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Authors: Robert B Parker

BOOK: Sixkill
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"Yeah," I said.
"I got no interest in that stuff," he said. "Wouldn't do it if I was asked."
"She ask?" I said.
"Nope. You think that's how she got killed?"
"Don't know," I said. "Why I'm asking."
"I read that he strangled her," Perry said.
"Me too," I said.
"But you don't know."
"Why I'm asking," I said. "Any of the other guys that dated her play choking games, that you know about?"
"No," Perry said. "But it's not the kind of thing most guys talk about."
"The sex that she was interested in, was that primarily aimed at intensifying your experience or hers?"
He was silent for a time.
"I don't know," he said. "You know? I mean, you're doing something that really turns the girl on, it usually turns you on, too, doesn't it. I assume that would be vice versa with her. I can't believe I'm talking about shit like this with a stranger."
"Lucky. You were a psych major," I said.
"Doesn't seem to be doing me much good at the moment," he said.
"Any theories about why she was the way she was?" I said.
He grinned.
"Failure to resolve the conflict between passivity and aggression," he said.
"Ah," I said. "That clears it up."
"A BA in psych don't make me a shrink."
"I know," I said. "But it might help you pay attention."
He nodded.
"All I can give you," he said, "is how she was really worried that you cared about her for herself, not for the sex."
"Did you?"
"I liked her okay," Perry said.
"With or without sex?"
"Sure," he said.
He looked down, and while he was looking down, he adjusted the hammer in his hammer holster.
"Honestly?" he said.
"I'd prefer it," I said.
"She wasn't the brightest bulb in the chandelier," he said.
"Uh-huh."
"I was nineteen," he said.
"Uh-huh."
"Oh, hell," he said. "Course not. She wasn't coming across, I wouldn'ta dated her."
I nodded.
"So her fears were well founded," I said.
"Yeah," he said.
"And most of the people she dated felt that way?"
"Yeah."
He shook his head.
"She was kind of a joke," he said.
I nodded. We were quiet. Perry absently jiggled the hammer in its holster.
"I feel kind of bad for her," he said.
"Me too," I said.
"And I feel kind of bad about myself and how I was with her."
"Probably should," I said. "On the other hand, nineteen and male is nineteen and male."
"I know that, too," Perry said.
24
IT WAS RAINY
again this April. I worked out at the Harbor Health Club, and when I got through I went into Henry Cimoli's office and drank some coffee with him, and watched the gray rain make circular patterns on the gray ocean through Henry's big picture window.
"Got some donuts," Henry said. "Cinnamon. Want one?"
"How many you got," I said.
Henry opened the bottom drawer of his desk and took out a box and looked in.
"Ten," he said.
"You're not having any?" I said.
"I was hoping we could share," Henry said.
I took a donut.
"Like the view?" Henry said.
"Better than the blank wall that used to be there," I said. "With the torn boxing poster of you."
Henry grinned and leaned back and put his feet up on his desk. His sneakers were silver and black. He was wearing white sweats and a white sleeveless jacket with the collar turned up, and a gold chain around his neck.
"Bought this place 'cause it was a dump and it was cheap, and the clientele I was serving were guys like you and Hawk, and you wasn't afraid to come down to the waterfront to work out," Henry said. "People think I am really smart to have jumped in ahead of the next big real estate trend."
"You had no idea," I said.
"None," he said. "And about five years after I bought the place, the waterfront went sky-high fucking yuppie."
"As did you," I said.
"You like my outfit?" he said.
"You look like a very short Elvis impersonator," I said.
"Hey, it's a costume. I put one like it on every day. We don't have spit buckets in the corners anymore. Health-club business is aimed at women. They think it's adorable to belong to a swishy club on the waterfront run by an actual live former boxer."
He grinned and flexed his arms.
"With visible biceps," he said.
"Cute," I said.
"Why I like Z working out here. He looks like every housewife's dream: dark, big, muscular, sort of dangerous. Hot damn," Henry said. "An orgasm waiting to happen. Some of them would jump him in the boxing room if they wasn't afraid I'd yank their membership."
"Which you wouldn't," I said.
"Course I wouldn't."
"Z says you been working with him," I said.
"Since he moved in here," Henry said.
"How's that going?" I said.
"Fine. I got a couple rooms here I keep, case I need to stay late, or whatever."
"You're too old for whatever," I said.
"Depends how often whatever comes my way," Henry said. "Lately I've been trying to cut back to one a day."
"Successfully, I'll bet."
"Sure," Henry said. "Anyway, Z's got a lot of potential. And it looks cool to the ladies for me to be boxing with the Big O."
"I like his potential, too," I said.
"He's quick," Henry said. "He's very strong. And he's a real good athlete, you know? He picks everything up quick. Got a woman here, teaches martial arts, she's been showing him a few moves. He doesn't mind learning from a woman. He gets it at once, and . . . he's amazing."
"And he's tough," I said.
"Absolutely. He'll work himself until he gets sick."
"He wants it," I said.
"Whatever
it
is," Henry said.
