Rough Weather: A Spenser Novel

walk-away.
    “Could we take a few minutes to talk?” I said.
    “About what?” she said.
    “About your daughter, that sort of thing,” I said.
    “That is of no further concern to you,” she said. “I asked my accountant to pay you. Has he not done so?”
    “He has,” I said. “Have you heard anything from your daughter’s kidnappers?”
    “I prefer not to talk about it,” Heidi said.
    “Why did you agree to see me?” I said.
    “I was trying to be agreeable. I didn’t want you to think that I was angry with you for failing to prevent the awful thing that happened. I just thought you’d stop by, have a drink, and we’d part on good terms.”
    My beer arrived. Heineken. I took the bottle, left the glass on the tray. In a minute, I knew, I was going to hear from Clark. I was annoyed. I knew nothing, and the more I nosed around, the less I knew. I had no idea what Heidi was doing. I was being lied to. I didn’t like that. I didn’t like the growing suspicion that I had been used in some capacity I couldn’t figure out. And I didn’t like Clark. I didn’t like his hair, or his linen jacket, or his stand-up collar, or his square jaw. I didn’t like his tan, or his muscles, or the honey-colored woven-leather loafers he had on. I didn’t like his proprietary glare. Or his erroneousassumption that he could knock me down and kick me if he needed to.
    “Do you have any idea where your daughter is?” I said.
    “I’ve answered that already,” she said.
    “What did you hire me for?” I said.
    “I regret that I did,” she said.
    “Me, too,” I said. “But the question stands.”
    She looked at the Chippendale.
    “Clark?” she said.
    He nodded.
    “Ms. Bradshaw has told you she don’t wish to speak of it,” he said. “You’ll have to leave.”
    I had a brief internal struggle, which I lost. I was too frustrated.
    “What’s option B?” I said.
    “I remove you,” Clark said.
    “I’ll take that one,” I said.
    “What?”
    “I’ll take option B,” I said. “Remove me.”
    Clark looked at Heidi. Heidi had an odd look on her face.
    “Remove Mr. Spenser, Clark.”
    He was so spectacularly big and muscular that it probably didn’t occur to him that he couldn’t. Most times he probably just frightened people into submission. He put his left hand flat against my chest and pushed.
    “Okay,” he said. “Move it.”
    I brought both hands up and knocked his hand away, which left both my hands up, and in convenient position for step two. Clark initiated step two by throwing a big roundhouse right hand at me. I deflected it with my left and stepped back.
    “Clark,” I said. “That’s not the way.”
    He lunged at me and I put a stiff jab on his nose.
    “Get your feet under you,” I said. “Left one forward.”
    I gave him another jab and ducked under his left and moved to my right.
    “See, if you don’t have your legs under you, you don’t turn well. Which lets me get around you and bang up your body.”
    I hooked him left, then right, to the ribs. I heard him gasp. He wouldn’t last long, even if I didn’t hit him. There’s shape, and there’s fighting shape. Clark was maybe in posing shape. He was already starting to suck air. He was slower throwing the big right again. I brushed it away with my left.
    “And don’t loop your punches,” I said. “Lead with your hip. Keep your elbows in. Guy your size, you should be working in close anyway, use your muscle.”
    I doubled up on a jab to the nose and then stepped in and hit him a big right-hand uppercut, and Clark fell over.
    “See how I started my hip first?” I said. “And let the punch follow it?”
    Clark wasn’t out. But he was through. He sat on the floor. I knew his head was swimming. He was breathing as hard as he could.
    “The companions you hire,” I said to Heidi, “don’t seem to be working out.”
    Her face was a little flushed. Her eyes were shiny. She ran the tip of her tongue along her lower lip. I turned and walked out of the atrium. Behind me the harpist was still playing. As I walked down the hall toward the front door, two security guards came in, walking fast.
    “What happened,” one of them said to me.
    “Clark just got knocked on his ass,” I said.
    “Good,” he said, and kept on past me into the atrium.

 
    “ Well,”
Susan said. “That worked out swell.”
    It was Sunday morning. We were in her kitchen. She was sipping her coffee, watching me make clam hash for