A Savage Place by Robert B. Parker Read Free Book Online

paying me for,” I said. “When we get to the Farmers Market, pull in close to one of the doors and park, illegally if you need to. Just don’t waste any time. Then jump out and run inside, and go in the nearest ladies’ room. You know your way around in there?”
    “Oh, sure.”
    “Okay. The ladies’ room nearest the entrance we go in. Stay there till I yell for you. I’ll open the door and yell.”
    “You may be arrested as a Peeping Tom.” She sounded strained but she was trying.
    “You’ll swear my eyes were shut tight all the time,” I said.
    She smiled, though not very wide, and said, “Okay. While I’m hiding in the ladies’ room, what are you going to do?”
    “I’m going to consult with our groupies here. See if I can get a little information.”
    The Pontiac was drawing closer.
    “Move this thing faster,” I said to Candy. “I need a little space between us when we get to the Market.” The MG speeded up as we went down Fairfax. The Pontiac hung in behind us. “You can’t outrun it,” I said to Candy, “but this thing can outmaneuver it. Slip in and out of traffic a little.”
    “Spenser, I bought this because it was cute, not because it was hot. I don’t know how to stunt-drive.”
    “Well, do what you can. I don’t want them to make a run at us right here on Fairfax.”
    She bit her lip and tromped down on the accelerator and jockied the little sports car in between a truck and a Lincoln that looked like a truck. The Pontiac edged out around the truck and then fell back in behind it. Candy passed the Lincoln on the inside and got honked at by a red-faced man wearing a pink shirt and smoking a cigar. We screeched into the parking lot on the north side of the Farmers Market, cutting across the traffic recklessly and causing several more horns to blow.
    The store section of the Farmers Market was a rambling white low building surrounded by parking lots just south of CBS Studios on the corner of Fairfax Avenue and Third Street. There were cars parked all around the building, and Candy jammed the MG into the walkway leading to one of the entrances, and we jumped out and headed into the market. Just inside the door there was a stand selling barbecue and down the aisle from that was a sign that said RESTROOMS. I pointed at it, and Candy went for it at as brisk a walk as one could muster. I went with her till I saw her go in and then I faded behind a stand that sold Mexican food and moved down the aisles of food stalls and produce stands, watching the entrance where we’d come in. I saw the fat man. Candy was right. He was fat, but you weren’t fooled. He was strong too.
    He looked around. I moved down the aisle away from him, past a stand that sold blackberry pie, my mouth watering briefly, then I went past a Chinesefood concession and into the parking lot in front, around the corner from where we’d entered.
    The Pontiac was double-parked between the market and the souvenir shop that sold Mexican jewelry and leather cowboy hats and pictures of the Griffith Park Observatory sealed inside a transparent plastic square. Candy’s MG was sitting there in the walkway near it. People skirted it to get into the market, shaking their heads; a man suggested to his wife that the driver was an asshole. I felt he’d made his judgment on insufficient evidence.
    The driver of the Pontiac was standing leaning against the car with his arms folded on the roof. He was tall and blond with longish hair combed back in a stiff sweep. He had a dark tan and a thick mustache that turned up slightly at the ends. He wore a white shirt with epaulets and a pocket on the left sleeve. It was half unbuttoned. He had two slim gold chains around his neck. The bottom half was bleached white straight-leg cords worn over hand-tooled cowboy boots. His waist was narrow, but his upper body had the thickened look of a weight lifter.
    I walked up behind him, stepping softly. “Are you Troy Donahue?” I said.
    He turned his head