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Bullet?"
    Bullet got himself slowly onto his feet and walked flatfooted now, and much less lightly over to the fat man and put down a hand and pulled the fat man to his feet.
    "You've bought yourself a lotta trouble, pal," the fat man said.
    "All part of the service," I said.
    "You sure you don't want to think about this," the fat guy said. "A week's pay plus a grand?"
    "Buzz off," I said.
    Again the fat man shrugged.
    "Okay by me," he said. "Bullet 'n me would just as soon beat the crap out of you anyway. Which we will do at another time. Right, Bullet?"
    Bullet stood silently holding the door. His eyes were very small and they were very close to his nose.
    "See you around," the fat man said and walked out. Bullet followed him. Neither of them was moving very briskly. Their footsteps receded and paused. I heard the elevator. I heard the elevator doors open and shut. I got up and walked to the door and checked the corridor. They had, in fact, buzzed off.
    I walked back to my desk and put the Smith & Wesson on my blotter and sat down with my feet up and thought about their offer.

chapter eleven
    HENRY CIMOLI'S HARBOR Health Club had continued its upscale climb. The number of big old York barbells had dwindled and the number of shiny weight-lifting machines had increased. Hawk and I, always flexible, were adjusting well, though both of us still did curls the old-fashioned way. We were there together on a bright morning when it was still too cold to really be spring. Through the picture windows across the back, the harbor looked bleak and choppy, and the sea birds looked cold. Hawk was resting between sets on the lat machine, watching Henry Cimoli taking a client through what must have been the first workout of his life.
    Clients loved Henry. They figured if they paid attention, they could look like he did. And they were right, if they happened to have his genes. Henry had been a lightweight boxer with the scar tissue around his eyes to prove it. His weight was the same as it had been when he fought. He wore a white tee shirt and white satin warm-up pants, and he looked like a pint and a half of muscle stuffed into a pint shirt.
    The new client was doing a bench press with no weight on the machine. He was wearing a leopardprint sweatband, black fingerless weight-lifting gloves, a black tanktop, black shorts, and high-top black basketball shoes with no socks. His legs were pale and skinny. His arms were pale and skinny. He had a tattoo on each shoulder.
    "Excellent," Henry said. "Now, let's try it this time with the pin in."
    "My wife doesn't want me to get overdeveloped," the guy said.
    "Sure," Henry said. "We'll be real careful about that. How's this weight?"
    The guy did a big exhale and pushed up one plate of the weight stack.
    "Terrific," Henry said. "Ter-rif-ic. Now let's go for ten."
    The client cranked out eight and stopped. "Dynamite," Henry said. "You'll be doing ten in no time."
    The guy was breathing too hard to answer. When he sat up on the bench he showed a surprising belly for a skinny guy. Hawk stopped watching and did another set on the machine, his face expressionless, his movements almost serpentine as the muscles swelled and subsided with each repetition. Henry moved his client to the next room to do leg presses. He kept a perfectly straight face as he walked past Hawk and me. Hawk finished his second set and got up and got a drink of water and came back.
    "Fat guy," he said thoughtfully, "and a fireplug named Bullet. Must be new in town, or new in the business."
    I nodded. It was an unusual local thug that neither of us knew.
    "Be coming back though," Hawk said. "Sluggers don't much like getting their ass kicked by the designated sluggee."
    "I'd sort of like to know who sent them," I said.
    "You guessing Ronan?"
    "Rita says he's got the connections," I said. "And the temperament."
    "Makes you wonder how good his wife's case is on the sexual harassment," Hawk said. "He trying to chase you off the case."
    He