Part 20 (2/2)

I nodded and Paul and I went to a table in the back of the bar near the door to the washroom. I left the change on the bar. The bartender pocketed it.

Paul paid no attention to the ball game, but he looked at the barroom carefully.

At two fifty Buddy Hartman strolled in, smoking a cigarette and carrying a folded newspaper. He sat on a barstool. The bartender came down the bar and said, ”Guy looking for you over there. Says he's got some business.”

Hartman nodded. He said, ”Gimme a fried egg sandwich and a draft, will ya, Bernie?” Then he looked casually over toward me. The cigarette in his mouth drooped and sent smoke up past his left eye. He squinted his left eye against it. Then he recognized me.

He spun off the stool and headed for the door.

I said to Paul, ”Come on,” and went out of the barroom after him. Buddy was cutting across the expressway entry ramps, heading for Main Street.

”Watch the traffic,” I said to Paul, and s.h.i.+fted up a gear as we crossed the ramps. Paul stayed behind me. We were both running easily. We were up to five miles a day in Maine, and I knew we'd catch Buddy all right. He was ahead, near the big pseudo-Gothic church, running erratically. He wouldn't last long.

He didn't. I caught him by the church steps with Paul close behind me. I got hold of his collar and yanked him backward and slammed his face first up against the church wall to the left of the steps. I patted him down quickly. If he had a weapon he had it well concealed.

Buddy was gasping. I let him go. He turned, coughed, and spit. His chest heaved.

”Dynamite shape, Bud,” I said. ”Like to see a man keep himself fit”

Buddy spit again. ”Whaddya want?” he said.

”I came over to train with you, Bud. Learn some of your physical conditioning secrets.”

Buddy stuck a cigarette in his mouth and lit it. He inhaled, coughed, inhaled again. ”Don't f.u.c.k around with me, man. Whaddya want?”

He was in the angle between the church steps and the church wall. I had him penned so he couldn't run. His eyes kept moving past me to either side.

”I want to know how you happen to know Mel Giacomin,” I said.

”Who?”

I slapped him across the face with my left hand. The cigarette flew out of his mouth in a flurry of sparks.

He said, ”Hey, come on.”

I said, ”How do you know Mel Giacomin?”

”I seen him around, you know. I just ran into him around.”

I slapped him with my right hand. His head rocked back against the wall. Buddy said, ”Jesus Christ. Come on. Stop it”

”How do you know Mel Giacomin?” I said.

”He's a friend of a guy I know.”

”Who's the guy?”

Buddy shook his head.

”I'm going to close my fist,” I said.

”I can't tell you. He'll kill me,” Buddy said.

I hit him a left hook in the side, under the last rib. He grunted and twisted.

”Him later. Me now,” I said. ”Whose friend is he?”

”Gimme a break,” Buddy said.

I feinted another left hook and hit him in the stomach. He started to slide down the wall. I caught him and pulled him, upright. He looked past me, but there was no one there. If anyone saw us, they were not getting involved.

”Who?”

”Cotton.”

”Harry Cotton?”

Buddy nodded.

”How's he know Cotton?” I said.

”I don't know. Harry just told me he was a friend and wanted a favor. I don't know nothing else, honest to G.o.d.”

”You doing much work for Harry?”

”Some.”

”Torch?”

Buddy shook his head and flinched. ”Nothing queer, Spenser, just errands.” He covered his middle with his arms.

”I won't tell Harry you mentioned his name to me,” I said. ”I wouldn't think you'd want to either.”

”I won't say nothing,” Buddy said. ”If he finds out, he'll have somebody burn me. Honest to G.o.d he will. You know Harry.”

”Yeah. He still got that car lot on Commonwealth?”

Buddy nodded.

I turned and made a come-along gesture to Paul.

We walked down Main Street toward our car. Paul looked back once to see where Buddy was, but I didn't bother.

In the car I said to Paul, ”How do you feel about that scene?”

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