THREE COMPLETE SPENSER NOVELS
ROBERT B. PARKER

THE GODWULF MANUSCRIPT

MORTAL STAKES

THE PROMISED LAND

..   ....
Renowned for his wisecracks, his right hook, and his penchant for poetry
and pretty women, Spenser is one-of-a-kind in the detective business.
Spenser took mystery readers by storm when he made his debut in The
Godwulf Manuscript in 1974, and since then Robert B. Parker has brought
the irresistible gumshoe back in one bestseller after another.

THE GODWULF MANUSCRIPT

Spenser thought it was an open and shut case--find out who stole the
priceless 14th- century Godwulf Manuscript from a Boston college library
and get the book back. But the witty sleuth quickly discovers that the
medieval manuscript is just one strand in a sticky web of drug deals, a
seductive blue- blood mother and her even more seductive daughter, a
murdered campus radical, small- time mobsters, and big-time trouble.

"Spenser is as tough as they come and spiked with a touch of real
class."
--Kirkus Reviews

MORTAL STAKES

For Spenser, it looks like the job of a lifetime: drink beer, eat
peanuts, and hang out with the Boston Red Sox players to investigate
some behind-the-scenes hanky panky. But Spenser soon stumbles on a very
nasty blackmail scheme involving a pornographic movie, the team's star
pitcher, and a couple of vicious thugs. Spenser thinks he's found a
solution, but time is running out--and if the truth leaks, the Sox are
finished.

"Spenser probably had more to do with changing the private eye from a
cof- fin-chaser to a full-bodied human being than any other detective
hero."
--The Chicago Sun-Times

PROMISED LAND

Harvey Shepard, a shady Cape Cod vacation home developer, wants his wife
back, and he's willing to pay Spenser whatever it takes to find her and
get her home. But the real trou- ble starts when Spenser tracks the
little woman down and discovers she's gotten her- self mixed up in a
bank robbery and murder. Spenser's got just twenty-four hours to
untangle this mess--or he'll wind up with two very dead clients.

"[Spenser is] tough, wisecracking, unafraid, lonely, unexpectedly
literate- in many respects the very exemplar of the species."
--The New York Times

A master of suspense and an incomparably witty prose stylist, ROBERT B.
PARKER knows how to keep readers laughing as they madly turn pages to
see what happens next. He has written over 30 novels. Parker and his
wife Joan make their home in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

Jacket art by Brod Weinman
Jacket design by Gus Papadopoulos

WINGS BOOKS
Distributed by
Random House Value Publishing, Inc.
40 Engelhard Avenue
Avenel, New Jersey 07001

More Praise for Robert B. Parker and Spenser!

"We are witnessing one of the great series in the history of the
American detective story."
--R.W.B. Lewis, The New York Times Book Review

"The sassiest, funniest, most-enjoyable-to-read-about private eye around
today...."
--The Cincinnati Post

The Godwulf Manuscript

"Crackling dialogue, plenty of action, and expert writingTough,
wisecracking, unafraid, and unexpectedly [  literate--in many respects
the very exemplar of the species."
--The New York Times

Mortal Stakes

"Spenser is Boston's answer to James Bond.... His first person recital
of his detective work makes for fast, amusing reading."
--The Pittsburgh Press

"Freshness, humor, taste and tension!"
--JOHN D. MACDONALD

Promised Land

"Parker writes exciting, genuinely witty stories populated by wacky
characters. . . . Delightful."
--The Grand Rapids Press

ROBERT B. PARKER
THREE COMPLETE NOVELS

ROBERT B PARKER
THREE COMPLETE NOVELS
The Godwulf
Manuscript
Mortal Stakes
Promised Land

WINGS BOOKS
New York ù Avenel, New Jersey

This omnibus was originally published in separate volumes under the
titles:

The Godwulf Manuscript, copyright (C) 1973 by Robert B. Parker
Mortal Stakes, copyright (C) 1975 by Robert B. Parker
Promised Land, copyright (C) 1976 by Robert B. Parker

For Mortal Stakes, the lines on pages 173 and 282 are from "Two Tramps in
Mud Time" from The Poetry of Robert Frost edited by Edward Connery
Lathem. Copyright (C) 1936 by Robert Frost. Copyright (C) 1969 by Lesley
Frost Ballentine. Copyright (C) 1969 by Henry Holt and Company, Inc.
Reprinted by permission of Henry Holt and Company, Inc..

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted
in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including
photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval
system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where
permitted by law.

This edition contains the complete and unabridged texts of the original
editions. They have been completely reset for this volume.

This 1995 edition is published by Wings Books, distributed by Random
House Value Publishing, Inc., 40 Engelhard Avenue, Avenel, New Jersey
07001, by arrangement with Delacorte Press, an imprint of Dell
Publishing, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc.

Random House
New York ù Toronto ù London ù Sydney ù Auckland

Printed and bound in the United States of America

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Parker, Robert B., 1932-

[Selections. 1995]

Three complete novels / Robert B. Parker.
p. cm.

Contents: The Godwulf manuscript--God save the child--Mortal
stakes .

ISBN 0-517-14802-1 (hardcover)

1. Spenser (Fictitious character)--Fiction. 2. Private investigators--
Massachusetts--Boston--Fiction. 3. Detective and mystery stories,

American. I. Title.

PS3566.A686A6 1995
813'.54--dc20

8  7  6  5   4  3  2  1

95- 15248
CIP

Contents

The Godwulf Manuscript

Mortal Stakes

Promised Land



The GODWULF MANUSCRIPT

this, like everything else, is for Joan, David and Daniel

CHAPTER ONE

THE OFFICE OF the university president looked like the front parlor of a
successful Victorian whorehouse. It was paneled in big squares of dark
walnut, with ornately figured maroon drapes at the long windows. There
was maroon carpeting and the furniture was black leather with brass
studs. The office was much nicer than the classrooms; maybe I should
have worn a tie.

Bradford W. Forbes, the president, was prosperously heavy--reddish 
face; thick, longish, white hair; heavy white eyebrows. He was wearing a 
brown pin-striped custom-tailored three-piece suit with a gold Phi Beta 
Kappa key on a gold watch chain stretched across his successful middle. His 
shirt was yellow broadcloth and his blue and yellow striped red tie spilled 
out over the top of his vest.

As he talked, Forbes swiveled his chair around and stared at his 
reflection in the window. Flakes of the season's first snow flattened out 
against it, dissolved and trickled down onto the white brick sill It was 
very gray out, a November grayness that is peculiar to Boston in late fall, 
and Forbes's office seemed cheerier than it should have because of that.

He was telling me about the sensitive nature of a college president's 
job, and there was apparently a lot to say about it. I'd been there twenty 
minutes and my eyes were beginning to cross. I wondered if I should tell him 
his office looked like a whorehouse. I decided not to.

"Do you see my position, Mr. Spenser," he said, and swiveled back 
toward me, leaning forward and putting both his hands palms down on the top 
of his desk. His nails were manicured.

"Yes, sir," I said. "We detectives know how to read people."

Forbes frowned and went on.

"It is a matter of the utmost delicacy, Mr. Spenser"-he was looking at 
himself in the glass again--"requiring restraint, sensitivity, 
circumspection, and a high degree of professionalism. I don't know the kind 
of people who usually employ you, but . . ."

I interrupted him.

"Look, Dr. Forbes, I went to college once, I don't wear my hat indoors. 
And if a clue comes along and bites me on the ankle, I grab it. I am not, 
however, an Oxford don. I am a private detective. Is there something you'd 
like me to detect, or are you just polishing up your elocution for next 
year's commencement?"

Forbes inhaled deeply and let the air out slowly through his nose.

"District Attorney Frale told us you were somewhat overfond of your own 
wit. Tell him, Mr. Tower."

Tower stepped away from the wall where he had been leaning and opened a 
manila file folder. He was tall and thin, with a Prince Valiant haircut, 
long sideburns, buckle boots, and a tan gabardine suit. He put one foot on a 
straight chair and flipped open the folder, no nonsense.

"Carl Tower," he said, "head of campus security. Four days ago a 
valuable fourteenth-century illuminated manuscript was stolen from our 
library."

"What is an illuminated manuscript?"

Forbes answered, "A handwritten book, done by monks usually, with 
illustrations in color, often red and gold in the margins. This particular 
one is in Latin, and contains an allusion to Richard Rolle, the 
fourteenth-century English mystic. It was discovered forty years ago behind 
an ornamental facade at Godwulf Abbey, where it is thought to have been 
secreted during the pillage of the monasteries that followed Henry the 
Eighth's break with Rome."

"Oh," I said, "that illuminated manuscript."

"Right," Tower said briskly. "I can fill you in with description and 
pictures later. Right now we want to sketch out the general picture. This 
morning President Forbes received a phone call from someone purporting to 
represent a campus organization, unnamed. The caller said they had a 
manuscript and would return it if we would give a hundred thousand dollars 
to a free school run by an off-campus group."

"So why not do so?"

Again Forbes answered. "We don't have one hundred thousand dollars, Mr. 
Spenser."

I looked around. "Perhaps you could rent out the south end of your 
office for off-street parking," I said.

Forbes closed his eyes for perhaps ten seconds, inhaled audibly, and 
then went on.

"All universities lose money. This one, large, urban, in some ways 
undistinguished, loses more than most. We have little alumni support, and 
that which we do have is often from the less affluent segments of our 
culture. We do not have one hundred thousand dollars."

I looked at Tower. "Can the thing be fenced?"

"No, its value is historical and literary. The only market would be 
another university, and they would recognize it at once."

"There is another problem, Mr. Spenser. The manuscript must be kept in 
a controlled environment. Air-conditioned, proper humidity, that sort of 
thing. Should it be kept out of its case too long, it will fall apart. The 
loss to scholarship would be tragic." Forbes's voice sank at the last 
sentence.

He examined a fleck of cigar ash on his lapel, then brought his eyes up 
level with mine and stared at me steadily.

"Can we count on you, Mr. Spenser? Can you get it back?"

"Win this one for the Gipper," I said.

Behind me Tower gave a kind of snort, and Forbes looked as if he'd 
found half a worm in his apple.

"I beg your pardon?" he said.

"I'm thirty-seven years old and short on rah-rah, Dr.

Forbes. If you'll pay me, and do your Pat O'Brien impressions somewhere 
else, I'll see if I can find the manuscript."

"This gets us nowhere," Tower said. "Let me take him down to my office, 
Dr. Forbes, and lay it all out for him. I know the situation and I'm used to 
dealing with people like him."

Forbes nodded without speaking. As we left the office he was standing 
at his window, hands clasped behind his back, looking at the snow.

The administration building was cinder block, with vinyl tile, frosted 
glass partitions, two tones of green on the corridor walls. Tower's office 
was six doors down from Forbes's and not much bigger than Forbes's desk. It 
was done in beige metal. Tower got seated behind his desk and tapped his 
teeth with a pencil.

"It's really slick how you can charm a client, Spenser."

I sat across from him in the other chair. I didn't say anything.

"Sure," he said, "the old man's kind of a ham, but he's a damn good 
administrator, and a damn fine person."

"Okay," I said, "he's terrific. When I grow up I want to be just like 
him. What about the Godwulf Manuscript?"

"Right." He took an eight-by-ten color print from his manila folder and 
handed it to me. It showed an elegantly handwritten book lying open on a 
table. The words were in Latin and around the margins in bright red and gold 
were drawn knights and ladies and lions on their hind legs, and vines and 
stags and a serpentine dragon being lanced by an armor-clad hero on a plump 
and feminine horse. The first letter at the top left on each page was 
elaborately drawn and incorporated into the design of the margins.

"It was taken three nights ago from its case in the library's rare book 
room. The watchman punched in there at two and again at four. At four he 
found the case open and the manuscript gone. He can't say positively that it 
wasn't there at two, but he assumes he would have noticed. It's hard to 
prove you didn't see something. You want to talk to him?"

"No," I answered. "That's routine stuff. You or the cops can do that as 
well as I could. Have you got a suspect?"

"SCACE."

"SCACE?"

"Student Committee Against Capitalist Exploitation.

Revolution at the far-left fringe of the spectrum. I don't know it the 
way courts want it known; I know it the way you know things like that if 
you're in my line of work."

"Informer?"

"Not really, though I've got some contacts. Mostly, though, it's a gut 
guess. It's the kind of thing they'd do. I've been here for five years. 
Before that I was with the Bureau for ten. I've spent a lot of time on 
radicals, and I've developed a feel for them."

"Like the late director developed a feel for them?"

"Hoover? No, he's one reason I quit the Bureau. He was a hell of a cop 
once, but his time came and went before he died. I got enough feel about the 
radical kids not to classify them. The worst of them have the same things 
wrong that zealots always have, but you can't blame them for getting rigid 
about some of the things that go on. That ain't Walt Disney World out 
there." He nodded out his window at the blacktop quadrangle where the slush 
was beginning to collect in semi-fluid patterns as the kids sloshed through 
it. A thin and leafless sapling leaned against its support stake. It was a 
long way from home.

"Where do I find SCACE? Do they have a clubhouse with college pennants 
on the wall and old Pat Boone records playing day and night?"

"Not hardly," Tower said. "Your best bet would be to talk to the 
secretary. Terry Orchard. She's the least unpleasant of them, and the least 
unreasonable."

"Where do I find her?"

Tower pressed down an intercom button and asked someone to bring him in 
the SCACE file.

"We keep a file on all college organizations. Just routine. We're not 
singling SCACE out."

"I bet you've got a thick one on the Newman club," I said.

"Okay, we don't pay as much attention to some as others, granted. But 
we're not persecuting anybody."

Tower's door opened and a post-coed blonde in high white boots came in. 
She was wearing something in purple suede that was too short for a skirt and 
too long for a belt.

Above that was a scarlet satin long-collared shirt with puffed sleeves 
and a deep neck. Her thighs were a little heavy--but perhaps she thought the 
same of me. She laid a thick brown file folder on Tower's desk, looked me 
over like the weight guesser at a fair, and left.

"Who was that," I asked, "the dean of women?"

Tower was thumbing through the file. He extracted a typewritten sheet.

"Here," he said, and handed it across. It was a file on Terry Orchard: 
home address: Newton, Mass. college address: none. Transient.

"Transient?" I said.

"Yeah, she drifts. Mostly she lives with a guy named Dennis Powell, 
who's some kind of SCACE official. She also used to live sometimes with a 
girl over on Hemenway Street.

Connelly, Catherine Connelly. It's all there in the file."

"Yeah, and the file is a year old."

"I don't have the staff. The kids come and go. They're only here four 
years, if that. The real romantic radicals like to think of themselves as 
free floaters, street people. They sleep around on floors and sofas and 
Christ knows where else. Your best bet would be to get her after class."

Again the intercom, again the purple skirt.

"See if you can get Terry Orchard's schedule from the registrar's 
office for me, Brenda." All business. Competent.

Professional. No hanky-panky. No wonder he lasted ten years with the 
Feds.

She was back in about five minutes with a Xerox copy of an IBM printout 
of Terry Orchard's schedule. She had a class in the psychology of repression 
that ended at three in Hardin Hall, fourth floor. It was 2:35.

"Picture?" I asked Tower.

"Right here," he said. He looked at the massive watch on the broad, 
snakeskin band that he wore. It was the kind they call a chronometer, which 
will tell you not only the time but the atmospheric pressure and the lunar 
cycle.

"Three o'clock," he said. "Plenty of time; Hardin Hall is two buildings 
away across the quad. Take the elevator to the fourth floor. Room 
four-o-nine is to your left, about two doors down the corridor."

I looked at the picture. It wasn't good. Obviously an ID shot. Square 
face, rather thick lips, and hair pulled tight back away from her face. She 
looked older than the twenty her file had said she was. But most people do 
in ID shots. I reserved judgment.

"Okay," I said. "I'll go see her. How about a retainer?

Forbes telling me how indigent you all were has me nervous."

"One will come to you in the mail from the comptroller.

A week's worth in advance."

"Sold," I said. I gave him back the file and the picture.

"Don't you want it?"

"I'll remember," I said. We shook hands. I left.

The corridors were beginning to fill with students changing classes. I 
pushed through into the quadrangle. The thin elm sapling I'd seen from 
Forbes's window wasn't as lonely as I thought. Five cousins, no less 
spindly, were geometrically spaced about the hot top quadrangle. Three sides 
of the quadrangle were bordered with gray-white brick buildings. Each had 
wide stairs leading up to multiple glass-door banks. The buildings were 
perfectly square, four stories high, with gray painted casement windows. It 
looked like corporate headquarters for White Tower Hamburgers. The fourth 
side opened onto the street, where MBTA trains rumbled.

Under one of the saplings a boy and girl sat close together. He was 
wearing black sneakers and brown socks, flared dungarees, a blue denim shirt 
and a fatigue jacket with staff sergeant's stripes, a Seventh Division 
patch, and the name tag Gagliano. His thick black hair blossomed out from 
his head in a Caucasian afro and the snow streaked the rosecolored lenses of 
his gold-rimmed glasses. The girl had on bib overalls and a quilted ski 
parka. On her feet were blue suede hiking boots with thick corrugated soles 
and silver lacing studs. Her blond hair was perfectly straight and halfway 
to her waist. She wore a woven leather headband to keep it out of her eyes. 
I wondered if it was a mark of advancing years when you no longer wanted to 
neck in the snow.

A black kid in a Borsalino hat came out of the library across the 
quadrangle. He had on a red sleeveless jumpsuit, black shirt with bell 
sleeves, high-heeled black patent leather boots with black laces. A 
full-length black leather trench coat hung open. A Fu Manchu mustache swept 
to the chin on each side of his mouth. Two kids in football jackets 
exchanged looks as he went by. They had necks like pilot whales. A slim 
black girl in an Angela Davis haircut and huge pendant earrings trailed a 
gentle scent of imported bath soap past me as I went into Hardin Hall, the 
third building on the quadrangle.

The elevator that took me to the fourth floor was covered with obscene 
graffiti that some proprietous soul had tried to doctor into acceptability, 
so that phrases like "buck you" mingled with the more traditional 
expletives. It was a losing cause, but that didn't make it a bad one.

Room 409 had a blond oak door with a window in it, just like the other 
six classrooms that lined the corridor on each side. Inside I could see 
about forty kids facing a woman seated up front at a table. She wore a dark 
maroon silk granny dress with a low scooped neckline. The dress was covered 
with an off-white floral design that looked like hydrangea. Her long black 
hair was caught back with a gold barrette. She wore large round horn-rimmed 
glasses, and was smoking a corncob pipe with a curved amber stem. She was 
speaking with great animation and her hands flashed with large rings as she 
spoke and gestured. A number of students were taking notes, some watched her 
closely, some had their heads down on the desk and were apparently asleep. 
Terry Orchard was there, back row, looking out the window at the snow. She 
looked like kids I'd seen before, the real goods, faded Levi jacket and 
pants, faded and unironed denim shirt, hair pulled back tight in a pigtail 
like an eighteenth-century British sailor. No make-up, no jewelry. On her 
feet were yellow leather work shoes that laced up over the ankle. She wasn't 
built so you could tell from where I was, but I would have bet my retainer 
that she wouldn't be wearing a bra.

There are kids that get their anti-establishment milkman's overalls in 
the Marsha Jordan Shop with their own charge card. But Terry wasn't one of 
them. Her clothes exclaimed their origin in Jerry's Army-Navy Store. She was 
better-looking than her picture, but still looked older than twenty.

CHAPTER TWO

THE BELL RANG and the teacher stopped--apparently in midsentence--put
her corncob pipe in her mouth, folded up her notes, and started out. The
kids followed. Terry Orchard was one of the first out the door. I fell
in beside her.

"Excuse me," I said, "Miss Orchard?"

"Yes?" No hostility, but very little warmth either.

"My name is Spenser and I'd like to buy you lunch."

"Why?"

"How about, I'm a Hollywood producer casting for a new movie?"

"Get lost," she said without looking at me.

"How about, if you don't come to lunch with me I'll break both your 
thumbs and you'll never play pool again?"

She stopped and looked at me. "Look," she said, "what the hell do you 
want anyway? Why don't you go hang around down at the convent school with a 
bag of candy bars?"

We were down one flight of stairs now and turning toward the next 
flight. I took a card out of the breast pocket of my jacket and handed it to 
her. She read it.

"Oh, for crissake," she said. "A private eye? Jesus. Is that corny! Are 
you going to pull a gat on me? Did my old man send you?"

"Miss Orchard, look at it this way, you get a free lunch and half a 
million laughs afterward talking to the gang back at the malt shop. I get a 
chance to ask some questions, and if you answer them I'll let you play with 
my handcuffs. If you don't answer them, you still get the lunch. Who else 
has been out with a private eye lately?"

"A pig is a pig," she said. "Whether he's public or private, he works 
for the same people."

"Next time you're in trouble," I said, "call a hippie."

"Oh, crap, you know damn well . . ."

I stopped her. "I know damn well that it would be easier to argue over 
lunch. My fingernails are clean and I promise to use silverware. I'm paying 
with establishment expense money. It's a chance to exploit them."

She almost smiled. "Okay," she said. "We'll go to the Pub. They'll let 
me in dressed this way. And this is the only way I dress."

We had reached the ground level and headed out into the quadrangle. We 
then turned left out onto the avenue. The buildings around the university 
were old red brick. Many of the windows were boarded, and few of the rest 
had curtains.

Along the avenue was some of the detritus that gathers at the exterior 
edge of a big university: used-book shops, cut-rate clothing stores 
featuring this year's freaky fashions, a porno shop, a school of 
astrology-reading in a store-front, a termpaper mill, three sub joints, 
hamburger, pizza, fried chicken joints, and a place selling soft ice cream. 
The porno shop was bigger than the bookstore.

The Pub was probably once a gas station. It had been painted entirely 
antique green, glass windows and all. The word Pub was gold-leafed on the 
door. Inside were a juke box, a color TV, dark wooden tables and high-backed 
booths, a bar along one side. The ceiling was low and most of the light came 
from a big Budweiser sign in the rear. The bar was mostly empty in 
midafternoon; a group in one booth was playing cards. In the back a boy and 
girl were talking very softly to one another. Terry Orchard and I took the 
second booth from the door. The table top was covered with initials 
scratched with penknife and pencil point over a long period of time. The 
upholstery of the booth was torn in places and cracked in others.

"Do you recommend anything?" I asked.

"The corned beef is okay," she said.

A fat, tough, tired-looking waitress wearing sneakers came for our 
order. I ordered us both a corned beef sandwich and a beer. Terry Orchard 
lit a cigarette and blew smoke through her nostrils.

"If I drink that beer you're an accomplice. I'm under twenty-one," she 
said.

"That's okay, it gives me a chance to show contempt for the 
establishment."

The waitress set down two large schooners of draft beer. "Your 
sandwiches will be out in a minute," she said, and shuffled off. Terry took 
a sip.

I said, "You're under arrest." Her eyes flared open, and then she 
smiled, grudgingly, over the glass.

"You're nowhere near as funny as you think you are, Mr. Spenser, but 
you're a hell of a lot better than I figured.

What do you want?"

"I'm looking for the Godwulf Manuscript. The university president 
himself called me in, showed me his profile, dazzled me with his elocution, 
and assigned me to get it back.

Tower, the campus cop, suggested you might help me."

"What is a Godwulf Manuscript?"

"It's an illuminated manuscript from the fourteenth century. It was in 
the rare book room at your library; now it isn't. It's being held for ransom 
by an unidentified campus group."

"Why did Super Swine think I could help?"

"Super Swine--you must be an English major--he thought you could help 
because he thinks SCACE took it, and you are the secretary of that 
organization."

"Why does he think SCACE took it?"

"Because he has an instinct for it, and maybe because he knows 
something. He's not just a storefront clotheshorse.

When he's not getting his nails manicured and his hair styled with a 
razor, he is probably a pretty shrewd cop. He didn't tell me everything he 
knows."

"Why not?"

"Sweetie, no one ever tells me everything he knows; it is the nature of 
the beast."

"You must get a swell view of life looking at it through a keyhole half 
the time."

"I see what's there."

The waitress brought our sandwiches, large, on dark bread, with pickles 
and chips. They were sweet pickles, though. I ordered two more beers.

"What about the manuscript?" I asked.

"I don't know anything about it."

"Okay," I said, "tell me about SCACE then."

Her face was less friendly now. "Why do you want to know about SCACE?"

"I won't know till I've learned. That's my line of work. I ask about 
things. And people don't tell me anything, so I ask about more things, and 
so on. Now and then things fall into place."

"Well, there's nothing to fall into place here. We're a revolutionary 
organization. We are trying to develop a new consciousness; we're committed 
to social change, to redistribution of wealth, to real liberty for everyone, 
not just for the bosses and the rip-off artists."

Her voice had become almost mechanical, like the people who do 
telephone canvassing for dance studios. I wondered how long it had been 
since she'd actually thought about all those words and what they really 
meant.

"How would you go about getting these things instituted?"

"By continuous social pressure. By pamphleteering, by marching, by 
demonstrating our support for all causes that crack the establishment's 
united front. By refusing to accede to anything that benefits the 
establishment. By opposing injustice whenever we find it."

"Making much progress?" I asked.

"You bet your life. We're growing every day. There were only three or 
four of us at first. Now there are five times that many."

"No, I meant injustice."

She was silent, looking at me.

"I haven't made much progress that way either," I said.

A tall, big-boned blond kid wearing a plaid shirt and Levi's came into 
the Pub and looked around. He was cleanshaven and wild-haired, and when his 
eyes got used to the dimness he headed over to us and slid in beside Terry 
Orchard. He picked up her half-filled glass, drained it, set it down, and 
said to her, "Who's this creep?"

"Dennis," she said, "be nice."

He squeezed her arm hard with one hand and repeated the question. I 
answered for her.

"My name's Spenser."

He turned his head toward me and looked very hard at me. "I'm talking 
to her, not you, Jack. Shut up."

"Dennis!" She said it with more emphasis this time.

"Who the hell do you think you are? Let go of my arm."

I reached over and took hold of his wrist. "Listen, Goldilocks," I 
said, "I bought her a beer and you drank it. On my block that entitles you 
to get your upper lip fattened."

He yanked his hand away from me. "You think maybe the long hair makes 
me soft?"

"Dennis," Terry said, "he's a private detective."

"Freaking pig," he said, and swung at me. I pulled my head out of the 
way and slipped out of the booth. The punch rammed against the back of the 
booth; the kid swore and turned toward me. He was not planning to quit, so I 
figured it best end swiftly. I feinted toward his stomach with my left hand, 
then hooked it over his lowered guard and turned my whole shoulder into it 
as it connected on the side of his face.

He sat down hard on the floor.

Terry Orchard went down on her knees beside him, her arms around his 
shoulders.

"Don't get up, Dennis. Stay there. He'll hurt you."

"She's right, kid," I said. "You're an amateur. I do this kind of thing 
for a living."

The big old tough waitress came around and said, "What the hell is 
going on? You want the cops in here? You want to fight, go outside."

"No more trouble," I said. "I'm a movie stunt man and I was just 
showing my friend how to slip a punch."

"And I'm Wonder Woman and if you do it again, I'm calling the blues." 
She stomped off.

"The beer offer still holds," I said. The kid got up, his jaw already 
beginning to puff. He wouldn't want to chew much tomorrow. He sat down in 
the booth beside Terry, who still held his arm protectively.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Spenser," she said. "He isn't really like that."

"What's he really like?" I asked.

His eyes, which had been a little out of focus, were sharpening. "I'm 
like I am," he said. "And I don't like to see Terry sitting around boozing 
with some nosy goddamn gumshoe. What are you doing around here anyway?"

The left hook had taken some of the starch out of him.

His voice was less assertive, more petulant. But it hadn't made him any 
sweeter.

"I'm a private detective looking for a stolen rare book, the Godwulf 
Manuscript. Ever hear of it?"

"No."

"How'd you know I was a private cop?"

"I didn't till Terry said so, but you got the look. If your hair were 
much shorter it would be a crew cut. In the movement you learn to be 
suspicious. Besides, Terry's my woman."

"I'm not anybody's woman, Dennis. That's a sexist statement. I'm not a 
possession."

"Oh, Christ," I said. "Could we cut the polemics a minute. If you know 
of the manuscript, know this also. It has to be kept in a climate-controlled 
atmosphere. Otherwise it will disintegrate. And then it will be worthless 
both to scholars and to you, or whoever the book-nappers may be. The 
university hasn't got the money to ransom it."

"They got the money to buy football players and build a hockey rink and 
pay goddamn professors to teach three hours a week and write books the rest 
of the time."

"I'm not into educational reform this week. Do you have any thoughts on 
where the missing manuscript might be?"

"If I did I wouldn't tell you. If I didn't I could find out, and when I 
found out I wouldn't tell you then either. You aren't peeking over the 
transom in some flophouse now, snoopy. You're on a college campus and you 
stick out like a sore thumb. You will find out nothing at all because no one 
will tell you. You and the other dinosaurs can rut around all you 
want--we're not buying it."

"Buying what?"

"Whatever you're selling. You are the other side, man."

"We aren't getting anywhere," I said. "I'll see you."

I left a five on the table to cover the lunch and left. It was getting 
dark now and the commuter traffic was starting.

I felt the beer a little, and I felt the sadness of kids like that who 
weren't buying it and weren't quite sure what it was. I got my car from 
where I'd parked it by a hydrant. It had a parking ticket tied to the 
windshield wiper. Eternal vigilance, I thought, is the price of liberty. I 
tore the ticket up and drove home.

CHAPTER THREE

I WAS LIVING that year on Marlborough Street, two blocks up from the
Public Garden. I made myself hash and eggs for supper and read the
morning's New York Times while I ate. I took my coffee with me into the
living room and tried looking at television. It was awful, so I shut it
off and got out my carving. I'd been working on a block of hard pine for
about six months now, trying to reproduce in wood the bronze statue of
an Indian on horseback that stands in front of the Museum of Fine Arts.
The wood was so hard that I had to sharpen the knives every time I
worked. And I spent about half an hour this night with whetstone and
file before I began on the pine.

At eleven I turned on the news, watched it as I undressed, shut it off, 
and went to bed.

At some much later time, in the dark, the phone rang.

I spiraled slowly upward from sleep and answered it after it had rung 
for what seemed a long time. The girl's voice at the other end was thick and 
very slow, almost like a 45 record played at 33.

"Spenser?"

"Yeah."

"It's Terry . . . help me."

"Where are you?"

"Eighty Hemenway Street, apartment three."

"Ten minutes," I said, and rolled out of bed.

It was 3:05 in the morning when I got into my car and headed for 
Hemenway Street. It wasn't till 3:15 when I got there. Three A.M. traffic in 
Boston is rarely a serious problem.

Hemenway Street, on the other hand, often is. It is a short street of 
shabby apartment buildings, near the university, and for no better reason 
than Haight-Ashbury had, or the East Village, it had become the place for 
street people. On the walls of the building Maoist slogans were scrawled in 
red paint. On a pillar at the entrance to the street was a proclamation of 
Gay Liberation. There were various recommendations about pigs being offed 
scrawled on the sidewalk. I left my car double-parked outside 80 Hemenway 
and tried the front door. It was locked. There were no doorbells to push. I 
took my gun out, reversed it, and broke the glass with the handle. Then I 
reached around and turned the dead lock and opened the door from the inside.

Number three was down the hall, right rear. There were bicycles with 
tire locks lining both walls, and some indeterminate litter behind them. 
Terry's door was locked. I knocked; no answer. I knocked again and heard 
something faint, like the noise of a kitten. The corridor was narrow. I 
braced my back against the wall opposite the door and drove my heel, with 
195 pounds behind it, against the door next to the knob. The inside jamb 
splintered, and the door tore open and banged violently against the wall as 
it opened.

Inside all the lights were on. The first thing I saw was Dennis 
Goldilocks lying on his back with his mouth open, his arms outspread, and a 
thick patch of tacky and blackening blood covering much of his chest. Near 
him on her hands and knees was Terry Orchard. Her hair was loose and falling 
forward as though she were trying to dry it in the sun. But it wasn't sunny 
in there. She wore only a pajama top with designs of Snoopy and the Red 
Baron on it, and it was from her that the faint kitten sounds were coming. 
She swayed almost rhythmically back and forth making no progress, moving in 
no direction, just swaying and mewing. Between her and Dennis on the floor 
was a small white-handled gun. It or something had been fired in the room; I 
could smell it.

I knelt beside the blond boy and felt for the big pulse in his neck. 
The minute I touched his skin I knew I'd never feel the pulse. He was cool 
already and getting colder. I turned to Terry. She still swayed, head down 
and sick. I could smell something vaguely medicinal on her breath. Her 
breath was heaving and her eyes were slits. I pulled her to her feet, and 
held her, one arm around her back. She was almost all the way under. I 
couldn't tell from what, but whatever it was, it was an o.d.

I walked her into the bathroom, got her pajama shirt off, and got her 
under the shower. I turned the water on warm and then slowly to full cold 
and held her under. She quivered and struggled faintly. The sleeves of my 
jacket were wet up past the elbows and my shirtfront was soaked through. She 
pushed one hand weakly at my face and began to cry instead of mew. I held 
her there some more. As I held her I kept listening for footsteps behind me. 
The door had made a hell of a lot of noise when I kicked it open, and the 
gunshot must have been a loud one long before that. But the neighborhood was 
not, apparently, that kind of neighborhood.

Not the kind to look into gunshots and doors splintering and such. The 
kind to pull the covers up over the head and burrow the face in the pillow 
and say screw it. Better him than me.

I got a hand up to her neck and felt her pulse. It was quicker--I 
guessed about sixty. I got her out of the shower and across to the bedroom. 
I didn't see a robe, so I pulled the blanket off the bed and wrapped it 
around her. Then we waltzed to the kitchen. I got water boiling and found 
some instant coffee and a cup. She was babbling now, nothing coherent, but 
the words were intelligible. I made coffee with her balanced half over one 
hip, my arm around her and the blanket caught in my fist to keep her warm. 
Then back to the living room to the day bed--there were no chairs in the 
kitchen--and sat her down.

She pushed aside the coffee and spilled some on herself and cried out 
at the pain, but I got her to drink some. And again some. And one more time. 
Her eyes were open now and her breath was much less shallow. I could see her 
rib cage swell and settle regularly beneath the blanket. She finished the 
coffee.

I stood her up and we began to walk back and forth across the 
apartment, which wasn't much of a walk. There was the living room, a small 
bedroom, a bath, and a kitchenette, barely big enough to stand in. The 
living room, in which the quick and dead were joined, held only a card 
table, a steamer trunk with a lamp on it, and the studio couch on whose bare 
mattress Terry Orchard had drunk her coffee. The blanket I had pulled off 
the bed had been its only, adornment, and as I looked into the bedroom I 
could see a cheap deal bureau beside the bed. On it was a candle stuck in a 
Chianti bottle beneath a bare light bulb hanging from a ceiling.

I looked down at Terry Orchard. There were tears running down her 
cheeks, and less of her weight leaned on me.

"Sonova bitch," she said. "Sonova bitch, sonova bitch, sonova bitch."

"When you can talk to me, talk to me. Till then keep walking," I said.

She just kept saying sonova bitch, in a dead singsong voice, and I 
found that as we walked we were keeping time to the curse, left, right, 
sonova bitch. I realized that the broken door was still wide open and as we 
sonovabitched by on the next swing I kicked it shut with my heel. A few more 
turns and she fell silent, then she said, half question-"Spenser?"

"Yeah."

"Oh my God, Spenser."

"Yeah."

We stopped walking and she turned against me with her face hard against 
my chest. She clenched onto my shirt with both fists and seemed to be trying 
to blend into me. We stood motionless like that for a long time. Me with my 
arms around her. Both wet and dripping and the dead boy with his wide 
sightless eyes not looking at us.

"Sit down," I said after a while. "Drink some more coffee. We have to 
talk."

She didn't want to let go of me, but I pried her off and sat her on the 
day bed. She huddled inside the blanket, her wet hair plastered down around 
her small head, while I made some more coffee.

We sat together on the day bed, sipping coffee. I had the impulse to 
say, "What's new?" but squelched it. Instead I said, "Tell me about it now."

"Oh, God, I can't."

"You have to."

"I want to get out of here. I want to run."

"Nope. You have to sit here and tell me what happened. From the very 
first thing that happened to the very last thing that happened. And you have 
to do it now, because you are in very big trouble and I have to know exactly 
how big."

"Trouble? Jesus, you think I shot him, don't you?"

"The thought occurred to me."

"I didn't shoot him. They shot him. The ones that made me take the 
dope. The ones that made me shoot the gun."

"Okay, but start with the first thing. Whose apartment is this?"

"Ours, Dennis's and mine." She nodded at the floor and then started and 
looked away quickly.

"Dennis is Dennis Powell, right?"

"Yes."

"And you live together and are not married, right?"

"Yes."

"When did the people come who did this?"

"I don't know exactly--it was late, about two thirty maybe."

"Who were they?"

"I don't know. Two men. Dennis seemed to know them."

"What did they do?"

"They knocked on the door. Dennis got up--we weren't asleep, we never 
go to sleep till very late--and asked, 'Who is it?' I couldn't hear what 
they said. But he let them in. That's why I think he knew them. When he 
opened the door they came in very fast. One of them pushed him against the 
wall and the other one came into the bedroom and dragged me out of bed. 
Neither one said anything. Dennis said something like, 'Hey, what's the 
idea?' Or 'Hey, what's going on?' One of them had a gun and he held it on 
both of us. He never said anything. Neither one. It was spooky. The other 
guy reached in his coat pocket and came out with my gun."

"Is that your gun on the floor?" I asked.

She wouldn't look but nodded.

"Okay, then what?" I asked.

"He handed my gun to the first man, the man with the gun, and then he 
grabbed me and turned me around and put his hand over my mouth and bent my 
arm up behind me and the other man shot Dennis twice."

"With your gun?"

"Yes."

"Then what?"

"Then--" She paused and closed her eyes and shook her head.

"Go on," I said.

"Then the man that shot Dennis made me hold the gun in my hand and 
shoot it into Dennis. He held my wrist and squeezed my finger on the 
trigger." She said it in a rush and the words nearly ran together.

"Did he have on gloves?"

She thought a minute. "Yes, yellow ones. I think they might have been 
rubber or plastic."

"Then what?"

"Then the one who was holding me made me lie down on the bed. I didn't 
have anything on but my top. And the other one poured some kind of dope in 
my mouth and forced it shut and held my nose till I swallowed it. Then they 
just held me there with a hand over my mouth for a little while. Then they 
left."

I didn't say anything. If she'd invented that story coming out of a 
narcotic coma, she was some kind of special species and nothing I could 
handle. She might have hallucinated the whole thing, depending on what she 
had taken. Or the story might be true.

"Why did they make me shoot him after he was dead?"

she asked.

I discovered as I answered that I believed her. "To hook you on a 
paraffin test. When you fire a handgun cordite particles impregnate your 
skin. A lab man puts paraffin over it, lets it dry, peels it off, and tests 
it. The particles show up in the wax."

It took a minute to register. "A lab man, you mean the police?"

"Yes, honey, the police."

"No, can't we get out of here? I'll go home. You won't say anything. My 
father will pay you. He has money. I know he can give you some . . ."

"Your boyfriend, dead in your apartment, killed with your gun, you 
gone? They'd come and get you and bring you back. Do you know a lawyer?"

"A lawyer, how the hell would I know a freaking lawyer?" She looked 
desperately toward the door. "I'm splitting, screw this scene." Her voice 
had gotten harsh and tough with fright, and I noticed her lapse into the 
jargon of her peer group as her fright increased. When she'd been clinging 
to me she talked like a young girl in college. When she wanted to get away 
from me her voice and language changed. I held her against me with my arm 
around her shoulder.

"Listen," I said. "You are in trouble enough to pull up over your head 
and tie a knot in. But you're not in it alone. I'll help you. It's my line 
of work. I'll get you a lawyer in a bit.

Then I'll call the cops. Before I do, though--" She started to speak 
and I squeezed her. "Listen," I said, "When the cops come don't say 
anything, don't talk to them, don't argue with them, don't be hostile, don't 
be smart. Do not say anything to anybody till you talk to the lawyer. His 
name is Vincent Haller. He'll see you soon after you go downtown. Talk only 
with him present and say only what he says you should. Have you ever been 
busted?"

"No."

"Okay. It's not anywhere near as bad as you think it is.

No one will hurt you. No one will grab you under a bright light and hit 
you with a hose. You'll be okay, and you won't be in long. Haller will take 
care of you."

She nodded. I went on.

"Before I make my call--do you have any idea why the men did this?"

"No."

"Do you use drugs?"

"Yes."

"Do you know what they gave you?"

"No. It tasted like paregoric and smelled like ether. It wasn't 
anything I'd tried. Whatever it was, was a downer though."

"Okay. Get dressed. I'm going to call."

CHAPTER FOUR

THE FIRST OF Boston's finest to arrive were two bulls from a radio car.
They came in, told us not to touch anything, got our names, frisked me,
took my gun, and looked closely at us till the homicide people came.
They came, as they always do, in large numbers: technicians,
photographers, someone from the medical examiner's. Two guys in white
coats to carry out the corpse and some dicks to investigate the crime
and question the suspects. In this case the crew was led by the
commander of the homicide bureau, Lieutenant Martin Quirk. I'm six foot
one and he was taller than I was, taller and thicker. His hands and
fingers were thick and his lips were thick and his nose was broad. His
thick black hair was cut close. He was clean-shaven at four A.M. and his
shoes gleamed with dark polish. His shirt was freshly ironed and his tie
neatly knotted.

His suit was immaculate and sharply creased. He wore a Tyrolean hat 
with a feather in it and a white raincoat, which he never took off. His face 
was pockmarked and there was a short scar at one corner of his mouth.

He stood now looking at me with his raincoat open and his hands in his 
hip pockets. "This is sure a lucky break for us, Spenser, having you on this 
to help us out. We need slick professionals like yourself to straighten us 
out and all. Keep us from forgetting to look for fingerprints, missing 
clues, and stuff."

"I didn't plan to get into this, Lieutenant. The kid called me for 
help, and I came over and found her. And him.

She was badly drugged. I got her sobered up a little and called you."

"How did she know you?" Quirk asked.

"I'm on a case that she's involved in."

"What case?"

"Looking for a missing rare manuscript stolen from a university."

"What university?"

"If it seems pertinent, I'll tell you."

"If I want to know, you'll tell me." Quirk's voice squeezed out sharp 
and flat like sheet metal.

"I'll tell you if you need to know it. I don't make a living telling 
cops everything they want to know about clients."

"I don't make a living taking crap from hole-in-thewall shysters like 
you, Spenser."

A thin, bluejowled sergeant named Belson drifted in between Quirk and 
me.

"Come on, Lieutenant, this don't get us far. Both the girl and the 
victim are university students, and there's a fair bet that it's the same 
university that hired Spenser."

Quirk looked at me, then Belson. "Do you know him?"

he asked, nodding at me.

"Yeah, he used to work out of the Suffolk County D.A.'s office about 
five years ago. I hear he got canned."

"Okay, get his story." He turned to me. "You're not working for the 
D.A. now, boy, you're working my side of the street, and if you get in my 
way I'll kick your ass right into the gutter. Got that?"

"Can I feel your muscle?" I said.

Quirk looked at me without saying anything, then turned away and walked 
over to the girl.

Belson shook his head and pulled out a notebook.

"Start up with the lieutenant, Spenser, and you'll end up looking like 
you went through a pepper mill."

"I won't be able to sleep without a night light," I said.

Belson shrugged. "Okay. Start from the beginning.

You're in the business. I don't have to lead you."

I told him, omitting, mostly from stubbornness, the name of my client, 
but including, because it was sure to come out anyway, the incident in the 
Pub that afternoon, when I had knocked the kid down.

Belson shook his head again. "How could anyone get mad at a sweetheart 
like you? I would have thought he'd have been hypnotized with the way you're 
so agreeable."

I let that go.

"You're sure you might not have been hustling his chick just a little, 
Spenser? And maybe you were over here hustling her again and he came home 
and caught you, and an argument developed?"

"Yeah, and I pulled out my fourteen-dollar Saturday night special and 
let fly at him. Come off it, Belson. You're just talking for the hell of it. 
You know I didn't do it. You know I wouldn't use a piece of cheap tin like 
that gun. If I had, you know I would have covered it better than this."

"Okay, maybe I don't like you for it. I've known you a long time, and 
it's not your style. But it could happen. You got nothing against girls, I 
can recall. It could be his gun and you had to take it away from him and it 
went off. Lotta people get killed by people in a way that ain't their 
style."

"And I shot him four times in the chest getting it away from him?"

"Could be to cover it up, make it look different."

"You're fishing, Frank," I said.

"Maybe."

"Have you heard the girl's story yet?"

"Nope, lieutenant's getting that now."

"He's going to love it," I said.

"Of course you got it before you called us," Belson said.

"She was way under from something. I had to bring her out."

"And then you had to ask her what happened and then she had to tell 
you. And then you had to fix up a story maybe."

"Wait till you hear the story. You don't think I'm smart enough to work 
up something like that. You guys are cops, not priests. Calling you isn't a 
ritual act. I called you as soon as my judgement told me it was both 
feasible and prudent."

Belson set fire to a half-smoked cigar before he said anything. Then he 
said, "You talk good for a dumb slug; feasible and prudent, my, my."

From the other side of the room Quirk spoke over his shoulder without 
turning his head. "Belson, bring the private license over here."

Belson nodded me toward Quirk and I walked over.

Quirk was straddling the only straight chair in the room, with his 
forearms crossed on the back. Before him Terry Orchard was on the couch. She 
had on a denim shirt and Levi's again, but her hair was still wet and tight 
on her skull.

She looked awfully small.

"Spenser," he said without looking up. "She says she won't say anything 
unless you say it's all right. She says you told her not to talk to us 
without a lawyer."

"Right enough, Lieutenant. I knew you wouldn't want to take advantage 
of her when she was confused, or perhaps in a state of shock."

"We're going to take her in."

"I thought you might."

"We'd like you to come along, too," Quirk said.

"I wouldn't miss it," I said.

Terry looked at me with her eyes very wide and dark. I said to her, 
"Haller will be there. Just do as I said."

The assistant M.E., a small man with thick glasses and gray curly hair, 
came over to Quirk.

"I'm through," he said. "If you are too, we'll haul him off."

"Any opinions, Manny?" Quirk asked.

"Yeah, I'd guess he was shot in the chest."

"That med school training really gives you insight," Quirk said. 
"Anything that I need to know that you can tell me now?"

"Shot sometime within the last five or six hours, cause of death 
presumable gunshot. I don't see any other signs. Got any corroborative 
testimony?"

Quirk looked at Belson.

"Spenser says the kid was dead when he arrived at three fifteen and 
that the blood had gotten tacky and the skin was cool," Belson said.

The assistant M.E. said, "That seems about right, but it could be a 
couple hours earlier for all I can prove here."

Quirk nodded. "Okay, thanks, Manny." And then to the two white-coated 
interns, "Take him away."

They bundled Dennis Powell onto the stretcher. He'd already started to 
stiffen and he was getting awkward to handle. They straightened his arms out 
down by his side, put his ankles together, wrapped the tarp around him, and 
strapped him into the stretcher. Then they dollied him out. They had to 
stand him up to get him out the apartment door, and when they did the top of 
him lolled against the straps. Terry made a noise and looked away. The 
stretcher bumped down the stairs and out to the ambulance. A few curious 
early risers stood around staring. The two harness bulls who'd showed up 
first kept them away from the door. A little fat dick in a long blue 
overcoat with a button missing came in after letting the stretcher out.

"Nothing, Lieutenant. Nobody heard nothing, nobody saw nothing, nobody 
knows nothing. Half of them are goddamn faggots, anyway."

"Jesus Christ," Quirk said. "Just give me information; don't review the 
witnesses' sex life for me."

"Okay, Lieutenant. I mean I figured that being as they was faggots you 
might not want to take their word. You know how these goddamn perverts are."

"No, I don't know, and I don't want you to tell me. Stay around, ask 
questions. See what you can find out about these two. Try to remember you're 
on the homicide squad, not the vice squad. When I want a fag count, I'll let 
you know."

The dick hustled out. Quirk shook his head. Belson was looking up at 
the ceiling, puffing the cigar butt that was barely clearing his lips by 
now.

"Take 'em downtown, Frank." Quirk said to Belson.

"I'll clean up here and be along."

As we started out I said to Belson. "I'm still doubleparked out there. 
Let me get it off the street before some zealous meter maid gets it hauled 
off."

Belson said. "Why don't you follow me downtown.

Then we won't have to drive you back later."

I nodded and grinned. "See? I told you you didn't think I did it."

"I don't think anything," Belson said. "But you'll be down to look out 
for the little girl."

Belson took Terry into the squad car and they drove off. I got my car 
out from behind another white and blue police car with the seal of the city 
on the side, and followed Belson's car up Hemenway to Boylston, down 
Boylston to Clarendon, right on Clarendon, then up the Stanhope Street Alley 
and in behind headquarters.

CHAPTER FIVE

WE WENT IN the back door, off Stanhope Street by the parking area that
says RESERVED FOR PRESS. There were no cars there.

You only go in the front door if you're newsfilm material. If they put 
the arm on you in a disadvantaged neighborhood you go in past the empty 
press lot.

The Homicide Division was third floor rear, with a view of the 
Fryalator vent from the coffee shop in the alley and the soft perfume of 
griddle and grease mixing with the indigenous smell of cigar smoke and sweat 
and something else, maybe generations of scared people. Vince Haller was 
leaning against one of the desks outside Quirk's frosted glass cubicle. He 
was wearing a white double-knit suit, and over one shoulder he carried a 
camel's-hair coat with big leather buttons. His gray hair was long and 
modish and he had a big Teddy Roosevelt mustache. He was a couple of inches 
taller than I was, but not as heavy.

"Gentlemen?" he said in his big actorish voice.

I gave him a wave and Belson said, "Hello, Vince."

"I'd like a chance to talk to my client."

Belson looked at Terry Orchard. "Is this man your attorney?"

She looked at me and I nodded. She said, "Yes."

"You can talk with her at my desk there." Belson nodded at a scarred 
and cluttered desk outside Quirk's enclosed cubicle. "We'll stay out of 
earshot."

"Has she been charged, Frank?" Haller asked.

"Not yet."

"Will she be?"

"I don't know. The lieutenant will be along in a minute. He takes care 
of that stuff. We'll want to talk with her a lot, though, either way."

"Has she been advised of her rights?"

Belson snorted. "Are you kidding. If she were shooting at me with a 
flame thrower I'd have to advise her of her rights before I shot back. Yes, 
she's been advised."

"Have you, Miss Orchard?"

"Yes, sir." She was numb and scared, and entirely submissive.

"Okay, come over here and we'll talk." She did and Belson and I stood 
silently watching them. I suddenly realized how tired I was. I'd slept about 
three hours. As we stood there, Quirk came in with two other dicks. He 
looked over at Haller and Terry Orchard, said nothing and walked into his 
cubicle. Belson went in after him.

"Stick around," he said. And closed the door. The two dicks sat down at 
desks, and looked at nothing.

At the other end of the office a black cop with thick hands and a 
broken nose was talking into a telephone receiver cradled on one shoulder. 
An old guy in green coveralls came through dragging a cardboard carton with 
a rope handle and emptying the ashtrays and wastebaskets into it. Haller was 
still talking to Terry. And I thought about all the times I'd spent in 
shabby squad rooms like this. Sometimes it felt like all the rooms I was 
ever in looked out onto alleys. And I thought about how it must feel to be 
twenty and alone and be in one at 5:30 A.M. and not sure you'd get out. The 
steam pipes hissed. I wanted to hiss back.

More than that I wanted to run. The room was hot and stuffy. The air 
was bad. I wanted to get out, to get in my car and drive north. In my mind I 
could see the route, over the Mystic Bridge up Route One, north, maybe to 
Ipswich or Newburyport where the houses were stately and old and the air was 
clean and cold and full of the sea. Where there's a kind of mellowness and a 
memory of another time and another America. Probably never was another 
America though.

And if I headed out that way I'd probably be sitting around the police 
station in Ipswich, smelling the steam pipes and the disinfectant and 
wondering if some poor slob deserved what he was getting.

Quirk came out of his office. And looked at Haller.

Then turned to me.

"Come in and talk."

I did. I told the same story to Quirk that I had to Belson. Exactly the 
same way. Quirk listened without a word.

Looking straight at me all the time I talked. When I was through he 
said, "Okay, wait outside."

I did. He called Terry Orchard in. Haller went with her. The door 
closed. I sat some more. The dick at the end of the room still talked into 
the phone. The two that had come in with Quirk continued to sit and look 
elaborately at nothing.

The sun had come up and shone into one corner of the room.

Dust motes drifted in languidly.

"I can't stand it anymore," I said. "I'll confess, just don't give me 
the silent treatment anymore."

The two detectives looked at me blankly. "Confess what?" one of them 
said. He had long curly sideburns.

"Anything you want, just no more of the cold shoulder."

Sideburns said to his partner, "Hey, Al, ain't he a funny guy? Right 
before you go off duty after working all night it's really great to have a 
funny guy like him around so you can go home happy. Don't you feel that way, 
Al?"

Al said, "Aw, screw him."

More silence. I got up and walked to the window.

There was a heavy wire mesh across it so suspects wouldn't jump out, 
drop three stories to the ground, and run off. The windows were grimy, with 
a kind of ancient grime that seemed to have sunk into the glass. Three 
floors below a thin Puerto Rican kid with pointed shoes came out of the back 
of the coffee shop with a bucket and poured hot dirty water into the street. 
It steamed in the cold briefly. I looked at my watch.

6:40. The kid had got up awful early to come in and mop the floor. I 
wondered how late tonight he'd be there.

Belson came out of Quirk's office with Terry, through the squad room, 
and out. Haller came out too, and walked over to me.

"They've gone down to the lab. I think they'll book her," he said. I 
didn't say anything.

He said, "Quickly, I wanted to check her story with you. She was asleep 
with her boyfriend in their apartment.

Two men apparently known to Powell entered. Shot Powell, forced her to 
shoot Powell's body, drugged her, and left. She called you. You came. 
Sobered her up, got her story. Called the cops."

"That's it," I said.

"She knows you because the university employed you to find a missing 
rare book."

"Manuscript," I said.

"Okay, manuscript.... You got in touch with her because the campus 
security man suggested that an organization she was part of might have taken 
it. She had your card.

In trouble, she called you."

"Right again," I said.

"As stories go it's not a winner," Haller said.

"I know," I said.

"She's convincing when she tells it, though," said Haller.

"What's its effect on Quirk?" I asked.

"Hard to say. He doesn't show much, but I don't think he's easy about 
it. I think he'll book her, but I don't think he's sure she's guilty."

"What do you think?" I asked.

"All my clients are innocent."

"Yeah," I said, "of something, anyway."

While we waited, the shift changed. Al and Sideburns left. The black 
cop with the phone departed. The day people came in. Faces shaved, 
wind-reddened. Smelling of cologne.

Some of them had coffee in paper cups they'd bought on the way in. It 
smelled good. No one offered me any. Belson came back into the office with 
Terry. They went back into Quirk's office. Haller with them. Quirk yelled 
from inside.

"Spenser, come in. You might as well hear the rest."

I went in. It was crowded in there. Quirk was behind his desk. Terry in 
a straight chair beside it. Belson, Haller, and I standing against the wall. 
Quirk's desk was absolutely bare except for a tape recorder and a 
transparent plastic cube that on all sides contained pictures of a woman, 
children, and an English setter.

