The Judas Goat (2 page)

“I think he had something to do,” I said. “I think he wouldn’t die because he had to get even. ”

“And for that he’s hired you.”

“Yeah.”

“I will help all I can. I went to London when it… when he was injured. I know the police on the case and so forth. I can put you in touch with someone in Mr. Dixon’s London office who can help on the scene. I handle all of Mr. Dixon’s affairs. Or at least many of them. Especially since the accident.”

“Okay,” I said. “Do this for me. Give me the name of the person who runs the office over there. Have them get me a hotel room. I’ll fly over tonight.”

“Do you have a passport?” Carroll looked doubtful.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll have Jan put you on a flight for London. Do you have a preference?”

“I don’t care for biplanes.”

“No, I suppose not. If it doesn’t matter I’ll have Jan arrange for flight fifty-five, Pan Am, leaves every night for London at eight. First class all right?”

“That’ll be fine. How do you know there will be room?”

“Mr. Dixon’s organization flies extensively. We have a somewhat special status with the airlines.”

“I’ll bet you do.”

“Mr. Michael Flanders will meet you at Heathrow Airport tomorrow morning. He’s from Mr. Dixon’s London office and will be able to fill you in.”

“I imagine you have a somewhat special status with Mr. Flanders.”

“Why do you say so?”

“How do you know he’ll be free tomorrow morning?”

“Oh, I see. Yes. Well, everyone in the organization knows how strongly Mr. Dixon feels about this business and everyone is ready to do anything necessary.”

I finished my beer. Carroll took another sip of his. A man who sips beer is not trustworthy. He smiled at me, white teeth in perfect order, looked at his watch, two hands, nothing so gauche as a digital, and said, “Nearly noon. I expect you’ll have some packing to do.”

“Yeah. And maybe a few phone calls to the State Department and such.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“I’m not going over to look at the Beowulf manuscript in the British Museum. I gotta bring a gun. I need to know the rules on that.”

“Oh, of course, I really don’t know anything about that sort of thing.”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m going and you’re not.”

He flashed his perfect caps at me again. “The tickets will be at the Pan Am counter at Logan,” he said. “I hope you have a good trip. And… I don’t quite know what one says at such a time. Good hunting, I suppose, but that sounds awfully dramatic.”

“Except When Trevor Howard says it,” I said.

On the way out I gave Jan the thumbs-up gesture like in the old RAF movies. I think she was offended.

My first move was to call the airline. They said I could bring a handgun as long as it was disassembled, packed in a suitcase and checked through. The ammunition had to be separate. Of course it couldn’t be carried aboard.

“Okay if I chew gum when my ears pop?” I said.

“Certainly, sir.”

“Thank you.”

Next I called the British Consulate. They told me that if I were bringing in a shotgun there would be no problem. I could simply carry it in. No papers required.

“I had in mind a thirty-eight caliber Smith and Wesson revolver. A shotgun in a hip holster tends to chafe. And carrying it around London at high port seems a bit showy.”

“Indeed. Well, for a handgun the regulations state that if you are properly licensed it will be held at customs until you have received authorization from the chief of police in the city or town of your visit. In this case, you say London?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that is where you should apply. It is not permitted of course to bring in machine guns, submachine guns, automatic rifles or any weapon capable of firing a gas-disseminating missile.”

“Oh, damn,” I said.

Then I called Carroll back. “Have your man in London arrange a permit for me with the London cops.” I gave him the serial number, the number of my Mass carry license and the number of my private detective license.

“They may be sticky about issuing this without your presence.”

“If they are they are. I’ll be there in the morning. Maybe Flanders can have softened them up at least. Don’t you people have a somewhat special status with the London fuzz?”

“We will do what we can, Mr. Spenser,” he said, and hung up.

A little abrupt for a guy with his breeding. I looked at my watch: 2:00. I looked out my office window. On Mass Avenue a thin old man with a goatee was walking a small old dog on a leash. Even from two stories up you could see the leash was new. Bright metal links and a red leather handle. The old man paused and rummaged through a little basket that was attached to a lamppost. The dog sat in that still patient way old dogs have, his short legs a little bowed.

I called Susan Silverman. She wasn’t home. I called my answering service. There were no messages. I told them I was out of town on business. Didn’t know when I’d be back. The girl at the other end took the news without a quiver.

I locked up the office and went home to pack. A suitcase, a flight bag and a garment bag for my other suit. I packed two boxes of .38 bullets in the suitcase. Took the cylinder out of the gun and packed it in two pieces in the flight bag along with the holster. By three-fifteen I was packed. I called Susan Silverman again. No answer.

There are people in the city of Boston who have threatened to kill me. I don’t like to walk around without a gun.

So I took my spare, and stuck it in my belt at the small of my back. It was a Colt .357 Magnum with a four-inch barrel. I kept it around in case I was ever attacked by a fmback whale, and it was heavy and uncomfortable under my coat as I took Carroll’s check down to my bank and cashed it.

