Early Autumn by Robert B. Parker

said, “I’m going to put this beer away,” and went into the kitchen. Susan came out behind me.
    “Just what in hell do you think we’re going to feed these people?” Susan said.
    “Got any cake?” I said.
    “I’m serious. I don’t have anything in the house to serve five people.”
    “I’ll go get something,” I said.
    “And let me entertain your guests?”
    “Your choice,” I said. “I don’t care to have a fight though.”
    “Well, don’t do this to me. I don’t simply sit around here waiting for your problems to drop by.”
    “Love me, love my problems,” I said.
    “Sometimes I wonder if that’s a worthwhile tradeoff.”
    “There you go,” I said, “talking that education management jargon again.”
    She was looking in the refrigerator. “If I want to say trade-off, goddammit, I’ll say trade-off. I’ve got some of that Williamsburg bacon. We could make up a bunch of BLTs.”
    “Toasted,” I said. “And on the side, some of those homemade bread-and-butter pickles we did last fall.”
    “And cut flowers in a vase, and the Meyer Davis Orchestra? You better go back in and help out on the conversation. Hawk must be ready to jump out of his skin.”
    “Not Hawk,” I said. “He doesn’t mind silence. He doesn’t want to talk. He won’t talk. He doesn’t sweat small talk much.”
    “He doesn’t sweat anything too much,” Susan said, “does he?”
    “Nope. He’s completely inside. Come on in and talk a bit, then we’ll all transfer to the kitchen and make sandwiches and eat. There’s some cheese too, and a couple of apples. It’ll be a feast.” I patted her lightly on the backside. “Besides, we need your advice.”
    “My advice to you, big fella, is to keep your hands to yourself,” she said.
    I opened another beer and we went back into the living room. Hawk was stretched out in a wing chair near the fireplace, feet straight out in front of him, body slumped easily in the chair. When we came in, he took a small sip from his champagne glass and put it back on the end table near him. Patty and Paul were watching the six o’clock news. No one was talking.
    I sat in a Boston rocker on the opposite side of the fireplace from Hawk.
    I said, “Paul, you did good today.”
    He nodded.
    “Patty,” I said, “tell me what happened.”
    “I came out of the supermarket and three men with guns made me get into the car. That one that came to our house was one of them.”
    “Buddy?” I said.
    “Yes. He sat in front with the driver and the other man sat in back with me and we drove to a pay phone in Boston. Then we drove to the bridge and they told me to get out and start walking. Other than that they didn’t talk to me at all or say anything.”
    “You recognize any of them, Hawk?”
    “Dude I threw in the river is Richie Vega. He used to shake down massage parlors.”
    Patty said, “My God, how would Mel find people like that to hire?”
    Hawk raised his head slightly and looked at me. I shrugged. Hawk let his chin settle back onto his chest.
    Patty Giacomin said to Hawk, “Do you know my husband?”
    Hawk said, “No. Not if he go by Mel Giacomin.”
    “Well, that’s his name.”
    Hawk nodded.
    Patty said, “Do you know what this is all about?”
    Hawk said, “No.”
    “You got in a fight with three men and they had guns, and you threw one into the river, and you don’t even know why?”
    Hawk said, “Yeah, that’s right.”
    “And you’re not a detective or anything?”
    “Nope.”
    Paul was watching and listening. We had distracted him from the tube.
    “A strong-arm man?” he said.
    “Yeah, something like that,” I said.
    The newscasters joked painfully with the weather forecaster on television.
    I said to Susan, “I don’t know how much Patty’s told you since she arrived, but for your benefit and Hawk’s I’ll run through it very quickly.”
    I did.
    When I got through, there was silence. Hawk seemed almost asleep. Only the evening news mewled in one