Quirk turned the recorder on. "All right, Miss Orchard, your story and 
Spenser's match. But that proves nothing much. You had plenty of time to 
arrange it before we were called. Can you think of any reason why two men 
would wish to come and kill Dennis Powell?"

"No, I don't know--maybe." Terry spoke barely above a whisper, and she 
seemed to sway slightly in the chair as she spoke.

"Which is it, Miss Orchard?" Quirk's voice was almost entirely without 
inflection and his thick, pockmarked face was entirely impassive. Terry 
shook her head.

Haller said, "Really, Lieutenant, Miss Orchard is about to fall from 
the chair." When Haller talked, the orange level light on the recorder 
flared brightly.

"Which is it, Miss Orchard?" Quirk said again, as if Haller hadn't 
spoken.

"Well, I think he was involved in the manuscript."

"Which manuscript?"

"The one that Mr. Spenser is looking for, the whatchamacallit 
manuscript."

I said, "Godwulf," and Quirk said, "Is it the Godwulf Manuscript, Miss 
Orchard?"

She nodded.

Quirk said, "Say yes or no, Miss Orchard; the recorder can't pick up 
signs."

"Yes," she said.

"How was he involved?"

"I don't know, just that he was, and some faculty member was. I heard 
him talking on the phone one day."

"What did they say?"

"I can't remember."

"Then why do you think it involved the theft of a manuscript?"

"I just know. You know how you remember having an idea from a 
conversation but don't remember the conversation itself, you know?"

"Why do you think a faculty member is involved, Miss Orchard?"

She shook her head again. "Same reason," she said.

"Do you think one of the men who you say killed Powell was a 
professor?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I don't know. They didn't look like professors."

"What did they look like?"

"It's hard to remember. It was so fast. They were both big and had on 
dark topcoats and hats, regular felt hats, like businessmen wear. The one 
who shot Dennis had big sideburns, like Prince Albert, you know, along his 
jaw. He was sort of fat."

"Black or white?"

She looked startled. "White," she said.

"Why would the theft of a manuscript cause two big white men in hats 
and topcoats to come to your apartment at two thirty A.M. and kill Powell 
and frame you?"

"I don't know."

"Why--" Quirk stopped. Tears were running down Terry Orchard's face. 
She made no sound. She sat still with her eyes closed and the tears coming 
down her face.

I said, "Quirk, for crissake . . ."

He nodded, turned to Belson.

"Frank, get a matron and book her."

Belson took her arm. She stood up.

There was no sign that she heard him, or that she heard anything.

Belson took her out. Haller went with her.

Quirk said, "So far you're out of it, Spenser. I got nothing to hold 
you for. But if something does come up I want you to be where I don't have 
to look for you."

I got up. "There are whole days at a time, Lieutenant, that go by 
without me ever giving a real goddamn about what you want."

Quirk took my gun out of his desk and handed it to me, butt first. 
"Beat it," he said.

I put the gun away, went down the stairs three flights and out the 
front door. There were no cameramen, no TV trucks. It was cold and the wet 
snow-rain had frozen into gray lumpy ice. I went around the corner, got in 
my car, drove home, drank two glasses of milk, and went to bed.

CHAPTER SIX

THE PHONE WOKE ME again. I squinted against the brutal bright sunlight
and answered.

"Spenser?"

"Yeah."

"Spenser, this is Roland Orchard." He paused as if waiting for 
applause.

I said, "How nice for you."

He said, "What?"

I said, "What do you want, Mr. Orchard?"

"I want to see you. How soon can you get here?"

"As soon as I feel like it. Which may be a while."

"Spenser, do you know who I am?"

"I guess you're Terry Orchard's father."

He hadn't meant that. "Yes," he said. "I am. I am also senior partner 
of Orchard, Bonner and Blanch."

"Swell," I said. "I buy all your records."

"Spenser, I don't care for your manner."

"I'm not selling it, Mr. Orchard. You called me. I didn't call you. If 
you want to tell me what you want without showing me your scrapbook, I'll 
listen. Otherwise, write me a letter."

There was a long silence. Then Orchard said, "Do you have my address, 
Mr. Spenser?"

"Yeah."

"My daughter is home, and I have not gone into the office, and we would 
very much like you to come to the house.

I expect to pay you."

"I will come out in about an hour, Mr. Orchard," I said, and hung up.

It was a little after noon. I got up and stood a long time under the 
shower. I'd had about four and a half hours' sleep and I needed more. Ten 
years ago I wouldn't have. I put on my suit--I wasn't sure you could get 
onto West Newton Hill without one--made and ate a fried egg sandwich, drank 
a cup of coffee, and went out. I should have made the bed. I knew I would 
hate finding it unmade when I came back.

It was cold and bright out. It took five minutes for the heater in the 
car to get warm enough to melt the ice on my windows, and another five 
minutes for it to melt. I had no ice scraper.

By the Mass Turnpike it is less than ten minutes from downtown Boston 
to West Newton. From West Newton Square to the top of West Newton Hill is a 
matter of fifty thousand dollars. Status ascends as the hill rises, and at 
the top live the rich. It is old rich on West Newton Hill. Doctor rich, 
professor rich, stockbroker rich, lawyer rich. The new rich, the engineer 
rich, and the technocratic rich live in developments named after English 
kings in towns like Lynnfield and Sudbury.

Roland Orchard looked to be a rich man's rich man.

His home was large and white and towering as one came up the hill 
toward it. It occupied most of the lot it was built on.

New rich seem to want a lot of land for a gardener to manicure. Old 
rich don't seem to give a damn. Across the front and around one side of the 
house was a wide porch, empty in the winter but bearing the wear marks of 
summer furniture.

Above the door was a fan-shaped stained glass window. I rang the bell. 
A maid opened the door. Her black skin, devoid of make-up, shone as though 
freshly burnished. Her almondcolored eyes held a knowledge of things that 
West Newton Hill didn't want to hear about.

She said, "Yes, sir."

I gave her one of my cards. The one with only my name on it.

"Yes, Mr. Spenser. Mrs. Orchard is expecting you in the study."

She led me down a polished oak-floored hall, past a curving stairway. 
The hall--it was more like a corridor--ran front to back, the depth of the 
house. At the far end a floor to ceiling window opened out onto the 
backyard. The coils of a grapevine framed the window. The rest was dirty 
snow. The maid knocked on a door to the left of the window; a woman's voice 
said, "Come in." The maid opened the door, said "Mr.

Spenser," and left.

It was a big room, blond wood bookeases built in on three walls. A 
fieldstone fireplace covered the fourth wall.

There was a fire going, and the room was warm and smelled of woodsmoke. 
Mrs. Orchard was standing when I came in.

She was darkly tanned (not Miami, I thought, West Palm Beach, probably) 
and wearing a white pants suit and white boots. Her hair was shag cut and 
tipped with silver, and the skin on her face was very tight over her bones. 
She had silver nail polish and wore heavy Mexican-looking silver earrings. A 
silver service and a covered platter on a mahogany tea wagon stood near the 
fire. A chiffon stole was draped over the back of the couch, and a novel by 
Joyce Carol Oates lay open on the coffee table.

As I walked toward her she stood motionless, one hand extended, limp at 
the wrist, toward me. I felt as if I were walking into a window display.

"Mr. Spenser," she said. "It's very nice of you to come."

"That's okay," I said.

I didn't know what to do with her hand, shake it or kiss it. I shook 
it, and the way she looked made me suspect I'd chosen wrong.

"My husband had to go into the office for a bit; he should be back 
soon."

I said, "Uh huh."

"He might have stopped off at the club for handball and a rubdown. 
Rolly works veri hard to stay in shape."

"Uh huh."

"What do you do, Mr. Spenser? You look to be in excellent condition. Do 
you work out?"

"Not at the club," I said.

"No," she said. "Of course not."

I took off my coat. "May I sit down?" I said.

"Oh, I'm sorry, of course, sit down. Will you have some coffee, or tea? 
I had some sandwiches made up. Would you like one?"

"No, thank you, I ate before I came. I'll take coffee though, black."

"You must pardon me, Mr. Spenser, my manners are really much better. 
It's just that I've never been involved with policemen and all. And I have 
never really spoken to a private detective before. Are you carrying a gun?"

"I thought I'd risk West Newton without one," I said.

"Yes, of course. You're sure you won't have a sandwich?"

"Look, Mrs. Orchard, I spent most of last night with your daughter and 
a corpse. I spent the rest of last night with your daughter and the cops. 
The last I knew she was in jail for murder. Your husband says she's home. 
Now he and you didn't get me out here to make sure I was eating properly.

What do you want?"

"My husband will be along soon, Mr. Spenser; he'll explain. Rolly 
handles these things. I do not." She looked straight at me as she talked and 
leaned forward a little. She had large blue eyes, and she wore eye shadow, I 
noticed. I bet the eyes got her a lot that she wanted. Especially when she 
looked right at you and leaned forward a little as she talked.

She turned slightly on the couch and tucked one leg under the other, 
and I got the long line of her thigh and the jut of her sharp breasts. Her 
body looked lean and tight. A little sinewy for my taste. She kept the pose. 
I wondered if I was supposed to bark.

She picked up the book. "Do you read much, Mr. Spenser?"

"Yeah," I said.

"Do you enjoy Miss Oates?"

"No."

"Oh, really? Why on earth not?"

"I'm probably insensitive," I said.

"Oh, I don't think so, Mr. Spenser. What little I've heard Terry say of 
you suggests quite the contrary."

"Where is Terry?"

"In her room. Her father has asked that she talk with no one except in 
his presence."

"How's she feel about that?"

"After what she's gotten herself into and what she's putting us 
through, she's learning to do what she's told."

There was a triumphant undertone in Mrs. Orchard's voice. I said 
nothing.

"Would you put another log on the fire, Mr. Spenser? It seems to be 
going low, and Rolly always likes a blazing fire when he comes in."

It was a way of establishing relationships, I thought, as I got a log 
from the basket and set it on top of the fire--get me to do her bidding. I'd 
known other women like that. If they couldn't get you to do them little 
services, they felt insecure.

Or maybe she just wanted another log in the fireplace. Sometimes I'm 
deep as hell.

The door to the study opened and a man came in. He wore a dark 
double-breasted blazer with a crest on the pocket, a thick white turtleneck 
sweater, gray flared slacks, and black ankle boots with a lot of strap and 
buckle showing. His hair was blond and no doubt naturally curly; it 
contrasted nicely with his tan. He was a slender man, shorter than I by 
maybe an inch and maybe ten years older. Under the tan his face had a 
reddish flush which might be health or booze.

"Spenser," he said, and put out his hand, "kind of you to come." I 
shook hands with him. He wasn't being the topexec-used-to-instant-obedience. 
He was being the graciousman-of-affluence-putting-an-employee-at-ease .

He said to his wife, "I'll have coffee, Marion."

She rose and poured him coffee. She put several small triangular 
sandwiches on a plate, put the coffee cup in the little depression on the 
plate that was made to hold it, and placed it next to a red leather wing 
chair.

Orchard sat down, carefully hiking his trouser legs up at the knee so 
they wouldn't bag. I noticed he had a thick silver ring on his little 
finger.

"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, Spenser, but I don't like to stay 
out of work if I can help it. Married to the job, I guess. Just wanted to 
make sure everything was running smoothly."

He took a delicate sip of coffee and a small bite of one of the 
sandwiches.

"I wish to hire you, Mr. Spenser, to see that my daughter is exonerated 
of the charges leveled against her. I was able to have her released on bail 
in my custody, but it took a good deal of doing and I had to collect a 
number of favors to do it. Now I want this mess cleared up and the suspicion 
eliminated from my name and my home. The police are working to convict. I 
want someone working to acquit."

"Why not have Terry join us?" I said.

"Perhaps later," Orchard said, "but first I want to speak with you for 
a time."

I nodded. He went on. "I would like you to give me a complete rundown 
of the circumstances by which you became involved with Terry up to and 
including last night."

"Hasn't Terry told you?"

"I want your version."

I didn't want to tell him. I didn't like him. I did like his daughter. 
I didn't like his assumption that our versions would differ. I said, "Nope."

"Mr. Spenser. I am employing you to investigate a murder. I want a 
report of what you've discovered so far."

"First, you may or may not be hiring me. You've offered. I haven't 
accepted. So at the moment I owe you nothing. That includes how I met your 
daughter, and what we did."

"Goddammit, Spenser, I don't have to take that kind of insolence from 
you."

"Right," I said, "you can hire another Hawkshaw. The ones with phones 
are in the yellow pages under SLEUTH."

I thought for a moment that Orchard was going to get up and take a 
swing at me. I felt no cold surge of terror. Then he thought better of it, 
and leaned back in his chair.

"Marion," he said, "I'll have some brandy. Would you join me, Mr. 
Spenser?" I looked at my watch; it was two thirty. He really handled stress 
well. I decided what the flush under the tan was.

"Yeah. I'll have some. Thank you."

Marion Orchard's face looked a little more tightly stretched over her 
good bones as she went to the sideboard and poured two shots of brandy from 
a decanter into crystal snifters. She brought them back to us, handed one to 
me and one to her husband.

Orchard swirled it in his glass and took a large swallow. I tried mine. 
It was the real stuff okay, barely liquid at all as it drifted down my 
throat. A guy who served brandy like that couldn't be all bad.

"Now look, Spenser. Terry is our only child. We've lavished every 
affection and concern on her. We have brought her up in wealth and comfort. 
Clothes, the best schooling, Europe. She had her own horse and rode 
beautifully. She made us proud. She was an achiever. That's important. We do 
things in this family. Marion rides and hunts as well as any man."

I looked at Marion Orchard and said, "Hi ho, Silver."

Orchard went on. I was not sure he'd heard me.

"Then when it came time for college, she insisted on going to that 
factory. Can you imagine the reaction of some of my associates when they ask 
me where my daughter goes to school and I tell them?" It was a rhetorical 
question. I could imagine, but I knew he wasn't looking for an answer.

"Against my best judgment I permitted her to go. And I permitted her to 
live there rather than at home." He shook his head. "I should have known 
better. She got in with the worst element in a bad school and . . ." He 
stopped, drank another large slug from his snifter, and went on. "She never 
gave us any trouble till then. She was just what we wanted. And then in 
college, living on the very edge of the ghetto, sleeping around, drugs. 
You've seen her, you've seen how she dresses, who she keeps company with. I 
don't even know where she lives anymore. She rarely comes home, and when she 
does it's as if she were coming only to flaunt herself before us and our 
friends. Do you know she appeared here at a party we were giving wearing a 
miniskirt she'd made out of an old pair of Levi's? Now she's gotten herself 
involved in a murder. I've got a right to know about her. I've got a right 
to know what she'll do to us next."

"I don't do family counseling, Mr. Orchard. There are people who do, 
and maybe you ought to look up one of them. If you'll get Terry down here 
we'll talk, all of us, and see if we can arrange to live in peace while I 
look into the murder."

Orchard had finished his brandy. He nodded at the empty glass. His wife 
got up, refilled it, and brought it to him.

He drank, then put the glass down. He said, "While you're up, Marion, 
would you ask Terry to come down."

Marion left the room. Orchard took another belt of brandy. He wasn't 
bothering to savor the bouquet. I nibbled at the edge of mine. Marion 
Orchard came back into the room with Terry.

I stood and said, "Hello, Terry."

She said, "Hi."

Her hair was loose and long. She wore a short-sleeved blouse, a skirt, 
no socks, and a pair of loafers. I looked at her arms--no tracks. One point 
for our side; she wasn't shooting.

At least not regularly. She was fresh-scrubbed and pale, and remarkably 
without affect. She went to a round leather hassock by the fire and sat 
down, her knees tight together, her hands folded in her lap. Dolly Demure, 
with a completely blank face. The loose hair softened her, and the 
traditional dress made her look like somebody's cheerleader, right down to 
loafers without socks. Had there been any animation she'd have been pretty 
as hell.

Orchard spoke. "Terry, I'm employing Mr. Spenser to clear you of the 
murder charge."

She said, "Okay."

"I hope you'll cooperate with him in every way."

"Okay."

"And, Terry, if Mr. Spenser succeeds in getting you out of this mess, 
if he does, perhaps you will begin to rethink your whole approach to life."

"Why don't you get laid," she said flatly, without inflection, and 
without looking at him.

Marion Orchard said "Terry!" in a horrified voice.

Orchard's glass was empty. He flicked an eye at it, and away.

"Now, you listen to me, young lady," he said. "I have put up with your 
nonsense for as long as I'm going to. If you . . ."

. . .

I interrupted. "If I want to listen to this kind of crap I can go home 
and watch daytime television. I want to talk with Terry, and maybe later 
I'll want to talk with each of you.

Separately. Obviously I was wrong; we can't do it in a group.

You people want to encounter one another, do it on your own time."

"By God, Spenser," Orchard said.

I cut him off again. "I want to talk with Terry. Do I or don't I?"

I did. He and his wife left, and Terry and I were alone in the library.

"If I told my father to get laid he would have knocked out six of my 
teeth," I said.

"Mine won't," she said. "He'll drink some more brandy, and tomorrow 
he'll stay late at the office."

"You don't like him much," I said.

"I bet if I said that to you, you'd knock out six of my teeth," she 
said.

"Only if you didn't smile," I answered.

"He's a jerk."

"Maybe," I said. "But he's your jerk, and from his point of view you're 
no prize package either."

"I know," she said.

"However," I said, "let's think about what I'm supposed to do here. 
Tell me more about the manuscript and the professor and anything else you 
can remember beyond what you told Quirk last night."

"That's all there is," she said. "I told the police everything I know."

"Let's run through it again anyway," I said. "Have you talked with 
Quirk again since last night?"

"Yes, I saw him this morning before Daddy's people got me out."

"Okay, tell me what he asked you and what you said."

"He started by asking me why I thought two big white men in hats would 
come to our apartment and kill Dennis and frame me."

That was Quirk, starting right where he left off, no rephrasing, no new 
approach, less sleep than I had and there in the morning when the big 
cheeses passed the word along to let her out, getting all his questions 
answered before he released her.

"And what did you answer?" I said.

"I said the only thing I could think of was the manuscript. That Dennis 
was involved somehow in that theft, and he was upset about it."

"Can you give me more than that? How was he involved? Why was he 
involved? What makes you think he was involved? Why do you think he was 
upset? What did he do to show you he was upset? Answer any or all, one at a 
time."

"It was a phone call he made from the apartment. The way he was talking 
I could tell he was upset, and I could tell he wasn't talking to another 
kid. I mean, you can tell that from the way people talk. The way his voice 
sounded."

"What did he say?" I said.

"I couldn't hear most of it. He talked low, and I knew he didn't want 
me to hear, you know, cupping his hand and everything. So I tried not to 
hear. But he did say something about hiding it . . . like 'Don't worry, no 
one will find it. I was careful.'" "When was this?" I asked.

"About a week ago. Lemme see, I was up early for my Chaucer course, so 
it would have been Monday, that's five days ago. Last Monday."

The manuscript had been stolen Sunday night.

"Okay, so he was upset. About what?"

"I don't know, but I can tell when he's mad. At one point I think he 
threatened someone."

"Why do you think so? What did he say that makes you think so?"

"He said, 'If you don't . . .' No . . . No . . . he said, 'I will, I 
really will....' Yeah. That's what it was ... 'I really will.' But very 
threateny, you know."

"Good. Now why do you think it was a professor? I know the voice tone 
told you it was someone older, but why a professor? What did he say? What 
were the words?"

"Well, oh, I don't know, it was just a feeling. I wasn't all that 
interested; I was running the water for a bath, anyway."

"No, Terry, I want to know. The words, what were his words?"

She was silent, her eyes squeezed almost shut, as if the sun were 
shining in them, her upper teeth exposed, her lower lip sucked in.

"Dennis said, 'I don't care' . . . 'I don't care, if you do.' . . . He 
said, 'I don't care if you do. Cut the goddamn thing.' That's it. He was 
talking to an older person and he said cut the class if the other person had 
to. That's why I figured it must be a professor."

"How do you know he wasn't talking about cutting a piece of rope, or a 
salami?"

"Because he mentioned class or school a little before.

And what could they be talking about angrily that had to do with 
salami?"

"Okay. Good. What else?"

There wasn't anything else. I worked on her for maybe half an hour more 
and nothing else surfaced. All I got was the name of a SCACE official close 
to Powell, someone named Mark Tabor, whose title was political counselor.

"If you think of anything else, anything at all, call me.

You still have my card?"

"Yes. I . . . my father will pay you for what you did last night."

"No, he won't. He'll pay me for what I may do. But last night was a 
free introductory offer."

"It was a very nice thing to do," she said.

"Aw, hell," I said.

"What you should try to do is this," I said. "You should try to keep 
from starting up with your old man for a while.

And you should try to stay around the house, go to class if you think 
you should, but for the moment let SCACE stave off the apocalypse without 
you. Okay?"

"Okay. But don't laugh at us. We're perfectly serious and perfectly 
right."

"Yeah, so is everyone I know."

I left her then. Said good-bye to her parents, took a retainer from 
Roland Orchard, and drove back to town.

CHAPTER SEVEN

DRIVING BACK to Boston, I thought about my two retainers in the same
week. Maybe I'd buy a yacht. On the other hand maybe it would be better
to get the tear in my convertible roof fixed. The tape leaked. I got off
the Mass Pike at Storrow Drive and headed for the university. On my left
the Charles River was thick and gray between Boston and Cambridge. A
single oarsman was sculling upstream. He had on a hooded orange sweat
shirt and dark blue sweat pants and his breath steamed as he rocked back
and forth at the oars. Rowing downstream would have been easier.

I turned off Storrow at Charlesgate, went up over Commonwealth, onto 
Park Drive, past a batch of ducks swimming in the muddy river, through the 
Fenway to Westland Ave. Number 177 was on the left, halfway to Mass Ave. I 
parked at a hydrant and went up the stone steps to the glass door at the 
entry. I tried it. It was open. Inside an ancient panel of doorbells and 
call boxes covered the left wall. I didn't have to try one to know they 
didn't work. They didn't need to.

The inner door didn't close all the way because the floor was warped in 
front of the sill and the door jammed against it.

Mark Tabor was on the fourth floor. No elevator. I walked up.

The apartment house smelled bad and the stair landing had beer bottles 
and candy wrappers accumulating in the corners.

Somewhere in the building electronic music was playing at top volume. 
The fourth flight began to tell on me a little, but I forced myself to 
breathe normally as I knocked on Tabor's door. No answer. I knocked again. 
And a third time. Loud. I didn't want to waste the four-flight climb. A 
voice inside called out, "Wait a minute." There was a pause, and then the 
door opened.

I said, "Mark Tabor?"

And he said, "Yeah."

He looked like a zinnia. Tall and thin with an enormous corona of rust 
red hair flaring out around his pale, clean-shaven face. He wore a lavender 
undershirt and a pair of faded, flare-bottomed denim dungarees that were too 
long and dragged on the floor over his bare feet.

I said, "I'm a friend of Terry Orchard's; she asked me to come and talk 
with you."

"About what?"

"About inviting people in to sit down."

"Why do you think I know what's her name?"

"Aw, come off it, Tabor," I said. "How the hell do you think I got your 
name and address? How do you know Terry Orchard is not a what's his name? 
What do you lose by talking with me for fifteen minutes? If I was going to 
mug you I would have already. Besides, a mugger would starve to death in 
this neighborhood."

"Well, what do you want to talk about?" he asked, still standing in the 
door. I walked past him into the room. He said, "Hey," but didn't try to 
stop me. I moved a pile of mimeographed pamphlets off a steamer trunk and 
sat down on it.

Tabor took a limp pack of Kools out of his pants pocket, extracted a 
ragged cigarette, and lit it. The menthol smell did nothing for the 
atmosphere. He took a big drag and exhaled through his nose. He leaned 
against the door jamb. "Okay," he said. "What do you want?"

"I want to keep Terry Orchard out of the slam, for one thing. And I 
want to find the Godwulf Manuscript, for another."

"Why are the cops hassling Terry?"

"Because they think she killed Dennis Powell."

"Dennis is dead?"

I nodded.

"Ain't that a bitch, now," he said, much as if I'd said the rain would 
spoil the picnic. He went over and sat on the edge of a kitchen table 
covered with books, lined yellow paper, manila folders, and the crusts of a 
pizza still in the take-out box. Behind him, taped to the gray painted wall 
with raggedly torn masking tape, was a huge picture of Che Guevara. Opposite 
was a day bed covered by an unzipped sleeping bag.

There were clothes littered on the floor. On top of a bureau was a hot 
plate. There were no curtains or window shades.

I clucked approvingly. "You've really got some style, Tabor," I said.

"You from House Beautiful or something?" he said.

"Nope, I'm a private detective." I showed him the photostat of my 
license. "I'm trying to clear Terry Orchard of the murder charge. I'm also 
looking for the Godwulf Manuscript, and I think they're connected. Can you 
help me?"

"I don't know nothing about no murder, man, and nothing about no jive 
ass manuscript." Why did all the radical white kids from places like 
Scarsdale and Bel-Air try to talk as if they'd been brought up in 
Brownsville and Watts? He stubbed out his Kool and lit another.

"Look," I said. "You and Dennis Powell roomed together for two years. 
You and Terry Orchard are members of the same organization. You share the 
same goals. I'm not the cops. I'm free-lance, for crissake, I'm labor. I 
work for Terry. I don't want you. I want Terry out of trouble and the 
manuscript back in its case. Do you know where the manuscript is?"

"Naw, man. I don't know anything about it."

He didn't look up from the contemplation of his Kool.

His voice never varied. Like Terry, he showed no affect. No response to 
stimulus. It was as though he'd shut down.

"Tell me this," I said. "Does SCACE have a faculty adviser?"

"Oh, man, be cool. SCACE ain't no frat house, baby.

Faculty adviser . . . Man, that's heavy."

"Do any faculty members belong to SCACE?"

"Maybe. Lot of people belong to SCACE. That's for me to know and you to 
guess."

"What's the big secret?"

"Lots of dudes can get in trouble for joining organizations like SCACE. 
The imperialists don't like opposition. The fat cats don't like 
organizations that are for the worker. The superoppressors are scared of the 
revolution."

"You forgot to mention the capitalist running-dog lackeys," I said.

"Like you, you mean? See what happened to Terry Orchard? The pigs have 
framed her already. They'll do anything they can to stamp us out."

"Look, kid, I don't want to sit up here and argue Herbert Marcuse with 
you. The cops are professionals. You can sit here in your hippie suit and 
drink wine and smoke grass and read Marx and play revolution like Tom Sawyer 
ambushing the A-rabs all you want. That bothers the cops like a tick fly on 
an elephant. If they wanted to stamp you out, they'd come in here and stamp 
and you'd know what a stamping was.

They don't have to get frilly and frame some twenty-year-old broad to 
get at you. They've got guys in the station house in Charlestown that they 
keep in a cage when they're not on duty."

He gave me a tough look. Which isn't easy when you weigh 150 pounds.

"How about a faculty member that might be associated with SCACE?"

He let the smoke from his cigarette out of his nose and mouth slowly. 
It drifted up around his head. Long years of practice, I thought. He looked 
straight at me with his eyes almost closed for a long time. Then he said, 
"Where would the movement be now if someone had saved Sacco and Vanzetti?"

"Sonova bitch," I said. "You're almost perfect, you are, a flawless 
moron. I don't think I've ever seen anyone stay so implacably on the level 
of absolute abstraction."

"Screw you, man," he said.

"That's better," I said. "Now we're getting down where I live. I've got 
no hope for you, punk. But I promise you that if that kid gets burned 
because you don't tell me what you could tell me, I will come for you. You 
martyr that kid and I'll give the movement another martyr."

"Screw you, man," he said.

I walked out.

I went back down the four flights of stairs, as empty as when I went 
up. Some sleuth, Spenser, a real Hawkshaw. All you've found out is you get 
winded after four flights of stairs. I wondered if I should go back up and 
have a go at shaking some information out of him. Maybe later. Maybe he'd 
stew a little and I could call on him again. I didn't even know he knew 
anything. But talking to him, I could feel him holding back. I could even 
feel that he liked knowing something and not telling. It added color to the 
romance of his conspiracy.

Out in the street the air was cold and it tasted clean after the 
mentholated smoke and the stale air of Tabor's room. A truck backfired and 
up on Mass Avenue a bus ground under way in low gear.

My next try was the campus. The student newspaper was located in the 
basement of the library. On the blond oak door cut into the cinder block of 
the basement corridor an inventive person had lettered NEWS in black ink.

Inside, the room was long and narrow. L-shaped black metal desks with 
white Formica tops were sloppily lined up along the long wall on the left. A 
hand-lettered sign made from half a manila folder instructed the staff to 
label all photographs with name, date, and location. The room was empty 
except for a black woman in a red paisley dashiki and matching turban. She 
was fat but not flabby, hard fat we used to call it when I was a kid, and 
the dashiki billowed around her body like a drop cloth on the sofa when the 
living room's going to be painted. A plastic name plate on her desk said 
FEATURE EDITOR .

She said, "Can I help you?" Her voice was not cordial.

No one seemed to be mistaking me for a member of the academic 
community.

I said, "I hope so."

I gave her a card. "I'm working on a case, and I'm looking for 
information. Can I ask you for some?"

"You surely can," she said. "All the news that's fit to print, that's 
us."

"Okay, you know there's a manuscript been stolen."

"Yep."

"I have some reason to believe that a radical student organization, 
SCACE, is involved in the theft."

"Uh huh."

"What I'm looking for are faculty connections with SCACE. What can you 
tell me?"

"Why you want to know about faculty connections?"

"I have reason to believe that a faculty member was involved in the 
theft."

"I have reason to believe that information is a two-way go, sweetie," 
she said. "Ah is a member ob de press, baby.

Information is mah business."

I liked her. She was old for a student, maybe twentyeight. And she was 
tough.

"Fair enough," I said. "If you'll drop the Stepin Fetchit act, I'll 
tell you what I can. In trade?"

"Right on, brother," she said.

"Two things. One, what's your name?"

"Iris Milford."

"Two, do you know Terry Orchard?"

She nodded.

"Then you know she's a SCACE member. You also may know she's been 
arrested for murder." She nodded again.

"I think the manuscript theft and the murder are connected." I told her 
about Terry, and the murder, and Terry's memory of the phone call.

"Someone set her up," I said. "If someone wanted her out of the way 
they'd just have killed her. They wanted to kill Powell. They wouldn't go to 
the trouble and take the risk just to frame her. And they wanted to kill 
Powell in such a way as to keep people from digging into it. And it looked 
good--a couple of freaky kids living in what my aunt used to call sin.

On drugs, long-haired, barefooted, radical, and on a bad trip, one 
shoots the other and tells some weird hallucinogenic story about guys in 
trench coats. The Hearst papers would have them part of an international sex 
club by the second day's story."

"How come you're messing it up, then? If it's so good.

How come you don't believe it?"

"I talked to her right after it happened. She's not that good a liar."

"Why ain't it a trip? Maybe she really thinks she's telling you true. 
You ever been on a trip?"

"No. You?"

"Baby, I'm fat, black, widowed, pushing thirty, and got four kids. I 
don't need no additional problems. But she could think it happened. Got any 
better reason for thinking she's not guilty?"

"I like her."

"All right," she said. "That's cool."

"So, what do you know?"

"Not a hell of a lot. The kid Powell was a jerk, sulky, foolish. On an 
ego trip. Terry, I don't know. I've been in classes with her. She's bright, 
but she's screwed up. Jesus, they're so miserable, those kids, always so 
goddamn unhappy about racism and sexism and imperialism and militarism and 
capitalism. Man, I grew up in a tarpaper house in Fayette, Mississippi, with 
ten other kids. We were trying to stay alive; we didn't have time to be that 
goddamn unhappy."

"How about a professor?"

"In SCACE, you got me. I do know that there's a lot of talk about drug 
dealing connected with SCACE."

"For instance?"

"For instance, that Powell was dealing, and had big connections. He 
could get you smack, anything you wanted.

But especially smack. A kid that can get unlimited smack is heavy in 
some circles."

"Mob connection?"

"I don't know. I don't even know whether he really could get a big 
supply of smack. I just tell you what I hear.

Kids like to talk big--especially to me, because I live in Roxbury, and 
they figure all us darkies are into drugs and crime, 'cause we been 
oppressed by you honky slumlords."

"I want a professor," I said. "Try this. Name me the most radical 
faculty members in the university."

"Oh, man, how the hell do I know? There's about thirty-five thousand 
people in this place."

"Name me anyone, any that you know. I'm not the Feds. I'm not going to 
harass them. They can advocate cannibalism for all I care. I only want to 
get one kid out of trouble.

Make me a list of any you can think of. They don't have to be active. 
Who is there that might be involved in stealing a manuscript and holding it 
for ransom?"

"I'll think on it," she said.

"Think on it a lot. Get any of your friends who will think on it too. 
Students know things that deans and chairmen don't know."

"Ain't that the truth."

"How about an English professor? Wouldn't that be the best bet? It was 
a medieval manuscript. It was important because it referred to some medieval 
writer. Wouldn't an English professor be most likely to think of holding it 
for ransom?"

"Who's the writer it mentions?" she asked.

"Richard Rolle."

"How much they want for him?"

"A hundred thousand dollars."

"I'd give them some dough if they'd promise not to return it. You ever 
read his stuff?"

I shook my head.

"Don't," she said.

"Can you think of any English professors who might fit my bill?"

"There's a lot of flakes in that department. There's a lot of flakes in 
most departments, if you really want to know.

But English . . ." She whistled, raised her eyebrows, and looked at the 
ceiling.

"Okay, but who is the flakiest? Who would you bet on if you had to 
bet?"

"Hayden," she said. "Lowell Hayden. He's one of those little pale guys 
with long, limp blond hair that looks like he hasn't started to shave yet, 
but he's like thirty-nine. You know? Serious as a bastard. Taught a freshman 
English course two years ago called The Rhetoric of Revolution. You dig? 
Yeah, he'd be the one, old Dr. Hayden."

"What's he teach besides freshman English?"

"I don't know for sure. I know he teaches Chaucer, 'cause I took 
Chaucer with him." I felt a little click in the back of my head. Something 
nudged at me. A Chaucer class had been mentioned before. I tucked the 
inkling away. I knew I could dredge it up later when I had time. I always 
could.

"Mrs. Milford, thank you. If you come up with anything, my number's on 
the card. I have an answering service.

If I'm not there, leave a message."

"Okay."

I got up and looked around the basement room. "Freedom of the press is 
a flaming sword," I said. "Use it wisely, hold it high, guard it well."

Iris Milford looked at me strangely. I left.

The corridor in the basement of the library was almost empty. I looked 
at my watch. 5:05. Too late to find anyone in the English Department. I went 
home.

In my kitchen I sat at the counter and opened a can of beer. It was 
very quiet. I turned on the radio. Maybe I should buy a dog, I thought. He'd 
be glad to see me when I came home. The beer was good. I finished the can. 
And opened another. Where was I? I ran over the last couple of days in my 
mind. One: Terry Orchard didn't kill Dennis Powell. That was a working 
hypothesis. Two: the missing manuscript and the murder were two parts of the 
same thing, and if I found out anything about one, I'd know something about 
the other. That was another working hypothesis. What did I have in support 
of these hypotheses? About half a can of beer. There was that click I had 
when I talked with Iris Milford. Chaucer. She's had a Chaucer course with 
Lowell Hayden. I drank the rest of the beer and opened another can. It came 
back. Terry was up early for her Chaucer course the day Dennis had been 
telling some professor on the phone to cut his class. I looked at my face, 
reflected in the window over the sink. "You've still got all the moves, 
kid," I said. But what did it give me? Nothing much, just a little 
coincidence. But it was something. It suggested some kind of connection. 
Coincidences are suspect. Old Lowell Hayden looked better to me all the 
time. I got another beer. After three or four beers everything began looking 
better to me.

I got a pound of fresh scallops out of the refrigerator and began to 
make something called Scallops Jacques for supper. It was a recipe in a 
French cookbook that I'd gotten for a birthday present from a woman I know. 
I like to cook and drink while I'm doing it. Scallops Jacques is a 
complicated affair with cream and wine and lemon juice and shallots, and by 
the time it was done I was feeling quite pleasant. I made some hot biscuits 
for myself, too, and ate the scallops and biscuits with a bottle of Pouilly 
Fuisse, sitting at the counter.

Afterward I went to bed. I slept heavy and for a long time.

CHAPTER EIGHT

I SLEPT LATE and woke up feeling very good, though my mouth tasted
funny. I went over to the Boston Y.M.C.A. and worked out in the weight
room. I hit the light bag and the heavy bag, ran three miles around
their indoor track, took a shower, and went down to my office. I was
glistening with health and vigor till I got there. You never felt really
glistening in my office. It was on Stuart Street, second floor front,
half a block down from Tremont. One room with a desk, a file cabinet,
and two chairs in case Mrs. Onassis came with her husband. The old iron
radiator had no real control and the room, closed for three days, reeked
with heat. I stepped over the three-day pile of mail on the floor under
the mail slot and went to open the window. It took some effort. I took
off my coat, picked up the mail, and sat at my desk to read it. I'd come
down mainly to check my mail, and the trip had been hardly worth it.

There was a phone bill, a light bill, an overdue notice from the Boston 
Public Library, a correspondence course offering to teach me karate at home 
in my spare time, a letter from a former client insisting that while I had 
found his wife she had left again and hence he would not pay my bill, an 
invitation to join a vacation club, an invitation to buy a set of socket 
wrenches, an invitation to join an automobile club, an invitation to 
subscribe to five magazines of my choice at once-in-alifetime savings, an 
invitation to shop the specials on pork at my local supermarket, and a 
number of less important letters. Nothing from Germaine Greer or Lenny 
Bernstein, no dinner invitations, no post cards from the Costa del Sol, no 
mash notes from Helen Gurley Brown. Last week had been much the same.

I stood up and looked out my window. It was a bright day, but cold, and 
the whores had emerged, working the Combat Zone, looking cold and bizarre in 
their miniskirts, boots, and blond wigs. Being seductive at twenty degrees 
was heavy going, I thought. Being horny at twenty degrees wasn't all that 
easy either. Things were slow for the whores. It was lunchtime, and the 
businessmen were beginning to drift down from Boylston and Tremont and Back 
Bay offices to have lunch at Jake Wirth's or upstairs in the Athens Olympia. 
The whores eyed them speculatively, occasionally approached one, and were 
brushed off. The businessmen didn't like to look at them and hurried off in 
embarrassment when approached, visions of the day's first Bloody Mary 
dancing in their heads.

I closed the window, threw most of the mail away, locked the office, 
and headed for my car. The drive to the university was easy from my office, 
and I was there in ten minutes. I parked in a slot that said RESERVED FOR 
UNIVERSITY PRESIDENT and found my way to Tower's office. The secretary was 
wearing a pink jumpsuit this day. I revised my opinion about her thighs. 
They weren't too heavy; they were exactly the right size for the jumpsuit. I 
said, "My name's Spenser. To see Mr. Tower." She said, "Yes, Mr. Spenser, 
he'll be through in a minute," and went back to her typing. Twice I caught 
her looking at me while she pretended to check the clock. You haven't lost a 
thing, kid, I thought. Two campus cops, in uniform, looking unhappy, came 
out of Tower's office. Tower came to the door with them.

"This is not Dodge City," he said, "you are not goddamn towntamers--" 
and shut the outer office door behind them as they left. "Dumb bastards," he 
said. "Come on in, Spenser."

"I'll see you again on the way out," I said to the secretary. She 
didn't smile.

"What have you got, Spenser?" Tower asked when we were in and sitting.

"A bad murder, some funny feelings, damn little information, some 
questions, and no manuscript. I think your secretary is hot for me."

Tower's face squeezed down. "Murder?"

"Yeah, the Powell killing. You know about it as well as I do."

"Yeah, bad. I know, sorry you had to get dragged into it. But we're 
after a manuscript. We're not worried about the murder. That's Lieutenant 
Quirk's department. He's good at it."

"Wrong. It's my department too. I think the manuscript and the murder 
are connected."

"Why?"

"Terry Orchard told me."

"What?" Tower wasn't liking the way the talk was going.

"Terry remembers a conversation on the phone between Dennis Powell and 
a professor in which Dennis reassured the professor that he'd hidden 'it' 
well."

"Oh, for crissake, Spenser. The kid's a goddam junkie.

She remembers anything she feels like remembering. You don't buy that 
barrel of crap she fed you about mysterious strangers and being forced to 
shoot Dennis, and being drugged and being innocent. Of course she thinks the 
university's involved. She thinks the university causes famine."

"She didn't say the university. She said a professor."

"She'll say anything. They all will. She knows you're investigating the 
manuscript, and she wants you to get her out of what she's gotten herself 
into. So she plays little-girllost with you, and you go panting after her 
like a Saint Bernard dog. Spenser to the rescue. Balls."

"Tell me about Lowell Hayden," I said.

Tower liked the conversation even less. "Why? Who the hell is employing 
who? I want to know your results, and you start asking me questions about 
professors."

"Whom," I said.

"What?"

"It's whom, who is employing whom? Or is it? Maybe it's a predicate 
nominative, in which case . . ."

"Will you come off it, Spenser. I got things to do."

"Me, too," I said. "One of them is to find out about Lowell Hayden. His 
name has come up a couple of times. He's a known radical. I have it on some 
authority that he's the most radical on campus. I have it on authority that 
Powell was pushing heavy drugs and had heavy drug connections. I know Hayden 
had an early Chaucer class on the morning that Powell was talking to a 
professor about cutting his early morning class."

"That adds up to zero. Do you know how many professors in this 
university have eight o'clock classes every day?

Who the hell is your authority? I know what's going on on my campus and 
no one's pushing heroin. I don't say no one's using it, but it's isolated. 
There's no big supplier. If there were, I'd know."

"Sure you would," I said. "Sure, what I've got about professors and 
Lowell Hayden adds up to zero, or little more.

But he is all I've got for either the murder or the theft. Why not let 
me think about him? Why not have a look at him? If he's clean, I won't 
bother him. He probably is clean. But if he isn't . . ."

"No. Do you have any idea what happens if it gets out that a P.I. in 
the employ of the university is investigating a member of the university 
faculty? No, you don't. You couldn't." He closed his eyes in holy dread. 
"You stick to looking for the manuscript. Stay away from the faculty."

"I don't do piecework, Tower. I take hold of one end of the thread and 
I keep pulling it in till it's all unraveled. You hired me to find out where 
the manuscript went. You didn't hire me to run errands. The retainer does 
not include your telling me how to do my job."

"You'll stay the hell away from Hayden, or you'll be off this campus to 
stay. I got you hired for this job. I can get you canned just as easy."

"Do that," I said, and walked out. When you have two retainers you get 
smug and feisty. In the quadrangle I asked a boy in a fringed buckskin 
jacket where the English Department was. He didn't know. I tried a girl in 
an ankle-length o.d. military overcoat. She didn't know either. On the third 
try I got it; first floor, Felton Hall, other end of the campus.

Felton Hall was a converted apartment building, warrened with faculty 
offices. The main office of the English Department was at the end of the 
first floor foyer. An outer office with a receptionist/typist and a file 
cabinet. An inner office with another desk and woman and typewriter, 
secretary in chief or administrative assistant, or some such, and beyond 
that, at right angles, the office of the chairman. The receptionist looked 
like a student. I asked to see the chairman, gave her my card, the one with 
my name and profession but without the crossed daggers, and sat down in the 
one straight-backed chair to wait. She gave the card to the woman in the 
inner office, who did not look like a student and didn't even look one hell 
of a lot like a woman, and came back studiously uninterested in me.

Somewhere nearby I could hear the rhythm of a mimeograph cranking out 
somebody's midterm or a reading list for someone's course in Byzantine 
nature poetry of the third century. I got the same old feeling in my 
stomach. The one I got as a little kid sitting outside the principal's 
office.

The office was done in early dorm. There was a travel poster with a 
picture of the Yugoslav coast stuck with Scotch tape to the wall above the 
receptionist's desk, the announcement of a new magazine that would pay 
contributors in free copies of the magazine, the big campy poster of Buster 
Keaton in The General, and a number of Van Gogh and Gauguin prints 
apparently cut off a calendar and taped up. It didn't hold a candle to my 
collection of Ann Sheridan pinups.

The mannish-looking inner-office secretary came to her door.

"Mr. Spenser," she said, "Dr. Vogel will see you now."

I walked through her big office, through two glass doors, and into the 
chairman's office, which was still bigger. It had apparently once been the 
dining room of an apartment, which had been divided by a partition so that 
it seemed almost a round room because of the large bow window that looked 
out over a recently built slum. In the arch of the bow was a large dark 
desk. On one wall was a fireplace, the bricks painted a dark red, the hearth 
clean and cold. There were books all around the office and pen and ink 
drawings of historical-looking people I didn't recognize. There was a rug on 
the floor and a chair with arms--Tower had neither.

Dr. Vogel sat behind the desk, slim, medium height, thick curly hair 
trimmed round, black and gray intermixed, clean-shaven, wearing a black 
pin-striped double-breasted suit with six buttons, all buttoned, pink shirt 
with a wide roll collar, a white tie with black and pink stripes, and a 
diamond ring on the left little finger. Whatever happened to shabby 
gentility?

"Sit down, Mr. Spenser," he said. I sat. He was looking at my card, 
holding it neatly by the corners before his stomach with both hands, the way 
a man looks at a poker hand.

"I don't believe I've ever met a private detective before," he said 
without looking up. "What do you want?"

"I'm investigating the theft of the Godwulf Manuscript," I said, "and I 
have only the slightest of suggestions that a member of your department 
might be involved."

"My department? I doubt that."

"Everyone always doubts things like that."

"I'm not sure the generalization is valid, Mr. Spenser.

There must be circles where theft surprises no one, and they must be 
circles with which you're more familiar than I. Why don't you move in those 
circles, and not these?"

"Because the circles you're thinking of don't steal illuminated 
manuscripts, nor do they ransom them for charity, nor do they murder 
undergraduates in the process."

"Murder?" He liked that about half as well as Tower had.

"A young man, student at this university, was murdered. Another 
student, a young woman, was involved and stands accused. I think the two 
crimes are connected."

"Why?"

"I have some slight evidence, but even if I didn't, two major crimes 
committed at the same university among people belonging to the same end of 
the political spectrum, and probably the same organization, is at least an 
unusual occurrence, isn't it?"

"Of course, but we're on the edge of the ghetto here. . . ."

"Nobody involved was a ghetto resident. No one was black. The victim 
and the accused were upper-middle-class affluent."

"Drugs?"

"Maybe, maybe not. To me it doesn't look like a drug killing."

"How does it look to the police?"

"The police don't belabor the obvious, Dr. Vogel. The most obvious 
answer is the one they like best. Usually they're right. They don't have 
time to be subtle. They are very good at juggling five balls, but there are 
always six in the game, and the more they run the farther behind they get."

"Thus you handle the difficult and intricate problems, Mr. Spenser?"

"I handle the problems I choose to; that's why I'm freelance. It gives 
me the luxury to worry about justice. The cops can't. All they're trying to 
do is keep that sixth ball in the air."

"A fine figure of speech, Mr. Spenser, and doubtless excellent 
philosophy, but it has little relevance here. I do not want you snooping 
about my department, accusing my faculty of theft and murder."

"What you want is not what I'm here to find out. I'll snoop on your 
department and accuse your faculty of theft and murder as I find necessary. 
The question we're discussing is whether it's the easy way or the hard way. 
I wasn't asking your permission."

"By God, Spenser . . ."

"Listen, there's a twenty-year-old girl who is a student in your 
university, has taken a course from your faculty, under the auspices no 
doubt of your department, who is now out on bail, charged with the murder of 
her boyfriend. I think she did not kill him. If I am right, it is quite 
important that we find out who did. Now, that may not rate in importance up 
as high as, say, the implications of homosexuality in Shakespeare's sonnets, 
or whether he said solid or sullied, but it is important. I'm not going to 
shoot up the place. No rubber hose, no iron maiden. I won't even curse 
loudly. If the student newspaper breaks the news that a private eye is 
ravaging the English Department, the hell with it. You can argue it's an 
open campus and sit tight."

"You don't understand the situation in a university at this point in 
time. I cannot permit spying. I sympathize with your passion for justice, if 
that is in fact what it is, but my faculty would not accept your prying. 
Violation of academic freedom integral to such an investigation, sanctioned 
even implicitly by the chairman, would jeopardize liberal education in the 
university beyond any justification. If you persist I will have you removed 
from this department by the campus police."

The campus police I had seen looked like they'd need to outnumber me 
considerably, but I let that go. Guile, I thought, guile before force. I had 
been thinking that more frequently as I got up toward forty.

"The freedom I'm worried about is not academic, it's twenty and female. 
If you reconsider, my number's on the card."

"Good day, Mr. Spenser."

I got even. I left without saying good-bye.

On the bulletin board in the corridor was a mimeographed list of 
faculty office numbers. I took it off as I went by and put it in my pocket. 
The mannish-looking secretary watched me all the way out the front door.

CHAPTER NINE

I WALKED THROUGH the warm-for-early-winter sun of midafternoon across
the campus back toward the library. In the quadrangle there was a girl
in a fatigue jacket selling brown rice and pinto beans from a pushcart
with a bright umbrella.

Six dogs raced about barking and bowling one another over in their 
play. A kid in a cowboy hat and a pea jacket hawked copies of a local 
underground paper in a rhythmic monotone, a limp and wrinkled cigarette 
hanging from the corner of his mouth.

I went into the reading room of the library, took off my coat, sat down 
at a table, and took out my list of English professors. It didn't get me 
far. There was no one named Sacco or Vanzetti; none had a skull and 
crossbones by his name. Nine of the names were women; the remaining 
thirtythree were men. Lowell Hayden's name was right there after Gordon and 
before Herbert. Why him, I thought. I didn't have a goddamn thing on him. 
Just his name came up twice, and he teaches medieval literature. Why not 
him? Why not Vogel, why not Tower, why not Forbes, or Tabor, or Iris 
Milford, why not Terry Orchard if you really get objective? Like a Saint 
Bernard, Tower had said. Woof. Why not go home and go to bed and never get 
up? Some things you just had to decide.

I got up, put the list back in my pocket, put on my coat, and headed 
back out across campus, toward the English Department. Hayden's office was 
listed as fourth floor Felton. I hoped I could slip past Mary Masculine, the 
super-secretary. I made it. There was an old elevator to the left of the 
foyer, out of sight of the English office. It was a cage affair, open shaft, 
enclosed with mesh. The stairs wound up around it. I took it to the fourth 
floor, feeling exposed as it crept up. Hayden's office was room 405. On the 
door was a brown plastic plaque that said DR. HAYDEN. The door was half open 
and inside I could hear two people talking. One was apparently a student, 
sitting in a straight chair, back to the door, beside the desk, facing the 
teacher. I couldn't see Hayden, but I could hear his voice.

"The problem," he was saying in a deep, public voice, "with Kittredge's 
theory of the marriage cycle is that the order of composition of The 
Canterbury Tales is unclear. We do not, in short, know that 'The Clerk's 
Tale' precedes that of 'The Wife of Bath,' for instance."

The girl mumbled something I couldntt catch, and Hayden responded.

"No, you are responsible for what you quote. If you didn't agree with 
Kittredge, you shouldn't have cited him."

Again the girl's mumble. Again Hayden: "Yes, if you'd like to write 
another paper, I'll read it and grade it. If it's better than this one, it 
will bring your grade up. I'd like to see an outline or at least a thesis 
statement, though, before you write it. Okay?"

Mumble.

"Okay, thanks for coming by."

The girl got up and walked out. She didn't look pleased. As she got 
into the elevator I reached around and knocked on the open door.

"Come in," Hayden said. "What can I do for you?"

It was a tiny office, just room for a desk, chair, file cabinet, 
bookcase, and teacher. No windows, Sheetrock partitions painted green. 
Hayden himself looked right at home in the office. He was small, with 
longish blond hair. Not long enough to be stylish; long enough to look as 
though he needed a haircut. He had on a light green dress shirt with a faint 
brown stripe in it, open at the neck, and what looked like Navy surplus 
dungarees. The shirt was too big for him, and the material bagged around his 
waist. He was wearing goldrimmed glasses.

I gave him my card and said, "I'm working on a case involving a former 
student and I was wondering if you could tell me anything."

He looked at my card carefully, then at me.

"Anyone may have a card printed up. Do you have more positive 
identification?"

I showed him the photostat of my license, complete with my picture. He 
looked at it very carefully, then handed it back.

"Who is the student?" he said.

"Terry Orchard," I said.

He showed no expression. "I teach a great many students, Mr."--he 
glanced down at my card lying on his desk-"Spenser. What class? What year? 
What semester?"

"Chaucer, this year, this semester."

He reached into a desk drawer and pulled a yellow cardboard-covered 
grade book. He thumbed through it, stopped, ran his eyes down a list, and 
said, "Yes, I have Miss Orchard in my Chaucer course."

Looking at the grade book upside down, I could see he had the student's 
last name and first initial. If he didn't know her name or whether she was 
in his class or not without looking her up in his grade book, how, looking 
at the listing ORCHARD, T., did he know it was Miss Orchard? Like Tabor, the 
zinnia head, no one seemed willing to know old Terry.

"Don't you know the names of your students, Dr. Hayden?" I asked, 
trying to say it neutrally, not as if I were critical. He took it as if it 
were critical.

"This is a very large university, Mr. Spenser." He had to check the 
card again to get my name. I hope he remembered Chaucer better. "I have an 
English survey course of sixty-eight students, for instance. I cannot keep 
track of the names, much as I try to do so. One of this university's serious 
problems is the absence of community. I am really able to remember only 
those students who respond to my efforts to personalize our relationship. 
Miss Orchard apparently is not one of those." He looked again at the open 
grade book. "Nor do her grades indicate that she has been unusually 
interested and attentive."

"How is she doing?" I asked, just to keep it going. I didn't know where 
I was going. I was fishing and I had to keep the conversation going.

"That is a matter concerning Miss Orchard and myself." Nice 
conversation primer, Spenser, you really know how to touch the right 
buttons.

"Sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to pry, but when you think about it, 
prying is more or less my business."

"Perhaps," Hayden said. "It is not, however, my business; nor is it, 
quite frankly, a business for which I have much respect."

"I know it's not important like Kittredge's marriage cycle, but it's 
better than enlisting, I suppose."

"I'm quite busy, Mr. Spenser." He didn't have to check this time. A 
quick study, I thought.

"I appreciate that, Dr. Hayden. Let me be brief. Terry Orchard is 
accused of the murder of her boyfriend, Dennis Powell." No reaction. "I am 
working to clear her of suspicion.

Is there anything you can tell me that would help?"

"No, I'm sorry, there isn't."

"Do you know Dennis Powell?"

"No, I do not. I can check through my grade books, but I don't recall 
him."

"That's not necessary. The grade book won't tell me anything. There's 
nothing at all you can think of? About either?"

"Nothing. I'm sorry, but I don't know the people involved."

"Are you aware that the Godwulf Manuscript has been stolen?"

"Yes, I am."

"Do you have any idea what might have happened to it?"

"Mr. Spenser, this is absurd. I assume your interest relates to the 
fact that I am a medievalist. I am not, however, a thief."

"Well," I said, "thanks anyway." I got up.

"You're welcome. I'm sorry I wasn't more useful." His voice was 
remarkable. Deep and resonant, it seemed incongruous with his slight frame. 
"Thanks for coming by."

