“Professor Crawford get caught up in the black power movement?”

“Yeah.”

“He change his name?”

“Yeah.”

“Amir Abdullah?”

“Yeah.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Susan and I had begun having brunch every Sunday at her home. She’d set the dining room table with flowers in a vase and I’d cook something, and when it was ready, we’d sit in her dining room and eat. Pearl normally joined us. Today I had done huevos rancheros with mild green chilies. We were talking about Hawk.

“Was it because the professor was gay?” Susan said.

“I don’t think so,” I said.

“Would he have reacted the same way if it had been a female professor that hit on him?”

“No. Femaleness didn’t matter the way maleness mattered.”

“It was because he was treating Hawk as a means not an end,” Susan said.

“Avoiding the obvious wise remark about end…” I said.

“Thank you,” Susan said.

“… I think so.”

“The most august and accomplished black man Hawk had ever met and he – what would the street term be – dissed him?”

“Something like that,” I said.

“And years later he turns up. Do you think he remembered Hawk?”

“I don’t know. Hawk’s probably not the only kid he ever hit on. Still most people meet Hawk remember him.”

“Didn’t he go out of his way to be insulting?” Susan said.

“Maybe. I think by nature he’s an annoying sonovabitch.”

“Predators often resent rejection,” Susan said.

I shrugged. Pearl was resting her head on my thigh. I cut off a small bite of the linguiзa I had substituted for chorizo, and gave it to her.

“You’re just confirming her in her bad habits,” Susan said.

“Yes,” I said, “I am.”

Susan stirred some Equal into her coffee. Pearl heard the spoon click in the cup and left me for a more promising prospect. Susan gave her a small forkful of black beans.

“Talk about bad habits,” I said.

“At least I’m teaching her to use flatware,” Susan said.

“Important for a dog,” I said.

Susan smiled. She put her spoon down and put her chin on her folded hands and looked at me.

“It’s very odd,” she said. “It’s like suddenly discovering Beowulf’s childhood.”

“I met him about the same time this happened,” I said.

“When you were both fighting at the Arena.”

“Yes.”

“You think he’s all right?”

“Hawk?”

“Yes.”

“Few people are more all right than Hawk,” I said.

“He’s very contained.”

“Very.”

“And he pays a high price for it,” Susan said.

“You think?”

“The distance between containment and isolation is not so great,” Susan said.

“He’s got a lot of women,” I said.

“But not one,” Susan said. “I guess that’s right,” I said.

“You ought to know.”

“You think I’m too contained?” I said.

“You have me,” Susan said.

“A claim no one else can currently make,” I said.

“It makes your containment more flexible,” Susan said.

“More fun too,” I said.

“You’re just saying that because I balled your ears off an hour ago.”

“Not just that,” I said.

Susan ate some of her food.

“This is very good,” she said.

“You deserve it,” I said.

“Because I’m deeply insightful?”

“Sure,” I said. “And you also balled my ears off about an hour ago.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

I had a couple of ways to go in chasing down Louis Vincent. I could talk to the cops in Hingham where he lived. Or I could talk to people at Hall, Peary where he worked. Hall, Peary was closer, so I called over there and talked with Phyllis Wasserman, the human resources director. She told me that of the five complaints of sexual harassment they’d had in the past year, one involved stalking and remained unsolved. Two others, she said, were much closer to angry disagreement than they were to sexual harassment, and the last two had been resolved by firing the harasses I asked who was involved in the stalking, and she said she was not at liberty. I asked if she would give my name to the victim and ask her to call me. She said she would.

While I was waiting hopefully, I called the Hingham police. It took a little while but I got to the chief, whose name was Roach. They’d had two stalking complaints in the last year. In one case the stalker had been in violation of a court order, and they had been able to arrest him and urge him to change his ways.

“You give me the name?” I said.

“Not without a good reason,” Roach said.

“Well, was the stalker a Hingham resident?”

“No.”

“Was he a stockbroker?”

“Hell no.”

“Okay,” I said. “What about the other one?”

“Never caught the guy.”

“But the stalking stopped?”

“Yep. My guess is he found someone else.”

“That’s my guess too,” I said. “Can you give me the name of the victim?”

“Nope.”

“Can you give her my name and number, and remind her that I’m trying to help some other woman who’s going through what she went through?”

“I can do that,” Roach said.

“Thanks.”

I hung up and sat. The phone was quiet. I swiveled my chair so I could look out my window at the corner of Berkeley and Boylston. I opened the window so I could listen to the traffic. People were already in summer clothes although we were only about half done with May. There was a Ford Explorer waiting for the light on Boylston Street. The sunroof was open and there was heavy metal music thundering up. As I watched, someone stuck a sign out of the sunroof that said Brendan Cooney for King. The light changed. The Explorer moved on, its exuberant sign still deployed. The young are very different than we are, I said to myself. Yes, I responded, they have more time. What if you could be young again and were able to undo the things that were done that made you into the person you would later become. But then who would you be. Would Hawk have been Hawk if he hadn’t met Professor Crawford/Abdullah? Maybe this wasn’t a useful avenue of inquiry. Maybe I should run over a list of the women I’d slept with and see if I could remember how each of them looked with their clothes off.

I was up to Brenda Loring, who had looked excellent with her clothes off, when the phone rang.

“This is Meredith Teitler,” a woman said. “Phyllis Wasserman gave me your number.”

“I’m a detective,” I said. “I represent a woman who is currently being stalked.”

“I understand,” Meredith said. “What do you wish to know?”

“You worked at Hall, Peary?”

“Still do,” she said.

“You were a stalking victim.”

“Yes.”

“Is it still a problem?”

“I am no longer being stalked,” she said.

“Did you ever identify the stalker?”

“No.”

“Did you ever date anyone at Hall, Peary?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“He wouldn’t have been the stalker.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Well, he just wouldn’t. He was, is very nice.”

“Can you give me his name?”

“No, really, I’m happy to help. But I don’t wish to make trouble for a man who’s guilty of nothing.”

“Did you ever date Louis Vincent?” I said.

There was silence.

After a moment I said, “May I take that as a yes?”

“Why did you ask about Louis?”

“He’s suspected in a stalking on the North Shore,” I said.

Again silence. This time I waited her out.

“Yes,” she said finally, “I dated Louis Vincent.”

“And what caused you to stop dating?” I said. “I… I went back to my husband,” she said. “I had dated Louis while my husband and I were separated.”

“How’d he feel about you reuniting with your husband?”

“He was very much for it,” she said. “That’s why I can’t…”

“Did he have any thought that you might continue to see each other after you reunited?”

“I… well, he did say at one point it would be fun if we could still meet once a week or so and… ah… be in bed together.”