Silent Night: A Spenser Holiday Novel by Robert B. Parker Page A

was nowhere in sight.
    “Who are you?” he said. “What are you doing here?” He was lean and strong-looking, in better shape than either Joe or Frankie at Street Business.
    “I’m going door-to-door collecting for charity,” I said. “We want to send all the underprivileged kids in Weston to violin camp. Would you care to contribute?”
    “Not funny, asshole,” Redhead said. “Hands up where I can see them.”
    I raised my hands, and he continued to point the gun at my chest. He seemed uncertain about what to do next.
    “How’d you get in here?” Redhead was doing his best to look menacing. The gun helped.
    “Chimney,” I said. “Just like Santa.”
    Redhead opened his mouth to say something. He never got the chance. Hawk appeared behind him and put one arm around Redhead’s neck and his knee deep into his back. Redhead let out a choked snarl and dropped his gun. I picked it up and stuck it in my pocket.
    Hawk let Redhead go.
    I looked down at the floor where Redhead sat with his head down. He had left a small duffel bag in the doorway, which I inspected while Hawk watched him. Five hundred in big bills and a round-trip economy ticket to El Paso, Texas. A small notepad filled with dates and numbers. I tucked it inside my pocket.
    I looked at Redhead. “You live here?”
    He stared at the ground and said nothing.
    “Want to tell us what’s so great about El Paso at Christmas?”
    Redhead remained enamored with a spot on the wooden floor. He shook his head.
    “Maybe he just shy,” said Hawk. “Could use a little encouragement to facilitate some conversation.”
    Redhead started to shake a little.
    “No,” I said. “Let’s go.”
    “No?” Hawk said. “Guy almost shot you.”
    “Almost,” I said. “And we did invite ourselves in.”
    Hawk shook his head. “Rules, Spenser. Rules gonna get you killed someday.”
    “Maybe,” I said. “But not today.”

I WAS SITTING AT MY DESK with my feet up, contemplating the cooking of the turducken for our Christmas dinner. It needed to roast for seven hours. I was counting backward from our appointed dinner hour of two in the afternoon to figure out when it should go in Susan’s oven. Then the door to my office opened and Juan Alvarez came in.
    “I hope you don’t mind the intrusion,” he said. His tone suggested he didn’t much care whether I minded or not. He carried his overcoat on his arm. He wore a tweed jacket with smooth leather patches at the elbows, a tartan vest, and a green tie patterned with small yellow animals that looked like little foxes.
    I motioned to the chair opposite my desk.
    He shot me a baleful look with his hard brown eyes. “You, Spenser, are not who you say you are. You are a private investigator. You never mentioned that when we were introduced.” He sounded genuinely injured.
    “I also didn’t tell you that I enjoy piña coladas and walks in the rain,” I said. “And, I might add, you never asked.”
    “I hear that you or someone working with you has been snooping into my private affairs. If that’s true, I’d like it to stop. I’m sure there must be some misunderstanding.” He gave me a faint smile.
    “What exactly have you heard, Juan?” I said.
    “My foreman told me that you came out to my farm in Weston a few days ago. And one of my men in the city reports that you visited one of my properties recently. Each time with some black man. Each time one of my employees was attacked.” He leaned forward toward me. “True?”
    “A lot of people say that about Hawk,” I said. “They look at him and say, ‘That is some black man.’”
    He got up. “This is not a joke to me, Spenser. You are interfering with how I run my business. I don’t know what you’re trying to do. I thought when we met the other night we met as friends. I still hope so.” He paused. “But please understand. If you don’t stop, I will stop you.”
    I let his words hang in the air for a moment.
    “I’m sure you’re serious,