As I left the office, two students were waiting outside, sitting on the 
floor, coats and books in a pile beside them.

They looked at me curiously as I entered the elevator. As it descended 
I could hear Hayden's voice booming. "Come in, Mr. Vale. What can I do for 
you?"

On the ground floor were two campus policemen, and they wanted me. I 
hadn't eluded Mary Masculine after all.

She was hovering in the doorway to the English office. One of the cops 
was big and fat with a thick, pockmarked face and an enormous belly. The 
other was much smaller, a black man with a neat Sugar Ray mustache and a 
tailored uniform. They weren't wearing guns, but each had a nightstick stuck 
in his hip pocket. The fat one took my arm above the elbow in what he must 
have felt was an iron grip.

"Start walking, trooper," he said, barely moving his lips.

I was frustrated, and angry at Lowell Hayden and at Mary Masculine and 
the university. I said, "Let go of my arm or I'll put a dent in your face."

"You and who else?" he said. It broke my tension.

"Snappy," I said. "On your days off could you come over and be my 
dialogue coach?"

The black cop laughed. The fat one looked puzzled and let go of my arm.

"What do you mean?" he said.

"Never mind, Lloyd," the black cop said. "Come on, Jim, we got to walk 
you off campus."

I nodded. "Okay, but not arm in arm. I don't go for that kind of 
stuff."

"Me neither, Jim. We'll just stroll along."

And we did. The fat cop had his nightstick out and tapped it against 
his leg as we went out of the building and toward the street. His eyes never 
left me. Alert, I thought, vigilant. When we got to my car, the black cop 
opened the door for me with a small, graceful flourish.

The fat one said, "Don't come back. Next time you show up here you'll 
be arrested."

"For crissake," I said. "I'm working for the university.

Your boss hired me."

"I don't know nothing about that, but we got our orders. Get out and 
stay out."

The black cop said, "I don't know, Jim, but I think maybe you been 
canceled." He closed the door and stepped back. I started the car and pulled 
away. They still stood there as I drove off, the fat one looking balefully 
after me, still slapping his nightstick against his leg.

CHAPTER TEN

IT WAS GETTING DARK, and the commuter traffic was starting to thicken
the streets. I drove slowly back to my office, parked my car, and went
in.

When I unlocked my office door the first thing I noticed was the smell 
of cigarette smoke. I hadn't smoked in ten years. I pushed it open hard and 
went in low with my gun out.

There was someone sitting at my desk, and another man standing against 
the wall. In the half-light the tip of his cigarette glowed. Neither of them 
moved. I backed to the wall and felt for the light switch. I found it, and 
the room brightened.

The man against the wall laughed, a thin sound, without humor.

"Look at that, Phil. Maybe if we give him money he'll do that again."

The man at my desk said nothing. He was sitting with his feet up, my 
chair tipped back, his hat still on, his overcoat still buttoned up, though 
it must have been ninety in there, wearing rose-colored gold-rimmed glasses. 
He looked at me without expression, a very tall man, narrow, with high 
shoulders, six foot four or five, probably. Behind the glasses one eye was 
blank and white and turned partly up. Along the right line of his jaw was a 
purple birthmark maybe two inches wide, running the whole length of the jaw 
from chin to ear.

His hands were folded across his stomach. Big hands, long, square, 
thick fingers, the backs prominently veined, the knuckles lumpy. I could 
tell he was impressed with the gun in my hand. The only thing that would 
have scared him more would have been if I had threatened to flog him with a 
dandelion.

"Put that away," he said. "If he was going to push you I wouldn't have 
let Sonny smoke." His voice was a harsh whisper, as if he had an artificial 
throat.

Sonny gave me a moon-faced smile. He was thick and round, running to 
fat, with mutton-chop sideburns that came to the corners of his mouth. His 
coat was off and his collar open, the tie at half-mast. Sweat soaked the big 
half-moon circles around his armpits, and his face was shiny with it. I put 
the gun away.

"A man wants to see you," Phil said. I hadn't seen him move since I 
came in. His voice was entirely without inflection.

"Joe Broz?" I said.

Sonny said, "What makes you think so?"

Phil said, "He knows me."

"Yeah," I said, "you walk around behind Broz."

Phil said, "Let's go," and stood up. Six-five, at least.

When he was standing you could see that his right shoulder was higher 
than his left.

I said, "What if I don't want to?"

Phil just looked at me. Sonny snickered, "What if he don't want to, 
Phil?"

Phil said, "Let's go."

We went. Outside, double-parked, was a Lincoln Continental. Sonny 
drove; Phil sat in back with me.

It had started to snow again, softly, big flakes, and the windshield 
wipers made the only sound in the car. I looked at the back of Sonny's neck 
as he drove. The hair was long and stylish and curled out over the collar of 
his white trench coat.

Sonny seemed to be singing soundlessly to himself as he drove. His head 
bobbed, and he beat gentle time on the wheel with one suede-gloved hand. 
Phil was a silent and motionless shape in the corner of the back seat.

"Either of you guys seen The Godfather?" I asked.

Sonny snorted. Phil ignored me.

"Beat up any good candy store owners lately, Sonny?"

"Don't ride me, Peep; you'll find yourself looking up at the snow."

"I'm heavy work, Sonny. College kids are about your upper limit, I 
think."

"Goddammit," Sonny started, and Phil stopped him.

"Shut up," Phil said in his gear box voice, and we both knew he meant 
both of us.

"Just having a little snappy conversation, Phil, to pass the time," I 
said.

Phil just looked at me, and the menace was like a physical force. I 
could feel anxiety pulse up and down the long muscles of my arms and legs. 
Going to see Joe Broz was not normally a soothing experience anyway. Not 
many people looked forward to it.

The ride was short. Sonny pulled to a stop in front of a building on 
the lower end of State Street. Phil and I got out. I stuck my head back in 
before I closed the back door.

"If a tough meter maid puts the arm on you, Sonny, just scream and I'll 
come running."

Sonny swore at me and burned rubber away from the curb.

I followed Phil into the building. We took the self-service elevator to 
the eleventh floor. The corridor was silent and empty, with marble 
wainscoting and frosted glass doors.

At the far end we went through one marked CONTINENTAL CONSULTING CO. 
Inside was an empty stainless-steel and coralvinyl reception room. There is 
little that is quieter than an office building after hours, and this one was 
no exception. The lights were all on, the receptionist's desk was 
geometrically neat. On one wall were staggered prints by Maurice Utrillo.

Phil said, "Gimme your gun."

I hesitated. I didn't like his manner, I didn't like his assumption 
that I'd do what I was told because he'd told me to, and I didn't like his 
assumption that if he had to he could make me. On the other hand, I'd come 
this far because I was curious. Something bothered Broz enough to have him 
send his top hand to bring me in. And Sonny looked a lot like one of the two 
hoods that Terry had described. Also, Phil didn't seem much to care whether 
I liked his assumptions or not.

I noticed that there was a gun in Phil's hand, and it was pointing at 
an area somewhere between my eyes. I'd never seen him move. I took my gun 
out of my hip holster and handed it to him, butt first. People were taking 
it away from me a lot lately. I didn't like that too much either. Phil 
stowed my gun away in an overcoat pocket, put away his own gun in the other, 
and stepped to one of the inner doors of the reception room. It was solid, 
no glass panel. I heard a buzz, and the door clicked open. I looked around 
and spotted the closedcircuit camera up high in one corner of the reception 
room.

Phil pushed the door open and nodded me through it.

The room was bone white. The first thing I saw was my own reflection in 
the wide black picture window that stretched the width of the opposite wall. 
My reflection didn't look too aggressive. In front of the window was a broad 
black desk, neat, with a bank of phones on it. The room was carpeted with 
something thick and expensive, in a dark blue.

There were several black leather chairs about. Along the side wall was 
an ebony bar with blue leather padding. Leaning against it was Joe Broz.

There was something theatrical about Broz, as if there was always a 
press photographer downstage left, kneeling to shoot a picture with his big 
Speed Graphic camera. He was a middle-size man who stood very straight with 
his chin up, as if squeezing every inch of height out of what God had given 
him. He had many teeth--a few too many for his mouth--and they were very 
prominent and white. His hair was slick black, combed straight back from a 
high forehead and gray at the temples. The sideburns were long and neatly 
trimmed. His nose was flat and thick with a slight skijump quality to the 
end that hinted at a break somewhere in the past. He wore a white suit, a 
white vest, a dark blue shirt, and a white tie.

There was a gold chain across the vest, and presumably a gold watch 
tucked in the vest pocket. I would have bet against a Phi Beta key, but 
little is sure in life. He had one foot hooked on the brass rail of the bar, 
and a large diamond ring flashed from his little finger as he turned a thick 
highball glass in his hands.

"Do you always dress in blue and white?" I asked. "Or do you have the 
office redone to match your clothes every day?"

Broz sipped a little of his drink, put it down on the bar, and swung 
fully around toward me, both elbows resting on the bar.

"I have been told," he said in a deep voice that had the phony quality 
you hear in an announcer's voice when he's not on the air, "that you are a 
wise-ass punk. Apparently my information was correct. So let's get some 
ground rules. You are here because I sent for you. You will leave when I 
tell you to.

You are of no consequence. You have no class. If you annoy me, I will 
have someone sprinkle roach powder on you. Do you understand that?"

"Yeah," I said. "I think so, but you better give me a drink. I feel 
faint."

Phil, who had drifted to a couch in the far corner and sprawled 
awkwardly on it, let out a soft sound that sounded almost like a sigh.

Broz moved to his desk, sat, and nodded at one of the leather chairs. 
"Sit down. I got things to say. Phil, make him a drink."

"Bourbon," I said, "with water, and some bitters."

Phil made the drink. He moved stiffly, and his hands seemed like 
distorted work gloves. But they performed the task with a bare economy of 
motion that was incongruous. I'd have to be sure not to make any mistakes 
about Phil.

I leaned back in the black chair and took a sip of the bourbon. It was 
a little more expensive than the private label stuff I bought. There was too 
much bitters, but I decided not to call Phil on it. We'd probably have other 
issues. There was a knock on the door. Phil glanced at the monitor set in 
the wall by the door, opened the door, and let Sonny in. He had his trench 
coat folded over his arm, and his tie was neatly up.

His neck spilled over slightly around his collar. He walked quietly 
over to a chair near the couch and sat down, holding the trench coat in his 
lap. Broz paid no attention to him. He stared at me with his yellowish eyes.

"You're working on a case." It wasn't really a question.

I wasn't sure Broz ever asked questions.

I nodded.

"I want to hear about it," Broz said.

I shook my head.

Broz got a big curved-stem meerschaum pipe out of a rack on his desk 
and carefully began to pack it from a thick silver humidor.

"Spenser, this can be easy or hard. I'd just as soon it was easy, but 
the choice is yours."

"Look," I said, "one reason people employ me is because they want their 
business private. If I spill what I know every time anybody asks me, I am 
not likely to flourish."

"Your chances of flourishing are not very big right now, Spenser." Broz 
had the pipe packed to his satisfaction and spoke through a blue cloud of 
aromatic smoke. "I know you are looking for the Godwulf Manuscript. I know 
that you are working for Roland Orchard. What I want to know is what you've 
got. There's no breach of confidence in that."

"Why do you want to know?"

"Let's say I'm an interested party."

"Let's say more than that. Why be one way? You tell me what your 
interest is; I'll think about telling you what know."

"Spenser, I'm hanging on to my patience. But it's slipping. I don't 
have to make swaps with you. I get what I ask for."

I didn't say anything.

From his place Sonny said, "Let me have him, Mr.

Broz."

"What are you going to do, Sonny," I said, "sweat all over me till I 
beg for mercy?"

Phil made his little sighing sounds again. Sonny put his trench coat 
carefully on the arm of the couch and started toward me. I saw Phil look at 
Broz and saw Broz nod.

"You been crying for this, you sonova bitch," Sonny said.

I stood up. Sonny was probably thirty pounds heavier than I was, and a 
lot of it was muscle. But some of it was fat, and quickness didn't look to 
be Sonny's strong suit. He swung a big right hand at me. I rolled away from 
it and hit him in the middle of the face twice with left hooks, getting my 
shoulder nicely behind both of them, feeling the shock all the way up into 
my back. Sonny was tough. It rocked him, but he didn't go down. He grabbed 
at my shirtfront with his left hand and clubbed at me with his right. The 
punch glanced off my shoulder and caught me under the left eye. I broke his 
grip by bringing my clenched fists up under his forearm, and then drove my 
right forearm against the side of his jaw. He stumbled back two steps and 
sat down. But he got up. He was wary now. His hands up, he began to circle 
me. I turned as he did. He put his head down and lunged at me. I moved aside 
and tripped him and he sprawled against Broz's desk, knocking over the pipe 
rack. Broz never blinked. Sonny pushed himself up from the desk like a man 
doing his last pushup. He turned and came at me again. His nose was bleeding 
freely and his shirtfront was bloody. I feinted with my left hand at his 
stomach and then brought it up over his hands and jabbed him three times on 
that bloody nose, then crossed over with a right hand that caught him in the 
neck below the ear. He went down face first. This time he stayed. He got as 
far as his hands and knees and stayed, his head hanging, swaying slightly, 
with the blood dripping on the azure rug.

Broz spoke to Phil. "Get him out of here, he's messing on the rug." 
Phil got up, walked over, pulled Sonny to his feet by the back of his 
collar, and walked him, weaving and swaying, out through a side door.

Broz said, "Sonny seems to have exaggerated his ability."

"Maybe he just underestimated mine," I said.

"Either way," Broz said.

Phil came back in, wiping his hands on a handkerchief. "Ask him again, 
Joe," he rasped, "now that Sonny's got him softened." His face twisted in 
what was, I think, a momentary smile.

Broz looked disgusted. "I want you out of this business, Spenser."

"Which business?"

"The Godwulf Manuscript. I don't want you muddying up the water."

"What's in it for me if I pull out?"

"Health."

"You gonna unleash Sonny on me again?"

"I can put ten Sonnys on your back whenever I want to. Or Phil. Phil's 
not Sonny."

"I never thought he was," I said. "But I hired on to find the 
manuscript."

"Maybe the manuscript will turn up." Broz leaned back in the big 
leather executive swivel with the high back, and blew a lungful of pipe 
smoke at the ceiling. His eyes were squeezed down as he squinted through the 
smoke.

"If it does, I won't have to look for it anymore."

"Don't look for it anymore." Dramatically, Broz came forward in the 
swivel chair, his hands flat on the desk. "Stay out of it, or you'll end up 
looking at the trunk of your car from the inside. You've been warned. Now 
get the hell out of here."

He swiveled the chair around to face the window, putting the high 
leather back between me and him. What a trouper, I thought.

Phil stood up. I followed him out through the door we'd entered. Broz 
never moved or said a word. In the anteroom a thin-faced Italian man with a 
goatee was cleaning his fingernails with the blade of a large pocket knife, 
his feet up on the desk, a Borsalino hat tipped forward over the bridge of 
his nose. He paid us no mind as we went through.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I TOOK A CAB back from Broz's office to mine. When I got there, I sat in
my chair in the dark and looked out the window. The snow was steady now
and starting to screw up the traffic.

Plows were out, and their noise added to the normal traffic sounds that 
drifted up through the closed window. "Sleigh bells ring," I thought, "are 
ya listening." The falling snow fuzzed out all the lights in the Combat 
Zone, giving them halos of neon red and street-light yellow. I was tired. My 
eye hurt.

The knuckles of my left hand were sore and puffy from hitting Sonny in 
the face. I hadn't eaten for a long time and I was hungry, but I didn't seem 
to want to eat. I pulled a bottle of bourbon out of the desk drawer and 
opened it and drank some. It felt hot in my stomach.

Where was I? Somewhere along the line I had touched a nerve, and 
somebody had called Broz. Who? Could be anybody. Broz got around. But it was 
probably someone today.

Broz would have no reason to wait once he knew I was trampling around 
on his lawn. I couldn't see Broz being tied into the Godwulf Manuscript. It 
wasn't worth any money. It was impossible to fence. But he'd implied he'd 
put it back if I dropped out. He knew a lot of people; maybe he could push 
the right button without being necessarily involved. Maybe he'd been lying. 
But something had stirred him up. Not only did he want me out of things, but 
he wanted to know what I knew. Maybe it was simply collateral interest. 
Maybe it was Powell's murder. Maybe he didn't want me digging into that. I 
liked that better. Terry's description of the two men included one like 
Sonny. The other one wasn't Phil. But Phil wouldn't do that kind of trench 
duty anyway. I was amazed he had done errand duty for me. But why would Broz 
care one way or the other about a loudmouth kid like Dennis Powell, care 
enough to send two employees to kill him and frame his girl?

Yet somebody's employees did it. It wasn't an amateur job, by Terry's 
account. Came in, held them up, had her gun, the rubber gloves, the drug 
they'd brought, the whole thing. It didn't sound like it had been ad-libbed. 
Did they have inside help? How did they get hold of her gun? And what 
possible interest would Broz have in the university? He had a lot of 
interests--numbers, women, dope--but higher education didn't seem to be one 
of them. Of his line, dope would seem the best connection. It seemed the 
only place where college and Broz overlapped. Dennis Powell was reputed to 
be a channel for hard stuff: heroin, specifically. That meant, if it were 
true, that he had mob connections, direct or indirect.

Now he was dead, in what looked like some kind of mob killing. And Joe 
Broz wanted me to keep my nose out of his business.

But what did that have to do with the manuscript? I didn't know. The 
best connection I had was the dope and the question of the gun. How did they 
know she'd have a gun there? She'd lived with another girl before she'd 
lived with Powell. I took another belt of the bourbon. Uncut by bitters or 
ice and cheap anyway, it grated down into my stomach. Catherine Connelly, 
Tower had told me. Let's try her. More bourbon. It wasn't really so bad, 
didn't taste bad at all, made you feel pretty nice in your stomach. Made you 
feel tough, too, and on top of it--whatever it was. The phone rang.

I picked it up and said, "Spenser industries, security division. We 
never sleep."

There was a pause, and then a woman spoke.

"Mr. Spenser?"

"Yeah."

"This is Marion Orchard, Terry's mother."

"Howya doing, sweets," I said, and took another pull on the bourbon.

"Mr. Spenser, she's gone."

"Me, too, sweets."

"No, really, she's gone, and I'm terribly worried."

I put the bottle down and said, "Oh, Christ!"

"Our lawyer called and said the police wished to speak with her again, 
and I went to her room and she wasn't there and she hasn't been home all 
day. There's two hundred thousand dollars bail money, and . . . I want her 
back. Can you find her, Mr. Spenser?"

"You got any ideas where I should look?"

"I . . . Mr. Spenser, we have hired you. You sound positively hostile, 
and I resent it."

"Yeah, you probably do," I said. "I been up a long time and have eaten 
little, and had a fight with a tough guinea and drank too much bourbon and 
was thinking about going and getting a sub sandwich and going to bed. I'll 
come out in a little while and we'll talk about it."

"Please, I'm very worried."

"Yeah, I'll be along." I hung up, put the cork in the bottle, put the 
bottle in the drawer. My head was light and my eyes focused badly and my 
mouth felt thick. I got my coat on, locked the office, and went down to my 
car. I parked in a taxi zone and got a submarine sandwich and a large black 
coffee to go. I ate the sandwich and drank the coffee as I headed out to 
Newton again. Eating a sub sandwich with one hand is sloppy work, and I got 
some tomato juice and oil on my shirtfront and some coffee stains on my pant 
leg. I stopped at a Dunkin' Donuts shop in West Newton Square, bought 
another black coffee, and sat in my car and drank it.

I felt terrible. The bourbon was wearing off, and I felt dull and 
sleepy and round-shouldered. I looked at my watch.

It was a quarter to ten. The snow continued as I sat and forced the 
coffee down. I had read somewhere that black coffee won't sober you up, but 
I never believed it. After bourbon it tasted so awful it had to be doing 
some good.

The plows hadn't gotten to the Orchards' street; my wheels spun and my 
car skidded getting up their hill. I had my jacket unbuttoned, but the 
defrosters were going full blast. And, wrestling the car through the snow, I 
could feel the sweat in the hollow of my back, and my shirt collar was wet 
and limp. Sometimes I wondered if I was getting too old for this work. And 
sometimes I thought I had gotten too old last year. I jammed the car through 
a snowdrift into the Orchards' driveway and climbed out. There was no 
pathway, so I waded through the snow across the lawn and up to the front 
door. The same black maid answered the door. She remembered me, took my hat 
and coat, and led me to the same library we'd talked in before. A fire was 
still burning, but no one was in the room. I got a look at myself in the 
dark window: unshaven, sub sandwich stains on my shirt, collar open.

There was a puffy mouse under one eye, courtesy of old Sonny. I looked 
like the leg man for a slumlord.

Marion Orchard came in. She was wearing an anklelength blue housecoat 
that zipped up the front, a matching headband, and bare feet. I noticed her 
toenails were painted silver. She seemed as well groomed and together as 
before, but her face was flushed and I realized she had been drinking.

Me, too. Who hadn't? The ride and the coffee had sobered me up and 
depressed me. My head ached, and my stomach felt like I'd been swallowing 
sand. Without a word Marion Orchard went to the sideboard, put ice in a 
glass from a silver bucket, added Scotch, and squirted soda in from a 
silver-laced dispenser. She drank half of it and turned toward me.

"You want some?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Scotch or bourbon?"

"Bourbon, with bitters, if you've got it."

She turned and mixed me bourbon and soda with bitters in a big 
square-angled glass. I drank some and felt it begin to combat the coffee and 
the fatigue. I'd need more, though. From the looks of Marion Orchard, she 
would, too, and planned on getting it.

"Where's Mr. Orchard?" I asked.

"At the office. Sitting behind his big masculine desk, trying to feel 
like a man."

"Does he know Terry's gone?"

"yes. That's why he went to the office. It makes him feel better about 
himself. All he can cope with is stocks and bonds. People, and daughters and 
wives, scare hell out of him." She finished the drink, took mine, which was 
still halffull, and made two fresh ones.

"Something scares hell out of everybody," I said. "Have you any 
thoughts on where I should look for Terry?"

"What scares hell out of you?" she asked.

The bourbon was making a lot of headway against the coffee. I felt a 
lot better than I had when I came in. The line of Marion Orchard's thigh was 
tight against the blue robe as she sat with her legs tucked up under her on 
the couch.

"The things people do to one another," I answered.

"That scares hell out of me."

She drank some more. "Wrong," she said. "That engages your sympathy. It 
doesn't scare you. I'm an expert on what scares men. I've lived with a 
scared man for twenty-two years. I left college in my sophomore year to 
marry him, and I never finished. I was an English major. I wrote poetry. I 
don't anymore." I waited. She didn't really seem to be talking to me 
anymore.

"About Terry?" I prodded softly.

"Screw Terry," she said, and finished her drink. "When I was her age I 
was marrying her father and nobody with wide shoulders came around and got 
me out of that mess."

She was busy making us two more drinks as she talked. Her voice was 
showing the liquor. She was talking with extracareful enunciation--the way I 
was. She handed me the drink and then put her hand on my upper arm and 
squeezed it.

"How much do you weigh?" she asked.

"One ninety-five."

"you work out, don't you? How much can you lift?"

"I can bench press two-fifty ten times," I said.

"How'd you get the broken nose?" She bent over very carefully and 
examined my face from about two inches away.

Her hair smelled like herbs.

"I fought a ranked heavyweight once."

She stayed bent over, her face two inches away, her fragrant hair 
tumbling forward, one hand still squeezing my arm, the other holding the 
drink. I put my left hand behind her head and kissed her. She folded up into 
my lap and kissed back. It wasn't eager. It was ferocious. She let the glass 
drop from her hand onto the floor, where I assume it tipped and spilled. 
Under the blue robe she was wearing nothing at all, and she was nowhere near 
as sinewy as she had looked to me the first time I saw her. Making love in a 
chair is heavy work.

The only other time I'd attempted, I'd gotten a charley horse that damn 
near ruined the event. With one arm around her back I managed to slip the 
other one under her knees and pick her up, which is not easy from a sitting 
position in a soft chair. Her mouth never left mine, nor did the fierceness 
abate as I carried her to the couch. She bit me and scratched me, and at 
climax she pounded me on the back with her clenched fist as hard as she 
could. At the time I barely noticed. But when it was over, I felt as if I'd 
been in a fight, and maybe in some sense I had.

She had shed the robe during our encounter and now she walked naked 
over to the bar to make another drink for each of us. She had a fine body, 
tanned all over except for the stark whiteness of her buttocks and the thin 
line her bra strap had made. She returned with a drink in each hand.

Gave one to me and then stroked my cheek once, quite gently.

She drank half her drink, still standing naked in front of me, and lit 
a cigarette, took in a long lungful of smoke, let it out, picked up her 
robe, and slipped into it. There we were, all together again, neat, orderly, 
employee and employer. Here's to you, Mrs. Robinson.

"I think Terry is with a group in Cambridge that calls itself the 
Ceremony of Moloch. In the past, when she would get in trouble or be freaked 
out on drugs or have a fight with her father, she'd run off there, and they 
let her stay. One of her friends told me about it."

She'd known that when she'd called me. But she'd gotten me out here to 
tell me. She really didn't like her husband.

"Where in Cambridge is the Ceremony of Moloch?"

"I don't know. I don't even know if she's there, but it's all I could 
think of."

"Why did Terry take off?" I didn't use her name. After copulation on 
the couch, Mrs. Orchard sounded a little silly.

On the other hand, we were not on a "Marion" basis.

"A fight with her father." She didn't use my name either.

"About what?"

"What's it ever about? He sees her as an extension of his career. She's 
supposed to adorn his success by being what he fantasizes a daughter is. She 
does everything the opposite to punish him for not being what she fantasizes 
a father is . . . and probably for sleeping with me. Ever read Mourning 
Becomes Electra, Spenser?"

That's how she solved her problem with names; she dropped the Mister. I 
wondered if I should call her Orchard. I decided not to. "Yeah, a long time 
ago. But is there anything you could tell me about Terry, or the Ceremony of 
Moloch, that might turn out useful? It is past midnight, and I've gotten a 
lot of exercise today."

I think she colored very slightly. "You are like a terrier after a rat. 
Nothing distracts your attention."

"Well," I said, "there are things, occasionally, Marion."

Her color got a little deeper and she smiled, but shook her head.

"I wonder," she said. "I wonder whether you might not have been 
thinking of a way to run down my dear daughter Terry, even then."

"Then," I said, "I wasn't thinking of anything."

She said, "Maybe."

I was silent. I was so tired it was an effort to move my mouth.

She shook her head again. "No, there's nothing. I can't think of 
anything else to tell you that will help. But can you look? Can you find 
her?"

"I'll look," I said. "Did your lawyer tell you what the cops wanted?"

"No. He just said Lieutenant Quirk wanted her to come down tomorrow and 
talk with him some more."

I stood up. Partly to see if I could. Marion Orchard stood up with me.

"Thank you for coming. I know you'll do your best in finding Terry. I'm 
sorry to have kept you up so late." She put out her hand, and I took it. 
Christ, breeding. Here she was, upper crust, Boston society, yes'm. Thank 
you very much, ma'am, for the drink and the toss on the couch, ma'am, it's a 
pleasure to be of service to you and the master, ma'am. I gave her hand a 
squeeze. I was goddamned if I was going to shake it.

"I'll dig her up, Marion. When I do, I'll bring her home.

It'll work out."

She nodded her head silently and her face got congested-looking and red 
around the eyes, and I realized she was going to cry in a minute. I said, 
"I'll find my way out. Try not to worry. It'll work out."

She nodded again, and as I left the library she touched my arm but said 
nothing. As I closed the door behind me I could hear the first stifled sob 
burst out. There were more before I got out of earshot. They would probably 
last most of the night. I went out the front door and into the dead, still 
white night, got in my car, and went back to town. Every fiber of my being 
felt awful.

CHAPTER TWELVE

IT WAS ABOUT ONE THIRTY when I got back to my apartment. I stripped off
my clothes and took a long shower, slowly easing the water temperature
down to cool. In the bedroom, putting on clean clothes, I looked at the
bed with something approaching lust, but I kept myself away from it.
Then I went to the living room in my socks and called a guy I knew who
did night duty at the Globe. I asked him where I could find the Ceremony
of Moloch. He gave me an address in Cambridge. I asked him what he knew
about the group.

"Small," he said. "Freaky. Robes and statues and candlelight. That kind 
of crap. Moloch was some kind of Phoenician god that required human 
sacrifice. In Paradise Lost, Milton lumps him in with Satan and Beelzebub 
among the fallen angels. That's all I know about them. We did a feature once 
on the Cambridge-Boston subtulture and they got about a paragraph."

I thanked him and hung up and went back into the bedroom for my shoes. 
I sat down on the bed to put them on, and that was where I lost it. As long 
as I was up I could move, but from sitting to lying was too short a 
distance. I lay back, just for a minute, and went to sleep.

I woke up, in the same position, nine hours later in broad daylight, 
with the morning gone. I went out to the kitchen, measured out the coffee, 
put the electric percolator on, went back, stripped down, shaved, showered, 
put on my shorts, and went out to the kitchen again. The coffee was ready 
and I drank it with cream and sugar while I sliced peppers and tomatoes for 
a Spanish omelet.

I felt good. The sleep had taken care of the exhaustion.

The snow had stopped, and the sunlight, magnified by reflection, was 
pure white as it splashed about the kitchen. I greased the omelet pan and 
poured the eggs in. When the inside was right I put in the vegetables and 
flipped the omelet. I'm very good at flipping omelets. Finding out what was 
happening with Terry Orchard and the Godwulf Manuscript seemed to be 
something I wasn't very good at.

I ate the omelet with thick slices of fresh pumpernickel and drank 
three more cups of coffee while I looked at the morning Globe. I felt even 
better. Okay, Terry Orchard, here I come. You can run, but you can't hide. I 
considered stopping by to frighten Joe Broz some more but rejected the plan 
and headed for Cambridge.

The address I had for the Ceremony of Moloch was in North Cambridge in 
a neighborhood of brown and gray threedecker apartment buildings with open 
porches across the back of each floor where laundry hung stiff in the cold. 
I went up the unshoveled path without seeing the print of cloven hoofs. No 
smell of brimstone greeted me. No darkness visible, no moans of despair. For 
all I could tell the house was empty, and its inhabitants had gone to work 
or school. Every third person in Cambridge was a student.

In the front hall there were three mailboxes, each with a name plate. 
The one for the third floor apartment said simply MOLOCH. I went up the 
stairs without making more noise than I had to and stood outside the 
apartment door. No sound. I knocked. No answer. I tried the door. Locked. 
But it was an old door, with the frame warped. About thirty seconds with 
some thin plastic was all it took to open it.

The door opened onto a narrow hall that ran right and left from it. To 
the left I could see a kitchen, to the right the half-open door of a 
bathroom. Diagonally on the other wall an archway opened into a room I 
couldn't see. The wallpaper in the hall was faded brown fern leaves against 
a dirty beige background. There were large stains of a darker brown here and 
there, as if someone had splashed water against the walls. The floor was 
made of narrow hardwood painted dark brown, and there was a threadbare red 
runner the length of the hall. The woodwork was white and had been repainted 
without being adequately scraped first, so that it looked lumpy and pocked. 
It had not been repainted recently, and there were many nicks and gouges in 
it. I could see part of the tub and part of the water closet in the 
bathroom. The tub had claw and ball feet, and the water closet had a pull 
chain from the storage tank mounted up by the ceiling. The place was dead 
still.

I walked through the arch into what must have been the living room. It 
no longer was. In the bay of the threewindow bow along the right-hand wall 
there was an altar made out of packing crates and two-by-fours which 
reminded me of the fruit display racks in Faneuil Hall market. It was draped 
with velveteen hangings in black and crimson and at its highest reach was 
inverted a dime store crucifix. The crucifix was made of plastic, with the 
Sacred Heart redly exposed in the center of the flesh-tinted chest. On each 
side of the crucifix were human skulls. Beside them unmatched candelabra 
with assorted candles, partially burned. The walls were hung with more of 
the black velveteen, shabby and thin in the daylight. The floor had been 
painted black and scattered with cushions. The room smelled strongly of 
incense and faintly of marijuana and faintly also of unemptied Kitty Litter.

I went back down the corridor, through the kitchen with its 
oilcloth-covered table and its ancient black sink, and into a bedroom. There 
were no beds, but five bare mattresses covered the floor. Three of them had 
sleeping bags rolled neatly at the wall end. In the closet were two pairs of 
nearly white jeans, a work shirt, something that looked like a shift, and an 
olive drab undershirt. I couldn't tell if the owners were male or female. 
The two other bedrooms were much the same.

In a pantry closet off the kitchen were maybe a dozen black robes, like 
graduation costumes. On the shelves were a fivepound bag of brown rice, some 
peanut butter, a loaf of Bone Bread, and a two-pound bag of granola. In the 
refrigerator there was a plastic pitcher of grape Kool-Aid, seven cans of 
Pepsi, and three cucumbers. Maybe they had a bundle in a numbered account in 
Switzerland, but on the surface it didn't look like the Ceremony of Moloch 
was a high-return venture.

I went back out, closed the door behind me, and went to my car. The 
noon sun was making the snow melt and heating the inside of my car. I sat in 
it, two doors up from the house of Moloch, and waited for someone to come 
there and do something. It was cold, and the snow had begun to crust over 
when someone finally showed up. Eight people, in a battered Volkswagen bus 
that had been hand-painted green. Three of the eight were girls, and one of 
them was Terry. They all went into what they probably called the temple. It 
occurred to me that I wasn't exactly sure what to do with Terry now that I'd 
found her. There wasn't much point in dragging her out by the hair and 
taking her home locked in the trunk. She'd just take off again and after a 
while I'd get sick of chasing and fetching.

It was dark now, and cold. A fifteen-year-old Oldsmobile sedan pulled 
up behind the Volkswagen bus and unloaded five more people. They went into 
the three-decker. I sat some more. The thing to do was to call Marion 
Orchard, tell her I'd located her daughter, have her notify the cops, and 
let them bring her in. I had no legal authority to go in and get her. No 
question. That was what I had to do. I looked at my watch. 7:15.

I slipped out of my coat, got out of the car, and went to the house of 
the Ceremony of Moloch. This time I was very quiet going up the stairs. At 
the door I stood silent and listened. I could hear music that sounded as if 
it were being played on one string of an Armenian banjo. The smell of 
incense and pot was very rich. At irregular intervals there were chimes like 
the ones rung during a Roman Catholic Mass.

The thing to do was to call Terry's mother and have the cops come pick 
her up. I took out my plastic shim and opened the door. Inside the hallway 
the heat was tangible and stifling.

There was no light.

From the living-room altar area came the twanging sound of the music, 
now quite loud, and the lesser sound of a man chanting. A flickering light 
fell into the hallway from the living room. Despite the heat I felt cold, 
and my throat was tight. The chimes sounded again. And I heard a kind of 
muffled whimper, like someone sobbing into a pillow. I looked carefully 
around the corner. Suspended by clothesline from the ceiling, in front of 
the altar I had seen earlier, was a fullsized cross, made of two-by-sixes. 
To it, in a parody of the Crucifixion, Terry Orchard was tied with more 
length of clothesline. She was naked, and her body had been marked with 
astrological and cabalistic signs in what looked to be, in the candlelight, 
several different colors of Magic Marker. She was gagged with a wide piece 
of gray tape.

Before her stood a tall, wiry man, naked too, wearing a black hood, his 
body covered with the same kind of Magic Marker design work. In a semicircle 
on the floor, in black robes, sat the rest of the people. The music was 
coming from a tape recorder behind the altar. In his hand the guy with the 
hood had a carved piece of black wood, about a foot and a half long, that 
looked like a nightstick. He was chanting in a monotonous singsong in a 
language I didn't understand and didn't recognize. And as he chanted he 
swayed in front of Terry in an approximation of the beat from the tape 
recorder.

The seated audience rocked back and forth in the same tempo. Then he 
made a gesture with the nightstick, and I realized its function was phallic.

I took out my gun and put a bullet into the tape recorder. The 
explosion of the shot and the cessation of the music were simultaneous, and 
the silence that followed was paralyzing. I stepped into the room with my 
gun leveled at all of them, but especially the fruitcake with the hood. With 
my left hand I took a jackknife out of my pants pocket, and worked the blade 
open with one hand by holding it in my teeth. No one made a sound. I 
sidestepped around behind the cross and cut Terry loose without taking my 
eyes from the audience.

When the ropes parted, she fell. I folded the knife shut against my leg 
and put it away. I reached down without looking and got her up with one hand 
under her arm. The guy with the hood and the funny nightstick never took his 
eyes off me, and the steady gaze through the Halloween pumpkin triangles cut 
in the hood made me very edgy. So did the fact that there was one of me and 
twelve of them.

My hand still hanging on to Terry's arm, I backed up out of the room, 
through the narrow hall, and out the stillopen door. The cold air of the 
stairwell rushed up like the wind from an angel's wing in the doorway of 
Hell. "I'm going to close this door," I said, and my voice sounded like 
someone else's. "If it opens, I'll shoot at it."

No one said a word. No one moved. I let go of Terry's arm, closed the 
door, took hold of her arm again, and headed down the stairs. No one came 
after us. Out the front door and across to my car. We ran. In my mind I 
could see us from their third floor vantage, outlined sharp against the 
white snow in the streetlight. No one shot at us. I pushed Terry into the 
car first, came in behind her, and got it out of there. It was a full block 
before I looked at Terry. She huddled, still stark naked, still with the 
tape on her mouth, in the far corner of the seat.

She must have been freezing. I reached into the back seat, took my coat 
from where I'd left it, and gave it to her. She pulled it around her.

"Maybe you ought to take the gag off," I said.

She peeled it carefully, and spit out what looked like a wadded paper 
towel that had been stuffed in her mouth. She didn't say anything. I didn't 
say anything. The heater had warmed up and was starting to warm the car. I 
turned on the radio. We went down along the Charles on Memorial Drive and 
across the Mass Ave bridge. Boston always looks great from there. Especially 
at night, with the lights and the skyline against the starry sky and the 
sweep of the river in a graceful curve down toward the harbor. It probably 
didn't look too spiffy at the moment to Terry.

I turned off onto Marlborough Street and pulled up in front of my 
apartment. Terry waited in the car while I went around and opened the door. 
She was well brought up. She had to walk barefoot across the frozen pavement 
but showed no sign that she felt it. We went up in the elevator.

Inside my apartment she looked about curiously. As if we'd recently met 
at a cocktail party and I'd invited her home to see my carvings. I felt the 
urge to giggle hysterically, but stifled it. I went to the kitchen, got out 
some ice, and poured two big shots of bourbon over the ice. I gave her one. 
Then I went to the bathroom and started to run hot water in the tub.

She stayed right behind me--like a dog I used to have when it was 
supper-time, or when he thought I might be about to go somewhere.

"Get in," I said. "Take a long, slow hot bath. Drink another drink. 
I'll make us some supper, and we'll eat it together. No candlelight, though. 
A lot of bright overheads."

I took her nearly empty glass, added more ice, and filled it again. I 
gave it to her, pushed her gently into the bathroom, and closed the door.

"There's some kind of bubble bath or whatever in the medicine cabinet," 
I said through the door. I waited till I heard her splash into the tub. Then 
I went to the kitchen. I put on a pot of rice to cook and got four boneless 
chicken breasts out of the meat keeper. I cooked them with wine and butter 
and cream and mushrooms. While they cooked I tossed a salad and made a 
dressing with lime juice and mint, olive oil, honey, and wine vinegar. There 
were two bottles of Rhine wine in the refrigerator for which I'd originally 
had other plans, but I could buy some more tomorrow.

By the time I'd gotten the table set in the living room, she was 
through, and came out of the bathroom wearing a towel with her hair tucked 
up and some color in her face. I handed her my bathrobe and she slipped into 
it, modestly closing it before she let the towel slip to the floor. It 
occurred to me that half the time we'd spent together she'd been without 
clothes.

I gave her a third drink and freshened up my own. She sat on a stool in 
the kitchen and sipped it while I put some baking powder biscuits in the 
oven.

She had not spoken since I'd found her. Now she said, "Do you have any 
cigarettes?"

I found some thin filter tips in a fancy feminine package that a friend 
had left in one of the kitchen drawers. I held a match for her as she lit 
one and inhaled deeply. She let the smoke slip slowly out of her nose as she 
sipped her drink, holding the glass in both hands. The smoke spread out on 
the surface of the bourbon and eddied gently back up around her face. I felt 
my stomach tighten; I had known someone a long time ago who used to do just 
that, in just that way.

I got out the corkscrew and opened one of the bottles of wine. I poured 
some into each glass, and then took the biscuits out and served the supper. 
She sat opposite me at the small table and ate. Her manners were terrific. 
One hand in the lap, small bites, delicate sips of wine. But she ate 
everything. So did I. Still no talk. I had the radio on in the kitchen.

When I offered her more, she nodded yes. When I got up to get the 
second bottle of wine, I plugged in the coffee. Its steady perk made a 
pleasant counterpoint to the radio. When we'd finished eating, I poured the 
coffee and brought out some applejack and two pony glasses. I put them on 
the cobbler's bench coffee table in front of the sofa. She sat at one end 
and I sat at the other, and we drank our coffee and sipped our brandy and 
she smoked another cigarette, holding her hand primly over the gap in the 
front of the bathrobe as she leaned over to accept my light. I got out a 
cigar and we listened some more to the radio. She leaned back against the 
arm of the couch and closed her eyes.

I stood up and said, "You can sleep in my bed. I'll sleep out here." I 
walked to the bedroom door and opened it. She went in.

I said, "I'm sorry I don't have any pajamas. You could sleep in one of 
my dress shirts, I guess."

"No, thank you," she said. "I don't wear anything to bed anyway."

"Okay," I said. "Good night. We'll talk in the morning."

She went in and shut the door, then opened it a crack.

I heard her get into the bed. I picked up the dishes and put them in 
the dishwasher. Then I went in and took a shower and shaved. I felt odd, 
like my father probably had when we were small and all home and in bed and 
he was the only one up in the house. I got a blanket out of the closet, shut 
out the lights, and lay on my back on the couch smoking the rest of my 
cigar, blowing the smoke across the glowing tip.

I heard the light click on in the bedroom. She called, "Spenser?"

"Yeah?"

"Would you come in here, please?"

I got up, put on a pair of pants, and went in, still smoking the cigar. 
She was lying on her back in bed with covers pulled up under her chin.

"Sit on the bed," she said.

I did.

"Did you ever work on a farm?" she asked me.

"Nope."

"My grandfather, my mother's father, had a farm in Illinois. He used to 
milk fifty cows a day, and he had forearms like yours. He wasn't as big as 
you, but he had muscles in his forearms like you do."

I nodded.

"You're not fat at all, are you?" she said. I shook my head.

"With your clothes on you look as if you might be a little fat, but 
with your shirt off you're not. It's all muscle, isn't it?"

I nodded.

"You look like . . . like a boxer, or like somebody in a Tarzan movie."

"Cheetah," I said.

"Do you know," she said, "do you know that I've only met you four times 
in my life, and you are the only person in the entire world I can trust?" As 
she got to the end of the sentence her eyes filled. I patted her leg and 
said, "Shhh." But she went on, her voice not quite steady but apparently 
under control.

"Dennis is dead. My mother and father use me to get even with each 
other. I thought I could join the Moloch people. They'd dropped out, they 
weren't hung up on all the crap my father is. I thought they just took you 
as you were. They don't." Her voice got shakier. "They initiate you."

I patted her thigh again. I had nothing to say. The stub of the cigar 
was too short. I put it in an ashtray on the night table.

"Do you know what the initiation is?"

"I figured out the first part," I said.

She sat up in bed and let the covers fall away.

"You are the only one in the world, in the whole goddamned sonova bitch 
world . . ." The tears started to come. I leaned toward her and put my arm 
around her and she caught hold of me and squeezed.

"Love me," she said in a choked voice. "Make love to me, make me feel, 
make love to me, make me feel." A fleeting part of my mind thought, "Jesus, 
first the mother, then the daughter," but the enduring majority of my mind 
said, Yes, Yes, Yes, as I bore her back onto the bed and turned the covers 
back from her.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

IN THE MORNING I drove Terry home. Riding out to Newton we mentioned
neither the Ceremony of Moloch nor the previous night. We ran through
the events of the murder again; nothing new. I described Sonny for her
in detail. Yes, that sounded like one of the men. They had brought the
drug with them that she'd swallowed. They had brought her gun with them.

Yes, she had shared that apartment with Cathy Connelly before Dennis 
had moved in. They had parted friends and still were, as far as Terry knew. 
Cathy lived on the Fenway, she said. On the museum side, near the end 
closest to the river.

She didn't know the number. I stopped in front of her house and let her 
out. I didn't go in. Having slept with mother and daughter within the same 
twenty-four hours, I felt fussy about sitting around with both of them in 
the library and making small talk. She leaned back in through the open door 
of my car.

"Call me," she said.

"I will," I said.

She closed the door and I pulled away, watching her in the rearview 
mirror. She went in very slowly, turning once to wave at me. I tooted the 
horn in reply.

Back to Boston again. I seemed to be making this drive a lot. Turning 
off Storrow at the Charlesgate exit, I went up the ramp over Commonwealth 
Ave and looked down at the weeping willows underneath the arch--bare now, 
with slender branches crusted in snow and bending deep beneath winter 
weight. There was a Frost poem, but it was about birches, and then I was off 
the ramp and looking for a parking space.

This was not a business for poets anyway.

I parked near the Westland Avenue entrance to the Fenway and walked 
across the street to a drugstore. There was no listing in the phone book for 
a Catherine Connelly on the Fenway. So I started at the north end and began 
looking at the mailboxes in apartment lobbies, working my way south toward 
the museum. In the third building I found it. Second floor. I rang. Nothing 
happened. I rang again and leaned on it. No soap. I rang some other buzzers 
at random. No one opened the door. A cagey lot. I rang all the buttons. No 
response. Then a mean, paunchy man in green twill shirt and pants came to 
the front door. He opened it about a foot and said, "Whaddya want?"

"You the super?" I said.

"Who do you think I am?" He was smoking a cigarette that looked as if 
he'd found it, and it waggled wetly in the corner of his mouth as he spoke.

"I thought you were one of Santa's helpers coming around to see if 
everything was set for Christmas."

"Huh?" he said.

"I'm looking for a young woman named Catherine Connelly. She doesn't 
answer her bell," I said.

"Then she ain't home."

"Mind if I check?"

"You better stop ringing them other buzzers too," he said, and shut the 
door. I resisted the temptation to ring all the buzzers again and run. 
"Childish," I thought. "Adolescent." I went back to my car, got in, and 
drove to the university. Maybe I'd be able to locate her there. I parked in 
a spot that was reserved for Dean Mersfelder and headed for the library 
basement.

Iris Milford was there in her NEWS office, behind her metal desk. There 
were several other members of the staff, obviously younger, doing 
journalistic things at their metal desks.

She recognized me when I came in.

"Nice eye you got," she said.

I'd forgotten the punch Sonny had landed. It looked worse than it felt, 
though it was still sore to touch.

"I bruise easily," I said.

"I'll bet," she said.

"Want to have lunch with me?" I asked.

"Absolutely," she said. She closed the folder she was looking at, 
picked up her purse, and came around the desk.

"Too bad about how you can't make up your mind," I said.

We walked out through the corridor. It was classchange time and the 
halls were crowded and hot and loud. A miasma of profanity and smoke and 
sweatiness under heavy winter coats. Ah, where are the white bucks of 
yesteryear? We wormed our way up to the first floor and finally out past the 
security apparatus that set off an alarm if someone smuggled out a book, 
past the scrutiny of a hard-faced librarian alert beside it, into the 
milling snow-crusted quadrangle. I got a cab and we rode to a restaurant I 
liked on top of an insurance building, where the city looked clean and 
patrician below, and the endless rows of red-brick town houses that had 
crumbled into slums looked geometric and orderly and a little European, 
stretching off to the south.

We had a drink and ordered lunch. Iris looked out at the orderly little 
brick houses.

"Get far enough away and it looks kinda pretty, don't it?" she said. 
"You only get order from a distance. Close up is always messy."

"Yeah," I said, "but your own life is always close up.

You only see other people's lives at long range."

"You better believe it," she said. "I'll take another pop."

I ordered us two more drinks.

"Okay, Spenser, what is it? You not the type to feed drinks to a poor 
colored lady and take advantage of her body.

Even one as irresistible as mine. What you want?"

I liked her. She'd been there and seen it done. A tough, wised-up, 
honest broad.

"Well, if you're not going to come across, I'll take second best. Tell 
me about Cathy Connelly."

"What you want to know?"

"I don't know, everything, anything. All I know is she was once Terry 
Orchard's roommate, that she moved out when the Powell kid moved in, that 
she now lives on the Fenway, and that she wasn't home when I called on her 
this morning."

"That's about as much as I know. She was in my Chaucer class, and I 
copied her notes a couple times. I don't know her much better than that."

"She belong to SCACE?"

"Not that I know. She seemed kind of a loner. Didn't belong to anything 
I know of. You never see her around campus, but that don't mean much because 
the goddamn campus is so big and crowded that you might not see a woolly 
rhinoceros around campus."

"Boyfriends?" I asked.

"None that I know. But I'm telling you, I don't hardly know her. What 
I'm saying could be wrong as hell."

"Where can I get a picture of her?"

"Student Personnel Office, I would guess. That's where we get ones we 
use in the paper for fast-breaking news stories, like who was elected 
captain of the girls' field hockey team. Campus security can probably get 
them for you."

"I don't think so, Iris. Last dealing I had with campus security was 
when they ejected me from the premises. I think they don't like me."

She widened her eyes. "I thought they hired you."

"They did, but I think they are in the process of making an agonizing 
reappraisal of that decision."

"You having a good week, Spenser. Someone plunks you in the eye, you 
get thrown off the campus, you gonna get fired, you can't find Cathy 
Connelly. I hope you don't depress easy."

"Like you were saying, it's always messy close up."

"What you want Connelly for, anyway?"

"She was Terry Orchard's roommate. She might know how Terry's gun got 
from her bedside table into a hood's pocket."

"Jesus, she don't look the type."

"There isn't any type, my love."

She nodded. "Ain't that the truth."

"Want dessert?" I said.

She nodded. "Do I look like someone who turns down dessert?"

I asked for a dessert menu.

Iris said, "I can get the picture for you. I'll go over to student 
personnel and tell them we need it for a feature we're doing. We do it all 
the time."

"Would you like two desserts?" I said.

After I paid the bill with some of Roland Orchard's retainer and drove 
her back to the university, she did what she said. I sat in the car with the 
heater on, and she strolled into the student center and returned twenty 
minutes later with a two-by-two ID photo of Cathy Connelly. I thanked her.

She said, "Two drinks and a lobster salad will get you almost anything, 
baby," and went to class.

I drove over to Mass Ave and had a technician I know at a photo lab 
blow the picture up to eight by ten. Service while I waited cost me 
twenty-five dollars more of Roland Orchard's retainer, and I still hadn't 
got the tear fixed in my car top.

I took the picture back to my office and sat behind my desk looking at 
it. She looked like a pallid little girl. Small features, light hair, 
prominent teeth, serious eyes. While I was looking at her picture my door 
opened and in came Lieutenant Quirk. Hatless, wearing a glen plaid overcoat, 
shoes glossy, pocked face clean-shaven, ruddy from the cold, and glowing 
with health. He closed the door behind him, and stood looking at me with his 
hands in his overcoat pockets. He did not radiate cheer.

"Come in, Lieutenant," I said. "No need to knock, my door is always 
open to a public servant. You've come, no doubt, to ask my assistance in 
solving a particularly knotty puzzle . . ."

"Knock it off, Spenser. If I want to listen to bullshit, I'll go over 
to a City Council meeting."

"Okay, have a seat. Want a drink?"

Quirk ignored the chair I'd nodded at and stood in front of my desk.

"Yeah, I'll have a drink."

I poured two shots of bourbon into two paper cups.

Quirk drank his off without expression and put the empty cup down. I 
sipped at mine a little and thought fondly of the stuff that Roland Orchard 
served.

"Terry Orchard is it, Spenser," he said.

"The hell she is."

"She's it. Captain Yates is taking personal charge of the case, and 
she's the one."

"Yates. That means you're off it?"

"That's right."

"What else does it mean?"

"It doesn't mean anything else."

I poured two more shots of bourbon. Quirk's hard face looked like he 
was concealing a toothache.

"Like hell it doesn't mean anything else, Quirk. You didn't make a 
special trip down here just to keep me informed on personnel shifts in the 
BPD. You don't like her for it, and you know it. Why is Yates on it?"

"He didn't say."

I sipped some more of my bourbon. Quirk walked over and looked out my 
window.

"What a really swell view you've got, Spenser."

I didn't say anything. Quirk came back to my desk, picked up the 
bottle, and poured himself another drink.

"Okay," he said. "I don't like the kid for the murder."

I said, "Me either."

"I got nothing. Everything I've got says she's guilty.

Nice simple murder, nice simple solution. Why screw around with it?"

"That's right," I said. "Why screw around with it?"

"I've been on the force twenty-two years. You meet a lot of liars in 
twenty-two years. I don't think she was lying."

I said, "Me either."

Quirk was walking around the room as he talked, looking at it like he 
looked at everything, seeing it all, and if he ever had to, he'd remember it 
all.

"You went to see Joe Broz yesterday."

I nodded.

"Why?"

"So he could tell me to butt out of the Godwulf Manuscript-Terry 
Orchard affair."

"What did you say?"

"I said we'll see."

"Did you know the manuscript is back?"

I raised one eyebrow, something I'd perfected after years of practice 
and a score of old Brian Donlevy movies.

Quirk appeared not to notice.

"Broz suggested that was possible," I said.

Quirk nodded. "Any idea why Broz wanted you to butt out?"

"No," I said. "Any idea why Yates wanted you to butt out?"

"No, but there's a lot of pressure from somewhere up the line."

"And Yates is responding."

Quirk's face seemed to shut down. "I don't know about what Yates is 
doing. I know he's in charge of the case and I'm not. He's the captain. He 
has the right to assign personnel."

"Yeah, sure. I know Yates a little. One of the things he does best is 
respond to pressure from somewhere up the line."

Quirk didn't say anything.

"Look, Lieutenant," I said, "does it seem odd to you that there are two 
guys looking into the Terry Orchard thing and both of us are told to butt 
out within the same day? Does that seem like any kind of coincidence to 
you?"

"Spenser, I am a cop. I have been a cop for twenty-two years, and I 
will keep on being one until they lock me out of the station house. One of 
the things that a cop has to have is discipline. He gets orders, he has to 
obey them--or the whole thing goes to hell. I don't have to like what's 
happening, but I do it. And I don't run around crying about it."

"Words to live by," I said. "It was the widely acclaimed Adolf Eichmann 
who popularized that 'I obey orders' routine, wasn't it?"

"That's a cheap shot, Spenser. You know goddamn well the cops are right 
more than they're wrong. We're not wiping out six million people. We're 
trying to keep the germs from taking over the world. To do that you got to 
have order, and if someone gets burned now and then so someone gets burned.

If every cop started deciding which order to obey and which one not, 
then the germs would win. If the germs win, all the goddamn bleeding hearts 
will get their ass shot."

"Yeah, sure, the big picture. So some goddamn teenaged kid gets fed to 
the fishes for something she didn't do. So you know she didn't do it and Joe 
Broz puts the squeeze on some politician who puts the squeeze on Captain 
Yates who takes you off the case. But you don't cry. It's good for society.

