Small Vices

"Is he an American national?" Ives said.

"I don't know. He speaks English without an accent."

"You know of course that this agency has no domestic mandate."

"Of course not," I said.

The eraser revolved slowly. Ives gazed off into the middle distance.

"You wouldn't, naturally, know the varlet's name, would you?"

"No."

"You have solid municipal police co

"Cops can't find him. They have no record of him or anyone like him. Not here. Not New York. Not on the national wire."

"How distressing," Ives said.

"Yes."

"And why do you think I'll help you?"

"I helped you twelve years ago," I said.

Ives smiled gently and shook his head. The eraser did a complete revolution.

"We helped each other, as I recall. The agency got what it wanted. You got the maiden and a clean record. How is the maiden?"

"Susan is fine."

"You're still together?"

"Yes."

"Glad to hear love has triumphed. But I still don't see why either of us owes the other one anything."

"How about old times' sake."

"How about that, indeed," Ives said. "It's quite a charming idea, isn't it."

We were quiet. Except for a desk with a phone on it, and a green metal file cabinet, Ives's office was entirely empty. The morning sun was shining in through the big window to our right and made a clear stream for dust motes to sail through. Ives got up and looked out his window for a while, down at Post Office Square, and probably, from this height, the ocean, a few blocks east. High shouldered and narrow, he stood with his hands loosely clasped behind his back, still turning the eraser. Where his trouser cuffs didn't quite touch his pebble-grained oxford shoes, a narrow band of Argyle sock showed. The dust motes drifted. Ives stared down at the square. He probably wasn't thinking. He was probably being dramatic. He had, after all, gone to Yale. Finally he spoke without turning away from the window.

"There's a fellow fits that description, an Israeli national; who was a covert operative. He left Israeli service under prejudicial circumstances, worked with us for a little while, and then dropped out of sight. I had heard he was in private practice."

"Name?"

"Barely matters," Ives said. "He called himself Rugar when he was with us."

"How was his English?"

"American accent," Ives said. "I believe he was born in this country."

"You know where he is now?"

"No."

"Any suggestion where I might look for him?"

"None."

"Anything else?"

"He had gray hair and a sallow complexion. Attempting, presumably, to turn a liability into an asset, he affected a completely gray wardrobe."

"Fu

Ives turned from the window. "How so?"

"It's in his best interest to have no identity," I said.

"By God," he said. "You know, I never thought of it that way."

"Bureaucracy clogs the imagination," I said. "Is there anything else you can tell me about this guy?"

Ives pursed his lips faintly. He was turning the eraser at belt level now using both hands. There were liver spots on his hands.

"He is," Ives said gently, "the most deadly man I have met in forty years."

"Wait'll you get a load of me," I said.

"I've gotten a load of you and the black fellow, too."

"Hawk," I said.

"Yes, Mister Hawk. He's still alive?"

"Yes."

"He's still your friend?"

"Yes."

"You are a stable man," Ives said. "In an unstable profession. But I stand by what I said of our friend Rugar."

He smiled softly and squeezed his eraser and didn't say anything else.

Chapter 42

I SLID THE pin into the bottom notch of the weight stack on one of the chest-press machines at the Harbor Health Club, and sidled in under it, and took a wide spread grip and inhaled and pushed the weight up as I exhaled. Things creaked in my right shoulder, but the bar went up. I eased it down, pushed it up again. I did this eight more times and let the bar come back to rest. Henry Cimoli was watching me.

"Ten reps," he said. "You got another set in you."

I nodded, breathing deeply, waiting. Then I did ten more reps, struggling to keep form. And rested and did ten more.

"That's as good as you did before," Henry said.

I slid off of the machine and stood waiting for my oxygen levels to normalize, watching the rest of the club members exercise. Most of them were women in spandex. Across the room was a bank of treadmills and Stair Climbers each with a small television screen so that you could exercise while watching an assortment of daytime talk shows, with maybe a videotape of a public dismemberment thrown in to cleanse the palate.

"Weigh in," Henry said, and we walked to the balance scale. I got on, Henry adjusted the weights. I weighed to 210. The same weight I'd carried into the river almost a year ago.

"I'd say you're as good as new," Henry said.

"Too bad," I said. "I was hoping for better."

"We all were," Henry said. "But you can't shine shit."

"You're awfully short for a philosopher," I said.

"Hell," Henry said. "I'm awful short for a person. But I'm fun."

I got off the scale and went and drank some water and wiped my face with a hand towel. There were mirrors on all the walls so that you could admire yourself from every angle. I was doing that when Vi

"I tried your office and you weren't there," Vi

"Ever consider a career as a private investigator?"

"Naw," Vi

"You told him I was back," I said.

"He's out in the car," Vi

I went to Henry's office, got my jacket and my gun, put both of them on, and went out with Vi

Vi

"Drive about, please, Sammy," Gino said.

And the Mercedes pulled into traffic, cutting off a maroon van and causing more honking of horns. Neither Sammy nor Gino seemed to hear them. We cruised slowly north along Atlantic Avenue.

"I understand you were injured," Gino said.

"Yes."

"Specifically you were shot."

"Yes."

"Vi