“Would you like this in traveler’s checks, Mr. Spenser?”

“No. Plain money. If you have any English money I’d take that.”

“I’m sorry. We could get you some perhaps Friday.”

“No. Just give me the greenies. I’ll change it over there. ”

“Are you sure you want to walk around with this amount in cash?”

“Yes. Look at my boyish face. Would someone mug me?”

“Well, you’re quite a big man.”

“But oh so gentle,” I said.

Back in my apartment at quarter to four I called Susan Silverman again. No answer.

I got out the phone book and called the registrar’s office at the Harvard Summer School.

“I’m trying to locate a student. Mrs. Silverman. She’s taking a couple of courses there in counseling, I think.” There was some discussion of how difficult it would be to find a student like that without more information. They’d transfer me to the School of Education.

The School of Education offices were closing at fourthirty and it would be quite difficult to locate a student. Had I tried the registrar? Yes, I had. Perhaps someone in the Department of Counseling and Guidance could help me. She switched me there. Did I know the professor’s name. No, I didn’t. The course number? No. Well, it would be very difficult.

“Not as difficult as I will be if I have to come over there and kick a professor.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Just check the schedules. Tell me if there’s a counseling course meeting at this hour or later. You must have schedules. Pretend this isn’t a matter of life and death. Pretend I have a government grant to award. Pretend I’m Solomon Guggenheim.”

“I believe that Solomon Guggenheim is dead,” she said.

“Jesus Christ… ”

“But I’ll check,” she said. “Hold the line, please.” There was distant typing and vague movement at the other end of the line and in thirty seconds the secretary came back on.

“There’s a class in Techniques of Counseling, Professor More, that meets from two-o-five to four fifty-five.”

“Where is it?”

She told me. I hung up and headed for Harvard Square. It was four-twenty.

At four-forty I found a hydrant on Mass Avenue outside the Harvard Yard and parked in front of it. You could usually count on a hydrant. I asked a young woman in tennis shorts and hiking boots to direct me to Sever Hall and at four-fifty-six was waiting under a tree near the steps when Susan came out. She was wearing a blue madras jumpsuit with a big gold zipper, and carrying her books in a huge white canvas shoulder bag. She had a quality coming down the steps that she always had. She looked as if it were her building and she was strolling out to survey the grounds. I felt the jolt. I’d been looking at her for about three years now but every time I saw her I felt a kind of jolt, a body shock that was tangible. It made the muscles in my neck and shoulders tighten. She saw me and her face brightened and she smiled.

Two undergraduates eyed her covertly. The jumpsuit fitted her well. Her dark hair glistened in the sunshine and as she got close I could see my reflection in the opaque lenses of her big sunglasses. My white three-piece suit looked terrific.

She said to me, “I beg your pardon, are you a Greek multibillionaire shipping magnate and member of the international jet set?”

I said, “Yes, I am, would you care to marry me and live on my private island in great luxury?”

She said, “Yes, I would, but I’m committed to a smalltime thug in Boston and first I’ll have to shake him.”

“It’s not the thug I mind,” I said. “It’s the small-time.”

She hooked her arm through mine and said, “You’re big-time with me, kid.”

As we walked through the Yard several students and faculty eyed Susan. I didn’t blame them but looked hard at them anyway. It’s good to keep in practice.

“Why are you here?” she said.

“I gotta go to England at eight tonight and I wanted some time to say goodbye.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know. Could be long. Could be some months. I can’t tell.”

“I will miss you,” she said.

“We’ll miss each other.”

“Yes.”

“I’m parked out on Mass Avenue.”

“I parked at Everett Station and took the subway in. We can go to your apartment and I’ll drive you to the airport in your car.”

“Okay,” I said. “But don’t be so bossy. You know how I hate a bossy broad.”

“Bossy?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you have a plan for our farewell celebration?”

“Yeah. ”Forget it.“

“Okay, boss.” She squeezed my arm and smiled. It was a stunner of a smile. There was something in it. Mischief was too weak a word. Evil too strong. But it was always there in the smile. Something that seemed to be saying, You know what would be fun to do? I held the door for her and as she slid into my car the jumpsuit stretched tight and smooth over her thigh. I went around and got in and started the car. “It strikes me,” I said, “that if you were wearing underwear beneath that jumpsuit it would show. It doesn’t show. ”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out, big fella.”

“Oh, good,” I said, “the celebration is back on.” 

I found out about the underwear, and some other things. Most of the other things I already knew, but it was a pleasure to be reminded. Afterward we lay on, top of my bed, with the afternoon sun shining in. Her body, strong, and a little damp from mutual exertion, glistened where the sun touched it. “You are a strong and active person,” I said. “Regular exercise,” she said. “And a positive attitude.”

“I think you wrinkled my white linen suit.”