Balls. Why don't you take what you got to the States?"

"Because I haven't got enough. The State cops would laugh and giggle if 
I came in with what I've got. And because, goddamn it, Spenser, because I 
can't. I'm a cop. It's what I do.

I can't."

"I know," I said. "But I can. And I'm going to. I'm going to have Broz 
and Yates, and you, too, if I have to, and whoever else has got his thumb in 
whatever pie this is."

"Maybe you will," Quirk said. "I hear you were a pretty good cop before 
you got fired. What'd you get fired for?"

"Insubordination. It's one of my best things."

"And maybe Broz will have you shot in the back of the head."

I let that pass. We were silent.

"How much do I have to get for you before you go to the States?"

"I'm not asking you to get a damn thing for me," Quirk said.

"Yeah, I know. If I got you proof. Not suspicion, proof.

Then what happens?"

"Then the pressure will go away. Yates is impressed with proof."

"I'll bet," I said.

More silence. Quirk didn't seem to want to leave, but he didn't have 
anything to say. Or at least he wasn't saying it.

"What do you know about Cathy Connelly, Lieutenant?"

"We checked her out routinely. No record, no evidence of drugs. Roomed 
with Orchard before her boyfriend moved in. Now lives somewhere over on the 
Fenway."

"Anybody interview her?"

"Couple of precinct boys in a radio car stopped by. She wasn't home. We 
saw no reason to press it. Do you?"

"Those two hoods had Terry Orchard's gun with them when they came to 
the apartment. How'd they get it?"

"If it's true."

"Of course, if it's true. I think it's true. Cathy Connelly seems like 
the best person to ask about how they got the gun.

Terry doesn't know, Powell is dead. Who's left?"

"Why don't you go ask her then?" Quirk said. "Thanks for the drink."

He walked out leaving the door open behind him, and I listened to his 
footsteps going down the hall.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I WENT OVER to the university to call on Carl Tower. I hoped the campus
cops weren't under orders to shoot on sight. Whether they were, the
secretary with the ripe thighs was not. She was friendly. She had on a
pants suit today, black, with a large red valentine heart over the left
breast. Red platform heels, red enamel pendant earrings. Bright red
lipstick. She obviously remembered me. I was probably haunting her
dreams.

She said, "May I help you?"

"Don't pull that sweet talk on me," I said.

"I beg your pardon."

"I know what you're thinking, and I'm sorry, but I'm on duty."

"Of all the outer offices in all the towns in all the world," she said, 
"you had to walk into mine." There was no change in her expression.

I started to say something about, "If you want anything, just whistle," 
but at that moment Carl Tower appeared at his office door and saw me. I was 
obviously not haunting his dreams.

"Spenser," he said, "get the hell in my office."

I took off my wristwatch and gave it to the secretary.

"If I don't come out alive," I said, "I want you to have this."

She giggled. I went into Tower's office.

Tower picked up a tabloid-size newspaper from his desk and tossed it 
across at me. It was the university newspaper. Across the top was the 
headline ADMINISTRATION AGENT SPIES ON STUDENT, and in a smaller drop head, 
PRIVATE EYE HIRED BY ADMINISTRATION QUESTIONS ENGLISH PROFESSOR. I didn't 
bother to read the story, though I noticed they spelled my name wrong in the 
lead paragraph.

"It's with an s, not a c," I said. "Like the English poet.

S-p-e-n-s-e-r."

Tower was biting down so hard on his back teeth that the muscles of his 
jaw bulged at the hinge.

"We won't ask for a return on the retainer, Spenser," he said. "But if 
you are on this campus again, ever, we'll arrest you for trespassing and use 
every influence we have to have your license lifted."

"I hear you got the manuscript back," I said.

"That's right. No thanks to you. Now beat it."

"Who returned it?"

"It just showed up yesterday in a cardboard box, on the library steps."

"Ever wonder why it came back?"

Tower stood up. "You're through, Spenser. As of this minute. You are no 
longer in the employ of this university.

You have no business here. You're trespassing. Either you leave or I 
call some people to take you out of here."

"How many you going to call?"

Tower's face got quite red. He said, "You sonova bitch," and put his 
hand on the phone.

I said, "Never mind. If I whipped your entire force it would embarrass 
both of us."

On the way out I stopped by the secretary's desk. She handed me back my 
watch.

"I'm glad you made it," she said.

On the inside of the watch strap in red ink she had written "Brenda 
Loring, 555-3676."

I looked up at her. "I am, too," I said, and strapped the watch back 
on.

She went back to typing and I went back to leaving the university in 
disgrace. Administration agent, I thought as I went furtively down the 
corridor. Zowie!

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

BACK TO THE FENWAY to Cathy Connelly's apartment. I rang the bell; no
answer. I didn't feel like swapping compliments with Charlie Charm the
super, so I strolled around the building looking for an alternate
solution. Behind the apartment was an asphalt courtyard with lines for
parking spaces and a line of trash barrels, dented and bent, against the
wall, behind low trapezoidal concrete barriers to keep the cars from
denting and bending them more. Despite the ill-fitting covers on them,
some of the trash had spilled out and littered the ground along the
foundation. The cellar entrance door was open, but the screen door was
closed and fastened with a hook and eye arrangement. It was plastic
screening. I took out my jackknife and cut through the screen at the
hook. I put my hand through and unhooked it. Tight security, I thought.

Straight ahead and two steps down stretched the cellar. To my left rose 
the stairs. I went up them. Cathy Connelly was apartment 13. I guessed 
second floor, given the size of the building. I was wrong. It was third 
floor. Close observation is my business.

Down the corridor ran a frayed, faded rose runner.

The doors were dark-veneer wood with the numbers in shiny silver decals 
asymmetrically pasted on. The knob on each door was fluted glass. The 
corridor was weakly lit by a bare bulb in a wall sconce at the end. In front 
of number 13 a faint apron of light spread out under the door. I looked at 
my watch; I knocked again. Same result. I put my ear against the door panel. 
The television was on, or the radio. I heard no other sound. That didn't 
prove anything. Lots of people left the TV running when they went out. Some 
to discourage burglars. Some because they forgot to turn them off. Some so 
it wouldn't seem so empty when they came home. I tried the knob. No soap. 
The door was locked. That was a problem about as serious as the screen door 
in the cellar. I kicked it open--which would probably irritate the super, 
since when I did, the jamb splintered. I stepped in and felt the muscles 
begin to tighten behind my shoulders. The apartment was hot and stuffy, and 
there was a smell I'd smelled before.

The real estate broker had probably described it as a studio 
apartment--which meant one room with kitchenette and bath. The bath was to 
my left, door slightly ajar. The kitchenette was directly before me, 
separated from the rest of the room by a plastic curtain. To my right were a 
day bed, the covers folded back as if someone were about to get in, an 
armchair with a faded pink and beige shawl draped over it as a slipcover, a 
bureau, a steamer trunk apparently used as a coffee table, and a wooden 
kitchen table, painted blue, which seemed to double as a desk. On it the 
television maundered in black and white. In front of the kitchen table was a 
straight chair. A woman's white blouse and faded denim skirt were folded 
over the back of it, underwear and socks tangled on the seat. A saddle shoe 
lay on its side beneath the chair and another stood flat-footed under the 
table. There was no one in the room. There was no one behind the plastic 
curtain. I turned into the bathroom and found her.

She was in the tub, face down, her head under water her body beginning 
to bloat. The smell was stronger in here. I forced myself to look. There was 
a clotted tangle of blood in the hair at the back of one ear. I touched the 
water; it was room temperature. Her body was the same. I wanted to turn her 
over, but I couldn't make myself do it. On the floor by the tub, looking as 
if she'd just stepped out of them, were a pair of flowered baby doll 
pajamas. She'd been there awhile. Couple of days, anyway. While I'd been 
ringing her bell and asking the super if he'd seen her, she'd been right 
here floating motionless in the tepid water. How do you do, Miss Connelly, 
my name is Spenser, very sorry I didn't get to meet you sooner.

Hell of a way to meet now. I looked at her for two, maybe three 
minutes, feeling the nausea bubble inside me. Nothing happened, so I began 
to look at the bathroom. It was crummy.

Plastic tiles, worn linoleum buckling up from the floor. The sink was 
dirty and the faucet dripped steadily. There was no shower. Big patches of 
paint had peeled off the ceiling. I thought of a line from a poem: "Even the 
dreadful martyrdom must run its course/Anyhow in a corner, some untidy 
spot." I forget who wrote it.

There were no telltale cigar butts, no torn halves of claim checks, no 
traces of lint from an imported cashmere cloth sold only by J. Press. No 
footprints, no thumb prints, no clues. Just a drowned kid swelling with 
death in a shabby bathroom in a crummy apartment in a lousy building run by 
a grumpy janitor. And me.

I went back out into the living room. No phone. God is my copilot. I 
went out to the hall and down the stairs to the cellar. The super had an 
office partitioned off with chicken wire from the rest of the cellar. In it 
were a rolltop desk, an antique television set, and a swivel chair, in which 
sat the super. The smell of bad wine oozed out of the place. He looked at me 
with no sign of recognition or welcome.

I said, "I want to use your phone."

He said, "There's a pay phone at the drugstore across the street. I 
ain't running no charity here."

I said, "There is a dead person in room thirteen, and I am going to 
call the police and tell them. If you say anything to me but yes, sir, I 
will hit you at least six times in the face."

He said, "Yes, sir." Pushing an old wino around always enlivens your 
spirits. I picked up the phone and called Quirk.

Then I went back upstairs and waited for him to arrive with his troops. 
It wasn't as long a wait as it seemed. When they arrived Captain Yates was 
along.

He and Quirk went in to look at the remains. I sat on the day bed and 
didn't look at anything. Sergeant Belson sat on the edge of the table 
smoking a short cigar butt that looked like he'd stepped on it.

"Do you buy those things secondhand?" I asked.

Belson took the cigar butt out of his mouth and looked at it. "If I 
smoked the big fifty cent jobs in the cedar wrappers, you'd figure I was on 
the take."

"Not the way you dress," I said.

"You ever think of another line of work, Spenser? So far all you've 
detected is two stiffs. Maybe a crossing guard say, or . . ."

Quirk and Yates came out of the bathroom with a man from the coroner's. 
The lines in Quirk's face looked very deep, and the medic was finishing a 
shrug. Yates came over to me.

He was a tall man with narrow shoulders and a hard-looking pot belly. 
He wore glasses with translucent plastic rims like they used to hand out in 
the army. His mouth was wide an loose.

He looked at me very hard and said, "Someone's going to have to pay for 
that door."

Belson gave him a startled look; Quirk was expressionless. I couldn't 
think of anything to say, so I didn't say anything. It was a technique I 
ought to work on.

Yates said, "What's your story, Jack? What the hell are you doing 
here?"

"Spenser," I said, "with an s like the English poet. I was selling Girl 
Scout cookies door to door and they told us to be persistent...."

"Don't get smart with me, Jack; we got you for breaking and entering. 
If the lieutenant here hadn't said he knows you, I'da run you in already. 
The janitor says you threatened him, too."

I looked at Belson. He was concentrating mightily on getting his cigar 
butt relit, turning it carefully over the flame of a kitchen match to make 
sure it fired evenly. He didn't look at me.

"What's the coroner's man say about the kid?" I asked Quirk.

Yates answered, "Accidental death. She slipped getting in the tub, hit 
her head, and drowned." Belson made a noise that sounded like a cough. Yates 
spun toward him. "you got something to say, Sergeant?"

Belson looked up. "Not me, Captain, no, sir, just inhaled some smoke 
wrong. Fell right on her head, all right, yes, sir."

Yates stared at Belson for about fifteen seconds. Belson puffed on his 
cigar. His face showed nothing. Quirk was looking carefully at the light 
fixture on the ceiling.

"Captain," I said, "does it bother you that her bed is turned back, her 
clothes are on the chair, and her pajamas are on the bathroom floor? Does it 
seem funny to you that someone would take off her clothes, put on her 
pajamas, and get in the bathtub?"

"She brought them in to put on when she got through," Yates said very 
quickly. His mouth moved erratically as he talked. It was like watching a 
movie with the soundtrack out of sync. Peculiar.

"And dropped them carefully in a pile on the floor where the tub would 
splash them and she'd drip on them when she got out because she loved 
putting on wet pajamas," I said.

"Accidental death by drowning. Open and shut." Yates said it hard and 
loud with a lot of lip motion. Fascinating to watch. "Quirk, let's go. 
Belson, get this guy's statement. And you, Jack"--he gave me the hard look 
again--"be where I can reach you. And when I call, you better come running."

"How about I come over and sleep on your back step," I said, but Yates 
was already on his way out.

Quirk looked at Belson. Belson said, "Right on her head she fell, 
Marty."

Quirk said, "Yeah," and went out after Yates.

Belson whistled "The Battle Hymn of the Republic" between his teeth as 
he got out his notebook and looked at me. "Shoot," he said.

"For crissake, Frank, this is really raw."

"Captain don't want an editorial," Belson said, "just what happened."

"Even if you aren't bothered by the pajamas and all, isn't it worth 
more than routine when the ex-roommate of a murder suspect dies violently?"

Belson said, "I spent six years rattling doorknobs under the MTA tracks 
in Charlestown. Now ride in a car and wear a tie. Captain just wants what 
happened."

I told him.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I SAT IN MY CAR on the dark Fenway. The super had, grumbling, installed
a padlock on the splintered door to the Connelly apartment while a prowl
car cop watched. Belson had departed with my statement, and everything
was neat and orderly again. The corpse gone. The mob, the cops, the
university had all told me to mind my own business. Not a bad trio; I
was waiting for a threat from organized religion. In a few weeks Terry
Orchard would be gone, to the women's reformatory in Framingham; twenty
years probably, a crime of passion by a young woman. She'd be out when
she was forty, ready to start anew. You meet such interesting people in
jail.

I got a flashlight and some tape out of the glove compartment and a 
pinch bar out of my trunk and went back over to the apartment house. The 
super hadn't fixed the screen on the back door, but he had shut and locked 
the inside door. I went to a cellar window. It was locked. On my hands and 
knees I looked through the frost patterns of grime. Inside was darkness. I 
flashed the light through. Inside was what looked like a coal bin, no longer 
used for coal. There were barrels and boxes and a couple of bicycles. I 
taped a tic-tac-toe pattern on one of the windowpanes and tapped the glass 
out with the pinch bar. The tape kept the noise down. When the opening was 
big enough I reached my hand through and unlatched the window. It was not a 
very big window, but I managed to slide through it and drop to the cellar 
floor. I scraped both shins in the process.

The cellar was a maze of plastic trash bags, old wooden barrels, 
steamer trunks, cardboard boxes, clumsily tied piles of newspaper. A rat 
scuttled out of the beam from my flashlight as I worked my way through the 
junk. At the far end a door, slightly ajar, opened onto the furnace room, 
and to the left were the stairway and the super's cage. I could hear canned 
laughter from the television. I went very quietly along the wall toward the 
stairs. I was in luck; when I peered around the corner of the super's office 
he was in his swivel chair, asleep in the rich fumes of port wine and 
furnace heat, the TV blaring before him. I went up the same stairs to the 
third floor. No hesitation on the second floor--I learn quickly.

The padlock on Cathy Connelly's door was cheap and badly installed. I 
got the pinch bar under the hasp and pulled it loose with very little noise. 
Once inside I put a chair against the door to keep it closed and turned on 
the lights. The place hadn't changed much in the past two hours. The bloated 
corpse was gone, but otherwise there was nothing different. It wasn't a very 
big apartment. I could search it in a couple of hours probably. I didn't 
know what I was looking for, of course, which would slow me down, because I 
couldn't eliminate things on an "is-it-bigger-than-a-bread-box" basis.

I started in the bathroom, because it was on the left. If you are going 
to get something searched you have to do it orderly. Start at a point and go 
section by section through the place, not where things are most likely, or 
least likely, or anything else, just section by section until you've looked 
at everything. The bathroom didn't take long. There was in the medicine 
cabinet some toothpaste, some aspirin, some nose drops prescribed by a 
doctor in New Rochelle, New York, a bottle of Cope, some lipstick, some 
liquid make-up, a safety razor, an eyebrow pencil. I emptied out the make-up 
bottle; there was nothing in it but make-up. The aspirin tasted like 
aspirin, the Cope appeared to be Cope, the nose drops smelled like nose 
drops. There was nothing in the lipstick tube but lipstick. There was 
nothing in the toilet tank, nothing taped underneath the sink, no sign that 
anything had been slipped under the buckling linoleum. I stood on the toilet 
seat and unscrewed the ceiling fixture with a jackknife blade--nothing 
inside but dusty wiring that looked like it wouldn't pass the city's 
electrical code. I screwed the fixture back in place.

I went over the kitchen next. I emptied the flour, sugar, dry cereal, 
salt, and pepper into the sink one by one and sifted through them. Other 
than some little black insects I found nothing. The stove was an old gas 
stove. I took up the grillwork over the burners, looked carefully at the 
oven. The stove couldn't be moved without disconnecting the gas pipe. I was 
willing to bet Cathy Connelly never had. I took all the pans out of the 
under sink cabinet and wormed under the sink on my back, using my flashlight 
to examine it all. A cockroach. There was little food in the old gas 
refrigerator. I emptied it. A couple of TV dinners. I melted them under the 
hot water in the sink and found nothing. I took the panel off of the bottom 
and looked carefully in. The motor was thick with dust kitties, and the drip 
pan was gummy with God knows what.

The living room was of course the one that took time.

It was about two in the morning when I found something. In the bottom 
bureau drawer was a cigar box containing letters, bills, canceled checks. I 
took it over to the daybed, sat down, and began to read through them. There 
were two letters from her mother full of aimless amenities that made my 
throat tighten. The dog got on the school bus and her father had gotten a 
call from the school and had to leave the store and go get it, younger 
brother was in a junior high school pageant, momma had lost three pounds, 
she hoped Cathy was watching what she ate, daddy sent his love.

The third letter was different. It was on the stationery of a Peabody 
motel. It said: Darling, You are beautiful when you are asleep. As I write 
this I am looking at you and the covers are half off you so I can see your 
breasts. They are beautiful. I want to climb back into bed with you, but I 
must leave. You can cut my eight o'clock class, but I can't. I won't mark 
you absent though and I'll be thinking about last night all the time. The 
room is paid for and you have to leave by noon, they said. I love you.

There was no date, no signature. It was written in a distinctive 
cursive script.

For crissake! A clue. A goddamned clue. I folded the note up and put it 
in my inside coat pocket. So far I was guilty of breaking and entering, 
possession of burglar's tools, and destruction of property. I figured 
tampering with evidence would round things out nicely. I wanted to run right 
out and track down my clue, but I didn't. I searched the rest of the room. 
There were no other clues.

I turned off the lights, moved the chair, and went out.

The door wouldn't stay shut because of the broken padlock. I went out 
the front way this time, as if I belonged. When I reached my car I put the 
pinch bar back in the trunk, got in the car, and sat for a bit. Now that I 
had a clue, what exactly was I supposed to do with it? I looked at my watch. 
3 A.M.

Searching apartments is slow business. I turned on the interior light 
in my car, took out my clue, and read it again. It said the same thing it 
said the first time. I folded it up again and tapped my front teeth with it 
for about fifteen seconds.

Then I put it back in my pocket, turned off the interior light, started 
up the car, and went home. When I decide something I don't hesitate.

I went to bed and dreamed I was a miner and the tunnel was collapsing 
and everyone else had left. I woke up with the dream unfinished and my clock 
said ten minutes of seven. I looked at the bureau. My clue was up there 
where I'd left it, partly unfolded, along with my loose change and my 
jackknife and my wallet. Maybe I'd catch somebody today.

Maybe I'd detect something. Maybe I'd solve a crime. There are such 
days. I'd even had some. I climbed out of bed and plodded to the shower. I 
hadn't worked out in four days and felt it. If I solved something this 
morning, maybe I could take the afternoon off and go over to the Y.

I took a shower and shaved and dressed and went out.

It was only 7:46 and cold. The snow was hard-crusted and the sun 
glistened off it very brightly. I put on my sunglasses.

Even through their dark lenses it was a bright and lovely day.

I stopped at a diner and had two cups of coffee and three plain 
doughnuts. I looked at my watch. 8:15. The trouble with being up and at 'em 
bright and early was once you were up most of the 'em that you wanted to be 
at weren't out yet.

I bought a paper and cruised over to the university.

There was room to park in a tow zone near the gymnasium. I parked there 
and read the paper for half an hour. Nowhere was there mention of the fact 
that I'd found a clue. In fact, nowhere was anyone even predicting that I 
would. At nine o'clock I got out and went looking for Iris Milford.

She wasn't in the newspaper office. The kid cropping photos at the next 
desk told me she never came in until the afternoon, and showed me her class 
schedule pasted on the corner of her desk. With his help I figured out that 
from nine to ten she had a sociology course in room 218 of the chemistry 
building. He told me how to get there. I had a half-hour wait in the 
corridor, where I entertained myself examining the girl students who went 
by. During class time they were sparse and I had nothing else to do but 
marvel at the consistency with which the university architects had designed 
their buildings. Cinder block and vinyl tile seem to suffice for all 
seasons. At ten minutes to ten the bell rang and the kids poured into the 
corridor. Iris saw me as she came out of the classroom. She said, "Hell, 
Spenser. How'd you know where to find me?"

I said, "I'm a trained detective. Want some coffee?"

We went to the cafeteria in the student union. Above the cafeteria 
entrance someone had scrawled in purple magic marker, "Abandon All Hope Ye 
Who Enter Here."

I said, "Isn't that from Dante?"

She said, "Very good. It's written over the entrance to hell in book 
three of 'The Inferno.'" I said, "Aw, I bet you looked that up."

The cafeteria was modernistic as far as cinder block and vinyl tile 
will permit. The service area along one side was low-ceilinged and close. 
The dining area was three stories high, with one wall of windows that 
reached the ceiling and opened on a parking lot. The cluttered tables were a 
spectrum of bright pastels, and the floor was red quarry tile in squares.

It was somewhere between an aviary and Penn Station. It was noisy and 
hot. The smoke of thousands of cigarettes drifted through the shafts of 
winter sunlight that fused in through the windows. Abandon All Hope Ye Who 
Enter Here.

I said, "Many campus romances start here?"

She laughed and shook her head. "Not hardly," she said. "You want to 
scuff hand and hand through fallen leaves, you don't go here."

We stood in line for our coffee. The service was cardboard, by Dixie. I 
paid, and we found a table. It was cluttered with paper plates, plastic 
forks, and cardboard beverage trays and napkins. I crumpled them together 
and deposited them in a trash can.

"How long you had this neatness fetish?" Iris asked.

I grinned, took a sip of coffee.

"You find Cathy Connelly?" she asked.

"Yeah," I said, "but she was dead."

Iris's mouth pulled back in a grimace and she said, "Shit."

"She'd been drowned in her bathtub, by someone who tried to make it 
look accidental."

Iris sipped her coffee and said nothing.

I took the letter from my inside pocket and gave it to her. "I found 
this in her room," I said.

Iris read it slowly.

"Well, she didn't die a virgin," Iris said.

"There's that," I said.

"She was sleeping with some professor," Iris said.

"Yep."

"If you can find out what eight o'clock classes she had, you'll know 
who."

"Yep."

"But you can't get that information because you've been banished from 
the campus."

"Yep."

"Which leaves old Iris to do it, right?"

"Right."

"Why do you want to know?"

"Because I don't know. It's a clue. There's a professor in here 
someplace. The missing manuscript would suggest a professor. Terry says she 
heard Powell talking to a professor before he was killed, now Cathy Connelly 
appears to have been sleeping with a professor, and she's dead. I want to 
know who he is. He could be the same professor. Can you get her class 
schedule?"

"This year?"

"All years, there's no date on the note."

"Okay, I got a friend in the registrar's office. She'll check it for 
me."

"How soon?"

"As soon as she can. Probably know tomorrow."

"I'm betting on Hayden," I said.

"As a secret lover?"

"Yep. The manuscript is medieval. He's a medieval specialist. He 
teaches Chaucer, which is an early class. Terry Orchard was up early for her 
Chaucer course the day that Powell threatened some professor on the phone. 
The conversation implied that the professor on the phone had an early class. 
Hayden pretended not to know Terry Orchard when in fact he did know her. 
He's a raging radical according to a very reliable witness. There's enough 
coincidence for me to wager on. Why don't you get in touch with your friend 
and find out if I'm right?"

She said, "Soon as I finish my coffee. I'll call you when I know."

I left her and headed back for my car.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I WAS RIGHT. Iris called me at eleven thirty the next morning to report
that Cathy Connelly had taken Chaucer this year with Lowell Hayden at
eight o'clock Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. The only other eight
o'clock class she'd had in her three years at the university had been a
course in Western civilization taught by a woman.

"Unless she was gay," Iris said, "it looks like Dr. Hayden."

"You took the same course, right?" I asked.

"Yeah."

"Got any term papers or exams, or something with a sample of his 
writing?"

"I think so. Come on over to the newspaper office. I'll dig some up."

"Don't you ever go to class?"

"Not while I'm tracking down a criminal, I don't."

"I'll be over," I said.

When I got there Iris had a typewritten paper bound in red plastic 
lying on her desk. It was twenty-two pages long and titled "The Radix Trait: 
A Study of Chaucer's Technique of Characterization in The Canterbury Tales." 
Underneath it said "Iris Milford," and in the upper right-hand corner it 
said "En 308, Dr. Hayden, 10/28." Above the title in red pencil with a 
circle around it was the grade A minus.

"Inside back page," she said. "That's where he comments."

I opened the manuscript. In the same red pencil Hayden had.written, 
"Good study, perhaps a bit too dependent on secondary sources, but well 
stated and judicious. I wish you had not eschewed the political and class 
implications of the Tales, however."

I took the note out of my coat pocket and put it down beside the paper. 
It was the same fancy hand.

"Can I have this paper?" I asked Iris.

"Sure--why, want to read it in bed?"

"No, I'm housebreaking a puppy."

She laughed. "Take it away," she said.

Near my office there was a Xerox copy center. I went in and made a copy 
of the note and the comment page in Iris's paper. I took the original up to 
my office and locked it in the top drawer of my desk. I put the copies in my 
pocket and drove over to see Lowell Hayden.

He wasn't in his office, and the schedule card posted on his door 
indicated that he had no more classes until Monday. Across the street at a 
drugstore I looked for his name in the directory. He wasn't listed in the 
Boston books. I looked up the English Department and called them.

"Hi," I said, "this is Dr. Porter. I'm lecturing over here at Tufts 
this evening and I'm trying to locate Lowell Hayden.

We were grad students together. Do you have his home address?"

They did, and they gave it to me. He lived in Marblehead. I looked at 
my watch. 11:10. I could get there for lunch.

Marblehead is north, through the Callahan Tunnel and along Route 1A. An 
ocean town, yachting center, summer home, and old downtown district that 
reeked of tar and salt and quaint. Hayden had an apartment in a converted 
warehouse that fronted on the harbor. First floor, front.

A big hatchet-faced woman in her midthirties answered my ring. She was 
taller than I was and her blond hair was pulled back in a tight bun. She 
wore no make-up, and the only thing that ornamented her face were huge 
Gloria Steinem glasses with gold rims and pink lenses. Her lips were thin, 
her face very pale. She wore a man's green pullover sweater, Levi's, and 
penny loafers without socks. Big as she was, there was no extra weight. She 
was as lean and hard as a canoe paddle, and nearly as sexy.

"Mrs. Hayden?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Is Dr. Hayden in?"

"He's in his study. What do you want?"

"I'd like to speak with him, please."

"He always spends two hours a day in his study. I don't permit him to 
be bothered during that time. Tell me what you want."

"You're beautiful when you're angry," I said.

"What do you want?"

I offered her my card. "If you'll give that to Dr. Hayden, perhaps 
he'll break his rules just once."

"I will do nothing of the kind." she said without taking the card.

"Okay, but if you'll give him this card when he is through his 
meditations I'll be waiting out in my car, looking at the ocean, thinking 
long thoughts." I wrote on the back of the card, "Cathy Connelly?" and put 
the card down on the edge of the umbrella stand by the door. She didn't slam 
it, but she closed it firmly. I had the feeling she did everything firmly.

I went back to my car and watched the sun glint on the water. There 
weren't many boats in the harbor in winter, mostly sea gulls bobbing on the 
cold water and swooping in the bright sky. A lobster boat came slowly into 
the harbor mouth past the lighthouse on the point of Marblehead Neck.

Behind me, the seafood restaurant on the wharf was filling with 
lunchtime customers, and ahead of me two tourists were taking pictures of 
the wharf building. I watched the Hayden apartment. Hatchet face never so 
much as peeked out a window at me. Her husband as far as I could tell 
continued to meditate. The waves hit the wharf regularly; the interval 
between waves was about three seconds. After two hours and twenty minutes 
Lowell Hayden appeared at the front door and looked hard at me. I waved. He 
shut the door and I sat some more. Another half hour and Hayden appeared 
again, this time wearing a tan poplin jacket with a fur-lined hood.

Other than that he seemed to be dressed just as he had been the last 
time I saw him. His wife loomed behind him, much taller. She stood in the 
open door while he came to the car.

Making sure I wouldn't mug him, I guess. He opened the door and got in. 
I smiled pleasingly.

He said, "Spenser, you'd better leave me alone." His little pale face 
was clenched and there was a flush on each cheekbone. He looked a bit like 
Raggedy Andy.

"Why is that?" I said.

"Because you'll get hurt."

"No," I said. "You're not saying it right. Keep the lips almost 
motionless, and squinch your eyes up."

"I'm warning you now, Spenser. You stay away from me. I have friends 
who know how to deal with people like you."

"You gonna call in some hard cases from the Modern Language 
Association?"

"I mean people who will kill you if I say so."

"Oh, Mrs. Hayden, you mean."

"You leave her out of this. You've upset her enough."

He looked nervously at the motionless and implacable figure in the 
doorway.

"She asking you funny questions about Cathy Connelly?"

"I don't know anything about Cathy Connelly."

"Yeah, you do," I said. "You know about spending the night with her in 
a motel in romantic Peabody. You know that she's dead, and you know how she 
died."

"I do not." His resonant voice was up about three octaves; for the 
first time it matched his appearance. He glanced back at the woman in the 
doorway. "I'll have you killed, you bastard. I don't know anything about 
this. You leave me alone or you'll be so sorry--you can't imagine."

"You don't really think Joe Broz will kill me on your say-so, do you?"

His pale face went chalk white. The flush left his cheeks and his left 
eyelid began to flutter. My right hand was resting on the steering wheel and 
he suddenly dug his fingernails into it. I yanked my hand away and Hayden 
jumped out of the car and walked very fast to the house.

"You'll see," he shouted back to me. "You'll see, you bastard. You'll 
see."

He went in past his wife, who closed the door. Firmly.

There were four red scratches on the back of my hand.

Lucky it wasn't the wife; they would have been on my throat.

I leaned back in the car and took a big lungful of air and let it out 
slowly. I knew something. I knew that Hayden was it, or at least part of it. 
He'd overreacted. And he'd made a big mistake threatening me with tough-guy 
connections. It had to be Broz, and his reaction to the name made it 
certain. English professors don't know hired muscle unless there's something 
funny. Here there was something very funny. But exactly what? What was 
Lowell Hayden's connection with Joe Broz?

What did either one have that the other would want? Hayden didn't have 
money, which was all Broz would want. The connection had to be dope 
somewhere. Powell was reputed to be a contact for heroin. Powell might be 
connected with Hayden.

Hayden was connected to Cathy Connelly, who was connected to Terry 
Orchard, who was connected to Powell.

My head began to feel like a mare's nest. I could connect Hayden to 
Cathy Connelly for sure. The rest was just speculation, and what I knew in 
my gut wasn't going to get Terry Orchard out of jail. My best hope was 
Hayden's hysteria. He panicked pretty easily, and if I kept pushing at him, 
who knows what else might boil to the surface? But first I needed another 
point of view, a third party, you might say. It was time to go call on old 
Mark Tabor again. And this time maybe I'd stay longer and lean a little 
heavier.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

MARK TABOR WAS NOT HOME when I got to Westland Avenue. I had to walk up
four flights of stairs to find that out. I walked back down and sat
outside in my car. I spent a lot of time doing that. It was getting dark
and colder; I kept the motor running and the heater going. My stomach
was making great cavernous noises at six thirty when Tabor showed up. He
came down from Mass Ave with his hands deep in the pockets of a pea
jacket, the collar up, and his red corona of hair blossoming about the
dark coat like an eruption. He turned in at his building and I came up
behind him, reaching his door as he was closing it. I hit it hard with
my shoulder and it flew open, propelling Tabor across the room. He
tripped over the bed as he staggered backward and fell on it. I shut the
door hard behind me, for effect. I wanted him scared.

"Hey, man, what the hell," he said.

"The hell is this, stupid," I said. "If you don't answer what I ask I'm 
going to pound you into an omelet."

"Who the Christ are you, man?"

"My name's Spenser. I was here before, and you proved too tough for me 
to break. I'm back for another try, boy, only this time I'll try harder."

"I don't know nothing you care about, man."

"Oh, yeah, you do. You know about Lowell Hayden.

Tell me. Tell me everything you know about Lowell Hayden."

"Hey, man, all I know is he's a professor, you know.

That's all I know."

"No, you know more than that. You know he's in SCACE with you, don't 
you?" I moved toward him and he scrambled off the bed and backed toward the 
wall.

"No, man, honest...."

"Yeah, you know that. And you'll tell me. But there's something else."

I was on his side of the bed now and close to him. He tried to jump 
onto the bed and away from me. I grabbed him by the shirtfront and slammed 
him back up against the wall.

"Before you tell me about Hayden, I want to speak to you about the 
manner in which you address me."

I had my face very close to his and was holding him very tight up 
against the wall. "I want you to address me as Mr. Spenser. I do not want 
you to address me as 'man.' Do you understand that?"

"Aw, man . . ." he began, and I slapped him in the face.

"Mr. Spenser, boy," I said.

"Lemme go, Mr. Spenser. You got no right to come in here and hassle 
me."

I jerked him away from the wall and slammed him back up against it.

"We're not here to discuss my rights, stupid, we're here to talk about 
Lowell Hayden. Is he in SCACE?"

"No, man . . . Mr. SDenser."

I slapped him across the face again, a little harder, twice.

"I'll kill you if I have to, stupid," I said.

"Okay, okay, yeah, he was in SCACE, but he was like a secret member, 
you know? Dennis Powell brought him in; he said this dude would be like a 
faculty contact only under cover, you dig? And me and Dennis would be like 
the only ones to know." He was beginning to sniffle a little as he talked.

"And the manuscript, what about that?" I twisted a little more 
shirtfront up in my hand and lifted him up on tiptoe for emphasis.

"I didn't have nothing to do with that; that was Dennis and Hayden. 
Hayden arranged it. I never even saw it."

"Okay, one more: Was Powell dealing hard drugs on campus?"

"Yeah."

"What?"

"Skag, mostly."

"Where did he get it?"

"I don't know."

I slammed him against the wall again.

"Honest to God, Mr. Spenser, I don't know. Ask Hayden, him and Dennis 
were close as a bastard. He might know.

I don't know."

"How did Dennis get killed?"

"I don't know."

"How did Cathy Connelly get killed?"

"I don't know, honest to Christ, I don't know about any of that."

He was shaking and his teeth chattered.

I believed him. But I had some hard facts for the first time. I had 
Hayden connected with Powell. I had Powell connected with heroin, which 
meant mob connections. If Powell and Hayden were that close, I had Hayden 
connected to the mob. I had Hayden and Powell both connected to the Godwulf 
Manuscript, and I had the Godwulf Manuscript connected to Broz. More than 
that, I had Cathy Connelly connected to both Hayden and Terry Orchard. In 
fact, I had Hayden connected with two murders.

"Let me go, Mr. Spenser. I don't know anything else."

I realized I was still holding Tabor half off the ground.

I let him go. He sank onto the bed and began to cry.

I said, "Everyone gets scared when they are overmatched in the dark; 
it's not something to be ashamed of, kid."

He didn't stop crying, and I couldn't think of anything else to say. So 
I left. I had a lot of information, but I had an unpleasant taste in my 
mouth. Maybe on the way home I could stop and rough up a Girl Scout.

It was raining when I came out, a cold rain about a degree above snow, 
and in the dark the wetness made the city look better than it was. The light 
diffused and reflected off things that in the daylight were dull and ugly.

It was nearly eight o'clock. I hadn't eaten since breakfast. I went to 
a steak house and ate. Halfway through my steak I caught sight of myself in 
the mirror behind the bar. I looked like someone who ought to eat alone. I 
didn't look in the mirror again.

It was twenty minutes of ten as I parked in front of my apartment. In 
front of me was parked an aggressively nondescript car made noticeable by 
the big whip antenna folded forward over the roof and clipped down. It was 
Quirk.

When I got out of the car he was waiting for me, and I said, "What the 
hell do you want, Lieutenant?"

"I want to talk with you. Let's go inside."

Quirk was great for small talk. When we got to my apartment I offered 
him a drink. He said, "Thanks."

"Okay, Lieutenant, what do you want to talk about?

How poor Cathy Connelly fell in the bathtub and hit her little head?"

"What have you got?" Quirk said.

"What do you mean what have I got? You taking a survey for H.E.W.?"

"What have you got on the Connelly thing and on Lowell Hayden and the 
Powell murder?"

"Say, you must be some kind of investigator; you know all about what 
I'm up to."

Quirk stood up, walked across the room, and looked out my window. He 
took a long pull at the bourbon and water in his hand and turned around and 
looked at me.

"I'm trying, Spenser, I'm trying to ask you polite, and treat you like 
you weren't a wise-ass sonova bitch, because I owe you. Because maybe I need 
you to do some stuff for me.

Why don't you try to help me through this by trying out your nightclub 
act on someone else? What have you got for me?"

Quirk was right. I felt lousy about Mark Tabor, and I was taking it out 
on Quirk. "I got three categories of things," I said. "What I know and can 
prove; what I know and can't prove; and what I don't know."

Quirk sat in my armchair and looked at me and listened.

"Here's what I know and can prove. Lowell Hayden and Cathy Connelly 
were lovers. They spent at least one night together in a Holiday Inn in 
Peabody--Peabody, what a romantic!--and I've got a note he wrote that locks 
him up on that one. Lowell Hayden and Dennis Powell were in on the theft of 
the Godwulf Manuscript. Hayden was an anonymous member of a student radical 
group called SCACE. Powell was dealing heroin. I've got a witness that will 
confirm that. I told Joe Broz I'd stop messing around with the case if the 
manuscript were returned. The next day it was returned."

"But you're still messing around," Quirk said.

"Yeah," I said. "I lied."

"Broz probably won't like that."

"Probably won't," I said.

"What else can you prove?"

"Nothing. But here's what I know anyway. Hayden is tied to Broz. It was 
after I talked to him the first time that Broz warned me off. This afternoon 
when I talked to him he said he had people who would kill me if he said so. 
You and I know where to find people like that, but your average teacher of 
medieval lit doesn't. If Powell was dealing heroin, he was tied to the mob 
too. That's too big a coincidence--that Powell and Hayden should both be mob 
connected and connected to each other and not have it mean something. Hayden 
had to have something to do with drug pushing. That's the only thing that 
Broz would have in common with a university community. More connection: 
Hayden's girl friend was a roommate of Powell's girl friend, Cathy Connelly 
and Terry Orchard, and if Terry's story is true, it would be Cathy Connelly 
who would have known that Terry had a gun, and where she kept it, and how to 
get it. If Terry's story is true, the killing of Powell was not amateur 
work. Now who would have both professional connections and access to 
knowledge of Terry's gun?"

Quirk said, "Hayden."

"And," I said, "the killing of Cathy Connelly was an amateur 
production, even though Yates seemed to like it.

Powell was dead and Terry was in Charles Street at the time.

Of this interlocking quartet who does that leave?"

"Hayden."

"Clues must be your game, Lieutenant," I said. "You're two for two."

"Got some more?"

"Yeah, here's the hard stuff. Why did Powell get killed?

Why did Terry get framed? Why did Cathy Connelly get killed? One 
point--Hayden is not playing with fifty-two cards.

I talked to him today, there're pieces missing. Kidnaping that 
manuscript sounds just about right for him. So if he's it in this game, it 
may be harder to explain because he is not normal. The reasons he would do 
things are not predictable reasons."

"You got a nice assortment of possibilities," Quirk said.

"So far you're into organized crime, dope pushing, theft, radical 
politics, adultery, and murder. I'm not saying I agree with you. But if I 
did, Hayden would look good to me. He would be the handle, and I'd keep 
turning it until something opened."

Quirk stood up. "If you're messing with Joe Broz, you might turn up 
dead some morning. I'd better know the name of this witness in case you do."

"Tabor," I said. "Mark Tabor, seventy-seven Westland Ave, apartment 
forty-one."

"Thanks," Quirk said. "Thanks for the drink, too. See you."

I let him out. He was clearly sick with worry about me getting killed.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

THE NEXT MORNING I went over to the university and put a tail on Hayden.
I couldn't think of anything else to do. I knew he was involved in two
killings and that Terry was involved in none, but I couldn't prove it. I
could nail him for manuscriptnaping or whatever, but I was willing to
bet that the university wouldn't press charges, and even if they did,
with a good lawyer and a first offense what would happen to him? I could
threaten to tell his wife about Cathy Connelly, but he wasn't likely to
confess to murder to placate his wife. But he knew I knew, and it had to
bother him. He might do something stupid, and if I kept after him I
might catch him doing it.

So in the fresh of morning when Hayden showed up for his nine o'clock 
class in pre-Shakespearean drama I was lurking about the north end of the 
corridor, and when he came out fifty minutes later, I was at the south end 
of the corridor getting a drink from the bubbler. While he conferred with 
students in his office about image patterns in The Play of the Weather and 
Gammer Gurton's Needle, I studied the announcements and grad school 
advertisements on the bulletin board down the corridor.

Surveillance on a guy that knows you is hard, and it's much harder when 
you're trying to do it alone. In the long run it's not possible. Eventually 
Hayden would catch me and there was nothing to do about it. On the other 
hand, before he did I might catch him, and anyway, I didn't know what else 
to do.

Hayden ate lunch in his office from a brown paper bag and a thermos. I 
didn't. By three o'clock that afternoon I was pretty sure how Hayden would 
spot me. He'd hear my stomach rolling. At four Hayden went to his Beowulf 
class. As soon as he was safely into his lecture I ducked out and bought 
half a dozen hamburgers at McDonald's. On the way back I bought a pint of 
Wild Turkey bourbon at a package store and was back in time to pick Hayden 
up after class and follow him to the parking lot.

Following him through the rush hour traffic was twohanded work, and I 
didn't get to my supper until we were through the Callahan Tunnel and into 
East Boston. By the time we got to Lynn Shore Drive I'd eaten three cold 
hamburgers and swallowed about two inches of the pint. A cold McDonald's 
hamburger is halfway between a jelly doughnut and a hockey puck, but the 
nine-dollar bourbon helped.

I sat at the head of Hayden's street with the motor idling and the 
heater on until nine o'clock, when I ran low on gas and had to shut off the 
motor. By ten fifteen I was cold.

The hamburgers were long gone, though the memory lingered on the back 
of my throat, and I was almost through the bourbon. During that time Hayden 
had not come to me and confessed. He had not had a visit from Joe Broz or 
Phil, or the Ghost of Christmas Future. The Ceremony of Moloch had not shown 
up and sung "The Sweetheart of Sigma Chi" under his window. At eleven 
o'clock the lights in his living room went out and I went home--stiff, sore, 
tired, crabby, dyspeptic, cold, and about five-eighths drunk.

The next day we did it all again. This time I brought along a satchel 
of sandwiches and a large thermos of coffee.

At the end of the day my stomach felt better, but I didn't know 
anything more, and I had discovered new dimensions of boredom.

On the third day things picked up. It was raining again. Hard and 
steady. Everything was frosted with slush.

Hayden had a class from four to five, and it was dark when I stood in a 
doorway across the street and watched him get in his car in the parking lot. 
He was turning over the engine when two guys got in with him. One in front, 
one in back. The windshield wipers went on, then the headlights. The car 
began to back out of its space. My car was parked on a hydrant one hundred 
feet from the doorway and I was in it with the motor running when Hayden's 
car turned out of the parking lot. I stayed close behind him. Too close 
really, but it was dark and wet and I was worried. The two guys that got in 
his car didn't look like poets to me, and I didn't want to lose Hayden. He 
was all I had, and if something became of him, nothing much good would 
become of Terry Orchard.

We turned south on Huntington Avenue, past the new high-rise 
apartments, a hospital, another college, and out onto the Jamaicaway. Big 
houses, mostly brick, set well back and sumptuous, lined the road. Elms that 
had survived the Dutch disease arched over it, and to the right in an 
extended hollow was Jamaica Pond, wooded and grassy under the gray slush. 
Hayden's car pulled off the road and parked on the shoulder. I drove on by, 
turned left into a side street beyond, and parked.

I cut through the backyard of a large brick Dutch colonial house on the 
corner and came out opposite where Hayden's car was parked on the shoulder 
across the street. I didn't see any of them. The hard rain and warm weather 
were causing the wet slush to steam and a fog to rise from the rotting ice 
on the pond. I ran across the street and came up behind Hayden's car. It was 
empty. I realized that I had my gun in my hand though I didn't recall taking 
it from the hip holster. I stopped and listened. No sound but the rain and 
the cars on the Jamaicaway whooshing past on their way to Dedham and Milton. 
My stomach buzzed with tension.

There were tracks in the slush leading down toward the pond. I followed 
them into the mist. Closer to the pond it was so dense I could only see a 
few feet ahead.

I half expected to see Beowulf jump out of the bog and rip the arm off 
something.... "My God, Holmes, those are the footprints of a gigantic 
hound...." I was wearing a hiplength wool jacket, and the rain was soaking 
through along my shoulders. The wet wool smelled like a grammar school 
coatroom. Ahead of me I heard a kind of low wail. I stopped still in the 
dark. In front of me there were indistinct figures. I looked at them 
obliquely as I'd learned to do a long time ago in Korea, and they came into 
sharper focus. Hayden was the one making the mournful noise. He seemed to be 
having trouble standing, and one of the other men had him under the arms. He 
stepped away and Hayden slumped to his knees and began to wail louder. The 
man who hadn't been holding him brought a long-barreled pistol from his side 
and placed it against the back of Hayden's head. I turned sideways as you do 
on the pistol range, and yelled, "Freeze!"

The guy with the gun snapped around and I felt the thump in my side 
simultaneous to the muzzle flash and before I heard the shot. It felt like 
I'd been hit in the ribs with a brick. I staggered, steadied myself, let out 
my breath, and brought my gun down on the middle of his chest . . . slack . 
. . squeeze . . . and my own shot exploded. He fell over backward. His buddy 
was shooting now, and a bullet thunked into a tree beside me. Out of the 
edge of my vision I saw Hayden crawling for some bushes. I ducked behind the 
tree.

There was no pain yet, but my whole left side was numb and I felt a 
little dizzy. It was quiet again. Up on the Jamaicaway the headlights were 
fuzzy in the fog and the whoosh of their passage was cottony. The rain 
droned down. I slid down the tree and stretched out, belly down in the 
slush, and peered around the edge of the tree. I couldn't see anyone. Still 
on my belly I began to inch backward.

About ten feet in back of the tree was a big old blue spruce whose 
bottom boughs skirted out six or eight feet around the bottom. I inched 
backward under them and lay still. Nothing moved. I was feeling dizzier, and 
the first twitches of hurt were cutting through the numbness in my side. The 
slush was cold, and underneath the tree the earth had started to thaw and 
turn to mud. Inching backward for ten feet had scraped a lot of it up under 
my coat.

I wondered if I'd die here. Face down under a spruce tree in the mud 
trying to keep a double murderer from getting shot by two hired thugs. I 
felt like I wanted to throw up. The noise would locate me. I swallowed it 
back. More silence while I fought the nausea and the cold.

After what seemed to be the duration of the Christian epoch, I saw him. 
He had circled the tree where I'd first hidden and stepped out so that had I 
still been there he'd have been behind me. He was good; it took him maybe a 
second to realize I wasn't there and where I probably was. He spun and I put 
three shots into his chest, holding the gun in both hands to keep it steady. 
His gun bounced out of his hand and plopped softly into the slush. He fell 
more slowly sideways and joined it. I crawled out from under the tree and 
over to him. I felt in his neck for the big pulse. There wasn't any. I 
crawled on over to his buddy. Same thing. I got up and looked around for 
Hayden. I didn't see him, and getting up was an error. My head spun and I 
sat down backward. The jar of it set the pain in my side to moving.

"Hayden," I yelled. No sound.

"Hayden, you dumb sonova bitch, it's Spenser. You're all right. They're 
dead. Come on out."

I got hunched over on one hip and put my gun back in the holster. Then 
I got both hands onto the trunk of a sapling and pulled myself up.

"Hayden!"

He appeared from behind the bushes. His glasses were gone, and his wet 
lank hair was plastered down over his small skull.

"They were going to kill me," he said. "They were going to kill me. 
They . . . they had no right . . ."

Hayden looked at me blankly. His eyes were red and swollen and his 
face, without glasses, looked naked.

"They were supposed to kill you," he said.

"Yeah, we'll talk about that, but gimme a hand."

The numbness was about gone now, and the blood was a warm and sticky 
layer over the pain.

"We were allies. We were working together. And they were going to kill 
me."

He backed away from me, up toward the road. I let go of the tree and 
took a step toward him. He backed up faster.

"They were supposed to kill you."

I took another step toward him and fell down. He was now backing up so 
fast he was running. Like a cornerback trying to stay with a wide receiver.

"Hayden!" I yelled.

He turned and ran up toward his car. Sonova bitch. At least he didn't 
kick me when I fell. I heard his car start but I didn't see him pull away. I 
was busy with other things. Two more tries convinced me that I'd have 
trouble walking up the hill, so I crawled. It was getting harder as the 
dizziness and the nausea progressed.

CHAPTER TWENTY

I DON'T KNOW how long it took me to get up that hill to the street.
Every few feet I had to rest, and the last hundred feet or so I had to
drag myself along on my stomach. I pulled myself over the curb and
rested with my cheek in the gutter of the road and the rain drumming on
my back. The pain drummed even harder in my side, and there was a kind
of counterpoint throb in my head. Then, suddenly, there was a big
red-faced MDC cop standing over me in the glare of headlights and the
steady pulse of the blue light. I didn't know how long I'd been out or
where I was exactly.

"Just lay there, Jack. Don't move around."

"I'm not drunk," I said.

"I can tell that, Jack. The left side of your coat is soaked with 
blood."

"I'm not drunk," I said again. It seemed very important to keep saying 
it. At the same time I knew he knew I wasn't drunk. He'd just said that he 
knew that. "I'm not," I said. The cop nodded. His face was red and healthy 
looking.

He had a thick lower lip and a fine gray stubble on his chin.

His partner brought the folding stretcher and they inched me onto it.

"Jesus Christ," I said.

Then I was looking up at the funny big light that diffuses the glare 
and the tubes and apparatus and a woman in a white coat, and I realized my 
coat and shirt were off. "I been shot," I said.

"That was my diagnosis too." She was bending over and looking at my 
side closely.

"Bullet went right through, banged off a rib, probably cracked it--I 
don't think it's broken--and went on out. Tore up the latissimus dorsi a 
bit, caused a lot of blood loss and some shock. You'll live. This will 
sting." She swabbed something on the wound.

"Jesus Christ," I said.

A nurse wheeled me on the table down to have the rib X-rayed. Then she 
wheeled me back. The same ruddy-faced MDC cop that had picked me up was 
sitting on one of the other treatment tables in the cubicle off the 
emergency room.

His partner leaned against the door jamb. He was skinny with pimples.

"I'll need a statement," ruddy-face said.

"Yeah, I imagine. Look, you know Quirk, homicide commander?"

He nodded.

"Call him, tell him I'm here and need to see him. He'll come down and 
I'll give the statement to both of you. You been through my wallet yet?"

"Yep."

"Okay, you know my name and my line of work. It's important that Quirk 
gets what I have to say. A guy might get killed, and he's the key to a 
couple of murders."

The doctor returned with my X rays and pushed past Pimples into the 
room. "As I said, rib cracked. I'll tape it and bandage the wound, then 
we'll put you to bed. In two or three days you'll be back on your feet."

Ruddy-face said to his partner, "Go call the lieutenant, Pooler."

Pooler said, "How come he gets special treatment? I I say we get his 
statement and let Quirk know through channels."

"That's what you say, huh." Ruddy-face took out a big wooden kitchen 
match and stuck it in his mouth and chewed on it.

"Yeah, how come because the guy's got a private license we have to kiss 
his ass. Quirk'll get to his statement when he's ready."

Ruddy-face took the match out of his mouth and examined the chewed end.

"You be sure and call the lieutenant by his last name when you see him, 
Pooler. He'll like that. Makes him feel he's popular with the men."

"Jesus Christ . . ."

Ruddy-face got a very hard sound into his voice. "Goddammit, Pooler, 
will you call the lieutenant? This guy got shot, two other people got 
killed. Lieutenant's going to see him anyway. If he knows him maybe he'll 
want to see him sooner. Why would this guy make up the story? 'Cause he's 
queer for the lieutenant? If the guy's right and we don't call we'll be 
directing traffic in South Dorchester Christmas morning."

Pooler went. The doctor was busy wrapping my rib cage and ignored them 
both.

"Where am I?" I asked her. "Boston City?"

"Yep."

When the doctor got through a nurse wheeled me up to a ward bed. The 
ruddy-faced cop came with me. His partner stayed down to wait for Quirk. The 
ward was half-empty and depressing.

"It'll be full by morning," the nurse said. She cranked up the bed and 
she and the cop slid me onto it.

"Doctor says give you a shot to help you sleep," she said.

"Not yet," I said. "Wait until I've talked with the cops."

Ruddy-face nodded at her that he agreed.

"Okay," she said to ruddy-face. "Tell the floor nurse when you're 
through and we'll come in and give him his shot then." She left. Ruddy-face 
sat down beside the bed.

"How you feel?" he asked.

"Like I been kicked in the side by a giraffe," I said.

He fumbled inside his coat and brought out a pint of Old Overholt.

"Want a shot before the nurse gets back?" he said.

I took the bottle.

"Crank me up," I said. He raised the head end of the bed so I was 
half-sitting, and I inhaled half his bottle.

I handed him back the bottle. He wiped the top off with his hand in an 
unconscious gesture of long practice, and took a long pull. He handed it 
back to me.

"Finish it," he said. "I got another one in the car."

The liquor burned hot in my stomach, and the pain was a little duller. 
Quirk arrived; Belson was with him. Quirk looked at the bottle and then at 
ruddy-face. I put the bottle down empty on the night stand away from 
ruddy-face.

"Where'd he get the bottle, Kenneally?"

Ruddy-face shrugged. "Musta had it with him, Lieutenant. How ya doing, 
Frank?"

Quirk said, "I'll bet." Belson nodded at ruddy-face.

"Okay"--Quirk turned to me--"lemme have it."

Belson had a notebook out. Ruddy-face got up and moved to the end of 
the ward, where he broke out a new match and began to chew on it.

"I'm fine, thanks, Lieutenant. Just a little old bullet wound."

