Part 34 (1/2)
”Three people,” he said.
”They know about each other?”
”Of course they do,” he said. ”Who brought me up?”
”Mostly me, I guess.”
”All you,” Paul said. ”And the psychiatrist you got me. My first fifteen years were without upbringing.”
”Well,” I said. ”We did a h.e.l.l of a job.”
”Me too,” he said. ”You in town on business?”
”Yeah.”
He nodded. Paul never asked about business.
”You okay?” I said.
”Me? Yeah.”
”Enough money?”
”Yeah. I still get a check every month from my father. I'm getting a lot of bookings for my ch.o.r.eography, and I've started acting a little. Got a part in a thing called Sky Lark about ten off-offs.”
I nodded. Paul looked at me carefully.
”Why do you ask? You never ask questions like that.”
”Just wondering.”
Paul didn't say anything. He drank some wine, poured some into my gla.s.s and some more into his.
”You're all right?”
”Absolutely,” I said. ”Healthy as a horse, and d.a.m.ned near as smart.”
Paul chimed in on the d.a.m.n near as smart so that we spoke it simultaneously. We both laughed.
”Okay,” I said, ”so maybe you've heard my act.”
”And maybe I know it pretty well,” Paul said. ”You're worried about something.”
”Not worried exactly, just alert to all possibilities. If something happened to me, you could count on Hawk to help you in any way you needed.”
”I know.”
”And Susan.”
”I know that, too.”
”And if she were alone, you could be very helpful to her.”
”And would be. You and she are the closest thing I ever had to real parents.”
”Good,” I said. ”Can we come down and see you in this play?”
”You don't want to talk about all the possibilities you're alert to,” Paul said.
”No.”
”Okay.”
Paul drank some wine and cut a piece off his sus.h.i.+-quality tuna steak and ate it. Then he looked at me for a minute and nodded silently.
”Whatever it is,” he said, ”my money is on you.”
”Smart bet,” I said.
Chapter 47.
PATRICIA UTLEY'S MAN Steven showed up at my hotel the next morning. He called from the lobby. I gave him the room number and let him in when he knocked. He handed me a lavender note-sized envelope with my name written on it, purple ink in a beautiful cursive hand.
”Mrs. Utley asked me to give you this,” he said.
I opened the envelope and found a piece of matching note paper with the name Attorney Morris Gold written on it, and an address in the East Nineties. Under that was written in the same beautiful script, ”You will need a place to receive calls. You may use my home. You know the number.”
”Tell Mrs. Utley thank you,” I said.
”She also instructed me to offer you any help you might need.”
”Thank you, Steven, but I think this will be a solo dash.”
He nodded.
”If you decide otherwise,” he said, and let it hang.
I nodded.
”I'll go see this guy, then I'll come to the house.”
”Very good,” he said, and left.
I had no plan. All I had was the name and address of a guy who might get me to the Gray Man, and a Smith Wesson.357 Mag, with a four-inch barrel, which I slipped onto my belt and positioned on my right hip. No machine guns, no siege cannon. This would be a simple deal. Either I'd get him or I wouldn't. No more than a couple of shots would be fired. And they'd be at close range. I put some extra bullets in my s.h.i.+rt pocket and went out of the hotel.