relief.

"Yes, sir. I'll get you a press kit on Mr. Stapleton, sir."

She stood and started to turn toward the file cabinet on the opposite wall. Then she caught herself and turned back to me.

"Would you like to be seated, sir? I'll only be a moment."

I said, "Thanks."

She hurried across the room to a big metal file cabinet and began rummaging through the file drawers. I didn't want to sit. But I didn't want to offend her, so I compromised by leaning on the wall while she rummaged. She was dressed in the calculated slovenliness that was au courant. Doc Marten shoes, baggy jeans, and an oversized white shirt under a herringbone-patterned sweater that was also too big. The white shirt tail hung well below the bottom of the sweater, and the white shirt cuffs were turned back over the sweater cuffs. The sleeves of the sweater shirt combination left only her fingers visible. The bottoms of the jeans bagged over the Doc Martens so that she stepped on them when she walked. I shifted my other shoulder onto the wall. It was slow going at the file drawers, for Ms. Grunge. I wanted to say, "After R and before T." But I feared she would find it patronizing, so I held back. And as it turned out, she didn't need my help. After five or six more minutes she came back from the file cabinet and handed me a blue folder with the Taft logo on the front and the name Clint Stapleton hand lettered in black ink on the tab.

"May I keep this?" I said.

"Oh, certainly, sir. We have them available just for that."

"Thank you," I said.

"Oh, you're very welcome, sir." I smiled.

She smiled.

I left.