“It would have wrinkled on the airplane anyway.” We got dressed and walked up Boylston Street and across the Prudential Center to a restaurant called St. Botolph. It was one of the zillion California-theme restaurants that had appeared in the wake of urban renewal like dandelions on a new seeded lawn. Tucked back of the Colonnade Hotel, it was brick and had hanging plants and relative informality where one could actually get a good meat loaf. Among other things. I had the meat loaf and Susan had scallops Provençale. There wasn’t much to say. I told her about the job. “Bounty hunter,” she said. “Yeah, I guess so. Just like the movies.”

“Do you have a plan?” Her make-up was expert. Eye liner, eye shadow, color on the cheekbones, lipstick. She probably looked better at forty than she had at twenty. There were small lines at the corners of her eyes, and smile suggestions at the edges of her mouth that added to her face, gave it pattern and meaning. “Same old plan I always have. I’ll show up and mess around and see if I can get something stirring and see what happens. Maybe put an ad in the papers offering a big reward.”

“A group like that? Do you think a reward could get one of them to turn another in?” I shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe it would get them to make contact with me. One way or another. I have to have a contact. I need a Judas goat.”

“Might they try to kill you if they know you’re there?”

“Maybe. I plan to thwart them.”

“And then you’ll have your contact,” Susan said. “Yeah.” She shook her head. “This will not be a pleasant time for me.”

“I know… I won’t like it that much either.”

“Maybe part of you won’t. But you’re having a grand adventure too. Tom Swift, Bounty Hunter. Part of you will have a wonderful time.”

“That was truer before I knew you,” I said. “Even bounty hunting is less fun without you.”

“I think that’s true. I appreciate it. I know that you are what you are. But if I lose you it will be chronic. It will be something I’ll never completely get over.”

“I’ll come back,” I said. “I won’t die away from you.”

“Oh, Jesus,” she said, and her voice filled. She turned her head away. My throat was very tight and my eyes burned. “I know the feeling,” I said. “If I weren’t such a tough manly bastard, I might come very close to sniffling a little myself.” She turned back toward me. Her eyes were very shiny, but her face was smooth and she said, “Well, maybe you, cupcake, but not me. I’m going to do one excerpt from my famous Miss Kitty impression and then we are going to laugh and chatter brightly till flight time.” She put her hand on my forearm, and looked at me hard and leaned forward and said, “Be careful, Matt.”

“A man’s gotta do what he’s gotta do, Kitty,” I said. “Let’s have a beer.” We were chatty and bright for the rest of the meal and the ride to the airport. Susan dropped me off at the International Terminal. I got out, unlocked the trunk, took out my luggage, put the .357 in the trunk, locked it and leaned into the car. “I won’t go in with you,” she said. “Sitting and waiting in airports is too dismal. Send me a postcard. I’ll be here when you come back.” I kissed her goodbye and hauled my luggage into the terminal. The tickets were at the Pan Am desk as promised. I picked them up, checked my luggage through and went up to wait at the loading gate. It was a slow night at the International Terminal. I cleared the security check, found a seat near the boarding ramp and got out my book. I was working on a scholarly book that year. Regeneration Through Violence, by a guy named Richard Slotkin. A friend of Susan’s had lent it to me to read because he wanted what he called “an untutored reaction from someone in the field.” He was an English teacher at Tufts and could be excused that kind of talk. More or less. I liked the book but I couldn’t concentrate. Sitting alone at night in an airport is a lonely feeling. And waiting to fly away to another country, by yourself, on a nearly empty plane was very lonely. I half decided to turn around and call Susan and say come get me. I minded being alone more as I got older. Or was it just Susan. Either way. Ten years ago this would have been a great adventure. Now I wanted to run. At eight-thirty we boarded. At eight-fifty we took off. By nine-fifteen I had my first beer from the stewardess and a bag of Smokehouse Almonds. I began to feel better. Tomorrow perhaps I could have dinner in Simpson’s and maybe for lunch I could find a nice Indian restaurant. By ten I had drunk three beers and eaten perhaps half a pound of almonds. The flight was not crowded and the stewardess was attentive. Probably drawn by the elegance of my three-piece linen suit. Even wrinkled. I read my book and ignored the movie and listened to the oldies but goodies channel on the headphones and had a few more beers, and my mood brightened some more. After midnight I stretched out across several seats and took a nap. When I woke up the stewardesses were serving coffee and rolls and the sun was shining in the windows. We landed at Heathrow Airport outside of London at ten-fifty-five London time and I stumbled off the plane, stiff from sleeping on the seats. The coffee and rolls were sloshing around with the beer and Smokehouse Almonds. For simple hodgepodge confusion and complicated extent, Heathrow Airport’s name leads all the rest. I followed arrows and took Bus A and followed more arrows and finally found myself in the line at the passport window. The clerk looked at my passport, smiled and said, “Nice to see you, Mr. Spenser. Would you please step over to the security office, there.”