I picked up another donut.
"You know what it is," I said. "You used to want it, too."
Henry smiled.
"I got it," he said. "He juiced?"
"He was," I said.
"Has the look," Henry said. "He needs to get off them."
"I'll make the suggestion," I said.
Zebulon Sixkill VII
The club was in Hollywood, and the haul back and forth from Garden Grove was long. So when his month of grace ran out, Z got a one-room apartment on Franklin Avenue, from which he could walk to work.
The club had a fancy front facade with a scary-looking black guy named Deevo working the door. He had a Mohawk, and a scar on his jawline. Z worked inside, where there was a long bar, a lot of waitresses in short skirts, and a small stage upon which nude women danced and did stand-up comedy. The crowd was largely male. But there were always some couples there that got heated up by the naked performers. Many of the people who came were regulars, including a famous movie comedian named Jumbo Nelson, who was there several nights a week, usually with young women, and a tall bodyguard in a black suit who used to lean on the bar near Z and watch Jumbo.
Z had been working the club for six months when, on a crowded Friday night, with a heavy rain coming down outside, Jumbo Nelson slid his hand up the dress of a dark-haired woman sitting at the next table with a male companion.
"Hey," the woman said, and slapped at his hand. "You see what he done, Ray?"
"I seen," Ray said.
He stood and walked to Jumbo and grabbed him by the collar. Z started over, but the bodyguard got there first.
The bodyguard said, "Ease off, pal."
Ray picked up a beer bottle from Jumbo's table and swung it against the bodyguard's forehead. The bottle broke and the blood began to run down the bodyguard's face. Z arrived and gave Ray the same kind of forearm that he had used to ward off tacklers. It put Ray down. Deevo arrived, and he and Z got Ray on his feet and walked him out with the wronged woman behind them screaming that they wanted their fucking money back. Deevo stayed outside and put them in a cab. Z came back in and put a folded Kleenex over the cut on the bodyguard's face. He taped it in place.
The bodyguard said he'd get it stitched later, after he drove Jumbo home. Later, on his way out, Jumbo gave Deevo and Z each a one-hundred-dollar bill. He also gave Z a business card.
"I like your style, Tonto," Jumbo said. "Gimme a call, might hire you."
25
IT HAD RAINED
fourteen out of the first nineteen days of this month. And it was at it again. I was in my office, reading
Doonesbury, Arlo & Janis,
and
Tank McNamara.
I spent a lot of time on
Doonesbury,
because I had to read it twice. When I finished, I poured some fresh coffee and began to think about Dawn Lopata.
That she had spent sexual time with Jumbo seemed certain. That during that time she had died also seemed certain. Who was responsible for that, and why, was not certain. After being at this for a month, I knew more about everybody involved. But I didn't know how Dawn Lopata died. I looked down through the rain at Berkeley Street, where there was a jangle of colorful umbrellas.
"Progress," I said to the street, "is our most important product." My office door opened behind me. I swiveled around. And two men came in. Maybe progress had come knocking. The taller man was evenly tanned, with a big mustache and silvery hair worn long. He was wearing pressed jeans and black lizardskin cowboy boots, with a black velvet blazer and a white shirt unbuttoned to his sternum. His partner was a little shorter. He was wearing a full Brad Pitt. Black shoes, black suit, white shirt, black tie. His tan was darker than the other guy's, and his black hair was slicked back tight against his scalp.
"Where's Moe?" I said.
"What?" the tall guy said.
I shook my head.
"A little Three Stooges humor," I said. "Pay it no mind."
I gestured the men toward my client chairs.
"My name's Silver," the tall guy said. "Elliot Silver. I run Silver Star Security."
He took a card and placed it on my desk where I could look at it.
"Wow," I said. "I feel safer already."
"This is Carson Ratoff," Silver said.
Ratoff put his card next to Silver's and sat down beside him.
"I'm an attorney," Ratoff said.
"Can't have too many of them," I said.
"We represent Jumbo Nelson," Ratoff said.
"Me too," I said.
"We would like to discuss that with you," Ratoff said.
"Let's," I said.
"Since local counsel, whom we employed, has been fired, and since you were employed by local counsel, why are you still investigating?"
"An unquenchable thirst for knowledge?" I said.
Ratoff looked at Silver. Silver nodded slowly.
"That must be it," he said.
"Sometimes I work for tips," I said.
Silver looked down for a moment and rubbed his forehead with the fingertips of his left hand. Then he looked up.
"So you don't have anybody paying you right now?" he said.
"Sadly . . . no."
"Maybe you could work for us," Silver said.
"Great," I said. "What do you want to hire me to do?"
"That depends," Silver said.
I smiled my friendly neighborhood gumshoe smile.
"On what?" I said.
I was pretty sure I knew.
"Lemme put it to you this way," he said. "You investigate your ass off, as far as it takes you, and you conclude that Jumbo is guilty as hell. Whaddya gonna do?"
"What would you like me to do?" I said.
"Tell us," Silver said.
"Happy to," I said.
"And nobody else," Silver said.

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