"Yeah, good, let's hear it all. There's two carcasses downstairs right 
now that the MDC people brought in from Jamaica Pond. I want to hear."

I told him. He listened without interruption. When I got through he 
turned to Belson. "You see the two, Frank?"

"Yeah. One of them is a gofer for Joe Broz, Sully Roselli. I don't know 
the other one. His driver's license says Albert J. Brooks. Mean anything to 
you?"

Quirk shook his head and looked at me. I shook mine too.

"CID is looking into him," Belson said.

"Right, now see what you can do about getting a leash on Hayden. Pick 
up and hold."

"Yates will be disappointed," I said.

"Can't be helped," Quirk said. "Hayden's a witness to attempted murder 
and two homicides. Got to bring him in."

Quirk looked back at me thoughtfully.

"Two of them in the dark," he said. "Not bad."

He nodded at Belson and they left. As they went out Quirk said to 
Kenneally, "Tell the nurse we're through. And don't give him any more 
booze."

By the time the nurse got there I was halfway under again and barely 
felt the needle jab.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

I WOKE up in bright daylight, confused, to the sound of a monotonous
deep cough from the other end of the room. I shifted in the bed and felt
the pain in my side and remembered where I was. The coughing went on
down the ward. I creaked myself around on the bed, dropped my legs over
the side, and got myself sitting up. All the beds were full. I had a
hospital johnny and an adhesive sash around my torso. Very natty. I
stood up. My legs felt spongy, and I braced myself with one hand against
the bed. Steady. I walked the length of the bed.

Not bad. I walked back to the head. Better. I U-turned, back toward the 
foot. Then I started down the length of the ward.

Slow, shaky, but halfway down I didn't have to hold on. An old man with 
no teeth mumbled to me from one of the beds.

"You get hell if they catch you out of bed," he said.

"Watch," I said.

I kept going. All the way to the end of the ward, then back, then down 
the ward again. I was feeling balanced and ambulatory when the floor nurse 
came in. She had a cheerful Irish face and a broad beam. She looked at me as 
if I'd messed on the floor.

"Oh, no," she said. "Right back in the bed, there. We're not supposed 
to be strolling around. Come on."

"Cookie," I said, "we are doing more than strolling. We are getting the 
hell out of here as soon as we can find our pants."

"Nonsense, I want you to hop right back in that bed.

This minute." She clapped her hands sharply for emphasis.

"Don't do that," I said. "I may faint, and you'll have to give me 
mouth-to-mouth resuscitation." I kept on walking.

She glanced at the name card at the foot of my empty bed. "Mr. Spenser, 
must I call the resident?"

In the middle of the ward was a large double door. I pushed it open. It 
was a walk-in closet with baskets on shelves. My clothes were in one of 
them. I put on my pants, still soggy with the mud half-dried on them.

"Mr. Spenser." She stood in semiparalysis in the doorway. I dropped the 
johnny and slipped my jacket on over the bandaged body. Shirt and underwear 
were so bloodsoaked and mud-drenched that I didn't bother. I jammed my feet 
into my loafers. They had been my favorites, tassles over the instep. One 
tassle was now missing and there were two inches of mud caked all over them. 
My gun and wallet were missing.

I'd worry about that later.

I pushed past the nurse, whose face had turned very read.

"Don't fret, cookie," I said. "You've done what you could, but I've got 
stuff I have to do and promises to keep. And for a guy with my virility 
what's a bullet wound or so?"

I kept going. She came behind me and at the desk outside by the 
elevator a second nurse joined her in protest. I ignored them and went down 
the elevator.

When I got outside onto Harrison Ave it was a very nice day--sunny, 
pleasant--and it occurred to me that I didn't have a car or money or a ride 
home. I didn't have my watch either, but it was early. There was little 
traffic on the streets. I turned back toward the hospital and my Irish nurse 
came out.

"Mr. Spenser, you're not in condition to walk out like this. You've 
lost blood; you've suffered shock."

"Listen to me now, lovey," I said. "You're probably right. But I'm 
leaving anyway. And we both know you can't prevent it. But what you can do 
is lend me cab fare home."

She looked at me, startled for a minute, and then laughed. "Okay," she 
said. "You deserve something for sheer balls. Let me get my purse." I 
waited, and she was back in a minute with a five-dollar bill.

"I'll return it," I said.

She just shook her head.

I walked over to Mass Avenue and waited till a cab cruised by. When I 
got in the cabby said, "You got money?"

I showed him the five. He nodded. I gave him the address and we went 
home.

When he let me out I gave him the five and told him to keep it.

I got a look at my reflection in the glass door of my apartment 
building and I knew why he'd asked me for money first. My coat was black 
with mud, blood, and rain. The same for my pants. My ankles showed naked 
above the mudcrusted shoes. I had a forty-six-hour beard stubble and a big 
bruise on my forehead I must have gotten when I crawled over the curbstone 
the night before.

I realized I didn't have a key. I rang for the super.

When he came he made no comment.

"I've lost my key," I said. "Can you let me into my apartment?"

"Yep," he said, and headed up the stairs to my place. I followed. He 
opened my door and I went in "Thanks," I said.

"Yep," he said. I closed the door.

I wondered if he'd noticed that I looked different.

Maybe he thought it an improvement.

Despite the palpable silence of the place I was glad to be home. I 
looked at my pine Indian still on the sideboard in the living room. I hadn't 
gotten to the horse yet, and he seemed to flow into a block of wood. I went 
into the kitchen, took off the coat, pants, and shoes, and stuffed them into 
the wastebasket. Then I went in and took a shower. I kept the wounded side 
away from the water as much as I could. I shaved with the shower still 
running and stepped back in to rinse off the shave cream. I toweled dry and 
dressed. Gray, hard-finished slacks with a medium flare, blue paisley 
flowered shirt with short sleeves, blue wool socks, mahoganycolored buckle 
boots with a side zipper, broad mahogany belt with a brass buckle. I liked 
getting dressed, feeling the clean cloth on my clean body. I paid special 
attention to it all. It was good not to be dead in the mud under a blue 
spruce tree.

In the kitchen I made coffee and put six homemade German sausages in 
the fry pan. They were big fat ones I had to go up to the North Shore to buy 
from a guy who made them in the back of the store. You should always start 
them on low in a cold fry pan. When they began to sizzle I cored a big green 
apple and peeled it. I sliced it thick, dipped the slices in flour, and 
fried them in the sausage fat. The coffee had perked, and I had a cup with 
heavy cream and two sugars.

The smell of the sausage and apple cooking began to make my throat 
ache. I slipped a spatula under the apples and turned them. I took the 
sausages out with tongs and let them drain on a paper towel. When the apple 
rings were done, I drained them with the sausages and ate both with two big 
slices of coarse rye bread and wild strawberry jam in a crock that you can 
buy up at the Mass Ave end of Newbury Street.

I listened to the morning news on the radio while I drank the last of 
my coffee. They mentioned the shooting in the Jamaicaway but gave no names. 
I was referred to as a Boston private detective. When it was over I switched 
off the radio, left the dishes where they were, and went to my bedroom. I 
got a spare gun out of the drawer and put it in an extra hip holster. The 
hip holster had slots for six extra bullets and I slipped them in and 
clipped it to my belt with the barrel end in my right back pocket.

I got five ten-dollar bills and a spare set of keys out of my top 
bureau drawer and slipped them into my pocket. Went to the front closet and 
got my other jacket. It was my weekend-in-the-country jacket, cream-colored 
canvas, with a sherpa lining that spilled out over the collar. I was saving 
it in case I was ever invited down to the Myopia Hunt Club for cocktails and 
a polo match. But since someone had shot a hole in my other coat, I'd have 
to wear it now. It was 8:10 when I left my apartment. Smart, clean, well 
fed, and alive as a sonova bitch.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

I TOOK A CAB back out to Jamaica Pond. My car was where I'd left it,
keys still in the ignition, sunglasses still up on the dashboard.
Hubcaps still on the wheels. Ah, law and order. I got in, started it up,
and drove on back into town to my office.

I opened all the windows to air the place out and checked my mail. 
Called the answering service to find that Marion Orchard had called three 
times and Roland Orchard once. I called Quirk to see if they'd found Hayden. 
They hadn't. I hung up and started to lean back in my chair and put my feet 
up. My side hurt and I froze in midmotion, remembering the wound, and eased 
my feet back to the ground. I sat very still for about thirty seconds, 
breathing in small shallow breaths till things subsided. Then I got up quite 
carefully and closed the window. No sudden moves.

It was time to start looking for Hayden. I looked down at Stuart 
Street; he wasn't there. I felt a good deal like going home and lying down 
on my bed, but Hayden probably wasn't there either. The best I could think 
of was go out and talk to Mrs. Hayden. As I was driving out to Marblehead 
again, the pain in my side began to be tiresome. At first it was almost a 
pleasant reminder that I was alive and hadn't bled to death in Jamaica Pond. 
But by now I was used to being alive and was again accepting it as my due, 
the common course of things; and the pain now served no other purpose than 
to remind me of my mortality. Also, the drive to Marblehead is among the 
worst in Massachusetts. It is only barely possible to reach Marblehead from 
anywhere, and the drive from Boston through the Callahan Tunnel, out Route 
1A through East Boston, Revere, and Lynn is narrow, cluttered, ugly, and 
long.

Particularly if you've recently been shot in the side.

There was a sea gull perched on the ridgepole of Hayden's gray weather 
duplex when I pulled in to the driveway.

There was a larger number of people on the wharf than there had been 
last time, and I realized it was Saturday.

The shades of Hayden's place were drawn, but there was a stir of motion 
at the edge of one by the front door. I rang the bell and waited. No answer. 
No sound. I rang again.

Same thing. I leaned on the bell and stayed there watching the ocean 
chop and flutter in the harbor and the bigger waves break against the 
causeway at the east end of the harbor.

Inside I could hear the steady bleat of the bell. It sounded like a 
Bronx cheer. I felt it was directed at me--or was I getting paranoiac? She 
was tough; she hung in there for maybe five minutes. Then the door opened 
about two inches on a chain and she said, "Get out of here."

I said, "We've got to talk, Mrs. Hayden."

She said, "The police have been here already. I don't know where Lowell 
is. Get out of here."

I said, "Lowell's got one chance to stay alive, and I'm it. You shut 
the door on me and you'll be slamming the lid on your husband's casket."

The door slammed. Persuasive, that's me. Old silver tongue. I leaned on 
the bell some more. Another four or five minutes and she cracked. People who 
can endure bamboo slivers under the fingernails begin to weaken after ten 
minutes of doorbell ringing. She opened up again. Two inches, on the chain.

I said real quick, "Look. I saved your husband's life last night and 
got shot in the chest for my troubles and damn near bled to death because 
your husband ran off and left me.

He owes me. You owe me. Let me save his life again. You won't get 
another chance." The door shut, but this time only for about thirty seconds. 
As I started to lean on the bell again I heard the chain bolt slide off and 
the door opened.

"Come in," she said.

She was as sumptuously dressed as she had been on my previous visit. 
This time it was brown corduroy pants that tapered at the ankles, brown 
leather sandals with a loop over the big toe, and a gray sweat shirt. Her 
hair was in the same tight bun, her face as empty of make-up as it had been. 
Her eyes behind the big pinkish eyeglasses were as warm and as deep as the 
end of a pool cue.

The apartment smelled of cat food. The front door opened into the 
living room. Beyond that I could see the kitchen and to the right of it a 
closed door, which I assumed led to another room. Maybe the master's study. 
In front of me, opposite the door and along the right-hand wall, rose a 
staircase.

The living room was big and sunny and looked like the display window at 
Sid and Mabel's furniture outlet. There were four canvas director's chairs, 
two blue ones and two orange ones, more or less grouped around a clear 
plastic cube with an empty vase on it. On the far wall was a blond bookcase 
with a brilliant coat of shellac on it, which held an assortment of 
textbook-looking books, mostly paperbacks, and a pile on the bottom shelf of 
record albums and coarse-paper magazines without covers, which were probably 
academic journals. On top of it were a McIntosh amplifier and a Garrard 
turntable. On each side, standing three feet high on the floor, were two 
Fisher speakers. The whole rig probably had cost more than my car, and 
surely more than the furniture.

On the floor were two rugs, fake fur in the shape they would have had 
were they real and skinned out to dry. One was a zebra, one a tiger. House 
beautiful.

"Sit down," she said, and her thin lips barely moved as she talked. 
"Coffee?"

"Yes, please." I eased into one of the director's chairs.

A fat Angora cat looked at me from the chair opposite, its yellow eyes 
as blank as doorknobs, its fur snarled and burry.

It was the first time I could recall sitting in a director's chair.

I had missed little, I decided. Mrs. Hayden appeared with the coffee in 
a white plastic mug, insulated, the kind you get with ten gallons of gas at 
an Exxon station. I took it black and sipped. It was instant.

"You say my husband needs your help. Why?"

"He's involved in one larceny and two murders. There is obviously a 
contract out on him. And if I don't find him before the contractors do, he's 
going to have all his troubles solved for him with a neat lead injection."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I bet you do. But I'm not going to argue with you. I'm telling you 
that if he doesn't come in under cover, he's dead."

"What makes you think you can help him?"

"That's my line of work. I helped him last night. I can do it again. 
There's a homicide cop named Quirk who'll help too."

"Why should I trust you?"

"Because I got a hole in the left side of my body to prove it. Because 
you could trust me last night a hell of a lot more than I could trust your 
husband."

"Why do you care what happens to him?"

"I don't. But I care what happens to a twenty-year-old kid who'll end 
up in the women's reformatory unless I can find out the truth from your 
husband."

"And what happens to him when you find out whatever you think the truth 
is?"

"He'll live. I can't promise much else, but it's better than what he'll 
get if Broz gets there first. The Supreme Court has outlawed the death 
penalty, but Broz hasn't."

"This is ridiculous," she said in her flat thin voice. "I do not know 
anyone named Broz. I do not know anything about any killings or any girls 
going to jail. My husband is away for a few days on professional business."

She had her hands in her lap and was twisting the gold wedding ring 
round and round on her finger. I didn't say anything. Her voice went up half 
a note.

"It's absurd. You're absurd. It's an absurd fairy tale.

My husband is a respected scholar. He is known all over America in his 
field. You wouldn't know that. You wouldn't know anything about us. You're 
nothing but a . . . a .

"Cheap gumshoe?" I suggested.

"A snoop! A sneaky snoop! Nothing will happen to my husband. He's fine. 
He'll be back in a few days. He's just traveling professionally. I told you 
that. Why do you keep asking me?" Her voice went up another half note. "You 
bastard. Why are you hounding him? Why does everyone hound him? He's a 
scholar, but you won't leave him alone. None of you. You, the police, those 
men, that girl . . ." Tears began to run down her face; her voice thickened.

"What girl?"

She wailed then. Her face got red and contorted and her mouth pulled 
back from her lips so that her gums were exposed. Her nose ran a little, and 
she cried with her whole considerable frame--huge, gasping sobs mixed with a 
high eerie sound like locusts. She drooled a bit too. I sipped on my coffee 
and said it again.

"What girl?"

Had she buried her face in her hands, or turned away, or fled the room 
it would have been tolerable. But she didn't.

She sat, looking at me full face, and cried harder and harder till I 
began to think she would hurt herself. I couldn't keep looking. I got up and 
walked around the room. I looked out at the harbor. There was dust in random 
patterns on the windowpane. I put my hands in my pockets and walked back 
across the room and looked out the other window. She continued to howl. My 
side hurt and my head throbbed and I felt a little sick.

I looked at her sideways. She was trying to pick up her coffee cup but 
her hand shook so violently that the coffee sloshed out onto the coffee 
table and formed a brown puddle on the clear plastic. She kept trying, even 
though most of the coffee had sloshed out, and finally threw it frantically 
on the floor. The cat jumped off the chair and went into the kitchen.

She was screaming now steadily, except for the wrenching gasp when she 
had to breathe. I went over and put one hand on her shoulder. She jerked 
away and scrambled out of the chair. Both her hands were pushed out in front 
of her as she backed away from me, across the room. She stopped in the far 
corner and screamed with her hands straight out before her, palms up, as if 
pushing against something.

She swore at me now, the curses bubbling out through the screams as if 
her saliva were viscous, repetitious obscenities, including one I hadn't 
heard before. Then she stopped.

The gasping breaths became more frequent, the screaming interludes 
shorter. Then she was whimpering. Then she was breathing as if she'd just 
run three miles, her chest heaving under the sweat shirt, her face wet with 
tears and sweat and saliva and nasal mucus. The effect of her hysteria had 
loosened her hair in strands, and it stuck to the wetness on her cheek and 
forehead. She let her hands drop and straightened up in the corner. Her 
breathing slowed a little and the air ceased to rasp as it went to and from 
her lungs.

I said, "What girl?"

She shook her head without speaking. Then she went to the kitchen. I 
stepped to the kitchen door to make sure she didn't guillotine herself on 
the electric can opener, but her plan was better than that. She took a 
bottle of Scotch out of one of the cabinets--they kept it in with the 
Wheaties--removed the cap, and poured about half a cup into a water glass. 
She didn't offer me any. She drank it as if it were a nighttime cold 
medicine. All of it. And poured another. This she carried back out into the 
living room and placed before her on the glass cube as she sat back down. 
She wiped her face with the sleeve of her sweat shirt, and pushed her hair 
back off her face. From one pocket of the corduroy Levi's she took a bent 
packet of Kents. It took her two matches to get a cigarette going. But she 
did it and dragged a big lungful through the filter. The cigarette was old 
and dry and the big drag consumed nearly half of it, leaving a big glowing 
end which faded into ash and dropped on the floor. She paid it no attention. 
What looked like a descendant of the shaggy cat I'd seen earlier appeared 
from the kitchen and mewed at the front door. Mrs. Hayden seemed not to hear 
it. The cat mewed again, and I got up and let it out.

I turned back from the door and leaned against it with my arms folded. 
My side didn't seem to hurt quite as much if I stood that way.

"What about the girl?" I asked.

She shook her head.

"Look, Mrs. Hayden, you're in a box. You've got trouble you can't 
handle. There are people trying to kill your husband, the cops can't help 
because your husband is involved in a criminal act, you don't know what to 
do, and you just had hysterics to prove it. I'm all you've got. That may not 
make you happy, but there isn't any way around it. Asking your husband to go 
one-on-one with Joe Broz is like putting a guppy in the piranha pool. If we 
don't find him before Broz does, he'll be eaten alive."

Maybe it was the "we." Maybe it was my impeccable logic. Maybe it was 
desperation. But she said, "I'll take you to him."

Like that. No preamble.

I said, "Okay."

She went to the hall closet and put on a red quilted ski parka with a 
hood and brown knitted woolen gloves with imitation leather palms. She 
stepped out of the sandals and stuck her bare feet into green rubber boots 
with yellow laces.

They were all laced and ready to go. She put on a white and brown 
knitted ski cap with a yellow tassle on the top and we went.

In my car I said, "Where?"

She said, "Boston, the Copley Plaza." And she didn't say another thing 
all the way back into town.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

THE COPLEY PLAZA FRONTS on Copley Square, as do the Boston Public
Library and Trinity Church. In the center of the square is a sunken
brick piazza where in the summer a fountain plays. It is very nice there
and a classy area to hide out in. The hotel itself is high ceilinged and
deep carpeted. At four each afternoon they serve tea in the lobby. And
if you want a drink you can go to the Merry-Go-Round Room and sit at a
bar that revolves slowly. There is a good deal of gilt and there are a
good many Grecian Revival columns, and the bellboys are very dignified
in green uniforms with gold piping. I always felt I should lower my
voice in the Copley Plaza, although my line of work didn't take me there
with any regularity.

We went in the elevator, got off with another couple at the fourth 
floor, and walked down a corridor rather elegantly papered in pale beige. 
She knocked on the door of 411. The other couple passed us and went around 
the corner. They looked as if they might be on a honeymoon, or maybe they 
just worked in the same office and were on their lunch hour.

Mrs. Hayden knocked again twice and then twice more.

Christ, a secret code. Made you wish Ian Fleming had taken up music or 
something.

The door opened an inch on the chain. Hayden's voice emerged.

"What is it, Judy?" Judy? The name was bad; Mrs.

Hayden wasn't a Judy. A Ruth, maybe, or an Elsie, but Judy?

"Let us in, Lowell."

"What's he doing here? Has he forced you, Judy? I told you never to 
bring anyone--" Judy's voice got sharper. "Let us in, Lowell." And then more 
gently. "It's all right."

The door closed. The chain came off, and it opened again. In we went. 
It was a nice room with a big double bed, unmade now, and a window that 
looked out onto Dartmouth Street. The television was tuned to a game show. 
The Boston Globe was scattered around the room.

Hayden shut the door, put the chain lock back on, and put the bed 
between me and him.

"What do you want?" he said.

The game show host introduced their defending champion, "Mrs. Tyler 
Moorehouse from Grand Island, Nebraska."

The audience cheered. I reached over and shut it off.

I said, "You owe me a favor."

Judy Hayden went over around the bed and stood beside her husband. She 
was at least three inches taller.

"I don't owe you anything, Spenser. You just stay away from me."

He was a consistent sonova bitch.

"If I hadn't happened along last night, Hayden, you would now be 
enriching the soil in the area of Jamaica Pond.

And if you don't help me now, that time will come again."

"They were supposed to kill you." He seemed to be repeating some kind 
of litany--by rote, as if, like ritual, the repetition of it, if done just 
right, would save him.

"They are not going to kill me, Hayden. They are going to kill you. 
Here's why. They want this case closed and forgotten. I keep nosing around 
in it, and it is you that I've nosed up into the light. If they kill me 
that'll cause some more nosing around, by other people who know I'm nosing 
around you.

You're the key, Hayden. You're the one who knows the stuff that Broz 
doesn't want known. If they kill me you are still the one who knows and you 
are still around and someone, like say a homicide cop named Quirk, might 
take hold of you and begin to shake you until what you know falls out. 
But"--Mrs.

Hayden had put an arm around her husband's shoulder, maternal--"but if 
they kill you there isn't anyone around who knows what Broz doesn't want 
known and Quirk and I can shake each other till we turn to butter and no 
information is going to fall out because we don't have it. How's that sound 
to You?"

Hayden just looked at me. I plowed ahead.

"I figure that you and Powell were involved in pushing dope at the 
university. Maybe for money, maybe because you wanted to turn on the sons of 
the middle class, maybe because you're a screwball and Tim Leary is your 
idol. Why doesn't matter so much for now; you can tell us that later.

Broz supplied you. For him the university was a nice new market for 
some goods he had on hand, and as long as you could deliver the market he 
could use you. But you and Powell had to get fancy. You stole that 
manuscript and held it for ransom. That was dumb, because that got the 
university police and me involved. No big threat, maybe, but there's no 
advantage to having legal types sniffing around. But what was dumber was 
that you and Powell had a falling out. About what, I don't know. You can 
tell me that, too. But it was you he was arguing with on the phone, and it 
was you who set him up for the mob hit. It had to be you because you're the 
only one around who could have supplied Terry Orchard's gun. You got it 
through Cathy Connelly."

Judy Hayden's arm tightened around Hayden's shoulder. He seemed to be 
resisting her, pulling against the arm pressure, like maybe he didn't want 
to be hugged as much as she wanted to hug him.

"She'd been Terry's roommate, and she knew about the gun. She was also 
your girl friend, and it had to be she who told you about it. So it was done 
and you were clean and all was well and then I showed up. And I talked to 
you about it, and you panicked. You must have called Broz the minute I left 
your office that day because he sent his people out to talk to me right 
after that. And the manuscript was returned the next day. But I kept it up 
and you panicked worse. Cathy Connelly could tie you to the murder. What if 
you broke up?

What if your wife heard about her and blew the whistle on your girl 
friend and your girl friend talked for spite? She was the only one who knew 
about you and Broz. Other people maybe could tie you to SCACE, but the worst 
that would mean is a no decision at tenure time. The university wasn't 
pressing charges on the Godwulf Manuscript. If you could get rid of Cathy 
Connelly, you and Broz could recruit a new pusher to replace Dennis Powell 
and things would be going just as swell and nice as they had before. So you 
went and killed her. That was maybe the dumbest thing of all, because it's 
not your line of work and you did a terrible job. If Broz hadn't put a lot 
of pressure on someone you'd be sitting around in a small room at Walpole 
right now. And when I kept after you and you called Broz about it again, 
Broz must have had enough. So you thought he'd kill me, but he thought he'd 
kill you. And he will. You got one chance and that is to take away his 
reason. Tell me, tell the cops, maybe we can get Broz, but whether or not we 
do we can keep him from getting you . . . I think."

"She helped me," he said.

Judy Hayden said, "Lowell . . ." in a choked voice.

"It was her idea to kill Cathy. She went with me; she held Cathy when I 
hit her on the head. She said to make it look as if Cathy drowned in the 
tub."

Her arm dropped away from his shoulder and hung straight down by her 
side. She didn't look at him, or me.

Hayden went on with no animation, like a recording.

"I don't use drugs, but many people need them to liberate their 
consciousness, to elevate their perceptions and free them from the bondage 
of American hypocrisy. A drug culture is the first step to an open society. 
I was the man who got them from Joseph Broz. Dennis supplied them to the 
community. He didn't know where I got them, and I didn't know where he sold 
them. It was just right." He had a dreamy little half smile on his face now 
as he talked, and his eyes were concentrating on a point somewhere left of 
my shoulder.

"Then he spoiled it. He complained about the quality.

Said the heroin was cut too much. I said I'd speak to my supplier. 
Joseph Broz said that the quality was fine and was going to remain the way 
it was. Dennis threatened to tell the police on me. He threatened to bring 
down everything we'd worked for, everything that SCACE stood for. Simply 
because he wanted the heroin stronger. He sacrificed his every ideal.

He betrayed the movement. He had to be executed. Miss Connelly and I 
discussed it and she suggested the gun. I discussed it with a representative 
of Joseph Broz and he said if we would give him the gun, he would manage the 
rest. Miss Connelly went there to visit and took the gun. It is too bad Miss 
Orchard has to suffer; she is a member of the movement and we bear her no 
ill will."

He paused. Still looking past my shoulder. The smile was a full smile 
now and his eyes were shiny. In a minute he'd start addressing me as "my 
fellow Americans."

The smile faded. "So now you know," he said.

"Will you tell it all to the police?" I said.

He shook his head. "I'll die without speaking," he said.

Ronald Colman, Major Andre, Nathan Hale, the Christian martyrs.

"You're not going to die," I said. "The death penalty is not legal at 
the moment. You will merely go to jail, unless you don't tell the cops. Then 
you will die without speaking like you almost did last night. Remember last 
night. You didn't seem so eager for silent martyrdom last night."

Judy Hayden put her hand on his shoulder. "Tell them, Lowell," she 
said. He shrugged his shoulder away from her touch. "I've told him, and 
that's all I'm telling anyone.

You brought him here. I wouldn't have had to tell him anything if you'd 
not brought him here. I trusted you and you betrayed me too. Can I trust no 
one? You've never cared about the movement. Dennis never cared about the 
movement.

Cathy never cared about the movement."

"I care about you," she said. She was standing very stiff and very 
still. The palms of her hands appeared to press hard against her thighs.

"I am the movement," he said, and the dreamy smile was back and the 
eyes positively glistened. He was listening to the sound of a different 
drummer all right, and it was playing "God Save the King."

No one said anything. I didn't want to look at Mrs.

Hayden. In the silence I heard a click like a key turning in the lock. 
I turned toward the door behind me, but I was wrong. It was the connecting 
door to the next room. It swung open suddenly and Phil stepped through it.
In his hand was a gun with a silencer. He pointed it at me, and said in his
rusty voice, "Time's up."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

PHIL CLOSED THE DOOR.

"The couple in the elevator with us," I said. Phil nodded.

"You had Mrs. Hayden staked out," I said. Phil nodded again.

"I am a horse's ass," I said.

"We used five people," Phil said. "It's hard to spot."

The gun in his hand was an Army issue .45 automatic.

It fired a slug about the size of a baseball and at close range would 
knock down a sex-crazed rhinoceros. Most people didn't use them because they 
were big and clumsy and uncomfortable to wear and they jumped in your hand a 
lot when you fired. In Phil's hand it looked natural and just right.

Hayden said, "Thank God you're here."

Phil made a movement with his lower jaw that might have been a smile. 
"Get over beside Spenser," he said. Hayden stared at him.

Phil's voice grated without inflection. "Move."

Hayden moved. Mrs. Hayden moved with him. Fred Astaire and Ginger 
Rogers. What the hell made me think of that?

"Take your gun out with two fingers of your left hand, Spenser, and 
drop it on the floor."

I did as he said. Since the gun was on my right hip I had to twist my 
body some, and that made my side hurt more.

In a little while it wouldn't matter.

I felt shaky, like I'd had too much coffee, and apprehension tingled 
along my arms. I fumbled the gun out and dropped it on the floor.

"Kick it under the bed," Phil said. Every time he talked you wanted to 
clear your throat. I kicked the gun.

"You can't harm me," Hayden said. "If you do and Joseph Broz hears of 
it, you will be in very serious trouble."

Jesus, Alice in Wonderland. I was studying Phil. He was a puzzle, and 
that opaque white walleye didn't help any.

It was hard to tell what he was looking at. He was dressed as he had 
been before--the coat buttoned up the neck, the pinktinted glasses. I 
watched his hand on the gun; maybe at the instant I saw the finger tighten 
on the trigger, I could jump him. The hammer wasn't back. Phil probably 
always carried a round in the chamber. That would give me an extra hundredth 
of a second. I wished my side weren't sore and bandaged. I felt weak, and 
diving across the bed and taking the gun away from Phil was not the kind of 
work that the weak do well. It wasn't a very big chance, but standing still 
while he shot me in the face was an even smaller chance. He'd shoot me 
first, figuring I'd be the one to give him trouble.

Hayden kept talking in a singsong voice that rose in pitch as he spoke. 
"Do you have any idea whom you're dealing with? Do you know how many people 
are in the movement? If anything happens to me they'll never rest till I'm 
avenged.

They'll track you down and harry you out, however well hidden you may 
think you are. And Joseph Broz will be very angry with you."

Phil seemed interested. He'd probably never seen anything like Hayden 
before.

"And you know how angry Joseph Broz can be. I'm on your side. I want to 
change all of this. I want a world where you won't have to work outside the 
law. I'm not your enemy.

Shoot them. He's your enemy and she is, too, she betrayed me. She led 
him here. She led you here. Kill her. Don't kill me. Please don't. Please 
don't."

His legs went out from beneath him, and he dropped to his knees and 
back onto his heels. "Please don't. Please don't. Please don't."

Phil liked it. He cackled to himself.

"What are you going to do to my husband?" Mrs. Hayden asked.

Phil cackled again. "I'm going to shoot him."

Mrs. Hayden jumped at him. The gun made a muffled thud as Phil fired. 
It must have hit her, but it didn't stop her.

She got hold of his gun arm with both hands and bit into his wrist. She 
was making a sound that was somewhere between a moan and a growl. The gun 
thudded again. I went over the bed at Phil. With his left forearm he cuffed 
me across the face. It was like running into a tree branch. I sprawled on 
the bed, rolled onto the floor, and came up for him again. Mrs.

Hayden had her teeth sunk in his arm. He was pounding the side of her 
head with his left hand, and trying to get his right loose to use the gun. I 
got on his back this time and got my right arm around his neck. He moved 
away from the bed and I rode his back like a kid, wrapping my legs around 
his middle. I was trying to get my left hand against the back of his head 
and lock my right hand against my left forearm. If I could do that, I could 
strangle him.

It was not easy to do. Phil kept his chin tucked down and I couldn't 
get my forearm against his windpipe. He reached backward with his left hand 
and got hold of my hair.

He bowed his back and tried to flip me over forward. He couldn't, 
because I had my legs scissored around his middle.

But the effort tumbled him forward and all three of us went down in a 
pile. Mrs. Hayden was beneath us, her teeth still sunk into Phil's forearm, 
her hands still clutching the gun.

Phil let go of my hair with his left hand and his thumb felt for my 
eye. I pressed my face against his back to protect it. He had a sweaty, 
rancid smell. I got the fingers of my left hand hooked under his nostrils 
and pulled. He grunted and his chin came up an inch. It was enough. My right 
forearm slipped in against his Adam's apple. I put the right hand on the 
left forearm and made a pivot of it, bringing my left hand up behind his 
head. Then I squeezed.

I could feel the muscles in his neck bulge. It was like trying to 
strangle a hydrant. He gurgled, and I squeezed harder. He was incredibly 
strong. He heaved himself up, carrying me on his back and dragging Mrs. 
Hayden up too. The gun thudded three more times. He tried to break the hold 
by lunging back against the wall and knocking me loose, but he couldn't. He 
clawed left-handed at my forearm, then with his fingernails. The gun thudded 
again and again until all eight rounds were gone. I had no idea what they 
were hitting. I was concentrating everything I had on strangling Phil. My 
whole life was invested in the pressure of my forearm on his throat.

He gurgled again, and I could feel his chest heaving in the struggle to 
breathe. He was scratching at my forearm like he was digging for the bone. I 
squeezed. The blood pounded in my ears from the effort and I couldn't see 
anything but a dance of dust motes where my face stayed pressed against his 
shoulder. Phil made a noise like a crow cawing, turned very slowly in a 
complete turn, and fell over backward on top of me. He stopped clawing at my 
arm. He made no noise. He was inert. Mrs. Hayden was inert on top of both of 
us, her teeth still in his arm. I kept squeezing, unable to see with his 
back pressed against my face, unable to feel anything but the strain of my 
arm against his neck. I squeezed. I don't know how long I squeezed, but it 
was surely for a long time after it made any difference.

When I let go I could barely open my hand. I was slippery with sweat 
and too tired to move right away. I lay there panting with the weight of 
Phil and Judy Hayden on me.

When the dancing motes began to dissipate I dragged myself out from 
under the body.

Phil was dead. I realized that Phil and the floor and my leg were 
sticky with blood--Mrs. Hayden's blood. I touched her and she didn't move. I 
felt for her pulse. She had none. She'd bled to death hanging on to Phil's 
arm. Her teeth were still bitten into it. Phil had emptied his gun in 
desperation. There was no way to tell how many had hit her. I didn't want to 
know. I stood up. The room was a shambles. Blood was smeared everywhere. The 
night stand was tipped over.

So was the television set. The bed was broken. I was aware that my side 
hurt. There was some blood staining my shirt.

The wound had opened again.

I remembered Hayden. I looked around. I didn't see him. He was going to 
get few merit badges for semper fidelis. I started for the door. The chain 
lock was still on it. The door that Phil had come through locked from the 
other side. I went over to the bathroom. It was locked.

I said, "Hayden."

No answer. I banged on the door. Nothing. I felt crazy and hot. I 
backed up three steps and ran right through the door. It was thin and tore 
from its hinges. No Hayden. I pulled the shower curtain aside and there he 
was. In the tub, sitting down with his knees drawn up to his chest.

He looked at me and said, "Please don't."

I reached down, took the front of his shirt in both hands, and yanked 
him up out of the tub. There was a peculiar smell about him and I realized 
he'd wet himself. I was revolted. I swung him around, the way a trackman 
throws the hammer, and slung him into the bedroom. He stumbled, almost fell, 
and stopped, looking down at his wife. I came beside him. I took his chin in 
my hand and raised his head. I put my face up against his, so that our noses 
touched. I could barely speak, and my body was shivering. I said, "I have 
killed three people to save your miserable goddamn ass. Your wife took about 
six slugs in the stomach and bled to death in great agony to save your 
miserable goddamn ass. I will call up Martin Quirk in a minute, and he will 
come here to arrest you. You will tell him everything that you know and 
everything that I want you to tell him and everything that he asks you. If 
you do not, I will get Quirk to put us alone together in a cell in the 
cellar, and I will beat you to death. I promise you that I will."

He said, "Yes, sir." When I let him go he didn't move-just stood there 
looking down at his wife with his hands clasped behind his back. I went to
the phone and dialed a number I knew too well.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

THE ROOM WAS BUSY. The people from the coroner's office had come and
taken Phil away, and Mrs. Hayden. The hotel doctor had come and
rebandaged my side and told me to go in to outpatient this afternoon and
have some new stitches in the wound. Beside the broken TV set Frank
Belson stood in front of Lowell Hayden, who sat in the only chair in the
room.

Hayden was talking and Belson was writing things down as he talked. 
Quirk was there and three uniformed cops and a couple of plainclothes types 
were standing around looking shrewd and keeping an eye out for clues. The 
occupant of the next room had been whacked on the head and locked in a 
closet and was now planning to sue the hotel. The house man was trying to 
persuade him not to.

Quirk was as immaculate and dapper as ever. He had on a belted tweed 
topcoat, pale pigskin gloves.

"Not bad," he said. "He had a gun and you didn't and you took him? Not 
bad at all. Sometimes you amaze me, Spenser."

"We took him," I said. "Me and Mrs. Hayden."

"Either way," Quirk said.

"How about the kid?" I said.

"Orchard? I already called. They're processing her out now. She'll be 
on the street by the time we get through here."

"Yates?"

Quirk smiled with his mouth shut. "Captain Yates is at this moment 
telling the people in the pressroom about another triumph for truth, 
justice, and the American way."

"He's got all the moves, hasn't he?" I said.

One of the plainclothes dicks snickered, and Quirk looked at him hard 
enough to hurt.

"How about Joe Broz?"

Quirk shrugged. "We got a pickup order out on him.

How long we can keep him when we get him, you can guess as well as I 
can. In the last fifteen years we've arrested him eight times and made one 
charge stick--loitering. It will help if Hayden sticks to his story."

I looked at Hayden, sitting in the chair. He was talking now in his 
deep, phony voice. Lecturing Belson. Explaining in detail every aspect of 
the case and explaining its connection with the movement, drawing inference, 
elaborating implications, demonstrating significance, and suggesting 
symbolic meaning. Belson looked as if he had a headache.

Hayden was enjoying himself very much.

"He'll stick," I said. "Imagine him lecturing a jury.

Your only problem will be getting him to stop."

The phone rang. One of the plainclothes cops answered and held it out 
to Quirk.

"For you, Lieutenant."

Quirk answered, listened, said "Okay," and hung up.

"Orchard's parents can't be located, Spenser. She says she wants you to 
come down and pick her up. How's your side?"

"It only hurts when I laugh."

"Okay, beat it. We'll be in touch about the coroner's inquest."

I looked at Hayden again. He was still talking to Belson, his rich 
voice rolling out and filling the room. For him, a big, homely, masculine 
woman had taken six .45 slugs in the stomach. The press arrived and a 
photographer in what looked like a leather trench coat was snapping Hayden's 
picture. Hayden looked positively triumphant. Le mouvement, c'est moi. 
Jesus!

Outside the room the corridor was crowded with people. Two uniformed 
cops kept them at bay. As I shoved through, someone asked what had happened 
in there.

"It was a lover's quarrel," I said, "with the world."

I wondered what I meant. I didn't even remember where I got the phrase. 
Downstairs the lobby was as refined and ornate as ever. I went through it 
into the midafternoon sunshine. The hotel was dwarfed by the enormous 
insurance building that rose behind it. The sides of the skyscraper were 
reflecting glass, and the sun off the glass was dazzling. Tallest building 
in Boston. Excelsior, I thought. Tower of Babel, I thought. My car was 
parked in front of the library. I got in and drove the short block to police 
headquarters. I parked out front by the yellow curb on Berkeley Street. It's 
the only place in the area where there are always parking spaces.

I got out of the car arthritically. When I straightened up she was 
outside the building, on the top step. Squinting against the light, she was 
wearing a dapple gray suede coat with white fur trim at collar, cuffs, hem, 
and down the front where it buttoned. Her hands were thrust deep in her 
pockets and a shoulder purse hung against her left side. She was wearing 
black boots with three-inch heels, and looking up at her from street level, 
she looked a lot taller than I knew she was. Her hair was loose and dark 
against the high white fur collar.

Neither of us moved for a minute. We stood in silence in the bright 
afternoon and looked at each other. Then she came down the steps.

I said, "Hi."

She said, "Hi."

I went around and opened the door to my car on her side. She got in, 
tucking the skirt of her long coat modestly under as she slid in. I went 
around and got in my side.

She said, "Do you have a cigarette?"

I said, "No. But I can stop and pick some up. There's a Liggett's on 
the corner."

She said, "If you would. I'd like to buy some make-up too."

I pulled over and parked in the alley between the parking garage and 
the drugstore at the corner of Berkeley and Boylston streets. As we got out 
she said, "I don't have any money, can you lend me some?"

I nodded. We went into the drugstore. It was a big one --a soda 
fountain down one side, bottles of almost everything on the other three 
walls, three wide aisles with shelves selling heating pads and baby 
strollers, paperback books and candy and Christmas lights. Terry bought a 
package of Eve cigarettes, opened it, took one out, lit it, and inhaled half 
of it.

She let the smoke out slowly through her nose. I paid. Then we went to 
the make-up counter. She bought eye liner, eye shadow, make-up base, rouge, 
lipstick, and face powder. I paid.

I said, "Would you like an ice cream cone?"

She nodded and I bought us two ice cream cones. Vanilla for me, butter 
pecan for her. Two scoops. We went back out to my car and got in.

"Could we drive around for a little while?" she asked.

"Sure."

I drove on down Berkeley Street and onto Storrow Drive. At Leverett 
Circle I went over the dam to the Cambridge side and drove back up along the 
river on Memorial Drive. When we got to Magazine Beach we parked. She used 
the rearview mirror to put on some of the make-up. I looked across the gray 
river at the railroad yards. Behind them, halfhidden by the elevated 
extension of the Mass Turnpike, was Boston University Field, with high-rise 
dorms built up around the stadium. When I was a kid it had been Braves Field 
until the Braves moved to Milwaukee and B.U. bought the field. I remembered 
going there with my father, the excitement building as we went past the 
ticket taker and up from the dark under stands into the bright green 
presence of the diamond. The Dodgers and the Giants used to come here then. 
Dixie Walker, Clint Hartung, Sibbi Sisti, and Tommy Holmes. I wondered if 
they were still alive.

Terry Orchard finished her make-up and stowed it all away in her 
shoulder purse.

"Spenser?"

"Yeah?"

"What can I say? Thank you seems pretty silly."

"Don't say anything, kid. You know and I know. Let it be."

She leaned forward and held my face in her hands and kissed me hard on 
the mouth and held it for a long time. The fresh make-up was sweet smelling. 
When she finished, her lipstick was badly smeared.

"Gotcha," I said. "Let's go home."

We drove on out Soldier's Field Road toward Newton.

She slid over in the seat beside me and put her head against my 
shoulder while I drove, and smoked another cigarette.

There was a maroon car in the driveway of her house when we got there.

"My father," she said. "The police must have reached him." As I pulled 
up to the curb the front door opened and Terry's mother and father appeared 
on the porch.

"Shit," she said.

"I'll let you out here and keep going, love," I said. "This is family 
business."

"Spenser, when am I going to see you again?"

"I don't know. We don't live in the same neighborhood, love. But I'm 
around. Maybe I'll come by sometime and take you to lunch."

"Or buy me an ice cream," she said.

"Yeah, that too."

She stared at me and her eyes filled up.

She said, "Thank you," and got out of the car and walked up toward her 
house. I drove back to town, got my side stitched at Boston City by the same 
doctor, and went home.

It was dark when I got there, and I sat down in my living room and 
drank bourbon from the bottle without turning on the lights. They'd given me 
two pills at the hospital and combined with the bourbon they seemed to kill 
the pain pretty well.

I looked at the luminous dial of my wristwatch. 6:45.

I felt as if I'd wrung out, and was drip-drying. I also felt that 
spending the night alone would have me screaming incoherently by 3 A.M.

I looked at my watch again. 6:55.

I turned the light on and took off the watch. Inside, it still said 
Brenda Loring, 555-3676.

I dialed the number. She answered.

I said, "Hello, my name is Spenser; do you remember me?"

She laughed, a terrific laugh, a high-class laugh.

"With the shoulders, and the nice eyes, yeah, I remember."

And she laughed again. A good laugh, full of promise. A hell of a laugh 
when you thought about it.

MORTAL STAKEs

This too is for Joan, David, and Daniel

Only where love and need are one,
And the work is play for mortal stakes,
Is the deed ever really done
For Heaven and the future's sakes.

ROBERT FROST

CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS SUMMERTIME, and the living was easy for the Red Sox because Marty
Rabb was throwing the ball past the New York Yankees in a style to which
he'd become accustomed. I was there. In the skyview seats, drinking
Miller High Life from a big paper cup, eating peanuts and having a very
nice time. I wasn't supposed to be having a nice time. I was supposed to
be working. But now and then you can do both.

For serious looking at baseball there are few places better than Fenway 
Park. The stands are close to the playing field, the fences are a hopeful 
green, and the young men in their white uniforms are working on real grass, 
the authentic natural article; under the actual sky in the temperature as it 
really is. No Tartan Turf. No Astrodome. No air conditioning.

Not too many pennants over the years, but no Texans either.

Life is adjustment. And I loved the beer.

The best pitcher I ever saw was Sandy Koufax, and the next best was 
Marty Rabb. Rabb was left-handed like Koufax, but bigger, and he had a hard 
slider that waited for you to commit yourself before it broke. While I 
shelled the last peanut in the bag he laid the slider vigorously on Thurman 
Munson and the Yankees were out in the eighth. While the sides changed I 
went for another bag of peanuts and another beer.

The skyviews were originally built in 1946, when the Red Sox had won 
their next-to-last pennant and had to have additional press facilities for 
the World Series. They were built on the roof of the grandstand between 
first and third.

Since the World Series was not an annual ritual in Boston the press 
facilities were converted to box seats. You reached them over boardwalks 
laid on the tar and gravel roof of the grandstand, and there was a booth up 
there for peanuts, beer, hot dogs, and programs and another for toilet 
facilities. All connected with boardwalks. Leisurely, no crowds. I got back 
to my seat just as the Sox were coming to bat and settled back with my feet 
up on the railing. Late June, sun, warmth, baseball, beer, and peanuts. Ah, 
wilderness. The only flaw was that the gun on my right hip kept digging into 
my back. I adjusted.

Looking at a ball game is like looking through a stereopticon. 
Everything seems heightened. The grass is greener.

The uniform whites are brighter than they should be. Maybe it's the 
containment. The narrowing of focus. On the other hand, maybe it's the 
tendency to drink six or eight beers in the early innings. Whatever--Alex 
Montoya, the Red Sox center fielder, hit a home run in the last of the 
eighth. Rabb fell upon the Yankee hitters in the ninth like a cleaver upon a 
lamb chop, and the game was over.

It was a Wednesday, and the crowd was moderate. No pushing and 
trampling. I strolled on down past them under the stands to the lower level. 
Down there it was dark and littered. A hundred programs rolled and dropped 
on the floor.

The guys in the concession booths were already rolling down the steel 
curtains that closed them off like a bunch of rolltop desks. There were a 
lot of fathers and kids going out. And a lot of old guys with short cigars 
and plowed Irish faces that seemed in no hurry to leave. Peanut shells 
crunched underfoot.

Out on Jersey Street I turned right. Next door to the park is an office 
building with an advance sale ticket office behind plate glass and a small 
door that says BOSTON AMERICAN LEAGUE BASEBALL CLUB. I went in. There was a 
flight of stairs, dark wood, the walls a pale green latex. At the top 
another door. Inside a foyer in the same green latex with a dark green 
carpet and a receptionist with stiff blue hair. I said to the receptionist, 
"My name is Spenser. To see Harold Erskine." I tried to look like a 
short-relief prospect just in from Pawtucket. I don't think I fooled her.

She said, "Do you have an appointment?"

I said, "Yes."

She spoke into the intercom, listened to the answer, and said, "Go in."

Harold Erskine's office was small and plain. There were two green file 
cabinets side by side in a corner, a yellow deal desk opposite the door, a 
small conference table, two straight chairs, and a window that looked out on 
Brookline Ave. Erskine was as unpretentious as his office. He was a small 
plump man, bald on top. The gray that remained was cut close to his head. 
His face was round and red-cheeked, his hands pudgy. I'd read somewhere that 
he'd been a minorleague shortstop and hit .327 one year at Pueblo. That had 
been a while ago; now he looked like a defrocked Santa.

"Come in, Mr. Spenser, enjoy the game?"

"Yeah, thanks for the pass." I sat in one of the straight chairs.

"My pleasure. Marty's something else, isn't he?"

I nodded. Erskine leaned back in his chair and cleaned the corners of 
his mouth with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, drawing them 
together along his lower lip. "My attorney says I can trust you."

I nodded again. I didn't know his attorney.

Erskine rubbed his lip again. "Can I?"

"Depends on what you want to trust me to do."

"Can you guarantee that what we say will be confidential, no matter 
what you decide?"

"Yes." Erskine kept working on his lower lip. It looked clean enough to 
me.

"What did my lawyer tell you when he called?"

"He said you'd like to see me after today's game and there'd be a pass 
waiting for me at the press entrance on Jersey Street if I wanted to watch 
the game first."

"What do you charge?"

"A hundred a day and expenses. But I'm running a special this week; at 
no extra charge I teach you how to wave a blackjack."

Erskine said, "I heard you were a wit." I wasn't sure he believed it.

"Your lawyer tell you that too?" I asked.

"Yes. He discussed you with a state police detective named Healy. I 
think Healy's sister married my lawyer's wife's brother."

"Well, hell, Erskine. You know all you really can know about me. The 
only way you can find out if you can trust me is to try it. I'm a licensed 
private detective. I've never been to jail. And I have an open, honest face. 
I'm willing to sit here and let you look at me for a while, I owe you for 
the free ball game, but eventually you'll have to tell me what you want or 
ask me to leave."

Erskine stared at me some more. His cheeks seemed a little redder, and 
he was beginning to develop callus tissue on his lower lip. He brought his 
left hand down flat on the top of the desk. "Okay," he said. "You're right. 
I got no choice."

"It's nice to be wanted," I said.

"I want you to see if Marty Rabb's got gambling connections ."

"Rabb," I said. Snappy comebacks are one of my specialities .

"That's right, Rabb. There's a rumor, no, not even that, a whisper, a 
faint, pale hint, that Rabb might be shading a game now and then."

"Marty Rabb?" I said. When I've got a good line, I like to stick with 
it.

"I know. It's hard to believe. I don't believe it, in fact.

But it's possible and it's got to be checked. You know what even the 
rumor of a fix means to baseball."

I nodded. "If you did have Rabb in your teacup, you could make a buck, 
couldn't you?"

Just hearing me say it made Erskine swallow hard. He leaned forward 
over the desk. "That's right," he said. "You can get good odds against the 
Sox anytime Marty pitches. If you could get that extra percentage by having 
Rabb on your end of the bet, you could make a lot of money."

"He doesn't lose much," I said. "What was he last year, twenty-five and 
six?"

"Yeah, but when he does lose, you could make a bundle. And even if he 
doesn't lose, what if you've got money bet on the biggest inning? Marty 
could ease up a little at the right time. We don't score much. We're all 
pitching and defense and speed. Marty wouldn't have to give up many runs to 
lose, or many runs to make a big inning. If you bet right he wouldn't have 
to do it very often."

"Okay, I agree, it would be a wise investment for someone to get Rabb's 
cooperation. But what makes you think someone has?"

"I don't quite know. You hear things that don't mean anything by 
themselves. You see stuff that doesn't mean anything by itself. You know, 
Marty grooving one to Reggie Jackson at the wrong time. Could happen to 
anyone. Cy Young probably did it too. But after a while you get that funny 
feeling. And I've got it. I'm probably wrong. I got nothing hard.

But I have to know. It's not just the club, it's Marty. He's a terrific 
kid. If other people started to get the funny feeling it would destroy him. 
He'd be gone and no one would even have to prove it. He wouldn't be able to 
pitch for the Yokohama Giants."

"Hiring a private cop to investigate him isn't the best way to keep it 
quiet," I said.

"I know, you've got to work undercover. Even if you proved him innocent 
the damage would be done."

"There's another question there too. What if he's guilty?"

"If he's guilty I'll hound him out of baseball. The minute people don't 
trust the integrity of the final score, the whole system goes right down the 
tube. But I've got to know first, and I'm betting there's nothing to it. 
I've got to have absolute proof. And it's got to be confidential."

"I've got to talk to people. I've got to be around the club. I can't 
find out the truth without asking questions and watching." .

"I know. We'll have to come up with a story to cover that. I don't 
suppose you play ball?"

"I was the second leading hitter on the Vine Street Hawks in nineteen 
forty-six."

"Yeah, you ever stood up at the plate and had someone throw you a 
major-league curve ball?"

I shook my head.

"I have. Nineteen fifty-two I went to spring training with the Dodgers 
and Clem Labine threw about ten of them at me the first intersquad game. It 
helped get me into the front office. Besides you're too old."

"I didn't think it showed," I said. .

"Well, I mean, for a ballplayer, starting out."

"How about a writer?" I said.

"The guys know all the writers."

"Not a sports reporter, a writer. A guy doing a book on baseball--you 
know, The Boys of Summer, The Summer Game, that stuff."

Erskine thought about it. "Not bad," he said. "Not bad.

You don't look much like a writer, but hell, what's a writer look like? 
Right? Why not? I'll take you down, tell them you're doing a book and you're 
going to be hanging around the club and asking questions. It's perfect. You 
know anything about writing?"

"I've read some," I said.

"I mean, can you sound like a writer? You look like the bouncer at a 
health club."

"I can keep from sounding as stupid as I look," I said.

"Yeah, okay, it sounds good to me. I see no problem.

But you gotta be, for crissake, discreet. I mean dis-goddamncreet. 
Right?"

"I am, as we writers say, the very soul of discretion. I'll need a 
press pass or whatever credentials you people issue.

And it is probably smart if you take me down and introduce me around."

"Yeah, I'll take care of that." He looked at me and started working on 
his lip again. "This is between you and me," he said. "No one else knows. 
Not the manager, not the owners, not the players, nobody."

"How about your lawyer?" I asked.

"He is my own lawyer, not the club's. He thinks I wanted you for 
personal business."

"Okay, when do I meet the team?"

Erskine looked at his watch. "Too late today, half of them are showered 
and gone. How about tomorrow? We'll go in before the game and I'll introduce 
you around."

"I'll show up here about noon tomorrow then."

"Yeah," he said. "That'll be good. You got a title for this book you're 
supposed to be writing?"

"I'm looking for sales appeal," I said. "How about The Sensuous 
Baseball?"

Erskine said he didn't like that title. I went home to think of another 
one.

CHAPTER TWO

I GOT UP early the next morning and jogged along the river.

There were sparrows and grackles mixed in among the pigeons on the 
esplanade, and I saw two chickadees in the sandpit of one of the play areas. 
A couple of rowers were on the river, a girl in jeans tucked into high brown 
boots was walking two Welsh corgis, and there were some other joggers.

Near the lagoon, past the concert shell, a bum in an old blue sharkskin 
suit was sleeping on a newspaper, and along Storrow Drive the commuter 
traffic was just beginning.

I was still living at the bottom of Marlborough Street and the run up 
to the BU footbridge took about ten minutes. I crossed the footbridge over 
Storrow Drive and went in the side door of the BU gym. I knew a guy in the 
athletic department and they let me use the weight room. I spent forty-five 
minutes on the irons and another half hour on the heavy bag. By that time 
some coeds were passing by on their way to class and I finished up with a 
big flourish on the speed bag. They didn't seem impressed.

