Cold Service by Robert B. Parker

Author:Robert B. Parker
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, pdf
Tags: Fiction / Suspense
ISBN: 9781101205051
Publisher: Berkley
Published: 2005-03-08T08:00:00+00:00

32

CECILE HAD A condominium in a gated enclosure on Cambridge Street, at the foot of Beacon Hill, right across from Mass. General, so she could walk to work. She and Hawk had Susan and me to brunch there on the Sunday after we met with Boots and Tony.

The big loft space on the second floor had full-length arched windows, which Cecile had opened. The big ivory drapes that spilled out onto the floor were too heavy to blow in the spring breeze, but their edges fluttered a little while Hawk made each of us a Bloody Mary. Domestic.

We drank a couple of Bloody Marys, thus ensuring that I would nap when I got home. Cecile and Susan talked about their respective practices, and I shared occasional thoughts on sex and baseball, which, by and large, were all I had for thoughts. As usual, Hawk said little, though he seemed to enjoy listening. I had been reading a book about the human genome. We talked about that for a while. Cecile served us a variation of a dish my father called "shrimp wiggle": shrimp and peas in a cream sauce. Cecile served hers in pastry shells. My father didn't know what a pastry shell was, and with good reason. We had a little white wine with the shrimp. When I went to get a little more from the ice bucket, I noticed that Hawk's big.44 Mag was lying holstered on the sideboard among the wineglasses. The stainless-steel frame was good, but the brass edge of the cartridges that showed in the cylinder clashed with the cutlery.

We were nearly, and mercifully, through the shrimp wiggle when Cecile put her wineglass down suddenly and sat, staring at her plate. Sitting beside her, Hawk put his hand on her thigh. Her shoulders began to shake and then she looked up and there were tears running down her face. Hawk patted her thigh softly.

"This is so awful," Cecile said.

Her voice was shaky.

"We had a fight about this before you came."

She dabbed carefully at her eyes with her napkin. There were still tears.

"We sit here and eat and drink and make small talk," she said, and pointed at Hawk.

"And he was almost shot and killed and now he's going to kill other people, probably already has, to get even, or get killed trying to get even, and"-she pointed at me-"he's helping. And no one will tell me anything about it or explain it or even talk about it, so we sit here and chit-chat and gossip and pretend."

Hawk continued to pat her thigh. Otherwise it was as if he hadn't heard her.

"It's not pretend, Cecile," Susan said. "Because these men aren't like other men you know doesn't mean that they are simply different. Because they are engaged in life-and-death matters sometimes doesn't mean that they can't waste time other times talking about sex or baseball."

"It's not wasting time," I said.

Susan glared at me, but flickering at the edge of the glare was amusement.

"I could accept that," Cecile said, "maybe.

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