Promised Land by Robert B. Parker Page B

shook her head.
    ”Okay,“ I said. ”This is straight, Hawk. I’m not working for Shepard, or anybody, at the moment. But I can’t go home and let you and Powers do what you want. I’m gonna hang around, I think, and see if I can get you off Shepard’s back.“
    Hawk looked at me without expression. ”That’s what I told them,“ he said. ”I told them that’s what you’d say if I came around and talked. But they paying the money. I’ll tell them I was right. I don’t think it gonna scare them.“
    ”I don’t suppose it would,“ I said.
    I opened the door and got out and held it open for Susan. She slid out, and then leaned back in and spoke to Hawk. ”Goodbye,“ she said. ”I’m not sure what to say. Glad to have met you wouldn’t do, exactly. But“—she shrugged—”thanks for the ride.“
    Hawk smiled at her. ”My pleasure, Susan. Maybe I’ll see you again.“
    I closed the door and Hawk slid the car out of the parking lot, soundless and smooth, like a shark cruising in still water.

Chapter 13
    Susan said, ”I want a drink.“
    We went in and sat on two barstools, at the corner, where the bar turns. Susan ordered a martini and I had a beer. ”Martini?“ I said.
    She nodded. ”I said I wanted a drink. I meant it.“ She drank half the martini in a single pull and put the glass back on the bar.
    ”How different?“ she said, and looked at me.
    ”You mean me and Hawk?“
    ”Uhhuh.“
    ”I don’t know. I don’t beat people up for money. I don’t kill people for money. He does.“
    ”But sometimes you’ll do it for nothing. Like this afternoon.“
    ”Powell?“
    ”Powell. You didn’t have to fight him. You needled him into it.“
    I shrugged.
    ”Didn’t you?“ Susan said.
    I shrugged again. She belted back the rest of the martini.
    ”Why?“
    I gestured the bartender down. ”Another round,“ I said.
    We were silent while he put the martini together and drew the beer and placed them before us.
    ”Got any peanuts,“ I said.
    He nodded and brought a bowl up from under the bar. The place was almost deserted, a couple having a late lunch across the room, and four guys, who looked like they’d been golfing, drinking mixed drinks at a table behind us. Susan sipped at her second martini.
    ”How can you drink those things?“ I said. ”They taste like a toothache cure.“
    ”It’s how I prove I’m tough,“ she said.
    ”Oh,“ I said. I ate some of the peanuts. The voices of the golf foursome were loud. Full of jovial good fellowship like the voice of a game-show host. A little desperate.
    ”Millions of guys spend their lives that way,“ I said. ”Sitting around pretending to be a good fellow with guys they have nothing to say to.“
    Susan nodded. ”Not just guys,“ she said.
    ”I always thought women did that better though,“ I said.
    ”Early training,“ Susan said, ”at being a phony, so men would like you. You going to answer my question?“
    ”About why I badgered Powell?“
    ”Uh huh.“ ‘You don’t give up easy, do you?”
    “Un unh.”
    “I don’t know exactly why I pushed him. He annoyed me sitting there, but it also seemed about the right move to make at the time.”
    “To show Hawk you weren’t afraid?”
    “No, I don’t think it impressed Hawk one way or the other. It was a gut reaction. A lot of what I do is a gut reaction. You’re a linear thinker, you want to know why and how come and what the source of the problem is and how to work out a solution to it. I assume it comes, in part, with being a guidance type.”
    “You’re reversing the stereotype, you know,” Susan said.
    “What? Women emotional, men rational? Yeah. But that was always horseshit anyway. Mostly, I think it’s just the opposite. In my case anyway. I don’t think in ABC order. I’ve gotten to be over forty and done a lot of things, and I’ve learned to trust my impulses usually. I tend to perceive in images and patterns and—what to call it—whole