I jogged back downriver with the sun much warmer now and the dew gone 
from the grass and the commuter traffic in full cry. I was back in my 
apartment at five of nine, glistening with sweat, and reeking of good 
circulation, and throbbing with appetite.

I squeezed some orange juice and drank it, plugged in the coffee, and 
went for a shower. At quarter past nine I was back in the kitchen again in 
my red and white terry-cloth robe that Susan Silverman had given me on my 
last birthday.

It had short sleeves and a golf umbrella on the breast pocket and the 
label said JACK NICKLAUS. Every time I put it on I wanted to yell "Fore."

I drank my first cup of coffee while I made a mushroom omelet with 
sherry, and my second cup of coffee while I ate the omelet, along with a 
warm loaf of unleavened Arab bread, and read the morning Globe. When I 
finished, I put the dishes in the dishwasher, made the bed, and got dressed.

Gray socks, gray slacks, black loafers, and an eggshell-colored stretch 
knit shirt with small red hexagons all over it. I clipped my holster on over 
the belt on my right hip. The blue steel revolver was nicely 
color-coordinated with the black holster and the gray slacks. It clashed 
badly when I wore brown. To cover the gun I wore a gray denim jacket with 
red stitching along the pockets and lapels. I checked myself in the mirror.

Adorable. Lucky it wasn't ladies' day. I'd get molested at the park.

The temperature was in the mid-eighties and the sun was bright when I 
got out onto Marlborough Street. I walked a block over to Commonwealth and 
strolled up the mall toward Fenway Park. It was still too early for the 
crowd to start gathering, but the early signs of a game were there. The old 
guy that sells peanuts from a pushcart was pushing it along toward Kenmore 
Square, an old canvas over the peanuts. A middle-aged couple had parked a 
maroon Chevy by a hydrant near Kenmore Square and were setting up to sell 
balloons from the trunk. The trunk lid was up, an air tank leaned against 
the rear bumper, and the husband, wearing a blue and red tennis visor, was 
opening a large cardboard box in the trunk. Near the corner of Brookline 
Ave, outside the subway kiosk, a young man with shoulder-length blond hair 
was selling small pennants that said RED SOX in red script against a blue 
background. I looked at my watch: 11:40. You couldn't see the park from 
Kenmore Square, but the light standards loomed up over the buildings and you 
knew it was close. As I turned down Brookline Ave toward the park I felt the 
old feeling. My father and I used to go this early to watch the teams take 
infield.

I walked the two blocks down Brookline Ave, turned the corner at Jersey 
Street, and went up the stairs to Erskine's office. He was in, reading what 
looked like a legal document, his chair tilted back and one foot on the open 
bottom drawer. I closed the door.

"You think of a new title for that book yet, Spenser?"

he said.

An air conditioner set in one of the side windows was humming.

"How about Valley of the Bat Boys?"

"Goddamn it, Spenser, this isn't funny. You gotta have some kind of 
answer if someone asks you."

"The Balls of Summer?"

Erskine took a deep breath, let it out, shook his head, as if there 
were a horsefly on it, kicked the drawer shut, and stood up. "Never mind," 
he said. "Let's go."

As we went down the stairs, he handed me a press pass. "Keep it in your 
wallet," he said. "It'll let you in anywhere."

A blue-capped usher at Gate A said, "How's it going, Harold?" as we 
went past him. Vendors were starting to set up. A man in a green twill work 
uniform was unloading cases of beer onto a dolly. We went into the locker 
room.

My first reaction was disappointment. It looked like most other locker 
rooms. Open lockers with a shelf at the top, stools in front of them, 
nameplates above. To the right the training area with whirlpool, rubbing 
table, medical-looking cabinet with an assortment of tape and liniment 
behind the glass doors at the top. A man in a white T-shirt and white cotton 
pants was taping the left ankle of a burly black man who sat on the table in 
his shorts, smoking a cigar.

The players were dressing. One of them, a squat redhaired kid, was 
yelling to someone out of sight behind the lockers.

"Hey, Ray, can I be in the pen again today? There's a broad out there 
gives me a beaver shot every time we're home."

A voice from behind the lockers said, "Were you looking for her in 
Detroit last week when you dropped that foul?"

"Ah come on, Ray, Bill Dickey used to drop them once in a while. I seen 
you drop one once when I was a little kid and you was my idol."

A tall, lean man came around the lockers with his hands in his back 
pockets. He was maybe forty-five, with black hair cut short and parted on 
the left. There were no sideburns, and you knew he went to a barber who did 
most of his work with the electric clippers. His face was dark-tanned, and a 
sprinkle of gray showed in his hair. He wore no sweat shirt under his 
uniform blouse, and the veins were prominent in his arms. Erskine gestured 
him toward us. "Ray," he said, "I want you to meet Mr. Spenser. Spenser, Ray 
Farrell, the manager." We shook hands. "Spenser's a writer, doing a book on 
baseball, and I've arranged for him to be around the club for a while, 
interview some players, that sort of thing."

Farrell nodded. "What's the name of the book, Spenser?" he said.

"The Summer Season," I said. Erskine looked relieved.

"That's nice." Farrell turned toward the locker room.

"Okay, listen up. This guy's name is Spenser. He's writing a book and 
he'll be around talking with you and probably taking some notes. I want 
everyone to cooperate." He turned back toward me. "Nice meeting you, 
Spenser. You want me to have someone introduce you around?"

"No, that's okay, I'll introduce myself as we go," I said.

"Okay, nice meeting you. Anything I can do, feel free."

He walked away.

Erskine said, "Well, you're on your own now. Keep in touch," and left 
me.

The black man on the training table yelled over to the redhead, "Hey, 
Billy, you better start watching your mouth about beaver. This guy'll be 
writing you up in a book, and Sally will have your ass when she reads it." 
His voice was high and squeaky.

"Naw, she wouldn't believe it anyway." The redhead came over and put 
out his hand. "Billy Carter," he said. "I catch when Fats has got a 
hangover." He nodded at the black man who had climbed off the table and 
started toward us. He was short and very wide and the smooth tan coating of 
fat over his body didn't conceal the thick elastic muscles underneath.

I shook hands with Carter. "Collect all your bubblegum cards," I said. 
I turned toward the black man. "You're West, aren't you?"

He nodded. "You seen me play?" he said.

"No," I said, "I remember you from a Brut commercial."

He laughed, a high giggle. "Never without, man, put it on between 
innings." He did a small Flip Wilson impression and snapped his fingers.

From down the line of lockers a voice said, "Hey, Holly, everybody in 
the league says you smell like a fairy."

"Not to my face," West squeaked.

Most of the players were dressed and heading out to the field. A short, 
thin man in a pale blue seersucker suit and dark horn-rimmed glasses came 
into the locker room. He spotted me and came over. "Spenser?" he said. I 
nodded.

"Jack Little," he said. "I do PR for the Sox. Hal Erskine told me I'd 
find you here."

I said, "Glad to meet you."

He said, "Anything I can do to help, I'd be delighted.

That's my job."

"Do you have biog sheets on the players?" I said.

"You bet. I've got a press book on every player. Stop by my office and 
I'll have my gal give you the whole packet."

"How old is your gal?" I said.

"Millie? Oh, Christ, I don't know. She's been with the club a long 
time. I don't ask a lady her age, Spenser. Get in trouble that way. Am I 
right?"

"Right," I said. "You're right."

"C'mon," he said, "I'll take you out to the dugout, point out some of 
the players, get you what you might call acclimated, okay?" .

I nodded. "Acclimated," I said.

CHAPTER THREE

I SAT IN THE DUGOUT and watched the players take batting practice.
Little sat beside me and chain-smoked Chesterfield Kings.

"That's Montoya," he said. "Alex Montoya was the player of the year at 
Pawtucket in 'sixty-eight. Hit two ninety-three last year, twenty-five 
homers."

I nodded. Marty Rabb was shagging in the outfield.

Catching fly balls vest-pocket style like Willie Mays and lobbing the 
ball back to the infield underhanded.

"That's Johnny Tabor. He switch-hits. Look at the size of him, huh? 
Doesn't look like he could get the bat around. Am I right or wrong?"

"Thin," I said. "Doesn't look like he could get the bat around."

"Well, you know. We pay him for his glove. Strong up the middle, that's 
what Ray's always said. And Tabor's got the leather. Right?"

"Right."

The crowd was beginning to fill the stands and the noise level rose. 
The Yankees came out and took infield in their gray road uniforms. Most of 
them were kids. Long hair under the caps, bubble gum. Much younger than I 
was. Whatever happened to Johnny Lindell?

Rabb came into the dugout, wearing his warm-up jacket.

"That's Marty Rabb, with the clipboard," Little said.

"He pitched yesterday, so today he charts the pitches."

I nodded. "He's a great one," Little said. "Nicest kid you ever want to 
see. No temperament, you know, no ego.

Loves the game. I mean a lot of these kids nowadays are in it for the 
big buck, you know, but not Marty. Nicest kid you ever want to meet. Loves 
the game."

A man with several chins came out of the alleyway to the clubhouse and 
stood on the top step of the dugout, looking over the diamond. His fading 
blond hair was long and very contemporary. It showed the touch of a 
ten-dollar barber. He was fat, with a sharp, beaked nose jutting from the 
red dumpling face. A red-checked shirt, the top two buttons open, hung over 
the mass of his stomach like the flag of his appetite. His slacks were 
textured navy blue with a wide flare, and he had on shiny white shoes with 
brass buckles on them.

"Who's that?" I asked Little.

"Don't you know him? Hell, that's Bucky Maynard.

Only the best play by play in the business, that's all. Don't let him 
know you didn't recognize him. Man, he'll crucify you."

"I gather he doesn't work out a lot with the team," I said. Maynard 
took out a pale green cigar and lit it carefully, turning it as he puffed to 
get it burning evenly.

"Jesus, don't comment on his weight either," Little said. "He'll eat 
you alive."

"Is it okay if I clear my throat while he's in the park?"

"You can kid around, but if Bucky Maynard doesn't like you, you got a 
lot of trouble. I mean, he can destroy you on the air. And he will."

"I thought he worked for the club," I said.

"He does. But he's so popular that we couldn't get rid of him if we 
wanted. God knows there have been times." Little stopped. His eyes shifted 
up and down the dugout. I wondered if he was worried about a bug. "Don't get 
me wrong, now.

Buck's a great guy; he's just got a lot of pride, and it don't help to 
get on the wrong side of him. Course it don't pay to get on the wrong side 
of anybody. Am I right or wrong?"

"Right as rain," I said. Little liked the phrase. I bet he'd use it 
within the day. I'm really into language.

Maynard came toward us, and Little stood up. "Hey, Buck, how's it 
going?"

Maynard looked at Little without speaking. Little swallowed and said, 
"Like to have you say hello to Mr. Spenser here, doing a book about the 
Sox."

Maynard nodded at me. "Spenser," he said. His southern accent stretched 
out the last syllable and dropped the r.

"Nice to meet you," I said. I hoped he wasn't offended.

"He'll be wanting to talk to you, Buck, I know. No book about the Sox 
would be worth much if Old Buck wasn't in it.

Am I right, Spenser, or am I right?"

"Right," I said. Little lit a new Chesterfield King from the butt of 
the old one.

Maynard said, "Why don't y'all come on up the booth later on and watch 
some of the game? Get a chance to see how a broadcast team works."

"Thanks," I said, "I'd like to."

"Just remember you're not going to get any predigested Pablum up there. 
In mah booth by God we call the game the way it is played. No press release 
bullshit; if a guy's doggin' it, by God we say he's doggin' it. You follow?"

"I can follow that okay."

Maynard's eyes narrowed as he looked at me. They were pale and small 
and flat, like two Necco wafers. "You better believe it 'cause anyone who 
knows me knows it's true.

Isn't that right, Jack?"

Little answered before Maynard finished asking. "Absolutely, Buck, 
anybody knows that. Bucky tells it like it is, Spenser. That's why the fans 
love him."

"C'mon up, Spenser, anytime. Jack'll show you the way." Maynard rolled 
the green cigar about in the center of his mouth, winked, and moved out onto 
the field toward the Yankee dugout.

Billy Carter from the end of the dugout yelled, "Whale, ho," and then 
stared out toward the right-field stands as Maynard whirled and looked into 
the dugout. Ray Farrell had come out of the dressing room and was posting 
the lineup at the far end of the dugout. He ignored Carter and Maynard.

Maynard looked for maybe a minute into the dugout while Carter observed 
the right-field foul line from under the brim of his cap, his feet cocked up 
against one of the dugout supports. He was whistling "Turkey in the Straw." 
Maynard turned and continued toward the Yankee dugout.

Little blew out his breath. "That goddamned Carter is going to get in 
real trouble someday. Always the wisecracks.

Always the goddamned hot dog. He ain't that good. I mean, he catches 
maybe thirty games a year. You'd think he'd be a little humble, but always 
the big mouth." Little spilled some ashes onto his shirtfront and brushed 
them off vigorously.

"I was thinking about some Moby Dick humor myself when Maynard was 
standing there blotting out the sun."

"You screw around with Bucky and you'll never get your book written, 
I'll tell you that straight out, Spenser.

That's no shit." Little looked as if he was in pain, his smallfeatured 
face contorted with sincerity. Farrell went up the steps of the dugout and 
out toward home plate with his lineup card. The Yankee manager came out 
toward home plate from the other side, and, for the first time, I saw the 
umpires.

Older than the players, and bulkier.

"I think I'll go up in the broadcast booth," I said. "If Maynard turns 
on me and truths me to death, I want you to write my mom."

Little didn't even want to talk about it. He brought me up to the press 
entry, along the catwalk, under the roof toward Maynardville.

The broadcast booth was a warren of cable lash-up, television monitors, 
microphone cords, and one big color TV camera set up to point at a blank 
wall to the rear of the booth.

For live commercials, I assumed. Give Bucky Maynard a chance to tell it 
like it is about somebody's bottled beer. There were two men in the booth 
already. One I recognized. Doc Wilson, who used to play first base for the 
Minnesota Twins and now did color commentary for the Sox games. He was a 
tall, angular man, with rimless glasses and short, wavy brown hair. He was 
sitting at the broadcast table, running through the stat book and drinking 
black coffee from a paper cup. The other man was young, maybe twenty-two, 
middle height and willowy with Dutch boy blond hair and an Oakland A's 
mustache. He had on a white safari hat with a wide leopard-skin band, 
pilot's sunglasses, a white silk shirt open to the waist, like Herb 
Jeffries, and white jeans tucked into the top of rust-colored Frye boots. 
There was a brass-studded rust-colored woven leather belt around his waist 
and a copper bracelet on his right wrist. He was slouched in a red canvas 
director's chair with his feet up on the broadcast counter, reading a copy 
of the National Star and chewing gum.

Wilson looked up as we came in. "Hey, Jack, howsa kid?"

"Doc, say hello to Spenser, here. He's a writer, doing a book on the 
Sox, and Bucky invited him up to the booth for a look-see."

Wilson reached around, and we shook hands. "Good deal," he said. "If 
Buck says go, it's go. Anything I can help with, just give a holler." The 
kid in the safari hat never looked up. He licked his thumb, turned a page of 
the Star, his jaws working smoothly, the muscles at the hinge swelling 
regularly as he chewed.

Little said, "This here's Lester Floyd. Lester, this is Mr. Spenser."

Lester gave a single upward jerk of his head, raised one finger without 
releasing the magazine, and kept reading.

I said, "What's he do, sing 'Flamingo' at the station breaks?"

The kid looked up then. I couldn't see his eyes behind the amber lenses 
of his aviator shades. He blew a large pink bubble, popped it with his 
teeth, and slowly chewed it back into his mouth.

Little said, "Lester is Bucky's driver, Spenser. Spenser's going to be 
doing a book on the Sox and on Bucky, Lester."

Lester blew another big bubble and chewed it back in.

"He's gonna be looking up his own asshole if he gets smart with me," he 
said. There was a red flush on his cheekbones.

"Guess he doesn't sing 'Flamingo,"' I said to Wilson.

"Aw now, Lester, Mr. Spenser's just kidding around."

Little did a small nervous shuffle step. Wilson was staring out at the 
diamond. Lester was working harder on the gum.

"And I'm telling him not to," Lester said.

"Never mind, Lester." The voice came from behind me.

It was Maynard. "Ah invited Mr. Spenser up here to listen to mah 
broadcast. He's mah guest."

"He said something smart about me singing, Bucky. I don't like that 
sorta talk."

"Ah know, Lester, ah don't blame you. Mr. Spenser, Ah'd appreciate it 
if you was to apologize to Lester here. He's a good boy, but he's very 
emotional. He's also got a black belt in tae kwon do. And ah wouldn't want 
to get your writing hand all messed up before you even start."

Waltzing with Lester in the broadcast booth wasn't going to tell me 
anything about Marty Rabb. If he was any good, it might tell me something 
about me, but that wasn't what I was getting paid for. Besides, I knew about 
me. And if I was a writer, I wasn't supposed to be roughing it up with black 
belts. Maybe box with Jose Torres on a talk show, but brawling at a ball 
game . . . ? "I'm sorry, Lester," I said. "Sometimes I try too hard to be 
funny."

Lester popped his gum at me again and went back to the National Star. 
Maynard smiled with his mouth only and moved to a big upholstered swivel 
chair at the broadcast table. He sat down, put on big padded earphones, and 
spoke into the mike. The small monitor built into the table to his right had 
flickered into life and displayed a picture of the batter's box below. There 
was a long mimeographed list in front of him on a clipboard, and he checked 
off the first two items as he spoke.

"Burt, ah want to open on Stabile warming up. Doc and me will do some 
business about the knuckler and how it flutters. Right? . . . Yup, soon's 
you run the opening cartridge."

Wilson looked over and said to me, "He's talking to the people outside 
in the truck." I nodded. Lester licked his thumb again and turned another 
page.

Little leaned over and whispered to me. "Gotta run, anything you need 
just let me know." I nodded again, and Little tiptoed out like a man leaving 
church early.

Maynard said to the people in the truck, "Ah got nothing to do live up 
here, right? . . . well, ah don't see nothing on the sheet . . . no, goddamn 
it, ah taped that yesterday afternoon . . . okay, well get it straight, 
boy."

A cartoon picture of a slightly loutish-looking baseball player in a 
Red Sox uniform appeared on the monitor. Maynard said, "Twenty seconds," to 
Wilson. Below and to our right along the first-base line a portly 
right-handed pitcher named Rick Stabile was warming up. He threw without 
effort, lobbing the ball toward the catcher.

Wilson said into his mike, "Good afternoon, everyone, from Fenway Park 
in Boston, where today the Red Sox go against the Yankees in the rubber game 
of a three-game series. This is Doc Wilson along with Bucky Maynard standing 
by to bring you all the action."

A beer commercial appeared on the monitor screen, and Wilson leaned 
back. "You gonna pick it up on Stabile, Buck?"

Maynard said, "Check." Wilson handed him the stat sheet and leaned 
forward as the beer company logo filled the monitor screen. Lester was 
finished with the tabloid and settled down into his chair and apparently 
went to sleep. He looked like a peaceful serpent. Tae kwon do? Never tried 
somebody that did that. I gave him a hard look. He was motionless; the 
breath from his nostrils ruffled his mustache gently. He was probably 
paralyzed with fear. Maynard said, "Howdy, all you Red Soxers, this is the 
old Buckaroo and you're looking at Rick Stabile's butterfly . . ."

By the sixth inning the game was gone for Boston.

Stabile's knuckler had apparently deked when it should have dived, and 
the Yankees led 11 to 1. I made two trips, one for beer and hot dogs and one 
for peanuts. Lester slept, and Maynard and Wilson tried to talk some 
excitement into a laugher.

"Stabile's got to get some of the lard off from around his middle, 
Doc."

"Well, he's a fine boy, Bucky, but he's been playing a little heavy 
this year."

"Tell it like it is, Doc. He came into spring training hog fat and he 
hasn't lost it. He's got the tools, but he's gotta learn to back off from 
the table or he'll eat himself right out of the league." Maynard checked off 
an item on his log sheet.

"Here's Graig Nettles, two for two today, including the downtowner in 
the first with Gotham on all the corners."

I got up and headed out of the booth. Wilson winked at me as I left.

I stopped by at Little's office to pick up the press kit on Marty Rabb 
and four others. Little's gal had dentures.

CHAPTER FOUR

STEAM FROM THE SHOWERS drifted into the locker room and made the air
moist. The final score was 14 to 3 and no one was pouring champagne on
anyone. I sat down beside Marty Rabb. He was bent over, unlacing his
spikes. When he straightened, I said, "My name's Spenser, I'm writing a
book about the Sox, and I guess I oughta start with you."

Rabb smiled and put out his hand. "Hi, glad to help.

How about you don't mention today, though, huh?" He shook his head. He 
was well above my six feet one--all flat planes and sharp angles. His short 
brown hair grew down over his forehead in a wedge. His head was square and 
long, like a square-bladed garden spade. His cheekbones were high and 
prominent, making the cheeks slightly hollow beneath them.

I said, "Bucky Maynard tells me Stabile's too fat and that's why he's 
having trouble."

"You ever see Lolich or Wilbur Wood?" Rabb said.

"Yeah," I said. "I've seen Maynard too."

Rabb smiled. "Ricky doesn't pitch with his stomach.

The ball wasn't moving for him today, that's all."

"It was moving for you yesterday."

"Yeah, I had it grooved yesterday." Rabb undressed as he talked. He was 
long-muscled and bony, his body pale in contrast to the dark tan on his 
face, neck, and arms.

"Well," I said, "I'm really more interested in the human side of the 
game, Marty. Could we get together tonight and talk a little?"

Rabb was naked now, standing with a towel over his shoulder. In fact, 
most of the people in the dressing room were naked. I felt like a streaker 
in a nudist colony.

"Yeah, sure. Ah, lemme see, no, we're not doing anything tonight that I 
know of. Why don't you come over to the apartment, meet my wife, maybe have 
a drink? That okay with you?"

"Fine, what time?"

"Well, the kid goes to bed about seven--about seven thirty. Wanna do 
that?"

"Yes. Where?"

"Church Park. You know where that is?"

"Yeah."

"Apartment six twelve."

I looked at my watch: 4:35. "That's fine. I'll be there.

Thanks very much."

"See you." Rabb headed for the showers. His body high and narrow, the 
left trapezius muscle overdeveloped, swelling out along the left side of his 
spine.

I left. Outside the dressing room there were two people sweeping. Other 
than that the place was empty. I walked up the ramp under the stands and 
looked out at the field. It was empty. I went down and hopped the railing of 
the box seats.

There was no sound. I walked over to home plate. The wall in left 
seemed an arm's length away and 300 cubits high. The sun was still bright 
and at that time of day slanted in over the third-base stands, and the 
shadows of the light towers looked like giant renderings by Dali. A pigeon 
flew down from the center-field bleachers and pecked at the warning track. I 
walked out to the pitcher's mound and stood with my right foot on the 
rubber, looking down into home plate. Traffic sounds drifted in from the 
city, but muffled. I put my right hand behind me and let it rest against my 
butt. Left hand relaxed on my left thigh. I squinted in toward the plate. 
Last of the ninth, two out, three on, Spenser checks the sign. One of the 
men who'd been sweeping came out of the passageway and yelled, "Hey, what 
the hell are you doing out there?"

"Striking out Tommy Henrich, you dumb bastard.

Don't you know anything?"

"You ain't supposed to be out there."

"I know," I said. "I never was."

I walked back in through the stands and on out of the ball park. I 
looked at my watch. It was nearly five. I walked back down the Commonwealth 
Avenue mall to Massachusetts Avenue. If Commonwealth Ave is yin, then Mass 
Ave is yang.

Steak houses that no one you knew had gone to, office buildings with 
dirty windows, fast food, a palm reader, a massage parlor. I crossed Mass 
Ave and went into the Yorktown Tavern. It had plate glass windows and brown 
linoleum, a high tin ceiling painted white, booths along the left, a bar 
along the right. In the back corner was a color TV carrying a bowling game 
called Duckpins for Dollars. No one was watching.

All the barstools were taken, and most of the booths. No one was 
wearing a tie. No one was drinking a Harvey Wallbanger.

The house special was a shot and a beer.

In the last booth on the left, alone, was a guy named Seltzer who 
always reminded me of a seal. He was sleek and plumpish, thin through the 
chest, thicker through the hips.

His hair was shiny black, parted in the middle and slicked tight 
against his head. He had a thin mustache, a pointed nose, and a dark 
pinstriped suit that cost at least $300. His white shirt gleamed in contrast 
to the darkness of the suit and the dinginess of the bar. He was reading the 
Herald American. As I slid in opposite him, he turned the page and folded it 
neatly back. I could see the big diamond ring on his little finger and the 
diamond chips set in the massive silver cuff links. He smelled of cologne, 
and when he looked up at me and smiled, his white teeth were even, cap 
perfect in his small mouth.

I said, "Evening, Lennie."

He said, "You know, Spenser, little things break your balls. You ever 
notice that? I mean I used to read the Record American, right? Nice little 
tabloid size, easy to handle. Then they buy up the Herald and go the big 
format and it's like reading a freakin' road map. Now that busts my nuts, 
trying to fold this thing right. That kinda stuff bother you ever?"

"On slow days," I said.

"Want a drink?"

"Yeah, I'll have a brandy Alexander," I said.

Seltzer laughed. "Hey, Frank." He raised a finger at the bartender. "A 
shot and a beer, okay?"

The bartender brought them over, put the beer on a little paper 
coaster, and went back behind the bar. I drank the shot.

"Well," I said, "if I had worms, I guess they're taken care of."

"Yeah, Frank don't age that stuff all that long, does he?"

I sipped the beer. It was better than the whiskey.

"Lennie, I need to know something without letting it get around that 
I'm asking." His skin was remarkable. Smooth and pale and unlined. The sun 
had rarely shone upon it. It made him look a lot younger than I knew he was.

"Yeah," he said. "Sure, kid. I never saw any advantage talking about 
things for no good reason. What do you want to know?" He sipped some beer, 
holding the glass in the tips of his fingers with the little finger sticking 
out. When he put the glass down, he took the handkerchief from his breast 
pocket and wiped his mouth carefully.

"I want to know if you've heard anything about Marty Rabb."

Seltzer was very careful putting the handkerchief back in his pocket. 
He got the three points arranged and stood half up in the booth to look 
across the bar into the mirror and make sure they were right.

"Like what?" he said.

"Like anything at all."

"You mean, does he occasionally place a wager? That kind of thing?"

"That, or anything else."

"Well, he never placed a bet with me," Seltzer said, "but I heard 
something peculiar about him. The odds seem to shift a little when he 
pitches. I mean, there's some funny money placed when he's scheduled to go. 
Nothing big, nothing I'd even think about if somebody like you didn't come 
around and ask about him."

"You think he's in the satchel?"

"Rabb? Hell, no, Spenser. Nothing that strong. There's just a whisper, 
just a ruffle, that not everything is entirely jake. I wouldn't hesitate 
taking money when Rabb's pitching.

I don't know anyone that would. It's just . . ." He shrugged and spread 
his hands out palms up. "Want another drink?"

I shook my head. "The last one took the enamel off my front teeth," I 
said.

"Aw, Spenser." Seltzer shook his head. "You're going soft. I remember 
twenty years ago you was fighting prelims in the Arena, you thought that 
stuff was imported from France."

"In those days I don't remember you dressing like George Brent either," 
I said.

Seltzer nodded. "Yeah," he said, "things change. Now instead of a 
newspaper, they give you a freaking road map.

You know?"

I left him refolding his paper and went to get something to eat. The 
bar whiskey was thrashing about in my stomach, and I thought maybe I could 
smother it with something.

CHAPTER FIVE

I HAD TWO CHEESEBURGERS and a chocolate shake at an antique brick
McDonald's on Huntington, just down from Symphony Hall. The food
throttled the whiskey okay, but I was furtive coming out. If anyone saw
me, I could never eat at LockeOber's again. The guilty part was I liked
the cheeseburgers.

It was a little after six and I had some time to kill.

There seemed to be more of it and harder to kill as I got older.

I strolled back down Mass Ave toward the river. The college kids were 
out on the esplanade in large numbers, and the air was colorful with 
Frisbees and sweet with the smell of grass. I sat on a bench near the Mass 
Ave Bridge and looked at the river and watched a boy and girl share a bottle 
of Ripple.

Sailboats veered and drifted on the river, and an occasional powerboat 
left a rolling wake upstream. Across the river MIT loomed like a concrete 
temple to the Great God Brown. A sixfoot black girl with red hot pants and 
platform sandals went by with a Lhasa apso on a short leash. I watched her 
out of sight around the bend westbound.

At seven fifteen I strolled back up Mass Ave toward Church Park. Church 
Park is a large, gray, cement urban development associated with the 
Christian Science church complex across the street. It replaced a large 
number of shabby brick buildings with a very long twelve-story cement one 
that had stores on the bottom floor and apartments above. The doorman made 
me wait while he called up.

When I came out of the elevator, Marty Rabb was at his door, looking 
down the corridor at me. There was something surrealistic about the way his 
head appeared to violate the fearful symmetry of the hall.

"Down this way, Spenser," he said. "Glad to see you."

The front door opened into the living room. To the right a bedroom, 
straight ahead a small kitchen. To the left the living room opened out 
toward the street and looked out at the dome of the Mother Church of Christ 
Scientist across the street. Traffic sound drifted up through the open 
windows. The living room was done in wall-to-wall beige carpet; the walls 
were eggshell white. There were framed mementos of Rabb's career scattered 
on the walls. The furniture was in browns and beiges, and the tone was 
modern. On the glasstopped coffee table near the couch were a tray of raw 
vegetables and a bowl of sour cream dip.

"Honey, this is Mr. Spenser that's writing the book," Rabb said. 
"Spenser, this is my wife, Linda."

We shook hands. She was small and black-haired. Her features were small 
and close together, and her eyes dominated her face. They were very round 
and dark, with long lashes. Her black hair was long down her back and pulled 
back at the nape of her neck with a dark wooden clip. She had on a salmon 
pink sleeveless shell and white jeans. Her makeup was so understated that at 
first I thought she wore none.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Spenser. Why don't you have a seat here on the 
couch? It's closest to the dip." She smiled, and her teeth were small and 
rather sharp.

I said, "Thank you."

"Would you like a hard drink, Mr. Spenser, or beer?"

Rabb said. "I got some nice ale from Canada, Labatt Fifty, you ever try 
it?"

"Tried and approved," I said. "I'll take the ale."

"Honey?"

"You know what I'd love, that we haven't had in a while, a Margarita. 
Have we got the stuff to make a Margarita, Marty?"

"Yeah, sure. We got about everything."

"Okay, and put a lot of salt on the rim," she said.

She sat on one of the big armchairs opposite the couch, kicked her 
sandals off, and tucked her feet up under her. "Tell me about this book 
you're writing, Mr. Spenser."

"Well, Mrs. Rabb--" "Linda."

"Okay, Linda. I suppose you'd say it's along the lines of several 
others, looking at baseball as the institutionalized expression of human 
personality." She nodded and I wondered why. I didn't know what the hell I'd 
just said.

"Isn't that interesting," she said.

"I like to see sports as a kind of metaphor for human life, contained 
by rules, patterned by tradition." I was hot now, and rolling. Rabb came 
back with the Margarita in a lowball glass and the ale in Tiffany-designed 
goblets that said COCA-COLA. I thought Linda Rabb looked relieved. Maybe I 
wouldn't switch to the talk show circuit yet. Rabb passed out the drinks.

"What's patterned by tradition, Mr. Spenser?" he said.

"Sports. It's a way of imposing order on disorder."

Rabb nodded. "Yeah, right, that's certainly true," he said. He didn't 
know what the hell I had just said either. He drank some of the ale and put 
some dry-roasted cashews in his mouth, holding a handful and popping them in 
serially.

"But I'm here to talk about you, Marty, and Linda too.

What is your feeling about the game?"

Rabb said, "I love it," at the same time that Linda said, "Marty loves 
it." They laughed.

"I'd play it for nothing," Rabb said. "Since I could walk, I been 
playing, and I want to do it all my life."

"Why?" I said.

"I don't know," Rabb said. "I never gave it any thought. When I was 
about five my father bought me a Frankie Gustine autograph glove. I can 
still remember it. It was too big for me and he had to buy me one of those 
little cheap ones made in Taiwan, you know, with a couple of little laces 
for webbing? And I used to oil that damn Frankie Gustine glove and bang my 
fist in the pocket and rub some more oil until I was about ten and I was big 
enough to play with it.

I still got it somewhere."

"Play other sports?" I didn't know where I was going, but I was used to 
that.

"Oh yeah, matter of fact, I went to college on a basketball 
scholarship. Got drafted by the Lakers in the fifth round, but I never 
thought about doing anything else but baseball when I got out."

"Did you meet Linda in college?"

"No."

"How about you, Linda, how do you feel about baseball?"

"I never cared about it till I met Marty. I don't like the traveling 
part of it. Marty's away about eighty games a season. But other than that I 
think it's fine. Marty loves it. It makes him happy."

"Where'd you two meet?" I asked.

"It's there in the biog sheet, isn't it?" Rabb said.

"Yeah, I suppose so. But we both know about PR material."

Rabb said, "Yeah."

"Well, let's do this. Let's run through the press kit and maybe 
elaborate a little." Linda Rabb nodded.

Rabb said, "It's all in there."

"You were born in Lafayette, Indiana, in nineteen forty-four." Rabb 
nodded. "Went to Marquette, graduated nineteen sixty-five. Signed with the 
Sox that year, pitched a year in Charleston and a year at Pawtucket. Came up 
in nineteen sixty-eight. Been here ever since."

Rabb said, "That's about it."

I said, "Where'd you meet Linda?"

"Chicago," Rabb said. "At a White Sox game. She asked for my autograph, 
and I said, yeah, but she had to go out with me. She did. And bingo."

I look at my biog sheet. "That would have been in nineteen seventy?"

"Right." My glass was empty, and Rabb got up to refill it. I noticed 
his was less than half gone.

"We were married about six months later in Chicago."

Linda Rabb smiled. "In the off-season."

"Best thing I ever did," Rabb said, and gave me a new bottle of ale. I 
poured it into the glass, ate some peanuts, and drank some ale.

"You from Chicago, Linda?"

"No, Arlington Heights, a little bit away from Chicago."

"What was your maiden name?"

Rabb said, "Oh for crissake, Spenser, why do you want to know that?"

"I don't know," I said. "You ever see one of those machines that grades 
apples, or oranges, or eggs, that sort of thing, by size? They dump all 
sizes in the hopper and the machine lets the various sizes drop into the 
right holes as it works down. That's how I am. I just ask questions and let 
it all go into the hopper and then sort it out later."

"Well, you're not sorting eggs now, for crissake."

"Oh, Marty, let him do his job. My maiden name was Hawkins, Mr. 
Spenser."

"Okay, Marty, let's go back to why you love baseball," I said. "I mean, 
think about it a little. Isn't it a game for kids? I mean, who finally cares 
whether a team beats another team?"

It sounded like the kind of thing a writer would ask, and I wanted to 
get them talking. Much of what I do depends on knowing who I'm doing it 
with.

"Oh, Christ, I don't know, Spenser. I mean, what isn't a game for kids, 
you know? How about writing stories, is that something for grown-ups? It's 
something to do. I'm good at it, I like it, and I know the rules. You're one 
of twenty-five guys all working for something bigger than they are, and at 
the end of the year you know whether or not you got it. If you didn't get 
it, then you can start over next year. If you did, then you got a chance to 
do it again. Some old-timey ballplayer said something about you have to have 
a lot of little boy in you to play this game, but you gotta be a man too."

"Roy Campanella," I said.

"Yeah, right, Campanella. Anyway, it's a nice clean kind of work. 
You're important to a lot of kids. You got a chance to influence kids' lives 
maybe, by being an example to them. It's a lot better than selling 
cigarettes or making napalm. It's what I do, you know?"

"What about when you get too old?"

"Maybe I can coach. I'd be a good pitching coach.

Maybe manage. Maybe do color. I'll stay around the game one way or 
another."

"What if you can't?"

"I'll still have Linda and the boy."

"And when the boy grows up?"

"I'll still have Linda."

I was getting caught up in the part. I'd started to lose track. I was 
interested. Maybe some of the questions were about me.

"Maybe I better finish up my Labatt Fifty and go home," I said. "I've 
taken enough of your time."

Linda Rabb said, "Oh no, don't go yet. Marty, get him another beer. We 
were just getting started."

I shook my head, drained my glass, and stood up. "No, thank you very 
much, Linda. We'll talk again."

"Marty, make him stay."

"Linda, for crissake, if he wants to go, let him go. She does this 
every time we have company, Spenser."

They both walked with me to the door. I left them standing together. He 
towered over her in the doorway. His right arm was around her shoulder, and 
she rested her left hand on it. I took a cab home and went to bed. I was 
working my way through Samuel Eliot Morison's The Oxford History of the 
American People, and I spent two hours on it before I went to sleep.

CHAPTER SIX

IT WAS DEAD quiet in my bedroom when I woke up in the morning. The sun
vibrated in the room and the hum of my air conditioner underlined the
silence. I lay on my back with my hands behind my head for a while and
thought about what was bothering me about Linda Rabb.

What was bothering me was that she'd said she knew nothing about 
baseball till she met Marty but that she'd met Marty at a ball game when 
she'd asked for his autograph. The two didn't go together. Nothing much, but 
it didn't fit. It was the only thing that didn't. The rest was whole cloth. 
Middle American jock-ethic-kid and his loving wife. In the off-season I bet 
he hunted and fished and took his little boy sliding.

Would he be going into the tank? "It's what I do," he'd said. "I know 
the rules." I could understand that. I knew about the need for rules. I 
didn't believe he'd dump one. I never believed Nixon would be President 
either. I got up, did 100 push-ups, 100 sit-ups, took a shower, got dressed, 
and made the bed.

There's a restaurant in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, which makes whipped 
cream biscuits, and I got the recipe once while I was up there having dinner 
with Brenda Loring.

I made some while the coffee perked, and while they baked I squeezed a 
pint of orange juice and drank it. I had the biscuits with fresh 
strawberries and sour cream and three cups of coffee.

It was nearly ten o'clock when I got out onto the street.

There was a bright smell of summer outside my apartment house. Across 
Arlington Street the Public Garden was a sunny pleasure. I strolled on past 
the enormous Thomas Ball statue of Washington on horseback. The flower beds 
were rich with petunias and redolent of pansies against a flourish of 
scarlet snapdragons. The swan boats had begun to cruise the pond, pedaled by 
college kids in yachting caps and trailed by an orderly assemblage of hungry 
ducks that broke formation to dart at the peanuts the tourists threw. I 
crossed the bridge over the swan boat lake and headed toward the Common on 
the other side of Charles Street. At the crossing there was a guy selling 
popcorn from a pushcart and another selling ice cream and another selling 
balloons and little monkeys dangling from thin sticks and blue pennants that 
said BOSTON, MASS., in yellow script. I turned right, walked up Charles 
toward Boylston. At the corner was the old guy that takes candids with a big 
tripod camera; faded tan samples were displayed in a case on the tripod. I 
turned up Boylston toward Tremont and down Tremont toward Stuart. My office 
was on Stuart Street. It wasn't much of an office, but it suited the 
location. It would have been an ideal spot for a VD clinic or a public 
exterminator.

I opened the window as soon as I got in. I'd have to remember not to do 
push-ups on the days I had to open that window. I hung up my blue blazer, 
sat down at my desk, got my yellow pad out, and pulled the phone over. By 
one thirty I had pretty well confirmed Marty Rabb's biography as stated.

The town clerk's office in Lafayette, Indiana, established that Marty 
Rabb had in fact lived there and that his parents still did. The office of 
the registrar at Marquette confirmed his attendance and graduation in 1965. 
I called a cop I knew in Providence and asked him if they had anything on 
Rabb when he was at Pawtucket. He called me back in forty minutes to say no. 
He promised me he'd keep his mouth shut about my question, and I half 
thought he would. He was as trustworthy as I was likely to find.

Linda Rabb was more of a problem. There was no record of her marriage 
to Rabb at the Chicago Hall of Records.

As far as they knew, Marty Rabb hadn't married Linda Hawkins or anyone 
else in Chicago in 1970 or any other time.

Maybe they got married by some JP in a suburb. I called Arlington 
Heights and talked with the city clerk himself. No record. How about any 
record of Linda Hawkins or Linda Rabb? None, no birth certificate, no 
marriage license. If I'd wait a minute, he'd check motor vehicles. I waited. 
It was more like ten minutes. The air blowing in from Stuart Street was hot 
and gritty. The sweat had soaked through my polo shirt and made it stick to 
my back. I looked at my watch: 3:15.

I hadn't had lunch yet. I sniffed at the hot breeze. If the wind was 
right, I could catch the scent of sauerbraten wafting across the street from 
Jake Wirth's. It wasn't right. All I could smell was the uncontrolled 
emission of the traffic.

The Arlington Heights city clerk came back on the phone.

"Still there?"

"Yep."

"Got no record of a driver's license. No auto registration. There's 
four Hawkinses in the city directory but no Linda. Want the phone numbers?"

"Yes, and can you give me the number of the school administration 
department?"

"Yeah, one minute, I'll check it here."

He did and gave it to me. I called them. They had no record of Linda 
Rabb or Linda Hawkins. There had been eight children named Hawkins in the 
school system since 1960. Six were boys. The other two were named Doris and 
Olive.

I hung up. Very cooperative.

I called the first Hawkins number in Arlington Heights. No soap. Nor 
was there any soap at the next two.

The fourth number didn't answer. But unless they were the ones when I 
finally got them, I was going to have to wonder about old Linda. I looked at 
my watch: 4:30. Three thirty in Illinois. I hadn't eaten since breakfast. I 
went over to Jake Wirth's, had some sauerbraten and dark beer, came back to 
the office at five forty-five, and called the fourth Hawkins again. A woman 
answered who had never heard of Linda Hawkins.

I swung my chair around and propped my feet on the windowsill and 
looked out at the top floor of the garment loft across the street. It was 
empty. Everyone had gone home.

There are a lot of reasons why someone doesn't check out right off 
quick when you begin to look into her background.

But most of them have to do with deceit, and most deceit is based on 
having something to hide. Two pigeons settled down onto the window ledge of 
the loft and looked at me looking at them. I looked at my watch: 6:10. After 
supper on a summer evening. Twilight softball leagues were getting under way 
at this hour. Kids were going out to hang out on the corner till dark. Men 
were watering their lawns, their wives sitting nearby in lawn chairs. I was 
looking at two pigeons.

Linda Rabb was not what she was supposed to be, and that bothered me, 
like it bothered me that she met Rabb at a ball game even though she wasn't 
interested in baseball till she married him. Little things, but they weren't 
right. The pigeons flew off. The traffic sounds were dwindling. I'd have to 
find out about Linda Rabb. The Sox had a night game tonight, which meant 
Rabb wouldn't be home. But Linda Rabb probably would be because of the kid. 
I called. She was.

"I wonder if I could drop by just for a minute," I said.

"Just want to get the wife's angle on things. You know, what it's like 
to be home while the game's on, that sort of thing."

What a writer I'd make, get the wife's angle. Slick. Probably should 
have said "little woman's angle."

"That's okay, Mr. Spenser, I'm just giving the baby his bath. If you 
drop around in an hour or so, I'll be watching the game on television, but 
we can talk."

I thanked her and hung up. I looked at the window ledge on the garment 
loft some more. My office door opened behind me. I swiveled the chair 
around. A short fat man in a Hawaiian shirt and a panama hat came in and 
left the door open behind him. The shirt hung outside his maroon double knit 
pants. He wore wraparound black-rimmed sunglasses and smoked a cigar. He 
looked around my office without saying anything. I put my feet up on my desk 
and looked at him.

He stepped aside, and another man came in and sat down in front of my 
desk. He was wearing a tan suit, dark brown shirt, and a wide red-striped 
tie in browns, whites, and yellows. His tan loafers were gleaming; his hands 
were manicured; his face was tanned. His hair was bright gray and 
expensively barbered, curling over his collar in the back, falling in a 
single ringlet over his forehead. Despite the gray hair, his face was young 
and unlined. I knew him. His name was Frank Doerr.

"I'd like to talk with you, Spenser."

"Oh golly," I said, "you heard about my whipped cream biscuits and you 
were hoping I'd give you the recipe."

The fat guy in the panama hat had closed the door behind Doerr and was 
leaning against it with his arms folded.

Akim Tamiroff.

Doerr said, "You know who I am, Spenser?"

"Aren't you Julia Child?" I said.

"My name's Doerr. I want to know what business you're doing with the 
Red Sox."

A master of disguise, the man of 1,000 faces. "Red Sox?" I said.

"Red Sox," he said.

"Jesus, I didn't think the word would get out that quickly. How'd you 
find out?"

"Never mind how I found out, I want answers."

"Sure, sure thing, Mr. Doerr. You any relation to Bobby?"

"Don't irritate me, Spenser. I am used to getting answers."

"Yeah, well, I didn't know you had anything against Bobby Doerr, I 
thought he was a hell of a second baseman."

Doerr said, "Wally," without looking around, and the fat man at the 
door brought a gun out from under his flowered shirt. "Now knock off the 
bullshit, Spenser. I haven't got a lot of time to spend in this roach hole."

I thought "roach hole" was a little unkind, but I thought the gun in 
Wally's hand was a little unkind too.

"Okay," I said, "no need to get sore. I was a regional winner in the 
Leon Culberson look-alike contest, and the Sox wanted to talk to me about 
being a designated hitter."

Doerr and Wally looked at me. The silence got to be quite long. "You 
don't think I look like Leon Culberson?" I said.

Doerr leaned forward. "I asked around a little about you, Spenser. I 
heard you think you're a riot. I think you're a roach in a roach hole. I 
think you're a thirty-five-cent piece of hamburg, and I think you need to 
learn some manners."

The building was quiet; the traffic sounds were less frequent through 
the open window. Wally's gun pointed at me without moving. Wally sucked on 
one of his canine teeth. My stomach hurt a little.

Doerr went on. "You are hanging around Fenway Park, hanging around the 
broadcast booth, talking with people, pretending you're a writer, and not 
telling anyone at all that you're only a goddamned egg-sucking snoop, a 
nickeland-dime cheapie. I want to know why, and I want to know right now or 
Wally will make you wish you'd never been born."

I took my feet off the desk, slowly, and put them on the floor. I put 
my hands, slowly, on the desk and stood up. When I was on my feet, I said, 
"Frank, baby, you're a gambling man, and I'll make a bet with you. In fact, 
I'll make two. First one is that you won't shoot because you want to know 
what's happening and what I'm into and it's lousy percentage to shoot a guy 
without being sure why. Second bet is that if your pet pork chop tries to 
hassle me, I can take away his piece and clean his teeth with it. Even 
money."

As far as Wally showed anything, I might have been talking about Sam 
Yorty or the Aga Khan. He didn't move.

Neither did the gun. Doerr's sun-lamp face seemed to have gotten 
whiter. The lines from his nostrils to the corners of his mouth had gotten 
deeper, and his right eyelid tremored. My stomachache continued.

Another silence. If I weren't so tough, I would have thought maybe I 
was scared. Wally's gun was a Walther P.38.

Nine-millimeter. Seven shots in the clip. Nice gun, the grip on a 
Walther was very comfortable, and the balance was good.

Wally seemed happy with his. Below on Stuart Street somebody with a 
trick horn blew shave-and-a-haircut-two-bits.

And some brakes squealed.

Doerr got up suddenly, turned on his heels, and walked out. Wally put 
the gun away, followed him out, and closed the door. I breathed in most of 
the air in the office through my nose and let it out again very slowly. My 
fingertips tingled. I sat down again, opened the bottom desk drawer, took 
out a bottle of bourbon, and drank from the neck. I coughed. I'd have to 
stop buying the house brand at Vito's Superette.

I looked around at the empty office. Green file cabinet, three Vermeer 
prints that Susan Silverman had given me for Christmas, the chair that Doerr 
had sat in. Didn't look so goddamned roachie to me.

CHAPTER SEVEN

I TOOK A POLAROID camera with me when I visited Linda Rabb.

"I want to think about graphics, maybe a coffee table book," I told 
her. "Maybe a big format."

She was in blue jeans, barefoot, a ribbon in her hair, her makeup 
fresh. On a twenty-five-inch color console in the living room, Buck Maynard 
was calling the play by play. "Ah want to tell ya, Holly West could throw a 
lamb chop past a wolf pack, Doc. He gunned Amos Otis down by twenty feet."

"Great arm, Buck," Wilson said, "a real cannon back there."

I snapped some pictures of Linda and the living room from different 
angles.

"Do you get nervous watching Marty pitch, Linda?" I lay on the floor to 
get an exotic angle, shooting up through the glass top of the coffee table.

"No, not so much anymore. He's so good, you know-it's more, I'm 
surprised when he loses. But I don't worry."

"Does he bring it home or leave it at the park?"

"When he loses? He leaves it there. Unless you've been watching the 
game, you don't know if he won or lost when he comes in the door. He doesn't 
talk about it at all. Little Marty barely knows what his father does."

I placed the five color shots on the coffee table in front of Linda 
Rabb.

"Which one do you like best?" I said. "They're only idea shots; if the 
publishers decide to go to the big picture format, we'll use a pro." I 
sounded like Arthur Author--it pays to listen to the Carson show.

She picked up the last one on the left and held it at an angle to the 
light.

"This is an interesting shot," she said. It was the one I'd taken from 
floor level. It was interesting. Casey Crime Photographer.

"Yeah, that's good," I said. "I like that one too." I took it from her 
and put it in an envelope. "How about the others?"

She looked at several more. "They're okay, but the one I gave you first 
is my favorite."

"Okay," I said. "We agree." I scooped the other four into a second 
envelope.

Bucky Maynard said, "We got us a real barn burner here, Doc. Both 
pitchers are hummin' it in there pretty good."

"You're absolutely right, Bucky. A couple of real fine arms out there 
tonight."

I stood up. "Thank you, Linda. I'm sorry to have barged in on you like 
this."

"That's okay. I enjoyed it. The only thing is, I don't know about 
pictures of me, or of the baby. Marty doesn't like to have his family 
brought into things. I mean, we're very private people. Marty may not want 
you to do pictures."

"I can understand that, Linda. Don't worry. There are lots of people on 
the team, and if we decide to go to visuals, we can use some of them if 
Marty objects."

She shook my hand at the door. It was a bony hand and cold.

Outside, it was dark now, and the traffic was infrequent. I walked up 
Mass Ave toward the river, crossing before I got to Boylston Street to look 
at the Spanish melons in the window of a gourmet food shop. Mingled with the 
smell of automobiles and commerce were the thin, damp smell of the river and 
the memory of trees and soil that the city supplanted. At Marlborough I 
turned right and strolled down toward my apartment. The small trees and the 
flowering shrubs in front of the brick and brownstone buildings enhanced the 
river smell.

It was nine fifteen when I got in my apartment. I called the Essex 
County DA's office on the chance that someone might be there late. Someone 
was, probably an assistant DA working up a loan proposal so he could open an 
office and go into private practice.

"Lieutenant Healy around?" I asked.

"Nope, he's working out of ten-ten Commonwealth, temporary duty, 
probably be there a couple of months. Can I do anything for you?"

I said no and hung up.

I called state police headquarters at 1010 Commonwealth Ave in Boston. 
Healy wasn't in. Call back in the morning. I hung up and turned on the TV. 
Boston had a two-run lead over Kansas City. I opened a bottle of Amstel 
beer, lay down on my couch, and watched the ball game. John Mayberry tied 
the game with a one-on home run in the top of the ninth, and I went through 
three more Amstels before Johnny Tabor scored from third on a Holly West 
sacrifice fly in the eleventh inning. While the news was on, I made a 
Westphalian ham sandwich on pumpernickel, ate it, and drank another bottle 
of Amstel. A man needs sustenance before bed. I might have an exciting 
dream. I didn't.

Next morning I drove over to 1010 Commonwealth.

Healy was in his office, his coat off, the cuffs of his white shirt 
turned back, but the narrow black knit tie neat and tight around the short, 
pointed collar. He was medium height, slim, with a gray crew cut and pale 
blue eyes like Paul Newman.

He looked like a career man in a discount shirt store. Five years ago 
he had gone into a candy store unarmed and rescued two hostages from a 
nervous junkie with a shotgun. The only person hurt was the junkie.

He said, "What do you want, Spenser?" I was always one of his 
favorites.

I said, "I'm selling copies of the Police Gazette and thought you might 
wish to keep abreast of the professional developments in your field."

"Knock off the horse crap, Spenser, what do you want?"

I took out the envelope containing my Polaroid picture of Marty Rabb's 
coffee table.

"There's a photograph in here with two sets of prints on it. One set is 
mine. I want to know who the other one belongs to. Can you run it through 
the FBI for me?"

"Why?"

"Would you buy, I'm getting married and want to run a credit check on 
my bride-to-be?"

"No."

"I didn't think so. Okay. It's confidential. I don't want to tell you 
if I don't have to. But I gotta know, and I'll give you the reasons if you 
insist."

"Where do you buy your clothes, Spenser?"

"Aha, bribery. You want the name of my tailor, because I'm your 
clothing idol."

"You dress like a goddamned hippie. Don't you own a tie?"

"One," I said. "So I can eat in the main dining room at the Ritz."

"Gimme the photo," Healy said. "I'll let you know what comes back."

I gave him the envelope. "Tell your people to try and not get grape 
jelly and marshmallow fluff all over the photo, okay?"

Healy ignored me. I left.

Going out, I got a look at myself in the glass doors. I had on a red 
and black paisley sport coat, a black polo shirt, black slacks, and shiny 
black loafers with a crinkle finish and gold buckles. Hippie? Healy's idea 
of aggressive fashion was French cuffs. I put on my sunglasses, got in my 
car, and headed down Commonwealth toward Kenmore Square. The top was down 
and the seat was quite hot. Not a single girl turned to stare at me as I 
went by.

CHAPTER EIGHT

I WENT OVER to Fenway and watched the Sox get ready for an afternoon
game. I talked for a half hour with Holly West and a half hour with Alex
Montoya to keep up my investigative-writer image, but I wondered how long
that would last. Doerr knew I was there, which meant probably that
someone there knew I was not a writer. Which also meant that there was a
connection between Doerr and the Sox, a connection Doerr wanted to
protect. He'd made an error coming to see me. But it's the kind of error
guys like Doerr are always making. They get so used to having everyone
say yes to them that they forget about the chance that someone will say
no. People with a lot of power get like that. They think they're
omnipotent.

They screw up. Doerr was so surprised that I told him and Wally to take 
a walk that he didn't know what else to do, so he took a walk. But the cat 
was now out of the valise. I had a feeling I might hear from Doerr again. It 
was not a soothing feeling.

I was leaning against the railing of the box seats by the Red Sox 
dugout, watching batting practice, when Billy Carter said, "Hey, Spenser, 
want to take a few cuts?"

I did, but I couldn't take my coat off and show the gun.

And I didn't want to swing with my coat on. I didn't need any 
handicaps. I shook my head.

"Why not? Sully's just lobbing them up," Carter said.

"I promised my mom when I took up the violin I'd never play baseball 
again."

"Violin? Are you shitting? You don't look like no violinist to me. How 
much you weigh?"

"One ninety-five, one ninety-seven, around there."

"Yeah? You work out or anything?"

"I lift a little. Run some."

"Yeah. I thought you did something. You didn't get that neck from 
playing no fiddle. What can you bench?"

"Two fifty."

"How many reps?"

"Fifteen."

