“Why do you wish to know?” Margi said.
“I’d like to get in touch with him,” I said.
“It is club policy, sir, not to give out member information.”
“Something illicit going on here?” I said.
“Of course not,” Margi said. “It is simply that we respect our members’ privacy.”
“Me, too,” I said. “So he is a member?”
Margi was getting brisker by the minute; no wonder she made client-services manager.
“I didn’t say that, sir.”
“Of course not,” I said. “But if he’s not a member, then there’s no privacy issue, is there.”
“Of course not,” Margi said. “May I ask why you are interested?”
“So what you can do is check your membership records, and if he is not a member, you can tell me.”
She frowned. The reasoning had become too convoluted for her. I thought her frown was even perkier than the one I’d seen at the front desk. But I feared that she would never advance beyond client services.
“Are you some kind of policeman or something?” she said.
“I am,” I said.
I used to be a policeman, and “or something” covers a lot.
“I don’t mean to give you grief, Margi. Just check. If he’s not a member, tell me and I’ll move on,” I said.
I was interested as well as to what she’d do if he was a member.
She looked at me, still frowning, giving it as much thought as she was able. Then she heaved a big sigh and turned to her computer.
“Eisenhower,” she said. “Does that start with an I?”
“E,” I said, and spelled it for her.
She clicked at her computer for a little while, and then I could see her face relax.
“We have no one by that name as a member,” she said.
She could have been lying to get rid of me. But I didn’t think she was smart enough to fake the look of relief when she didn’t find him. I thanked her.
“Could I buy you a linguica sandwich?” I said.
She looked horrified.
“On Portuguese sweet bread?” I said.
“No,” she said, and smiled at me brightly. “But thanks for asking.”
Chapter 7
IT WAS NEARLY NOVEMBER. Baseball season was over. And the wind off the Charles River was beginning to have an edge. I was at my desk, with my feet up, thinking about pattern, when two men came in without knocking and closed the door behind them. I opened the right-hand drawer on my desk. The bigger of the two was bald, with biceps that strained against the sleeves of a shiny leather jacket. The other guy was slim and dark, with deep-set eyes and graceful hands.
“Lemme guess,” I said. “You’re George, and you’re Lenny.”
The muscular guy looked at the slim guy.
“He’s being a wiseass,” the dark, slim guy said.
“Maybe he should stop,” the muscle guy said.
There was scar tissue around his eyes, and his nose was flat and thick.
“You used to be a fighter?” I said to him.
“Yeah.”
“You any good?”
“I look like I was any good?” he said.
“No,” I said.
“Do a lot better outside the ring,” he said.
The slim, dark guy said, “Shut up, Boo.”
“ ‘Boo’?” I said.
The dark, slim guy looked at me.
“He’s Boo,” the dark, slim guy said. “I’m Zel. Why you interested in Gary Eisenhower?”
“Why do you ask?” I said.
“Guy I work for wants to know,” Zel said.
“Who is he?” I said.
Zel nodded quietly to himself, as if confirming a suspicion.
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s how it nearly always goes.”
“How’s that?” I said.
“Everybody’s a wiseguy,” Zel said. “Everybody’s a tough guy.”
“Must be disappointing for you,” I said.
“That’s what Boo’s for,” he said.
“Glad he’s for something,” I said.
Zel nodded again in the same sad way.
“So what’s your interest in Gary Eisenhower?”
“Who wants to know?”
Zel shrugged.
“Okay,” he said. “Boo?”
Boo smiled happily and started around my desk. I took a gun out of my open desk drawer and pointed it at both of them. Boo stopped. He looked disappointed.
“I got one of those, too,” Zel said.
“But yours is under your coat,” I said.
“True,” Zel said. “Back off, Boo.”
Boo looked more disappointed, but he stepped back in front of the desk.
“Hard on Boo,” Zel said. “He gets all juiced to smack somebody around and then he can’t.”
“Loving your work is a good thing,” I said. “Maybe another time.”
“You think you can handle Boo?” Zel said.
“Sure,” I said.
“Without the piece?” Zel said.
“Yeah,” I said.
“I heard you were good,” Zel said.
Boo stared at me. Apparently, he hadn’t heard that. Or it hadn’t impressed him.
“Kind of like to watch,” Zel said. “You decide to try it.”
“Been a while,” I said, “since I had a fight to prove I could.”
“Yeah, I know,” Zel said. “Seems kind of pointless, don’t it.”
“Tiring, too,” I said.
“Boo ain’t to that point yet,” Zel said.
“Probably won’t get there soon,” I said.
“’Less he starts losing a few,” Zel said.
“You want to know my interest in Eisenhower. I want to know who wants to know,” I said.
“You show me yours, I show you mine?” Zel said.
“Might work,” I said.
“And if it don’t?” Zel said.
“I could shoot you,” I said.
“But you won’t,” Zel said.
“Probably not,” I said. “Unless Boo becomes a distraction.”
Zel nodded. He looked at me for a while. Then he nodded to himself slowly.
“I work for a guy name of Chester Jackson,” Zel said.
“What’s his interest?” I said.
“Don’t know,” Zel said. “Show me yours.”
“Guy is blackmailing a group of women he had affairs with,” I said. “They want me to make him stop.”
“Who are the women?”
“Nope,” I said.
Zel nodded.
After a while he said, “I think Mr. Jackson will want to talk with you.”
“Sure,” I said.
Zel took a business card out of his shirt pocket and put it on my desk. Chester Jackson had offices at International Place. I picked up the card and put it in my shirt pocket.
“ Chester married?” I said.
Zel shrugged.
“Maybe to a younger woman?” I said.
Zel smiled faintly and shrugged again.
“I’ll stop by,” I said.
Zel nodded.
“Adiós,” he said. “Come on, Boo.”
They walked out. At the door Boo turned and looked at me hard.
“I ain’t forgetting you,” he said.
“Few people do,” I said.
Chapter 8
THE SECRETARY HAD a British accent. She ushered me in to see Mr. Jackson as though it was an audience. We were high up. There was the usual spectacular view of the harbor. And in front of the view, on a credenza, was a big photograph of Beth. Chet stood up and came around his desk when I came in.
“Chet Jackson,” he said, and put out his hand.
He had a big chin and short black hair with a lot of gray showing. The hair was receding from his forehead. His face was unlined. He smelled of very good cologne. His grip was strong. He had on a blue suit with a blue-and-white striped tie against a gleaming white shirt. There was a white handkerchief in his breast pocket.
I sat. He sat.
“Coffee?” he said. “Tea? water? Something stronger?”
“No, thanks.”
Chet nodded decisively.
“Okay,” he said. “What can you tell me about Gary Eisenhower?”
“He’s blackmailing a number of women,” I said. “They asked me to find him and make him stop.”
“Have you found him?”
“No.”
“But you’ve been looking for him at Pinnacle Fitness,” Chet said.