"Hey, man, we oughta set up an arm wrestle between you and Holly. 
Wouldn't that be hot shit if you beat him?

Man, Holly would turn blue if a goddamned writer beat him arm 
wrestling."

"Who's pitching today?" I asked.

"Marty," Carter said. "Who busted up your nose?"

"It's a long list," I said. "I used to fight once. How's Marty to 
catch?"

"A tit," Carter said. One of the coaches was hitting fungoes to the 
outfield from a circle to the right of the batting cage. The ball parabolaed 
out in what seemed slow motion against the high tangible sky. "A real tit. 
You just sit back there and put your glove on the back of the plate and 
Marty hits it. And you can call the game. You give a sign, Marty nods, and 
the pitch comes right there. He never shakes you off."

"Everything works, huh?"

"Yeah, I mean he's got the fast ball, slider, a big curve, and a change 
off all of them. And he can put them all up a gnat's ass at sixty feet six, 
you know. I mean, he's a tit to catch. If I could catch him every day, and 
the other guys didn't throw curves, I could be Hall of Fame, baby. 
Cooperstown."

"When do you think you'll catch a game, Billy?"

"Soon as Holly gets so he can't walk. Around there.

Whoops . . . here comes the song of the South, old hush puppy.

Bucky Maynard had come out from under the stands and was behind the 
batting cage. With him was Lester, resplendent in a buckskin hunting shirt 
and a black cowboy hat with big silver conches on the band around the crown. 
Maynard had swapped his red-checked shirt for a white one with green ferns 
on it. His arms in the short sleeves were pink with sunburn. He had the look 
of someone who didn't tan.

"You don't seem too fond of Maynard," I said.

"Me? I love every ounce of his cuddly little lard-assed self."

"Okay to quote you?" I wanted to see Carter's reaction.

"Jesus, no. If sowbelly gets on your ass, you'll find yourself warming 
up relievers in the Sally League. No shit, Spenser, I think he's got more 
influence around here than Farrell."

"How come?"

"I don't know. I mean, the freakin' fans love him. They think he's 
giving them the real scoop, you know, all the hot gossip about the 
big-league stars, facts you don't get on the bubble-gum card."

"Is he?"

"No, not really. He's just nasty. If he hears any gossip, he spreads
it. The goddamned yahoos eat it up. Tell-it-like-it-is Bucky. Shit."

"What's the real story on the lizard that trails behind him?"

"Lester?"

"Yeah."

Carter shrugged. "I dunno, he drives Bucky around.

He keeps people away from him. He's some kind of karate freak or 
whatever."

"Tae kwon do," I said. "It's Korean karate."

"Yeah, whatever. I wouldn't mess much with him either. I guess he's a 
real bastard. I hear he did a real tune on some guy out in Anaheim. The guy 
was giving Maynard some crap in the hotel bar out there and Lester the 
Fester damn near killed him. Hey, I gotta take some swings. Catch you 
later."

Carter headed for the batting cage. Clyde Sullivan, the pitching coach, 
was pitching batting practice, and when Carter stepped in, he turned and 
waved the outfielders in.

"Up yours, Sully," Carter said. Maynard left the batting cage and 
strolled over toward me. Lester moved along bonelessly behind him.

"How you doing, Mr. Spenser?" Maynard said.

"Fine," I said. "And yourself?"

"Oh, passable, for an older gentleman. That Carter's funny as a crutch, 
ain't he?"

I nodded "Ah just wish his arm was as good as his mouth," Maynard said. 
"He can't throw past the pitcher's mound."

"How's his bat?"

Maynard smiled. It was not a radiant smile; the lips pulled down over 
the teeth so that the smile was a toothless crescent in his red face with 
neither warmth nor humor suggested. "He's all right if the ball comes 
straight. Except the ball don't never come straight a course."

"Nice kid, though," I said. Lester had hooked both elbows over the 
railings and was standing with one booted foot against the wall and one foot 
flat on the ground. Gary Cooper. He spit a large amount of brown saliva 
toward the batter's cage, and I realized he was chewing tobacco. When he got 
into an outfit, he went all the way.

"Maybe," Maynard said, "but ah wouldn't pay much mind to what he says. 
He likes to run his mouth."

"Don't we all," I said. "Hell, writers and broadcasters get paid for 
it."

"Ah get paid for reporting what happens, Carter tends to make stuff up. 
There's a difference."

Maynard looked quite steadily at me, and I had the feeling we were 
talking about serious stuff. Lester spit another dollop of tobacco juice.

"Okay by me," I said. "I'm just here listening and thinking. I'm not 
making any judgments yet."

"What might you be making judgments about, Spenser?"

"What to include, what to leave out, what seems to be the truth, what 
seems to be fertilizer. Why do you ask?"

"Just interested. Ah like to know a man, and one way is to know how he 
does his job. Ah'm just lookin' into how you do yours."

"Fair enough," I said. "I'll be looking into how you do yours in a 
bit." Veiled innuendo, that's the ticket, Spenser.

Subtle.

"Long as you don't interfere, ah'll be happy to help.

Who'd you say was your publisher?"

"Subsidy," I said. "Subsidy Press, in New York."

Maynard looked at his watch. It was one of those that you press a 
button and the time is given as a digital readout.

"Well, time for the Old Buckaroo to get on up to the booth.

Nice talking to you, Spenser."

He waddled off, his feet splayed, the toes pointing out at 
forty-five-degree angles. Lester unhinged and slouched after him, eyes alert 
under the hatbrim for lurking rustlers.

There never was a man like Shane. Tomorrow he'd probably be D'Artagnan.

There'd been some fencing going on there, more than there should have 
been. It was nearly one. I went down into the locker room and used the phone 
on Farrell's desk to call Brenda Loring at work.

"I have for you, my dear, a proposition," I said.

"I know," she said. "You make it every time I see you."

"Not that proposition," I said. "I have an additional one, though that 
previously referred to above should not be considered thereby inoperative."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I didn't understand that either," I said. "Look, here's my plan. If 
you can get the afternoon off, I will escort you to the baseball game, buy 
you some peanuts and Cracker Jacks, and you won't care if you ever come 
back."

"Do I get dinner afterwards?"

"Certainly and afterwards we can go to an all-night movie and neck. 
What do you say?"

"Oh, be still my heart," she said. "Shall I meet you at the park?"

"Yeah, Jersey Street entrance. You'll recognize me at once by the 
cluster of teenyboppers trying to get me to autograph their bras."

"I'll hurry," she said.

CHAPTER NINE

WHEN BRENDA LORING GOT OUT of a brown and white Boston cab, I was
brushing off an old man in an army shirt and a flowered tie who wanted
me to give him a quarter.

"Did you autograph his bra, sweetie?" she said.

"They were here," I said, "but I warned them about your jealous passion 
and they fled at your approach."

"Fled? That is quite fancy talk for a professional thug."

"That's another thing. Around here I'm supposed to be writing a book. 
My true identity must remain concealed. Reveal it to no one."

"A writer?"

"Yeah. I'm supposed to be doing a book on the Red Sox and baseball."

"Was that your agent you were talking with when I drove up?"

"No, a reader."

She shook her head. Her blond hair was cut short and shaped around her 
head. Her eyes were green. Her makeup was expert. She was wearing a short 
green dress with a small floral print and long sleeves. She was darkly 
tanned, and a small gold locket gleamed on a thin chain against her chest 
where the neckline of the dress formed a V. Across Jersey Street a guy 
selling souvenirs was staring at her. I was staring at her too. I always 
did. She was ten pounds on the right side of plump. "Voluptuous," I said.

"I beg your pardon."

"That's how we writers would describe you. Voluptuous with a saucy hint 
of deviltry lurking in the sparkling of the eyes and the impertinent cast of 
the mouth."

"Spenser, I want a hot dog and some beer and peanuts and a ball game. 
Could you please, please, please, pretty please, please with sugar on it 
knock off the writer bullshit and escort me through the gate?"

I shook my head. "Writers aren't understood much," I said, and we went 
in.

I was showing off for Brenda and took her up to the broadcast booth to 
watch the game. My presence didn't seem to be a spur to the Red Sox. They 
lost to Kansas City 5-2, with Freddie Patek driving in three runs on a 
bases-loaded fly ball that Alex Montoya played into a triple. Maynard 
ignored us, Wilson studied Brenda closely between innings, and Lester boned 
up on the National Enquirer through the whole afternoon. Thoughtful.

It was four ten when we got out onto Jersey Street again. Brenda said, 
"Who was the cute thing in the cowboy suit?"

"Never mind about him," I said. "I suppose you're not going to settle 
for the two hot dogs I bought you."

"For dinner? I'll wait right here for the cowboy."

"Where would you like to go? It's early, but we could stop for a 
drink."

We decided on a drink at the outdoor cafe by City Hall.

I had draft beer, and Brenda a stinger on the rocks, under the colorful 
umbrellas across from the open brick piazza. The area was new, reclaimed 
from the miasma of Scollay Square where Winnie Garrett the Flaming Redhead 
used to take it all off on the first show Monday before the city censor 
decreed the G-string. Pinball parlors, and tattoo shops, the Old Howard and 
the Casino, winos, whores, sailors, barrooms, and novelty shops: an 
adolescent vision of Sodom and Gomorrah, all gone now, giving way to 
fountains and arcades and a sweep of open plaza.

"You know, it never really was Sodom and Gomorrah anyway," I said.

"What wasn't?"

"Scollay Square. It was pre-Vietnam sin. Burlesque dancers and barrooms 
where bleached blondes danced in G-strings and net stockings. Places that 
sold plastic dog turds and whoopee cushions."

"I never came here," she said. "My mother had me convinced that to step 
into Scollay Square was to be molested instantly."

"Naw. There were ten college kids here for every dirty old man. 
Compared to the Combat Zone, Scollay Square was the Goosie Gander Nursery 
School."

I ordered two more drinks. The tables were glasstopped and the cafe was 
carpeted in Astroturf. The waitress was attentive. Brenda Loring's nails 
were done in a bright red. Dark was still a long way off.

Brenda went to the ladies' room, and I called my answering service. 
There was a message to call Healy. He'd be in his office till six. I looked 
at my watch: 5:40. I called.

"This is Spenser, what have you got?"

"Prints belong to Donna Burlington." He spelled it.

"Busted in Redford, Illinois, three-eighteen-sixty-six, for possession 
of a prohibited substance. That's when the prints got logged into the bureau 
files. No other arrests recorded."

"Thanks, Lieutenant."

"You owe me," Healy said and hung up. Mr. Warmth.

I was back at the table before Brenda.

At seven fifteen we strolled up Tremont Street to a French restaurant 
in the old City Hall and had rack of lamb for two and a chilled bottle of 
Traminer and strawberry tarts for dessert. It was nearly nine thirty when we 
finished and walked back up School Street to Tremont. It was dark now but 
still warm, a soft night, midsummer, and the Common seemed very gentle as we 
strolled across it. Brenda Loring held my hand as we walked. No one 
attempted to mug us all the way to Marlborough Street.

In my apartment I said to Brenda, "Want some brandy or would you like 
to get right to the necking?"

"Actually, cookie, I would like first to take a shower."

"A shower?"

"Uh-huh. You pour us two big snifters of brandy and hop into bed, and 
I'll come along in a few minutes."

"A shower?"

"Go on," she said. "I won't take long."

I went to the kitchen and got a bottle of Remy Martin out of the 
kitchen cabinet. Did David Niven keep cognac in the kitchen? Not likely. I 
got two brandy snifters out and filled them half full and headed back toward 
the bedroom. I could hear the shower running. I put the two glasses down on 
the bureau and got undressed. The shower was still running.

I went to the bathroom door. My bare feet made no noise at all on the 
wall-to-wall carpeting. I turned the handle and it opened. The room was 
steamy. Brenda's clothes were in a small pile on the floor under the sink. I 
noticed her lingerie matched her dress. Class. The steam was billowing up 
over the drawn shower curtain. I looked in. Brenda had her eyes closed, her 
head arched back, the water running down over her shiny brown body. Her 
buttocks were in white contrast to the rest of her. She was humming an old 
Billy Eckstine song. I got in behind her and put my arms around her.

"Jesus Christ, Spenser," she said. "What are you doing?"

"Cleanliness is next to godliness," I said. "Want me to wash your 
back?"

She handed me the soap and I lathered her back.

When I was finished, she turned to rinse it off, and her breasts, as 
she faced me, were the same startling white that her buttocks had been.

"Want me to wash your front?" I said.

She laughed and put her arms around me. Her body was slick and wet. I 
kissed her. There is excitement in a new kiss, but there is a quality of 
memory and intimacy in kissing someone you've kissed often before. I liked 
the quality. Maybe continuity is better than change. With the shower still 
running we went towelless to bed.

CHAPTER TEN

TEN HOURS LATER I was in the coach section, window seat, aft of the
wing, in an American Airlines 747, sipping coffee and chewing with
little pleasure a preheated bun that tasted vaguely of adhesive tape. We
were passing over Buffalo, which was a good idea, and heading for
Chicago.

Beside me was a kid, maybe fifteen, and his brother, maybe eleven. They 
were discussing somebody named Ben, who might have been a dog, laughing like 
hell about it. Their mother and father across the aisle took turns giving 
them occasional warning glances when the laughter got raucous.

Their mother looked like she might be a fashion designer or a lady 
lawyer; the old man looked like a stevedore, uncomfortable in a shirt and 
tie. Beauty and the beast.

We got into Chicago at eleven. I rented a car, got a road map from the 
girl at the rental agency counter, and drove southwest from Chicago toward 
Redford, Illinois. It took six and a half hours, and the great heartland of 
America was hot as hell. My green rental Dodge had air conditioning and I 
kept it at full blast all the way. About two thirty I stopped at a diner and 
had two cheeseburgers and a black coffee. There was a blackberry pie which 
the counterman claimed his wife made, and I ate two pieces. He had married 
well. About four thirty the highway bent south and I saw the river. I'd seen 
it before, but each time I felt the same tug. The Mississippi, Cartier and 
La Salle, Grant at Vicksburg and "it's lovely to live on a raft." A mile 
wide and "just keeps rolling." I pulled up onto the shoulder of the highway 
and looked at it for maybe five minutes. It was brown and placid.

I got to Redford at twenty of seven and checked into a two-story 
Holiday Inn just north of town that offered a view of the river and a 
swimming pool. The dining room was open and more than half empty. I ordered 
a draft beer and looked at the menu. The beer came in an enormous schooner. 
I ordered Wiener schnitzel and fresh garden vegetables and was startled to 
find when it came that it was excellent. I had finished two of the enormous 
schooners by then and perhaps my palate was insensitive to nuance. My 
compliments to the chef.

Three stars for the Holiday Inn in Redford, Illinois. I signed the 
check and went to bed.

The next morning I went into town. Outside the airconditioned motel the 
air was hot with a strong river smell.

Cicadas hummed. The Holiday Inn and the Mississippi River were 
obviously Redford's high spots. It was a very small town, barely more than a 
cluster of shabby frame houses along the river. The yards were mostly bare 
dirt with an occasional clump of coarse and ratty-looking grass. The town's 
single main street contained a hardware and feed store, a Woolworth's 
five-and-ten, Scooter's Lunch, Bill and Betty's Market with two Phillips 66 
pumps out front, and, fronting on a small square of dandelion-spattered 
grass, the yellow clapboard two-story town hall. There were two Greek 
Revival columns holding up the overhanging second floor and a bell tower 
that extended up perhaps two more stories to a thin spire with a weathervane 
at the tip. In the small square were a nineteenth-century cannon and a 
pyramid of cannonballs.

Two kids were sitting astride the cannon as I pulled up in front of the 
town hall. In the parking area to the right of the town hall was a black and 
white Chevy with a whip antenna and POLICE lettered on the side. I went 
around to that side and down along the building. In the back was a screen 
door with a small blue light over it. I went in.

There was a head-high standing floor fan at the long end of a narrow 
room, and it blew a steady stream of hot air at me. To my right was a low 
mahogany dividing rail, and behind it a gray steel desk and matching swivel 
chair, a radio receiver-transmitter and a table mike on a maple table with 
claw and ball feet, a white round-edged refrigerator with gold trim, and 
some wanted posters fixed to the door with magnets. And a gray steel file 
cabinet.

A gray-haired man with rimless glasses and a screaming eagle emblem 
tattooed on his right forearm was sitting at the desk with his arms folded 
across his chest and his feet up.

He had on a khaki uniform, obviously starched, and his black engineer 
boots gleamed with polish. A buff-colored campaign hat lay on the desk 
beside an open can of Dr Pepper. On a wheel-around stand next to the radio 
equipment a portable black-and-white television was showing Hollywood 
Squares.

A nameplate on the desk said T. P. DONALDSON. A big silver star on his 
shirt said SHERIFF. A brown cardboard bakery box on the desk contained what 
looked like some lemon-filled doughnuts.

"My name's Spenser," I said, and showed the photostat of my license in 
its clear plastic coating. Germ-free. "I'm trying to backtrack a woman named 
Donna Burlington. According to the FBI records she was arrested here in 
nineteen sixty-six."

"Sheriff Donaldson," the gray-haired man said, and stood up to shake 
hands. He was tall and in shape with healthy color to his tan face, and 
oversize hands with prominent knuckles. His shirt was ironed in a military 
press and had been tailored down so that it was skintight.

"Hundred and First?" I said.

"The tattoo? Yeah. I was a kid then, you know. Fulla piss and vinegar, 
drunk in London, and three of us got it done. My wife's always telling me to 
get rid of it but . . ." He shrugged. "You airborne?"

"Nope, infantry and a different war. But I remember the Hundred and 
First. Were you at Bastogne?"

"Yep. Had a bad case of boils on my back. The medics said I ought to 
eat better food and wash more often." His face was solemn. "Krauts took care 
of it, though. I got a back full of shrapnel and the boils were gone."

"Medical science," I said.

He shook his head. "Christ, that was thirty years ago."

"It's one of the things you don't forget," I said.

"You don't for sure," he said. "Who was that you were after?"

"Burlington, Donna Burlington. A.k.a. Linda Hawkins, about twenty-six 
years old, five feet four, black hair, FBI records show she was 
fingerprinted here in nineteen sixty-six, at which time she would have been 
about eighteen. You here then?"

He nodded. "Yep, I been here since nineteen forty-six."

He turned toward the file cabinet. A pair of handcuffs draped over his 
belt in the small of his back, and he wore an army .45

in a government-issue flap holster on his right hip. He rustled through 
the third file drawer down and came up with a manila folder. He opened it, 
his back still to me, and read through the contents, closed it, turned 
around, put the folder facedown on the desk, and sat down. "You want a Dr 
Pepper?"

he said?

"No, thanks. You have Donna Burlington?"

"Could I see your license again, and maybe some other ID?"

I gave him the license and my driver's license. He looked at them 
carefully and turned them back to me. "Why do you want to know about Donna 
Burlington?"

"I don't want to tell you. I'm looking into something that might hurt a 
lot of people, who could turn out to be innocent, if the word got out."

"What's Donna Burlington got to do with it?"

"She lied to me about her name, where she lived, how she got married. I 
want to know why."

"You think she's committed a crime?"

"Not that I know of. I don't want her for anything. I just ran across a 
lie and I want to run it down. You know how it goes, people lie to you, you 
want to know why."

Donaldson nodded. He took a swig from his Dr Pepper, swallowed it, and 
began to suck on his upper lip.

"I don't want to stir up old troubles," I said. "She was eighteen when 
you busted her. Everyone is entitled to screw up when they're eighteen. I 
just want to know about her."

Donaldson kept sucking on his upper lip and looking at me.

"It'll be worse if I start asking around and get people wondering why 
some dick from the East is asking about Donna Burlington. I'll find out 
anyway. This isn't that big a place."

"I might not let you ask around," Donaldson said.

"Aw come on, Hondo," I said. "If you give me trouble, I'll go get the 
state cops and a court order and come on back and ask around and more people 
will notice and a bigger puff of smoke will go up and you'll be worse off 
than you are now.

I'm making what you call your legitimate inquiry."

"Persistent sonovabitch, aren't you? Okay, I'll go along. I just don't 
like telling people's business to others without a pretty good reason."

"Me either," I said.

"Okay." He opened the folder and looked at it. "I arrested Donna 
Burlington for possession of three marijuana cigarettes. She was smoking 
with two boys from Buckston in a pickup truck back of Scooter's Lunch. It 
was a first offense, but we were a little jumpier about reefers around here 
in 'sixty-six than we are now. I booked her; she went to court and got a 
suspended sentence and a year's probation. Six weeks later she broke 
probation and went off to New York City with a local hellion. She never came 
back."

"What was the hellion's name?"

"Tony Reece. He was about seven or eight years older than Donna."

"What kind of kid was she?"

"It was a while ago," Donaldson said. "But kind of restless, not really 
happy, you know--nothing bad, but she had a reputation, hung out with the 
older hotshots. The first girl in class to smoke, the first to drink, the 
first one to try pot, the one the boys took out as soon as they dared while 
the other girls were still going to dancing school at the grange hall and 
blushing if someone talked dirty."

"Family still live in town?"

"Yeah, but they don't know where she is. After she took off, they were 
after me to locate her. But there's only me and two deputies, and one of 
them's part-time. When nothing came of that, they wrote her off. In a way 
they were probably glad she took off. They didn't know what to do with her. 
She was a late baby, you know? The Burlingtons never had any kids, and then, 
when Mrs. Burlington was going through the change, there came Donna. That's 
what my wife says anyway.

Embarrassed hell out of both of them."

"How about Reece? He ever show up again?"

Donaldson shook his head. "Nope. I heard he got in some kind of jam in 
New York and he might be doing time.

But he hasn't shown up around here anyway."

"Okay, any last known address?"

"Just the house here."

"Can you give me that? I'd like to talk to the parents."

"I'll drive you over. They'll be a little easier if I'm there. They're 
old and they get nervous."

"I'm not going to give them the third degree, Donaldson, I'm just going 
to talk to them and ask them if they know anything more than you do about 
Donna Burlington."

"I'll go along. They're sorta shiftless and crummy, but they're my 
people, you know? I like to look out for them."

I nodded. "Okay, let's go."

We got into Donaldson's black and white and drove back up the main 
street past the row of storefronts and the sparse yards. At the end of the 
street we turned left, down toward the river, and pulled up in front of a 
big shanty. Originally it had probably been a four-room bungalow backing 
onto the river. Over the years lean-tos and sagging additions had been 
scabbed onto it so that it was difficult to say how many rooms there were 
now. The area in front of the house was mud, and several dirty white 
chickens pecked in it. A brown and white pig had rooted itself out a hollow 
against the foundation and was sleeping in it. To the right of the front 
door, two big gas bottles of dull gray-green metal stood upright, and to the 
left the remnants of a vine were so bedraggled I couldn't recognize what 
kind it was. The land to the side and rear of the house sloped in a kind of 
eroded gully down to the river. There was a stack of old tires at the corner 
of one of the lean-tos, and beyond that the rusted frame of a forty-year-old 
pickup truck, a stack of empty vegetable crates, and on the flat mud margin 
where the river lapped at the land a bedspring, mossy and slick with river 
scum.

I thought of Linda Rabb in her Church Park apartment with the fresh 
jeans and her black hair gleaming.

"Come to where the flavor is," I said.

"Yeah, it's not much, is it? Don't much wonder that Donna took off as 
soon as she could." We got up and walked to the front door. There were the 
brown remains of a wreath hanging from a galvanized nail. The ghost of 
Christmas past.

Maybe of a Christmas future for the Burlingtons.

An old woman answered Donaldson's knock. She was fat and lumpy in a 
yellow housedress. Her legs were bare and mottled, her feet thrust into 
scuffed men's loafers. Her gray hair was short and straight around her head, 
the ends uneven, cut at home probably, with dull scissors. Her face was 
nearly without features, fat puffing around her eyes, making them seem small 
and squinty.

"Morning, Mrs. Burlington," Donaldson said. "Got a man here from Boston 
wants to talk with you about Donna."

She looked at me. "You seen Donna?" she said.

"May we come in?" I said.

She stood aside. "I guess so," she said. Her voice wasn't very old, but 
it was without variation, a tired monotone, as if there were nothing worth 
saying.

Donaldson took off his hat and went in. I followed. The room smelled of 
kerosene and dogs and things I didn't recognize. The clutter was dense. 
Donaldson and I found room on an old daybed and sat. Mrs. Burlington 
shuffled off down a corridor and returned in a moment with her husband. He 
was pallid and bald, a tall old man in a sleeveless undershirt and black 
worsted trousers with the fly open. His face had gray stubble on it, and 
some egg was dried in the corner of his mouth. The skin was loose on his 
thin white arms and wrinkled in the fold at the armpit. He poured a handful 
of Bond Street pipe tobacco from a can into the palm of his hand and slurped 
it into his mouth.

He nodded at Donaldson, who said, "Morning, Mr.

Burlington." Mrs. Burlington stood, and they both looked at Donaldson 
and me without moving or speaking. American Gothic.

I said, "I'm a detective. I can't tell you where your daughter is, 
except that she's well and happy. But I need to learn a little about her 
background. I mean her no harm, and I'm trying to help her, but the whole 
situation is very confidential."

"What do you want to know?" Mrs. Burlington said.

"When is the last time you heard from her?"

Mrs. Burlington said, "We ain't. Not since she run off."

"No letter, no call, nothing. Not a word?"

Mrs. Burlington shook her head. The old man made no move, changed his 
expression not at all.

"Do you know where she went when she left here?"

"Left us a note saying she was going to New York with a fellow we never 
met, never heard nothing more."

"Didn't you look for her?"

Mrs. Burlington nodded at Donaldson, "Told T.P. here.

He looked. Couldn't find her." A bony mongrel dog with short yellow fur 
and mismatched ears appeared behind Mr. Burlington. He growled at us, and 
Burlington turned and kicked him hard in the ribs. The dog yelped and 
disappeared.

"You ever hear from Tony Reece?" It was like talking to a postoperative 
lobotomy case. And compared to the old man, she was animated.

She shook her head. "Never seen him," she said. The old man squirted a 
long stream of tobacco juice at a cardboard box of sand behind the door. He 
missed.

And that was it. They didn't know anything about anything, and they 
didn't care. The old man never spoke while I was there and just nodded when 
Donaldson said good-bye.

In the car Donaldson said, "Where to now?"

"Let's just sit here a minute until I catch my breath."

"They been poor all their life," Donaldson said. "It tends to wear you 
out." I nodded.

"Okay, how about Tony Reece? He got any family here?"

"Nope. Folks are both dead." Donaldson started the engine and turned 
the car back toward the town hall. When we got there, he offered me his 
hand. "If I was you, Spenser, I'd try New York next."

"Fun City," I said.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

IT WAS SUNSET when the plane swung in over the water and landed at La
Guardia Airport. I took the bus into the East Side terminal at
Thirty-eighth Street and a cab from there to the Holiday Inn at West
Fifty-seventh Street. The Wiener schnitzel had been so good in Redford,
I thought I might as well stay with a winner.

The West Side hadn't gotten any more fashionable since I had been there 
last and the hotel looked as if it belonged where it was. The lobby was so 
discouraging that I didn't bother to check the dining room for Wiener 
schnitzel.

Instead, I walked over to a Scandinavian restaurant on Fiftyeighth 
Street and ravaged its smorgasbord.

The next morning I made some phone calls to the New York Department of 
Social Services while I drank coffee in my room. When I finished I walked 
along Fifty-seventh Street to Fifth Avenue and headed downtown. I always 
walk in New York. In the window of F.A.O. Schwarz was an enormous stuffed 
giraffe, and Brentano's had a display of ethnic cookbooks in the window. I 
thought about going in and asking them if they were a branch of the Boston 
store but decided not to. They probably lacked my zesty sense of humor.

It was about nine forty-five when I reached Thirtyfourth Street and 
turned left. Four blocks east, between Third and Second avenues, was a 
three-story beige brick building that looked like a modified fire station. 
The brown metal entrance doors, up four stairs, were flanked with flagpoles 
at right angles to the building. A plaque under the right-hand flagpole said 
CITY OF NEW YORK, DEPARTMENT OF SOCIAL SERVICES, YORKVILLE INCOME 
MAINTENANCE CENTER. I went in.

It was a big open room, the color a predictable green; molded plastic 
chairs in red, green, and blue stood three rows deep to the right of the 
entrance. To the left a low counter.

Behind the counter a big black woman with blue-framed glasses on a 
chain around her neck was telling an old woman in an ankle-length dress that 
her check would come next week and would not come sooner. The woman 
protested in broken English, and the woman behind the desk said it again, 
louder. At the end of the counter, sitting in a folding chair, was a New 
York City cop, a slim black woman with badge, gun, short hair, and enormous 
high platform shoes. Beyond the counter the room L'd to the left, and I 
could see office space partitioned off. There was no one else on the floor.

Behind me, to the right of the entry, a stair led up. A handprinted 
sign said FACE TO FACE UPSTAIRS with an arrow. I went up. The second floor 
had been warrened off into cubicles where face to face could go on in 
privacy. The first cubicle was busy; the second was not. I knocked on the 
frame of the open door and went in. It was little bigger than a 
confessional, just a desk, a file cabinet, and a chair for the face to face. 
The woman at the desk was lean and young, not long out of Vassar or 
Bennington. She had a tanned outdoor face, with small lines around the eyes 
that she wasn't supposed to get yet. She had on a white sleeveless blouse 
open at the neck. Her brown hair was cut short and she wore no makeup. Her 
face presented an expression of no-nonsense compassion that I suspected she 
was still working on. The sign on her desk said MS.

Harris.

"Come in," she said, her hands resting on the neat desk in front of 
her. A pencil in the right one. I was dressed for New York in my 
wheat-colored summer suit, dark blue shirt, and a white tie with blue and 
gold stripes. Would she invite me to her apartment? Maybe she thought I was 
another welfare case. If so, I'd have to speak with my tailor. I gave her a 
card; she frowned down at it for about thirty seconds and then looked up and 
said, "Yes?"

"Do you think I ought to have a motto on it?" I said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"A motto," I said. "On the card. You know, like 'We never sleep' or 
maybe 'Trouble is my business.' Something like that."

"Mr."--she checked the card--"Spenser, I assume you're joking and 
there's nothing wrong with that, but I have a good deal to do and I wonder 
if you might tell me what you want directly?"

"Yes, ma'am. May I sit?"

"Please do."

"Okay, I'm looking for a young woman who might have showed up here and 
gone on welfare about eight years ago."

"Why do you want to find her?"

I shook my head. "It's a reasonable question, but I can't tell you."

She frowned at me the way she had frowned at my card. "Why do you think 
we'd have information about something that far back?"

"Because you are a government agency. Government agencies never throw 
anything away because someone someday might need something to cover himself 
in case a question of responsibility was raised. You got welfare records for 
Peter Stuyvesant."

The frown got more severe, making a groove between her eyebrows. "Why 
do you think this young woman was on welfare?"

"You shouldn't frown like that," I said. "You'll get little premature 
wrinkles in the corners of your eyes."

"I would prefer it, Mr. Spenser, if you did not attempt to personalize 
this contact. The condition of my eyes is not relevant to this discussion."

"Ah, but how they sparkle when you're angry," I said.

She almost smiled, caught herself, and got the frown back in place. 
"Answer my question, please."

"She was about eighteen; she ran away from a small midwestern town with 
the local bad kid, who probably ditched her after they got here. She's a 
good bet to have ended up on welfare or prostitution or both. I figured that 
you'd have better records than Diamond Nell's Parlor of Delight."

The pencil in her right hand went tap-tap-tap on the desk. Maybe six 
taps before she heard it and stopped. "The fact of someone's presence on 
welfare rolls has sometimes been used against them. Cruel as that may seem, 
it is a fact of life, and I hope you can understand my reticence in this 
matter."

"I'm on the girl's side," I said.

"But I have no way to know that."

"Just my word," I said.

"But I don't know if your word is good."

"That's true," I said. "You don't."

The pencil went tap-tap-tap again. She looked at the phone. Pass the 
buck? She looked away. Good for her. "What is the girl's name?"

"Donna Burlington." I could hear a typewriter in one of the other 
cubicles and footsteps down another corridor. "Go ahead," I said. "Do it. It 
will get done by someone. It's only a matter of who. Me? Cops? Courts? Your 
boss? His boss? Why not you? Less fuss."

She nodded her head. "Yes. You are probably right.

Very well." She got up and left the room. She had very nice legs.

It took a while. I stood in the window of the cubicle and looked down 
on Thirty-fourth Street and watched the people coming and going from the 
welfare office. It wasn't as busy as I'd thought it would be. Nor were the 
people as shabby. Down the corridor a man swore rapidly in Spanish.

The typewriter had stopped. The rest was silence.

Ms. Harris returned with a file folder. She sat, opened it on the desk, 
and read the papers in it. "Donna Burlington was on income maintenance at 
this office from August to November nineteen sixty-six. At the time her 
address was One Sixteen East Thirteenth Street. Her relationship with this 
office ended on November thirteenth, nineteen sixty-six, and I have no 
further knowledge of her." She closed the folder and folded her hands on top 
of it.

I said, "Thank you very much."

She said, "You're welcome."

I looked at my watch: 10:50. "Would you like to join me for an early 
lunch?" I said.

"No, thank you," she said. So much for the operator down from Boston.

"Would you like to see me do a one-hand push-up?" I said.

"Certainly not," she said. "If you have nothing more, Mr. Spenser, I 
have a good deal of work to do."

"Oh, sure, okay. Thanks very much for your trouble."

She stood as I left the room. From the corridor I stuck my head back 
into the office and said, "Not everyone can do a onehand push-up, you know?"

She seemed unimpressed and I left.

CHAPTER TWELVE

THIRTEENTH STREET WAS a twenty-five-minute walk downtown and 116 was in
the East Village between Second and Third.

There was a group of men outside 116, leaning against the parked cars 
with their shirts unbuttoned, smoking cigarettes and drinking beer from 
quart bottles. They were speaking Spanish. One Sixteen was a four-story 
brick house, which had long ago been painted yellow and from which the paint 
peeled in myriad patches. Next to it was a six-story four-unit apartment 
building newly done in light gray paint with the door and window frames and 
the fire escapes and the railing along the front steps a bright red. The 
beer drinkers had a portable radio that played Spanish music very loudly.

I went up the four steps to number 116 and rang the bell marked 
CUSTODIAN. Nothing happened, and I rang it again.

One of the beer drinkers said, "Don't work, man. Who you want?"

"I want the manager."

"Inside, knock on the first door."

"Thanks."

In the entry was an empty bottle of Boone's Farm apple wine and a 
sneaker without laces. Stairs led up against the left wall ahead of me, and 
a brief corridor went back into the building to the right of the stairs. I 
knocked on the first door and a woman answered the first knock.

She was tall and strongly built, olive skin and short black hair. A 
gray streak ran through her hair from the forehead back. She had on a man's 
white shirt and cutoff jeans.

Her feet were bare, and her toenails were painted a dark plum color. 
She looked about forty-five.

I said, "My name is Spenser. I'm a private detective from Boston, and 
I'm looking for a girl who lived here once about eight years ago."

She smiled and her teeth were very white and even.

"Come in," she said. The room was large and square, and a lot of light 
came in through the high windows that faced out onto the street. The walls 
and ceiling were white, and there were red drapes at the windows and a red 
rug on the floor. In the middle of the room stood a big, square, 
thick-legged wooden table with a red linoleum top, a large bowl of fruit in 
the center and a high-backed wooden chair at either end. She gestured toward 
one of the chairs. "Coffee?" she said. .

"Yes, thank you."

I sat at the table and looked about the room while she disappeared 
through a bead-curtained archway to make the coffee. There was a red plush 
round-back Victorian sofa with mahogany arms in front of the windows and an 
assortment of Velazquez prints on the wall. She came back in with a carafe 
of coffee and two white china mugs on a round red tray.

"Cream or sugar?"

I shook my head. She poured the coffee into the cups, gave me one, and 
sat down at the other end of the table.

"The coffee is wonderful," I said.

"I grind it myself," she said. "My name is Rose Estrada. How can I help 
you?" There was a very small trace of another language in her speech.

I took out the picture of Linda Rabb that I'd taken at her apartment. 
"This is a recent picture of a girl named Donna Burlington. In nineteen 
sixty-six, from August to November, she lived at this address. Can you tell 
me anything about her?"

She thought aloud as she looked at the picture. "Nineteen sixty-six, my 
youngest would have been ten.... Yes, I remember her, Donna Burlington. She 
came from somewhere in the Midwest. She seemed very young to be alone in New 
York, far from home. She was with a boy for a little while, but he didn't 
stay."

"What happened to her when she left you, do you know?"

"No."

"No forwarding address?"

"None. I remember she had no money and was behind in her rent, and I 
sent her down to the welfare people on Thirty-fourth Street. And then one 
day she gave me all the back room rent in cash and moved out."

"Any idea where she got the money?"

"I think she was hustling."

"Prostitute?"

She nodded. "I can't be sure, but I know she was out often and she 
brought men home often and she used to spend time with a pimp named Violet."

"Is he still around?"

"Oh sure. People like Violet are around forever."

"Where do I find him?"

"He's usually on Third Avenue, in front of the Casa Grande near 
Fifteenth."

"What's his full name?"

She shrugged. "Just Violet," she said. "More coffee?"

"Thank you." I held my cup out, and she poured from the carafe. Her 
hands were strong and clean, the fingernails the same plum color as her 
toenails. No rings. Outside I could hear the portable radio playing and 
occasionally the voices of the men drinking beer.

"She was a very small, thin, little girl," Rose Estrada said. "Very 
scared. She didn't want to be here, but she didn't want to go home. She 
didn't know anything about makeup or clothes. She didn't know what to say to 
people. If she was turning tricks, it must have been very hard on her."

I finished my coffee and stood. "Thank you for the coffee and for the 
information," I said.

"Is she in trouble?"

"No, I don't think so," I said. "Nothing I can't get her out of."

We shook hands and I left. The street seemed hot and noisy after Rose 
Estrada's apartment. I walked the half block to Third Ave and turned uptown. 
At the corner of Fourteenth Street a man in a covert cloth overcoat was 
urinating against the brick wall of a variety store. He was having trouble 
standing and lurched against the wall, holding his coat around him with one 
hand. Modesty, I thought, if you're going to whiz on a wall, do it with 
modesty. A few feet downstream another man was lying on the sidewalk, knees 
bent, eyes closed.

Drinking buddies. I looked at my watch, it was two thirty in the 
afternoon.

At the corner of Fifteenth Street was a bar with a fake fieldstone 
front below a plate glass window. The entry to the left of the window was 
imitation oak. A small neon sign said CASA GRANDE, BEER ON DRAFT. At the 
curb in front of the Casa Grande were a white Continental and a maroon Coupe 
de Ville with a white vinyl roof. Leaning against the Coupe de Ville was a 
man who'd seen too many Superfly movies. He was a black man probably 
six-three in his socks and about six-seven in the open-toed red platform 
shoes he was wearing.

He was also wearing red-and-black argyle socks, black knickers, and a 
chain mail vest. A black Three Musketeers' hat with an enormous red plume 
was tipped forward over his eyes. Subtle. All he lacked was a sign saying 
THE PIMP IS IN.

"Excuse me," I said, "I'm looking for Violet."

The pimp looked down at me from on top of his shoes and said, "Why?"

"I was told he could give me information about a girl."

"Someone's talking shit to you, man. I don't know nothing about no 
girl."

"You Violet?"

He shrugged and looked down Third Avenue.

"I'm looking for information about a girl named Donna Burlington," I 
said.

The Lincoln started up, backed away from the curb, U-turned, and drove 
away.

"You federal?" Violet said. "I ain't seen you around."

"I'm not anything," I said. "Just a guy looking to buy some 
information."

"Well, I hope you got a license for that piece on your right hip then."

Violet paid attention to detail. "Okay." I took a card from my breast 
pocket and gave it to him. "I'm a private cop.

From Boston. But I'm still buying information."

"Baaahston." Violet laughed. "Shit. What Donna do, steal some beans?"

"No, she stole some teenybopper clothes from a ladies' dress shop and I 
think you're wearing some of them."

Violet laughed again. "Hey, man, you want me to dress like one of you 
tight-assed honkies?" He slapped one hand down on the hood of the Cadillac 
and whooped with laughter.

"Look at that little mother-loving Buster Brown suit. Shit."

Tears were forming in his eyes.

"Look, Violet," I said. "I didn't come down here to write a sonnet 
about your Easter bonnet. How about I buy you a beer and we talk a little?"

"Yeah, why not, man? You said something about buying information?"

We went in the Casa Grande and sat at the bar. There was a Mets game on 
television down the bar. The bartender, a middle-aged man in a clean white 
shirt who looked like Gilbert Roland, came down and wiped the bar off in 
front of us.

"What'll it be, gentlemen?" he asked, looking carefully at a spot 
between my head and Violet's.

"Two drafts," I said.

Violet said, "Be cool, Hec, he's okay. We just talking a little 
business."

The bartender looked at me then. "Okay, Violet," he said and drew the 
beers.

Violet took his hat off. His head was stark bald and smooth. "Hec 
figured you for fuzz too. I hope you don't think you working in disguise, 
man."

I shook my head. "You either," I said. Violet whooped again.

"What you want to know, man?"

I took out my picture of Donna Burlington and showed it to Violet. 
"Know her eight years younger?"

"You mentioned buying. How much you buying for?"

"Fifty bucks."

"That's not much bread, man."

"You don't have to work very hard for it," I said. "It'll cover your 
next tankful in that brontosaurus out front."

Violet nodded, drank half his beer, and said, "Yeah, I remember Donna. 
Remembered her when you said her name."

"Tell me about her."

"A shit kicker," Violet said. "Come from somewhere out in the woods. 
Real young when she worked for me.

Worked for me maybe six months."

"How'd you meet her?"

"Her boyfriend was pimping her on my turf, man. I chased him off and 
she stayed with me."

"She have any choice?"

Violet grinned. "Not in this neighborhood, man."

"How come you remember her so well?"

"She was white, man. Most of my chicks are black."

"What happened to her?"

Violet shrugged. "Moved uptown, fancy stuff, appointment only." He 
finished the beer. The bartender brought us two more without being asked.

"She work on her own?"

"Naw, she work for another broad, a madame, baby.

Very classy. Probably screwed only Baaahston dudes, dig?"

And again the whooping laugh.

"Can you give me the name?"

"I can get it, but that's extra."

"Another fifty?"

"That's cool." Violet got up and went to a pay phone by the door. He 
was back in five minutes. "Patricia Utley," he said. "Fifty-seven East 
Thirty-seventh Street."

"Thanks, Violet," I took a $100 bill out of my wallet and handed it to 
him. "If you're ever in Boston . . ."

Violet laughed again. "Yeah, baby, if I ever want some beans . . ."

I finished the beer and got up. Violet turned and leaned his elbows on 
the bar. "Hey, Spenser," he said. "Utley works for very heavy people, dig?"

"That's okay," I said. "I don't mind heavy work."

"Well, you built for it, I give you that. But you walk around Utley 
careful, baby, this ain't Boston."

"Violet," I said, "I'm not sure this is even earth."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

MIDTOWN EAST SIDE in Manhattan is the New York they show in the movies.
Elegant, charming, clean, "I bought you violets for your furs." Patricia
Utley occupied a four-story town house on East Thirty-seventh, west of
Lexington. The building was stone, painted a Colonial gray with a
wrought-iron filigree on the glass door and the windows faced in white.
Two small dormers protruded from the slate mansard roof, and a tiny
terrace to the right of the front door bloomed with flowers against the
green of several miniature trees. Red geraniums and white patient Lucys
in black iron pots lined the three granite steps that led up to the
front door.

A well-built man with gray hair and a white mess jacket answered my 
ring. I gave him my card. "For Patricia Utley," I said.

"Come in, please," he said and stepped aside. I entered a center hall 
with a polished flagstone floor and a mahogany staircase with white risers 
opposite the door. The black man opened a door on the right-hand wall, and I 
went into a small sitting room that looked out over Thirty-seventh Street 
and the miniature garden. The walls were white-paneled, and there was a 
Tiffany lamp in green, red, and gold hanging in the center of the room. The 
rugs were Oriental, and the furniture was Edwardian.

The butler said, "Wait here, please," and left. He closed the door 
behind him.

There was a mahogany highboy on the wall opposite the windows with four 
cut-glass decanters and a collection of small crystal glasses. I took the 
stoppers out of the decanters and sniffed. Sherry, cognac, port, Calvados. I 
poured myself a glass of the Calvados. On the wall opposite the door was a 
black marble fireplace, and on either side floor-to-ceiling bookcases. I 
looked at the titles: The Complete Works of Charles Dickens, A History of 
the English-Speaking Peoples by Winston Churchill, Longfellow: Complete 
Poetical and Prose Works, H. G. Wells's The Outline of History, Chaucer's 
The Canterbury Tales, with illustrations by Rockwell Kent.

The door opened behind me, and a woman entered. The butler closed it 
softly behind her.

"Mr. Spenser," she said, "I'm Patricia Utley," and put out her hand. I 
shook it. She looked as if she might have read all the books and understood 
them. She was fortyish, small and blond with good bones and big black-rimmed 
round glasses. Her hair was pulled back tight against her head with a bun in 
the back. She was wearing an off-white sleeveless linen dress with blue and 
green piping at the hem and along the neckline. Her legs were bare and 
tanned.

"Please sit down," she said. "I see you have a drink.

Good. How may I help you?" I sat on the sofa. She sat opposite me on an 
ottoman. Her knees together, ankles crossed, hands folded in her lap.

"I'm looking for information about a girl named Donna Burlington who 
you probably knew about eight years ago." I showed her the picture.

"And why would you think I know anything about her, Mr. Spenser?"

"One of your colleagues suggested that she had left his employ and 
joined your firm."

"I'm sorry, I don't understand." Her blue eyes were direct and steady 
as she looked at me. Her face without lines.

"Well, ma'am, I don't mean to be coarse, but an East Village pimp named 
Violet told me she moved uptown and went to work for you in the late fall of 
nineteen sixty-six."

"I'm afraid I don't know anyone named Violet," she said.

"Tall, thin guy, aggressive dresser, but small-time. No reason for you 
to know him. The Pinkerton Agency has never heard of me either."

"Oh, I'm sure you're well known in your field, Mr.

Spenser." She smiled, and a dimple appeared in each cheek.

"But I really don't see how I can help you. This Violet person has 
misled you, I suppose for money. New York is a very grasping city."

The room was cool and silent, central air conditioning.

I sipped the Calvados, and it reminded me that I hadn't eaten since 
about seven thirty. It was now almost four thirty. "Ms.

Utley," I said, "I don't wish to rock your boat and I don't want 
anything bad to happen to Donna Burlington, I just need to know about her."

"Ms. Utley," she said. "That's charming, but it's Mrs., thank you."

"Okay, Mrs. Utley, but what I said stands. I need to know about Donna 
Burlington. Confidential. No harm to anyone, and I can't tell you why. But I 
need to know." I finished the brandy. She stood, took my glass, filled it, 
and set it down on the marble-topped coffee table in front of me. Her 
movements were precise and graceful and stylish. So was she.

"I have no quarrel with that, Mr. Spenser, but I can't help you. I 
don't know the young lady, nor can I imagine how anyone could think that I 
might."

"Mrs. Utley, I know we've only met, but would you join me for dinner?"

"Is that part of your technique, Mr. Spenser? Candlelight and wine and 
perhaps I'll remember something about the young lady?"

"Well, there's that," I said. "But I hate to eat alone.

The only people I know in the city are you and Violet, and Violet 
already had a date."

"Well, I don't know about being second choice to--what was it you 
said--an East Village pimp?"

"I'll tell you about my most exciting cases," I said.

"Why, I remember one I call the howling dog caper .

The dimple reappeared.

"And I'll do a one-hand push-up for you, and sing a dozen popular 
songs, pronouncing the lyrics so clearly that you can hear every word."

"And if I still refuse?"

"Then I go down to Foley Square and see if I can find someone in the 
DA's office that knows you and might put in a word for me."

"I do not like to be threatened, Mr. Spenser."

"Desperation," I said. "Loneliness and desire make a man crazy. Here, 
look at the kind of treat ahead of you." I put my glass on the end table, 
got down on the rug, and did a onehand push-up. I looked up at her from the 
push-up position, my left hand behind my back. "Want to see another one?" I 
said.

She was laughing. Silently at first with her face serious but her 
stomach jiggling and giving her away, and then aloud, with her head back and 
the dimples big enough to hold a ripe olive.

"I'll go," she said. "Let me change, and we'll go. Now, for God sakes, 
get off the floor, you damn fool."

I got up. "The old one-hand push-up," I said. "Gets them almost every 
time."

She didn't take long. I had time to sip one more brandy before she 
reappeared in a backless white dress that tied around the neck and had a 
royal blue sash around the middle.

Her shoes matched the sash, and so did her earrings.

I said, "Hubba, hubba."

"Hub-ba, hub-ba? What on earth does that mean?"

"You look very nice," I said. "Where would you like to go?"

"There's a lovely restaurant uptown a little ways we could try, if 
you'd like."

"I'm in your hands," I said. "This is your city."

"You are not, I would guess, ever in anyone's hands, Spenser, but I 
think you'll like this place."

"Cab?" I said.

"No, Steven will drive us."

When we went out the front door, there was the same well-built black 
man, sitting at the wheel of a Mercedes sedan. He'd swapped his mess jacket 
for a blue blazer.

We drove uptown.

The restaurant was at Sixty-fifth Street on the East Side and was 
called The Wings of the Dove.

I said.

"Do you suppose they serve the food in a golden bowl?"

"I don't believe so. Why do you ask?"

"Henry James," I said. "It's a book joke."

"I guess I haven't read it."

It was only five thirty when we went in. Too early for most people to 
go to dinner, but most people had probably eaten lunch. I hadn't. It was a 
small restaurant, with a lavish dessert table in the foyer and two rooms 
separated by an archway. The ceiling was frosted glass that opened out, like 
a greenhouse, and the walls were used brick, some from the original 
building, some quite artfully integrated with the original. The tablecloths 
were pink, and there were flowers and green plants everywhere, many of them 
in hanging pots.

The maitre d' in a tuxedo said, "Good evening, Mrs.

Utley. We have your table."

She smiled and followed him. I followed her. One wall of the restaurant 
was mirrored, and it gave the illusion of a good deal more space than there 
was. I checked myself as we filed in. The suit was holding up, I'd had a 
haircut just last week, if only a talent scout from Playgirl spotted me.

"Would you care for cocktails?"

Patricia Utley said, "Campari on the rocks with a twist, please, John."

I said, "Do you have any draft beer?"

The maitre d' said, "No."

I said, "Do you have any Amstel in bottles?"

He said, "No."

I said to Patricia Utley, "Is Nedick's still open?"

She said to the maitre d', "Bring him a bottle of Heineken, John."

The maitre d' said, "Certainly, Mrs. Utley," and stalked toward the 
kitchen.

She looked at me and shook her head slowly. "Are you ever serious, 
Spenser?"

"Yes, I am," I said. "I am serious, for instance, about discussing 
Donna Burlington with you."

"And I am serious when I say to you, why should you think I'd know 
her?"

"Because you are in charge of a high-priced prostitution operation and 
are bankrolled with what my source refers to as heavy money. Now I know it, 
and you know it, and why not stop the pretense? The truth, Mrs. Utley, will 
set us free."

"All right," she said, "say you are correct. Why should I discuss it 
with you?"

A waiter brought our drinks and I waited while he put them down. Mine 
rather disdainfully, I thought.

"Because I can cause you aggravation--cops, newspapers, maybe the 
feds--maybe I could cause you trouble, I don't know. Depends on how heavy 
the bankrollers really are.

If you talk with me, then it's confidential, there's no aggravation at 
all. And I might do another one-arm push-up for you."

"What if my bankrollers decided to cause you aggravation?"

"I have a very high aggravation tolerance."

She sipped her Campari. "It's funny, or maybe it's not funny at all, 
but you're the second person who's come asking about Donna."

"Who else?"

"He never said, but he was quite odd. He was, oh, what, in costume, I 
guess you'd say. Dressed all in white, white suit and shirt, white tie, 
white shoes and a big white straw hat like a South American planter."

"Tall and slim? Chewed gum?"

"Yes."

I said, "Aha."

"Aha?"

"Yeah, like Aha I see a connection, or Aha I have discovered a clue. 
It's detective talk."

"You know who he is then."

"Yes, I do. What did he want?"

She sipped some more Campari. I drank some Heineken. "Among my 
enterprises," she said, "is a film business. This gentleman had apparently 
seen Donna in one of our films and wanted the master print."

"Aha, aha!" I said. "Corporate diversification." The waiter came for 
our order. When he was gone, I said, "Start from the beginning. When did you 
meet Donna, what did she do for you, what kind of film was she in, tell me 
all."

"Very well, if you promise not to keep saying Aha."

"Agreed."

"Donna came to me through a client. He'd picked her up down in the East 
Village when he was drunk." She grimaced. "She was working for Violet then; 
her boyfriend had pimped for her before but had run from Violet. I don't 
know what happened to the boyfriend. The client thought she was too nice a 
girl to be hustling out of the back of a car with a two-dollar pimp like 
Violet. He put her in touch with me."

The waiter came with our soup. I had gazpacho; Patricia Utley had 
vichyssoise.

"I run a very first-rate operation, Spenser."

"I can tell that," I said.

"Of course, I would deny this to anyone if it ever came up."

"It won't. I don't care about your operation. I only care about Donna 
Burlington."

"But you disapprove."

"I don't approve or disapprove. To tell you the truth, Mrs. Utley, I 
don't give a damn. I think about one thing at a time. Right now I'm thinking 
about Donna Burlington."

"It's a volunteer business," she said. "It exists because men have 
needs." She said it as if the needs had a foul odor.

"Now who's disapproving?"

"You don't know," she said. "You've never seen what I've seen."

"About Donna Burlington," I said.

"She was eighteen when I took her. She didn't know anything. She didn't 
know how to dress, how to do her hair, how to wear makeup. She hadn't read 
anything, been anyplace, talked to anyone. I had her two years and taught 
her everything. How to walk, how to sit, how to talk with people. I gave her 
books to read, showed her how to make up, how to dress."

The waiter brought the fish. Sole in a saffron sauce for her. Scallops 
St. Jacques for me.

"You and Rex Harrison," I said.

"Yes," she said. "It was rather like that. I liked Donna, she was a 
very unsophisticated little thing. It was like having a, oh not a daughter, 
but a niece perhaps. Then one day she left. To get married."

"Who'd she marry?"

"She wouldn't tell me--a client, I gathered, but she wouldn't say whom, 
and I never saw her again."

"When was this?"

Patricia Utley thought for a moment. "It was the same year as the 
Cambodian raids and the great protest, nineteen seventy. She left me in 
winter nineteen seventy. I remember it was winter because I watched her walk 
away in a lovely fur-collared tweed coat she had."

The waiter cleared the fish and put down the salad, spinach leaves with 
raw mushrooms in a lemon and oil dressing. I took a bite. So-so. "I assume 
the films were what I used to call dirty movies when I was a kid."

She smiled. "It is getting awfully hard to decide, isn't it? They were 
erotic films. But of good quality, sold by subscription."

"Black socks, garter belts, two girls and a guy? That kind of stuff?"

"No, as I said, tasteful, high quality, good color and sound. No 
sadism, no homosexuality, no group sex."

"And Donna was in some?"

"She was in one, shortly before she left me. The pay was good, and 
while it was a lot of work, it was a bit of a change for her. Her film was 
called Suburban Fancy. She was quite believable in it."

"What did you tell the man who came asking?"

"I told him that he was under some kind of false impression. That I 
knew nothing about the films or the young lady involved. He became somewhat 
abusive, and I had to call for Steven to show him out."

"I heard this guy was pretty tough," I said.

"Steven was armed," she said.

"Oh," I said. "How come you didn't have Steven show me out?"

"You did not become abusive."

The entree came. Duck in a fig and brandy sauce for me, striped bass in 
cucumber and crabmeat sauce for her. The duck was wonderful.

I said, "You sell these films by subscription." She nodded. "How's 
chances on a look at the subscription list?"

"None," she said.

"No chance?"

"No chance at all. Obviously you can see my situation.

Such material must remain confidential to protect our clients."

"People do sell mailing lists," I said.

"I do not," she said. "I have no need for money, Mr.

Spenser."

"No, I guess you don't. Okay, how about I name a couple of people and 
you tell me if they're on your list? That doesn't compromise any but those I 
suspect anyway."

There were carrots in brown sauce with fresh dill and zucchini in 
butter with the entree, and Patricia Utley ate some of each before she 
answered. "Perhaps we can go back to my home for brandy after dinner and 
I'll have someone check."

For dessert we had clafoutis, which still tastes like blueberry 
pancakes to me, and coffee. The coffee was weak.

The bill was $119 including tip.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

AT PATRICIA UTLEY S HOME I returned to the Calvados. Patricia Utley had
some sherry.

"Would you care to see the film, Spenser?" she said.

"No, thank you."

"Why not? I never met a man that didn't care for eroticism."

"Oh, I'm all for eroticism." I was thinking of Linda Rabb in her Church 
Park apartment in her clean white jeans.

"It's movies I don't like."

"AS YOU wish." She sipped some sherry. "You were going to mention some 
names to me."

"Yeah, Bucky Maynard--I don't know the real first name, maybe that's 
it--and Lester Floyd." I was gambling she'd never followed sports and had 
never heard of Maynard.

I didn't want to tie Donna Burlington to the Red Sox, but I needed to 
know. If she'd ever heard of Bucky Maynard, she gave no sign. Lester didn't 
look like a self-starter. If he was in on this, it was a good bet he 
represented Maynard.

"I'll see," she said. She picked up a phone on the end table near the 
couch and dialed a three-digit number. "Would you please check the 
subscription list, specifically on Suburban Fancy, and see if we have either 
a Bucky Maynard or a Lester Floyd, and the address and date? Thank you. Yes, 
call me right back, I'm in the library."

"How many copies of that film are there?" I asked.

"I won't tell you," she said. "That's confidential."

"Okay, it doesn't matter anyway. The real question is can I get all the 
copies?"

"No, I offered to show you the film and you didn't want to."

"That's not the point."

The phone rang and Patricia Utley answered, listened a moment, wrote on 
a note pad, and hung up.

"There is a Lester Floyd on our subscription list. There is no Bucky 
Maynard."

"What's the address on Floyd?"

"Harbor Towers, Atlantic Avenue, Boston, Mass. Do you need the street 
number?"

"No, thank you, that's fine." I finished my brandy and she poured me 
another.

"The point I was making before is that I don't want the films to look 
at. I want them to destroy. Donna Burlington has a nice life now. Married, 
kid, shiny oak floors in her living room, all-electric kitchen. Her husband 
loves her. That kind of stuff. These films could destroy her."

"That is hardly my problem, Spenser. The odds are very good that no one 
who saw these films would know Donna or connect her with them. And this is 
not eighteen seventy-five. Queen Victoria is dead. Aren't you being a little
dramatic that someone who acted once in an erotic movie would be destroyed?"

"Not in her circles. In her circles it would be murder."

"Well, even if you are right, as I said, it is not my problem. I am in 
business, not social work. Destroying those films is not profitable."

"Even if purchased at what us collectors like to call fair market 
value?"

"Not the master. That would be like killing the goose.

You can have all the prints you want, at fair market value, but not the 
master."

I got up and walked across the room and looked out the windows at 
Thirty-seventh Street. The streetlights had come on, and while it wasn't 
full dark yet, there was a softening bronze tinge to everything. The traffic 
was light, and the people who strolled by looked like extras in a Fred 
Astaire movie. Well dressed and good-looking. Brilliant red flowers the size 
of a trumpet bell bloomed in the little garden.

"Mrs. Utley," I said, "I think that Donna's being blackmailed and that 
the blackmailer will eventually ruin her life and her husband's and he's 
using your films."

Silence behind me. I turned around and put my hands in my hip pocket. 
"If I can get those films, I can take away his leverage." She sat quietly 
with her knees together and her ankles crossed as she had before and took a 
delicate sip of sherry. "You remember Donna, don't you? Like a niece almost.

You taught her everything. Pygmalion. Remember her? She started out in 
life caught in a mudhole. And she's climbed out.

She has gotten out of the bog and onto solid ground, and now she's 
getting dragged back in. You don't need money. You told me that."

"I'm a businesswoman," she said. "I do not follow bad business 
practices."

"Is that how you stay out of the bog?" I said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You climbed out of the mudhole a bit too, is that how?

You keep telling yourself you're a businesswoman and that's the code 
you live by. So that you don't have to deal with the fact that you are also 
a pimp. Like Violet."

There was no change in her expression. "You lousy nodick son of a 
bitch," she said.

I laughed. "Now, baby, now we are getting it together.

You got a lot of style and great manners, but you and I are from the 
same neighborhood, darling, and now that we both know it maybe we can do 
business. I want those goddamned films, and I'll do what I have to to get 
them."

Her face was whiter now than it had been. I could see the makeup more 
clearly.

"You want her back in the mudhole?" I said. "She got out, and you 
helped her. Now she's got style and manners, and there's a man that wants to 
dirty her up and rub her nose in what she was. It'll destroy her. You want 
to destroy her?

For business? When I said you were like Violet, you got mad.

Think how mad it would make Violet." She reached over and picked up the 
phone and pressed the intercom button.

"Steven," she said, "I need you."

By the time the phone was back in the cradle, Steven was in the room. 
He had a nice springy step when he walked.

Vigorous. He also had a .38 caliber Ruger Black Hawk.

Patricia Utley said, "I believe he has a gun, Steven."

Steven said, "Yeah, right hip, I spotted it when he came in. Shall I 
take it away from him?" Steven was holding the Ruger at his side, the barrel 
pointing at the floor. As he spoke, he slapped it absentmindedly against his 
thigh.

"No," Patricia Utley said, "just show him to the street, please."

Steven gestured with his head toward the door. "Move it," he said.

I looked at Patricia Utley. Her color had returned. She was poised, 
still controlled, handsome. I couldn't think of anything to say. So I moved 
it.

Outside, it was a warm summer night. Dark now, the bronze glow gone. 
And on the East Side, midtown, quiet. I walked over to Fifth Avenue and 
caught a cab uptown to my motel. The West Side was a little noisier but 
nowhere near as suave. When I got into my room, I turned up the air 
conditioner, turned on the television, and took a shower. When I came out, 
there was a Yankee game on and I lay on the bed and watched it.

Was it Lester? Was it Maynard with Lester as the straw? It had to be 
something like that. The coincidence would have been too big. The rumor that 
Rabb is shading games, the wife's past, Marty knew something about it. He 
lied about the marriage circumstances, and Lester Floyd showing up asking 
about the wife and Lester Floyd's name being on the mailing list. It had to 
be. Lester or Maynard had spotted Linda Rabb in the film and put the screws 
on her husband. I couldn't prove it, but I didn't have to. I could report 
back to Erskine that it looked probable Rabb was in somebody's pocket and he 
could go to the DA and they could take it from there. I could get a print of 
the film and show Erskine and we could brace Rabb and talk about the 
integrity of the game and what he ought to do for the good of baseball and 
the kids of America. Then I could throw up.

I wasn't going to do any of those things, and I knew it when I started 
thinking about it. The Yankee game went into extra innings and was won by 
John Briggs in the tenth inning, when he singled Don Money in from third.
Milwaukee was doing better in New York than I was.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I SPENT A GOOD DEAL of time thinking about how to get the master print
of Suburban Fancy from Patricia Utley and consequently spent not very
much time sleeping till about 4:00 A.M. I didn't think of anything
before I fell asleep, and when I woke up, it was almost 10 and I hadn't
thought of anything while I slept. I was shaving at 10:20 when there was
a knock at the door. I opened it with a towel around my middle, and
there was a porter with a neat square package.

"Mr. Spenser?"

"Yeah."

"Gentleman asked me to give this to you."

I took it, went to the bureau, found two quarters, and gave them to the 
porter. He said thank you and went away. I closed the door and sat on the 
bed and opened the package. It was a canister of film. In the package was a 
note typed on white parchment paper.

Spenser, This is the master print of Suburban Fancy. I have destroyed 
the remaining two copies in my possession. My records show a copy sold to 
the gentleman we discussed last night. There are ten other copies 
outstanding, but I can find no pattern in their distribution. You will have 
to deal with the gentleman mentioned above. I wish you success in that.

Doing this violates good business practice and has cost me a good deal 
more than the money involved.

Violet would not have done it.

Yours, Patricia C. Utley She had signed it with a black felt-tipped pen 
in handwriting so neat it looked like type. I'd wasted a sleepless night.

I got out the Manhattan Yellow Pages from the bedside table and looked 
under "Photographic Equipment" till I found a store in my area that rented 
projectors. I was going to have to look at the film. If it turned out to be 
a film on traffic safety, or VD prevention, I would look like an awful 
goober. Patricia Utley had no reason particularly to lie to me but I was 
premising too much on the film's authenticity to proceed without looking.

I had mediocre eggs Benedict in the hotel coffee shop and went out and 
got my projector. Walking back up Fiftyseventh Street with it, I felt 
furtive, as if the watch and ward society had a tail on me. Going up in the 
elevator, I tried to look like an executive going to a sales conference. 
Back in my room I set up the projector on the luggage rack, pulled the 
drapes, shut off the lights, and sat on one of the beds to watch the movie. 
Wasteful practice giving me a room with two beds.

Motels did that to me often. Alone in a two-bed room. A great song 
title, maybe I'd get me a funny suit and a guitar and record it. The 
projector whirred. The movie showed up on the bare wall.

Patricia Utley was right, it was a high-class operation.

The color was good, even on the beige wall. I hadn't bothered with 
sound. The titles were professional, and the set was well lit and 
realistic-looking. The plot, as I got it without the sound, was about a 
housewife, frustrated by her church, children, and kitchen existence, who 
relieves her sense of limitation in the time-honored manner of skin flicks 
immemorial.

The housewife was, in fact, Linda Rabb.

Watching in the darkened motel room, I felt nasty. A middle-aged man 
alone in a motel watching a dirty movie.

When I got through here, I could go down to Forty-second Street and 
feed quarters into the peep show Movieolas. After the first sexual contact 
had established for sure what I was looking at, I shut off the projector and 
rewound the film. I went into the bathroom and stripped the film off the 
reel into the tub. I got the package of complimentary matches from the 
bedside table and lit the film. When it had burned up, I turned on the 
shower and washed the remnants down the drain. It was close to noon when I 
checked out of the hotel.

Before I caught the shuttle back to Boston, I wanted to visit the 
Metropolitan Museum. On the way uptown in a cab, I stopped at a flower shop 
and had a dozen roses delivered to Patricia Utley. I checked my overnight 
bag at the museum, spent the afternoon walking about and throwing my head 
back and squinting at paintings, had lunch in the fountain room, took a cab 
to La Guardia, and caught the six o'clock shuttle to Boston. At seven 
forty-five I was home.

My apartment was as empty as it had been when I left, but stuffier. I 
opened all the windows, got a bottle of Amstel out of the refrigerator, and 
sat by the front window to drink it. After a while I got hungry and went to 
the kitchen.

There was nothing to eat. I drank another beer and looked again, and 
found half a loaf of whole wheat bread behind the beer in the back of the 
refrigerator and an unopened jar of peanut butter in the cupboard. I made 
two peanut butter sandwiches and put them on a plate, opened another bottle 
of beer and went and sat by the window and looked out and ate the sandwiches 
and drank the beer. Bas cuisine.

At nine thirty I got into bed and read another chapter in Morison's
History and went to sleep. I dreamed something strange about the colonists
playing baseball with the British and I was playing third for the colonists 
and struck out with the bases loaded. In the morning I woke up depressed.

I hadn't worked out during my travels, and my body craved exercise. I 
jogged along the river and worked out in the BU gym. When I was through and 
showered and dressed, I didn't feel depressed anymore. So what's a 
strikeout? Ty Cobb must have struck out once in a while.

It was about ten when I went into the Yorktown Tavern. Already there 
were drinkers, sitting separate from each other smoking cigarettes, drinking 
a shot and a beer, watching The Price Is Right on TV or looking into the 
beer glass. In his booth in the back, Lennie Seltzer had set up for the day.

He was reading the Globe. The Herald American and the New York Daily 
News were folded neatly on the table in front of him. A glass of beer stood 
by his right hand. He was wearing a light tan glen plaid three-piece suit 
today, and he smelled of bay rum.

He said, "How's business, kid?" as I slid in opposite him.

"The poor are always with us," I said. He started to gesture at the 
bartender, and I shook my head. "Not at ten in the morning, Len."

"Why not, tastes just as good then as any other time.

Better, in fact, I think."

"That's what I'm afraid of. I got enough trouble staying sober now."

"It's pacing, kid, all pacing, ya know. I mean, I just sip a little 
beer and let it rest and sip a little more and let it rest and I do it all 
day and it don't bother me. I go home to my old lady, and I'm sober as a 
freaking nun, ya know." He took an illustrative sip of beer and set the 
glass down precisely in the ring it had left on the tabletop. "Find out if 
Marty Rabb's going into el tanko yet?"

I shook my head. "I need some information on some betting habits, 
though."

"Uh-huh?"

"Guy named Lester Floyd. Ever hear of him?"

Seltzer shook his head. "How about Bucky Maynard?"

"The announcer?"

"Yeah. Floyd is his batman."

"His what?"

"Batman, like in the British army, each officer had a batman, a 
personal servant."

"You spend too much time reading, Spenser. You know more stuff that 
don't make you money than anybody I know."

"'Tis better to know than not to know," I said.

"Aw bullshit, what is it you want to know about Maynard and 
what's'isname?"

"Lester Floyd. I want to know if they bet on baseball and, if they do, 
what games they bet on. I want the dates. And I need an idea of how much 
they're betting. Either one or both."

Seltzer nodded. "Okay, I'll let you know."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

LENNIE SELTZER CALLED me two days later at my office. Neither Maynard
nor Floyd does any betting at all I can find out about," he said.

"Sonovabitch," I said.

"Screw up a theory?"

"Yeah. How sure are you?"

"Pretty sure. Can't be positive, but I been in business here a long 
time."

"Goddamn," I said.

"I hear that Maynard used to bet a lot, and he got into the hole with a 
guy and couldn't pay up and the guy sold the paper to a shylock. Pretty good 
deal, the guy said. Shylock gave him seventy cents on the dollar."

I said, "Aha."

Seltzer said, "Huh?"

I said, "Never mind, just thinking out loud. What's the shylock's 
name?"

"Wally Hogg. Real name's Walter Hogarth. Works for Frank Doerr."

"Short, fat person, smokes cigars?"

"Yeah, know him?"

"I've seen him around," I said. "Does he always work for Doerr, or does 
he free-lance?"

"I don't know of him free-lancing. I also don't know many guys like me 
ever made a profit talking about Frank Doerr."

"Yeah, I know, Lennie. Okay, thanks."

He hung up. I held the phone for a minute and looked up at the ceiling. 
Seventy cents on the dollar. That was a good rate. Doerr must have had some 
confidence in Maynard's ability to pay. I looked at my watch: 11:45. I was 
supposed to meet Brenda Loring in the Public Garden for a picnic lunch.

Her treat. I put on my jacket, locked the office, and headed out.

She was already there when I arrived, sitting on the grass beside the 
swan boat pond with a big wicker basket beside her.

"A hamper?" I said. "A genuine wicker picnic hamper like in Abercrombie 
and Fitch?"

"I think you're supposed to admire me first," she said, "then the food 
basket. I've always been suspicious of your value system."

"You look good enough to eat," I said.

"I think I won't pursue that line," she said. She was wearing a pale 
blue linen suit and an enormous white straw hat. All the young executive 
types looked at her as they strolled by with their lunches hidden in attache 
cases. "Tell me about your travels."

"I had a terrific blackberry pie in Illinois and a wonderful roast duck 
in New York."

"Oh, I'm glad for you. Did you also encounter any clues?" She opened 
the hamper as she talked and took out a red-and-white-checked tablecloth and 
spread it between us.

The day was warm and still, and the cloth lay quiet on the ground.

"Yeah. I found out a lot of things and all of them are bad. I think. 
It's kind of complicated at the moment."

She took dark blue glossy-finish paper plates out of the hamper and set 
them out on the cloth. "Tell me about it.

Maybe it'll help you sort out the complicated parts."

I was looking into the hamper. "Is that wine in there?"

I said. She took my nose and turned my head away.

"Be patient," she said. "I went to a lot of trouble to arrange this and 
bring it out one item at a time and impress the hell out of you, and I'll 
not have it spoiled."

"Instinct," I said. "Remember I'm a trained sleuth."

"Tell me about your trip." She put out two sets of what looked like 
real silver.

"Okay, Rabb's got reason to be dumping a game or two."

"Oh, that's too bad."

"Yeah. Mrs. Rabb isn't who she's supposed to be. She's a kid from 
lower-middle America who smoked a little dope early and ran off with a local 
hotshot when she was eighteen.

She went to New York, was a whore for a while, and went into acting. 
Her acting was done with her clothes off in films distributed by mail. She 
started out turning tricks in one-night cheap hotels. Then she graduated to 
a high-class call girl operation run, or at least fronted, by a very swish 
woman out of a fancy town house on the East Side. That's when I think she 
met her husband."

Brenda placed two big wine goblets in front of us and handed me a 
bottle of rose and a corkscrew. "You mean, he was a--what should I call 
him--a customer?"

"Yeah, I think so. How can I talk and open the wine at the same time? 
You know my powers of concentration."

"I've heard," she said, "that you can't walk and whistle at the same 
time. Just open the wine and then talk while I pour."

I opened the wine and handed it to her. "Now," I said, "where was I?"

"Oh, giant intellect," she said, and poured some wine into my glass. 
"You were saying that Marty Rabb had met his wife when she was--as we 
sociologists would put it--screwing him professionally."

"Words," I said, "what a magic web you weave with them. Yeah, that's 
what I think."

"How do you know?" She poured herself a half glass of wine.

"Well, he's covering up her past. He lied about how he met her and 
where they were married. I don't know what he knows, but he knows 
something."

Brenda brought out an unsliced loaf of bread and took off the 
transparent wrapping.

"Sourdough?" I said.

She nodded and put the loaf on one of the paper plates.

"Is there more?" she said.

"Yeah. A print of the film she made was sold to Lester Floyd." She 
looked puzzled. "Lester Floyd," I said, "is Bucky Maynard's gofer, and Bucky 
Maynard is, in case you forgot, the play by play man for the Sox."

"What's a gofer?"

"A lackey. Someone to go-for coffee and go-for cigarettes and go-for 
whatever he's told."

"And you think Maynard told him to go-for the film?"

"Yeah, maybe, anyway, say Bucky got a look at the film and recognized 
Mrs. Rabb. Is that smoked turkey?"

Brenda nodded and put a cranshaw melon out beside it, and four 
nectarines.

"Oh, I hope she doesn't know," she said.

"Yeah, but I think she does know. And I think Marty knows."

"Some kind of blackmail?"

"Yeah. First I thought it was maybe Maynard or Lester of the costumes 
getting Rabb to shave a game here and there and cleaning up from the 
bookies. But they don't seem to bet any these days, and I found out that 
Maynard owes money to a shylock."

"Is that like a loan shark?"

"Just like a loan shark," I said.

A large wedge of Monterey Jack cheese came out of the hamper, and a 
small crystal vase with a single red rose in it, which Brenda placed in the 
middle of the tablecloth.

"That hamper is like the clown car at the circus. I'm waiting for the 
sommelier to jump out with his gold key and ask if Monsieur is pleased with 
the wine."

"Eat," she said.

While I was breaking a chunk off the sourdough bread, Brenda said, "So 
what does the loan shark mean?"

I said, "Phnumph."

She said, "Don't talk with your mouth full. I'll wait till you've eaten 
a little and gotten control of yourself."

I drank some wine and said, "My compliments to the chef."

She said, "The chef is Bert Heidemann at Bert's Deli on Newbury Street. 
I'll tell him you were pleased."

"The shylock means that maybe Maynard can't pay up and they've put the 
squeeze on him and he gave them Rabb."

"What do you mean, gave them Rabb?"

"Well, say Maynard owes a lot of bread to the shylock and he can't pay, 
and he can't pay the vig, and--" "The what?"

"The vig, vigorish, interest. A good shylock can keep you paying 
interest the rest of your life and never dent the principal ... like a 
revolving charge.... Anyway, say Maynard can't make the payments. Shylocks 
like Wally Hogg are quite scary. They threaten broken bones, or propane 
torches on the bottoms of feet, or maybe cut off a finger each time you miss 
a payment."

Brenda shivered and made a face.

"Yeah, I know, okay, say that's the case and along comes this piece of 
luck. Mrs. Rabb in the skin flick. He tells the shylock he can control the 
games that Marty Rabb pitches, and Rabb, being probably the best pitcher now 
active, if he's under control can make the shylock and his employers a good 
many tax-free muffins."

"But would he go for it?" Brenda asked. "I mean it would be 
embarrassing, but the sexual revolution has been won. No one, surely, would 
stone her to death."

"Maybe so if she were married to someone in a different line of work, 
but baseball is more conservative than the entire city of Buffalo. And Rabb 
is part of a whole ethic: Man protects the family, no matter what."

"Even if he has to throw games? What about the jock ethic? You know 
winning isn't everything, it's the only thing.

Wouldn't that be a problem?"

"That's not the real jock ethic, that's the jock ethic that people who 
don't know a hell of a lot about jocks believe. The real jock ethic's a lot 
more complicated."

"My, we're a little touchy about the jock ethic, aren't we?"

"I didn't mean you," I said.

"Maybe you haven't outgrown the jock ethic yourself."

"Maybe it's not something to outgrow," I said. "Anyway, some other time 
I'll give my widely acclaimed lecture on the real jock ethic. The thing is 
that unless I misjudged Rabb a lot, he's in an awful bind. Because his ethic 
is violated whichever way he turns. He feels commitment to play the game as 
best he can and to protect his wife and family as best he can. Both those 
commitments are probably absolute, and the point when they conflict must be 
sharp."

Brenda sipped some wine and looked at me without saying anything.

"A quarter for your thoughts if you accept Diners Club?"

She smiled. "You sound sort of caught up in all this.

Maybe you're talking some about yourself too. I think maybe you are."

I leered at her. "Want me to tell you about the movie Mrs. Rabb was in 
and what they did?"

"You think I need pointers?" Brenda said.

"When we stop learning, we stop growing," I said.

"And you got us off that subject nicely, didn't you?"

I had once again qualified for membership in the clean plate club by 
then, and we had begun a second bottle of wine.

"You have to get back to work?" I said.

"No, I took the afternoon off. I had the feeling lunch would stretch 
out."

"That's good," I said, and filled my wineglass again.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

IT WAS A CLASSIC summer morning when I dropped Brenda Loring off at her
Charles River Park apartment. The river was a vigorous and optimistic
blue, and the MDC cop at Leverett Circle was whistling "Buttons and
Bows" as he directed traffic. Across the river Cambridge looked clean
and bright in sharp relief against the sky. I went around Leverett
Circle and headed back westbound on Storrow Drive. The last hurrah of
the rush-hour traffic was still to be heard, and it took me twenty
minutes to get to Church Park. I parked at a hydrant and took the
elevator to the sixth floor. I'd called before I left that morning, so
Linda Rabb was expecting me. Marty wasn't home; he was with the club in
Oakland.

"Coffee, Mr. Spenser?" she said when I came in.

"Yeah, I'd love some," I said. It was already perked and on the coffee 
table with a plate of assorted muffins: corn, cranberry, and blueberry; all 
among my favorites. She was wearing pale blue jeans and a 
blue-and-pink-striped man-tailored shirt, open at the neck with a pink scarf 
knotted at the throat.

On her feet were cork-soled blue suede slip-on shoes. The engagement 
ring on her right hand had a heart-shaped diamond in it big enough to make 
her arm weary. The wedding ring on her left was a wide gold band, unadorned. 
A small boy who looked like his father hung around the coffee table, eyeing 
the muffins but hesitant about snatching one from so close to me.

I picked up the plate and offered him one, and he retreated quickly 
back behind his mother's leg.

"Marty's shy, Mr. Spenser," she said. And to the boy: "Do you want 
cranberry or blueberry, Marty?" The boy turned his head toward her leg and 
mumbled something I couldn't hear. He looked about three. Linda Rabb picked 
up a blueberry muffin and gave it to him. "Why don't you get your crayons," 
she said, "and bring them in here and draw here on the floor while I talk 
with Mr. Spenser?" The kid mumbled something again that I couldn't hear. 
Linda Rabb took a deep breath and said, "Okay, Marty, come on, I'll go with 
you to get them." And to me: "Excuse me, Mr. Spenser."

They went out, the kid hanging onto Linda Rabb's pants leg as they 
went. No wonder so many housewives ended up drinking Boone's Farm in the 
morning. They were back in maybe two minutes with a lined yellow legal-sized 
pad of paper and a box of crayons. The kid got down on the floor by his 
mother's chair and began to draw stick-figured people in various colors, 
with orange predominant.

"Now, what can I do for you, Mr. Spenser?" she asked.

I hadn't counted on the kid. "Well, it's kind of complicated, Mrs. 
Rabb, maybe I ought to come back when the boy isn't . . ." I left it 
hanging. I didn't know how much the kid would understand, and I didn't want 
him to think I didn't want him around.

"Oh, that's all right, Mr. Spenser, Marty's fine. He doesn't mind what 
we talk about."

"Well, I don't know, this is kind of ticklish."

"For heaven's sake, Mr. Spenser, say what's on your mind. Believe me, 
it is all right."

I drank some coffee. "Okay, I'll tell you two things; then you decide 
whether we should go on. First, I'm not a writer, I'm a private detective. 
Second, I've seen a film called Suburban Fancy."

She put her hand down on the boy's head; otherwise she didn't move. But 
her face got white and crowded.

"Who hired you?" she said.

"Erskine, but that doesn't matter. I won't hurt you."

"Why?" she said.

"Why did Erskine hire me? He wanted to find out if your husband was 
involved in fixing baseball games."

"O my God Jesus," she said, and the kid looked up at her. She smiled. 
"Oh, isn't that a nice family you're drawing.

There's the momma and the daddy and the baby."

"Would it be better if I came back?" I said.

"There's nothing to come back for," Linda Rabb said. "I don't know 
anything about it. There's nothing to talk about."

"Mrs. Rabb, you know there is," I said. "You're panicky now and you 
don't know what to say, so you just say no, and hope if you keep saying it, 
it'll be true. But there's a lot to talk about."

"No."

"Yeah, there is. I can't help you if I don't know."

"Erskine didn't hire you to help us."

"I'm not sure if he did or not. I can always give him his money back."

"There's nothing to help. We don't need any help."

"Yeah, you do."

The kid tugged at his mother's pants leg again and held up his drawing. 
"That's lovely, Marty," she said. "Is that a doggie?" The kid turned and 
held the picture so I could see it.

I said, "I like that very much. Do you want to tell me about it?"

The kid shook his head. "No," I said, "I don't blame you. I don't like 
to talk about my work all that much either."

"Marty," Linda Rabb said, "draw a house for the doggie." The boy bent 
back to the task. I noticed that he stuck his tongue out as he worked.

"Even if we did need help, what could you do?" Linda Rabb said.

"Depends on what exactly is going on. But this is my kind of work. I'm 
pretty sure to be better at it than you are."

My coffee cup was empty, and Linda Rabb got up and refilled it. I took 
a corn muffin, my third. I hoped she didn't notice.

"I've got to talk with Marty," she said.

I bit off one side of my corn muffin. Probably should have broken it 
first. Susan Silverman was always telling me about taking small bites and 
such. Linda Rabb didn't notice.

She was looking at her watch. "Little Marty goes to nursery school for 
a couple of hours in the afternoon." She looked at the telephone and then at 
the kid and then at her watch again. Then she looked at me. "Why don't you 
come back a little after one?"

"Okay."

I got up and went to the door. Linda Rabb came with me. The kid came 
right behind her, close to her leg but no longer hanging on. As I left, I 
pointed my finger at him, from the hip, and brought my thumb down like the 
hammer of a pistol. He looked at me silently and made no response. On the 
other hand, he didn't run and hide. Always had a way with kids. The Dr. 
Spock of the gumshoes.

Outside on Mass Ave, I looked at my watch: 11:35. An hour and a half to 
kill. I went around the corner to the Y on Huntington Ave where I am a 
member and got in a full workout on the Universal, including an extra set of 
bench presses and two extra sets of wrist rolls. By the time I got showered 
and dressed my pulse rate was back down under 100 and my breathing was 
almost under control. At 1:15 I was back at Linda Rabb's door. She answered 
the first ring.

"Marty's at school, Mr. Spenser. We can talk openly," she said.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THE COFFEE AND MUFFINS were gone. Linda Rabb said, Has it been raining
somewhere? Your hair's wet."

"Shower," I said. "I went over to the Y and worked out."

"Oh, how nice."

"Sound mind in a healthy body and all that."

"Could you show me some identification, Mr. Spenser?"

I got out the photostat of my license in its little plastic case and 
handed it to her. Also my driver's license. She looked at them both and gave 
them back.

"I guess you really are a detective."

"Thanks," I said, "I need reassurance sometimes."

"Just what do you know, Mr. Spenser?"

"I've been to Redford, Illinois, I've talked with Sheriff Donaldson and 
with your mother and father. I know you got busted there in 'sixty-six for 
possession of marijuana. I know you ran away with a guy named Tony Reece and 
that you haven't been back. I know you went to New York, that you lived in a 
rooming house on Thirteenth Street in the East Village, that you were 
hustling for a living first for old Tony, then for a pimp named Violet. I 
know you moved uptown, went to work for Patricia Utley, made one 
pornographic movie, fell in love with one of your customers, and left to get 
married in the winter of nineteen seventy, wearing a lovely fur-collared 
tweed coat. I've been to New York, I've talked with Violet and with Patricia 
Utley, I preferred Mrs. Utley."

"Yes," Linda Rabb said without any expression, "I did too. Did you see 
me in the movie?"

"Yeah."

She was looking past me out the window. "Did you enjoy it?"

"I think you're very pretty."

She kept staring out the window. There wasn't anything to see except 
the dome of the Christian Science Mother Church. I was quiet.

"What do you want?" she said finally.

"I don't know yet. I told you what I know; now I'll tell you what I 
think. I think the client you married was Marty. I think someone got hold of 
Suburban Fancy that knows you and is blackmailing you and Marty, and that 
Marty is modifying some of the games he pitches so that whoever is 
blackmailing you can bet right and make a bundle."

Again silence and the stare. I thought about moving in front of the 
window to intercept it.

"If I hadn't made the film," she said. "It was just a break, in a way, 
from turning tricks with strangers. I mean there was every kind of sex in 
it, but it was just acting. It was always just acting, but in the movie it 
was supposed to be acting and the guy was acting and there were people you 
knew around. You didn't have to go alone to a strange hotel room and make 
conversation with someone you didn't know and wonder if he might be freaky, 
you know? I mean, some of them are freaky. Christ, you don't know." She 
shifted her stare from the window to me. I wanted to look out the window.

"One film," she said. "One goddamned film for good money under 
first-class conditions and no S and M or group sex, and right after that I 
met Marty."

"In New York?"

"Yes, they were in town to play the Yankees, and one of the other 
players set it up. Mrs. Utley sent three of us over to the hotel. It was 
Marty's first time with a whore." The word came out harsh and her stare was 
heavy on me. "He was always very straight."

More silence.

"He was a little drunk and laughing and making suggestive remarks, but 
as soon as we were alone, he got embarrassed. I had to lead him through it. 
And afterward we had some food sent up and ate a late supper and watched an 
old movie on TV. I still remember it. It was a Jimmy Stewart western called 
Broken Arrow. He kissed me good-bye when I left, and he was embarrassed to 
death to pay me."

"And you saw him again?"

"Yes, I called him at his hotel the next day. It was raining and the 
game with the Yankees was canceled. So we went to the Museum of Natural 
History."

"How about the other two players that night? Didn't they recognize 
you?"

"No, I had on a blond wig and different makeup. They didn't pay much 
attention to me anyway. Nobody looks at a whore. When I met Marty the next 
day, he didn't even recognize me at first."

"When did you get married?"

"When we said, except that we changed it. Marty and I worked out the 
story about me being from Arlington Heights and meeting in Chicago and all. 
I'd been to Chicago a couple of times and knew my way around okay if anyone 
wanted to ask about it. And Marty and I went out there before we were 
married and went to Comiskey Park, or whatever it's called now, and around 
Chicago so my story would sound okay."

"Where'd you get Arlington Heights?"

"Picked it out on a map."

We looked at each other. I could hear the faint hum of the refrigerator 
in the kitchen. And somewhere down the corridor a door opened and closed.

"That goddamned movie," she said. "When the letter came, I wanted to 
confess, but Marty wouldn't let me."

"What letter?"

"The first blackmail letter."

"Do you know who sent it?"

"No."

"I assume you don't have it."

"No."

"What did it say?"

"It said--I can remember it almost exactly--it was to Marty and it 
said, 'I have a copy of a movie called Suburban Fancy. If you don't lose 
your next ball game, I'll release it to the media.'" "That's all?"

"That's all. No name or return address or anything."

"And did he?"

Linda Rabb looked blank. "Did he what?"

"Did Marty lose his next game?"

"Yes, he hung a curve in the seventh inning with the bases loaded 
against the Tigers, on purpose. I woke up in the middle of the night, that 
night, and he wasn't in bed, he was out in the living room, looking out the 
window and crying."

Her face was very white, and her eyes were puffy.

"And you wanted to confess it again."

"Yes. But he said no. And I said, 'It will kill you to throw games.' 
And he said a man looked out for his wife and his kid, and I said, 'But it 
will kill you.' And he wouldn't talk about it again. He said it was done and 
maybe there wouldn't be another letter, but we both knew there would."

"And there was."

She nodded.

"And they kept coming?"

She nodded.

"And Marty kept doing what they said to do?"

She nodded again.

"How often?" I said.

"The letters? Not often. Marty gets about thirty-five starts a year. 
There were maybe five or six letters last year, three so far this year."

"Smart," I said. "Didn't get greedy. Do you have any idea who it is?"

"No."

"It's a hell of a hustle," I said. "Blackmail is dangerous if the 
victim knows you or at the point when the money is exchanged. This is 
perfect. There is no money exchanged. You render a service, and he gets the 
money elsewhere. He never has to reveal himself. There are probably one 
hundred thousand people who've seen that film, and you can't know who they 
are. He mails his instructions, bets his money, and who's to know?"

"Yes."

"And furthermore, the act of payment is itself a blackmailable offense 
so that the more you comply with his requests, the more he's got to 
blackmail you for."

"I know that too," she said. "If there was a hint of gambling 
influence, Marty would be out of baseball forever."

"If you look at it by itself, it's almost beautiful."

"I've never looked at it by itself."

"Yeah, I guess not." I said, "Is it killing Marty?"

"A little, I think. He says you get used to anything-maybe he's right."

"How are you?"

"It's not me that has to cheat at my job."

"It's you that has to feel guilty about it," I said. "He can say he's 
doing it for you. What do you say?"

Tears formed in her eyes and began to run down her face. "I say it's 
what he gets for marrying a whore."

"See what I mean?" I said. "Wouldn't you rather be him?"

She didn't answer me. She sat still with her hands clenched in her lap, 
and the tears ran down her face without sound.

I got up and walked around the living room with my hands in my hip 
pockets. I'd found out what I was supposed to find out, and I'd earned the 
pay I'd hired on at.

"Did you call your husband?" I said.

She shook her head. "He's pitching today," she said, and her voice was 
steady but without inflection. "I don't like to bother him on the days he's 
pitching. I don't want to break his concentration. He should be thinking 
about the Oakland hitters."

"Mrs. Rabb, it's not a goddamned religion," I said.

"He's not out there in Oakland building a temple to the Lord or a 
stairway to paradise. He's throwing a ball and the other guys are trying to 
hit it. Kids do it every day in schoolyards all over the land."

"It's Marty's religion," she said. "It's what he does."

"How about you?"

"We're part of it too, me and the boy--the game and the family. It's 
all he cares about. That's why it's killing him because he has to screw us 
or screw the game. Which is like screwing himself."

I should be gone. I should be in Harold Erskine's office, laying it all 
out for him and getting a bonus and maybe a plaque: OFFICIAL MAJOR LEAGUE 
PRIVATE EYE. Gumshoe of the stars. But I knew I wasn't going to be gone. I 
knew that I was here, and I probably knew it back in Redford, Illinois, when 
I went to her house and met her mom and dad.

"I'm going to get you out of this," I said.

She didn't look at me.

"I know who's blackmailing you."

This time she looked.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I TOLD HER what I knew and what I thought.

"Maybe you can scare him off," she said. "Maybe when he realizes you 
know who he is, he'll stop."

"If he's wearing Frank Doerr's harness, I'd say no."

"Why?"

"Because he's got to be more scared of Frank Doerr than I can make him 
of me."

"Are you sure he's working for Frank What's'isname?"

"I'm not sure of anything. I'm guessing. Right after I started looking 
around the ball club, Doerr came to my office with one of his gunbearers and 
told me I might become an endangered species if I kept at it. That's 
suggestive, but it ain't definitive."

"Can you find out?"

"Maybe."

"Marty makes a lot of money. We could pay you. How much do you charge?"

"My normal retainer is two corn muffins and a black coffee. I bill the 
rest upon completion."

"I'm serious. We can pay a lot."

"Like Jack Webb would say, you already have, ma'am."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"But I don't want you to start until we get Marty's approval."

"Un-unh. Your retainer doesn't buy that. I'm still also working for 
Erskine, and I'm still looking into the situation.

I'm now looking with an eye to getting you unhooked, but you can't call 
me off."

"But you won't say anything about us?" Her eyes were wide and her face 
was pale and tight again and she was scared.

"No," I said.

"Not unless Marty says okay."

"Not until I've checked with you and Marty."

"That's not quite the same thing," she said.

"I know."

"But, Spenser, it's our life. It's us you're frigging around with."

"I know that too. I'll be as careful as I can be."

"Then, damn it, you have got to promise."

"No. I won't promise because I may not be able to deliver. Or maybe it 
will turn out different. Maybe I'll have to blow the whistle on you for 
reasons I can't see yet. But if I do, I'll tell you first."

"But you won't promise."

"I can't promise."

"Why not, goddamn you?"

"I already told you."

She shook her head once, as if there were a horsefly on it. "That's 
bullshit," she said. "I want a better reason than that for you to ruin us."

"I can't give you a better reason. I care about promises, and I don't 
want to make one I can't be sure I'll keep. It's important to me."

"Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit." She was leaning forward, and her 
nostrils seemed to flare wider as she did.

"My game has rules too, Mrs. Rabb."

"You sound like Marty," she said.

I didn't say anything.

She was looking at the Christian Science dome again.

"Children," she said to it. "Goddamned adolescent children.'' My 
stomach felt a little funny, and I was uncomfortable as hell.

"Mrs. Rabb," I said, "I will try to help. And I am good at this. I'll 
try."

She kept looking at the dome. "You and Marty and all the goddamned 
game-playing children. You're all good at all the games." She turned around 
and looked at me. "Screw," she said, and jerked her head at the door.

I couldn't think of much to say to that, so I screwed.

She slammed the door behind me, and I went down in the elevator feeling 
like a horse's ass and not sure why.

It was almost three o'clock. There was a public phone outside the 
drugstore next to the apartment building entrance. I went in and called 
Martin Quirk.

"Spenser," he said. "Thank God you called. I've got this murder took 
place in a locked room. It's got us all stumped and the chief said; 'Quirk,' 
he said, 'only one man can solve this."' "Can I buy you lunch or a drink or 
something?"

"Lunch? A drink? Christ, you must be in deep trouble."

I did not feel jolly. "Yes or no," I said. "If I wanted humor, I'd have 
called Dial-A-Joke."

"Yeah, okay. I'll meet you at the Red Coach on Stanhope Street."

I hung up. There was a parking ticket neatly tucked under the wiper 
blade on the driver's side. The string looped around the base. A 
conscientious meter maid. A lot of them just jam it under the wiper without 
looping the string, and sometimes on the passenger side where you can't even 
see it.

It was nice to see samples of professional pride. I put the ticket in a 
public trash receptacle attached to a lamppost.

I drove down Boylston Street past the Prudential Center and the new 
public library wing and through Copley Square. The fountain in the square 
was in full spray, and college kids and construction workers mingled on the 
wall around it, eating lunch, drinking beer, taking the sun. A lot of them 
were shirtless. Beyond the fountain was the Copley Plaza with two enormous 
gilded lions flanking the entrance.

And at the Clarendon Street end of the square, Trinity Church gleamed, 
recently sandblasted, its brown stones fresh-looking, its spires reflecting 
brightly in the windows of the Hancock Building. A quart of beer, I thought, 
and a cutlet sub. Shirt off, catch some rays, maybe strike up a conversation 
with a coed. Would you believe, my dear, I could be your father? Oh, you 
would.

I turned right on Clarendon and left onto Stanhope, where I parked in a 
loading zone. Stanhope Street is barely more than an alley and tucked into 
it between an electrical supply store and a garage is the Red Coach Grill, 
looking very old world with red tile roof and leaded windows. It was right 
back of police headquarters, and a lot of cops hung out there.

Also a lot of insurance types and ad men. Despite that, it wasn't a bad 
place. Quiet lighting, oaken beams, and such.

Quirk was at the bar. He looked like I always figured a cop ought to. 
Bigger than I am and thick. Short, thick black hair, thick hands and 
fingers, thick neck, thick features, a pockmarked face, and dressed like 
he'd just come from a summit meeting. Today he had on a light gray 
three-piece suit with a pale red plaid pattern, a white shirt, and a 
silk-finish wide red tie. His shoes were patent leather loafers with a gold 
trim.

I slipped onto a barstool beside him.

"You gotta be on the take," I said. "Fuzz don't get paid enough to 
dress like that."

"They do if they don't do anything else. I haven't been on vacation in 
fifteen years. What are you spending your dough on?"

"Lunch for cops," I said. "Want to sit in a booth?"

Quirk picked up his drink, and we sat down across from the bar in one 
of the high-backed walnut booths that run parallel to the bar front to back 
and separate it from the dining room.

I ordered a bourbon on the rocks from the waitress.

"Shot of bitters and a twist," I said, "and another for my date." The 
waitress was young with a short skirt and very short blond hair. Quirk and I 
watched her lean over the bar to pick up the drinks.

"You are a dirty lecherous old man," I said. "I may speak to the vice 
squad about you."

"What were you doing, looking for clues?"

"Just checking for concealed weapons, Lieutenant."

She brought the drinks. Quirk had Scotch and soda.

We drank. I took a lot of mine in the first swallow.

Quirk said, "I thought you were a beer drinker."

"Yeah, but I got a bad taste I want to get rid of and the bourbon is 
quicker."

"You must be used to a bad taste in your line of business."

I finished the drink and nodded at the waitress. She looked at Quirk. 
He shook his head. "I'll nurse this," he said.

"I thought you guys weren't supposed to drink on duty," I said.

"That's right," he said. "What do you want?"

"I just thought maybe we could rap a little about law enforcement 
theory and prison reform, and swap detective techniques, stuff like that."

"Spenser, I got eighteen unsolved homicides in my lefthand desk drawer 
at this moment. You want to knock off the bullshit and get to it."

"Frank Doerr," I said. "I want to know about him."

"Why?"

"I think he owns some paper on a guy who is squeezing a client."

"And the guy is squeezing the client because of the paper?"

"Yes."

"Doerr's probably free-lance. Got his own organization, operates around 
the fringe of the mob's territory. Gambling, mostly, used to be a gambler. 
Vegas, Reno, Cuba in the old days. Does loan sharking too. Successful, but I 
hear he's a little crazy, things don't go right, he gets bananas and starts 
shooting everybody. And he's too greedy. He's going to bite off too big a 
piece of somebody else's pie and the company will have him dusted. He's 
looking flashy now, but he's not going to last."

"Where do I find him?"

"If you're screwing around in this operation, he'll find you."

"But say I want to find him before he does, where?"

"I don't know, exactly. Runs a funeral parlor, somewhere in 
Charlestown. I get back to the station I'll check for you."

"Has he got a handle I can shake him with?"

"You? Scare him off? You try scaring Doerr and they'll be tying a tag 
on your big toe down at Boston City."

"Well, what's he like best? Women? Booze? Performing seals? There must 
be a way to him."

"Money," Quirk said. "He likes money. Far as I know he doesn't like 
anything else."

"How do you know he doesn't like me?" I said.

"I surmise it," Quirk said. "You met him?"

"Once."

"Who was with him?"

"Wally Hogg."

Quirk shook his head. "Get out of this, Spenser. You're in with people 
that will waste you like a popsicle on a warm day." The waitress brought us 
another round. She was wearing fishnet stockings. Could it be Ms. Right? I 
drank some bourbon.

"I wish I could get out of this, Marty. I can't."

"You're in trouble yourself?" Quirk asked.

"No, but I gotta do this, and it's not making anyone too happy "Wally 
Hogg," Quirk said, "will kill anyone Doerr tells him to. He doesn't like it 
or not like it. Slow or fast, one or a hundred, whatever. Doerr points him 
and he goes bang. He's a piece with feet."

"Well, if he goes bang at me," I said, "he'll be Wally Sausage ."

"You're not as good as you think you are, Spenser. But neither is 
Captain Marvel. I've seen people worse than you, and maybe you got a chance. 
But sober. Don't go up against any of Doerr's group half-gassed. Go bright 
and early in the morning after eight hours' sleep and a good breakfast." He 
stirred the ice in his new drink. I noticed he hadn't finished the old one.

"Slow," I said. "Always knew you were a slow drinker."

I reached over and picked up his old drink and finished it. "I can 
drink you right out of your orthopedic shoes, Quirk."

"Christ, this thing really is bugging you, isn't it?"

Quirk said. He stood up. "I'm going back to work before you start to 
slobber."

"Quirk," I said.

He stopped and looked at me.

"Thanks for not asking for names."

"I knew you wouldn't tell me," Quirk said. "And watch your ass on this, 
Spenser. There must be someone who'd miss you."

I gave him a thumbs-up gesture, like in the old RAF movies, and he 
walked off. I drank Quirk's new drink and gestured to the waitress. There'll 
always be an England.

By five thirty in the afternoon I was sitting at the desk in my office, 
drinking bourbon from the bottle neck. Brenda Loring had a date, Susan 
Silverman didn't answer her phone.

The afternoon sun slanted in at my window and made the room hot. I had 
the sash up, but there wasn't much breeze and the sweat was collecting where 
my back pressed against the chair.

Maybe I should get out of this thing. Maybe it bothered me too much. 
Why? I'd been told to screw before. Why did this time bother me? "Goddamned 
adolescent children."

I'd heard worse than that before. "Goddamned game-playing children." 
I'd heard worse than that too. I drank some bourbon. My nose felt sort of 
numb and the surface of my face felt insulated. Dumb broad. Promises. Shit, 
I can't promise what I don't know. World ain't that simple, for crissake. I 
said I'd try.

What the hell she want, for crissake? By God, I would get her out of 
it. I held the bottle up toward the window and looked at how much was left. 
Half. Good. Even if I finished it, there was another one in the file 
cabinet. Warm feeling having another one in the file cabinet. I winked at 
the file cabinet and grinned with one side of my mouth like Clark Gable used 
to.

He never did it at file cabinets, though, far as I could remember. I 
drank some more and rinsed it around in my mouth.

Maybe my teeth will get drunk. I giggled. Goddamned sure Clark Gable 
never giggled. Drink up, teeth. Hot damn. She was right, though, it was a 
kind of game. I mean, you played ball or something and whatever you did 
there had to be some kind of rules for it, for crissake. Otherwise you ended 
up getting bombed and winking at file cabinets. And your teeth got drunk. I 
giggled again. I was going to have Frank Doerr's ass.

But sober, Quirk was right, sober, and in shape. "I'm coming, Doerr, 
you sonovabitch." Tongue wasn't drunk yet. I could still talk. Have a drink, 
tongue, baby. I drank. "Only where love and need are one," I said out loud. 
My voice sounded even stranger. Detached and over in the other corner of the 
room.

"And the work is play for goddamned mortal stakes/Is the deed ever
really done." My throat felt hot, and I inhaled a lot of air to cool it. 
"Mortal goddamned stakes," I said. "You got that, Linda Rabb/Donna 
Burlington, baby?" I had unclipped my holster, and it lay with my .38 
detective special in it on the desk beside the bourbon bottle. I drank a 
little more bourbon, put down the bottle, picked up the gun still in its 
holster, and pointed it at one of the Vermeer prints, the one of the Dutch 
girl with a milk pitcher. "How do you like them goddamned games, Frank?" 
Then I made a plonking sound with my tongue.

It was quiet then for a while. I sipped a little. And listened to the 
street sounds a little and then I heard someone snoring and it was me.

CHAPTER TWENTY

THE NEXT DAY it took me five miles of jogging and an hour and a half in
the weight room to get the swelling out of my tongue and my vital signs
functioning. I had breakfast in a diner, nothing could be finer, took
two aspirin, and set out after Frank Doerr. A funeral parlor in
Charlestown, Quirk had said. I brought all my sleuthing wiles to bear on
the problem of how to locate it and looked in the Yellow Pages.
Elementary, my dear Holmes. There it was, under "Funeral Directors":
Francis X. Doerr, 228 Main Street, Charlestown.

There's no escape Doerr.

With the top down I drove my eight-year-old Chevy across the bridge 
into City Square. Charlestown is a section of Boston. Bunker Hill is there, 
and Old Ironsides, but the dominant quality of Charlestown is the 
convergence of elevated transportation. The Mystic River Bridge, Route 93, 
and the Fitzgerald Expressway all interchange in Charlestown.

Through the maze run the tracks of the elevated MBTA. Steel and 
concrete stanchions have flourished in the City Square area as nowhere else. 
If the British wanted to attack Bunker Hill now, they wouldn't be able to 
find it.

From City Square I drove out Main Street under the elevated tracks. 
Doerr was maybe a half mile out from City Square toward Everett. Parking in 
that area of Charlestown was no problem. Most of the stores along that 
stretch of Main Street are boarded up. And urban renewal had not yet brought 
economic renewal. My car looked just right in the neighborhood.

Doerr's Funeral Parlor was a two-story brick house with a slate roof. 
It was wedged in between an unoccupied grocery store with plywood nailed 
over the windows and a discount shoe store called Ronny's Rejects. Across 
the street a vacant lot, not yet renewed, supported a flourishing crop of 
chicory and Queen Anne's lace. Nature never betrayed the heart that loved 
her.

I brushed my hand over the gun on my hip for security and rang the bell 
at the front door. Inside, it made a very gentle chime. Full of solicitude. 
The door was opened almost at once by a plump man with a perfectly bald 
head. Striped pants, white shirt, dark coat, black tie. The undertaker's 
undertaker.

"May I help you," he said. Soft. Solicitous. May I take your wallet, 
may I have all your money? Leave everything to us.

"Yes," I said. "I'd like to speak with Mr. Doerr." Mr.

Doerr? He had me talking like him. I felt the scared feeling in my 
stomach.

"Concerning what, sir?"

I gave Baldy my card, the one with just my name on it, and said, "Tell 
Doerr I'd like to continue the discussion we began the other night." 
Dropping the "Mr." made me feel more aggressive.

"Certainly, sir, won't you sit down for a moment?"

I sat in a straight-back chair with a velvet seat, and the bald man 
left the room. I thought he might genuflect before he left but he didn't, 
just left with a dignified and reverent nod. It didn't help my stomach. 
Getting the hell out would have helped my stomach but would have done little 
for my self-image. Doerr probably wasn't that tough anyway. And Big Wally 
looked out of shape. Course you don't have to be in really great shape to 
squeeze off, say, two rounds from a ninemillimeter Walther.

The building was absolutely silent and had a churchy smell. The entry 
hall where I sat was papered in a dim beige with palm fronds on it. Very 
understated and elderly. The rug on the floor was Oriental, with dull maroon 
the dominant color, and the ceiling fixture was wreathed in molded plaster 
fruit.

The bald man came back. "This way, please, sir," he said, and stood 
aside to let me precede him through the door.

Well, Spenser, I said, it's your funeral. Sometimes I'm uncontrollably 
droll.

Doerr's office was on the second floor front and looked out at the 
elevated tracks. Just right if you wanted to make eye contact with 
commuters. Apparently Doerr didn't because he sat behind a mahogany desk 
with his back to the window.

His desk was cluttered with manila file folders. There were two phones, 
and a big vase of snapdragons flourished on a small stand beside the window.

"What do you want?" Doerr said.

I sat in one of the two straight chairs in front of the desk. Doerr 
didn't waste a lot of bread on decor.

"Why don't you get right to the point, Frank?" I said.

"Don't hide behind evasive pleasantries."

"What do you want?"

"I want to answer some of the questions you asked me the other day."

"Why?"

"Openness and candor," I said. "The very hallmark of my profession."

Doerr was sitting straight, hands resting on the arms of his swivel 
chair. He looked at me without expression. Without comment. A train 
clattered by outside the window, headed for Sullivan Square. Doerr ignored 
it.

"Okay," I said. "You asked me what I was doing out at the ball park 
besides playing pepper."

Doerr continued to look at me.

"I was hired to see if someone was going into the tank out there."

Doerr said, "And?"

"And someone is."

"Who?"

"I think we both know."

"Why do you think that?"

"Several things, including the fact you came calling with your 
gunslinger right after I was out there."

"So?"

"So you heard from someone. I know who's dumping the games, I know 
who's blackmailing him into it, and I know what shylock the blackmailer 
owes. And that brings us right back here to you. Okay if I call you Shy for 
short? We get on so well and all."

"Names, Spenser. I'm not interested in a lot of bullshit about who you 
know and what anonymous whosis is doing what. Gimme a name and maybe I'm 
interested."

"Marty Rabb, Bucky Maynard, and you, Blue Eyes."

"Those are serious allegations, you got proof?"

"Serious allegations." I whistled. "That's very good for a guy whose 
lips move when he reads the funnies."

"Look, you piece of turd, don't get smart with me. I can have you blown 
away before you can scratch your ass. You understand? Now gimme what you got 
or you're going to get hurt."

"That's better," I said, "that's the old glib Frankie.

Yeah, I got some proof, and I can get some more. What I haven't got for 
proof yet is the tie between you and Maynard, but I can get it. I'll bet 
Maynard might begin to ooze under pressure."

"Saying you're right, saying that's the way it is, and you can get some 
proof out of Maynard. Why don't I just waste Maynard or, maybe better, waste 
you?"

"You won't waste Maynard, because I'll bet you don't know what he's got 
on Rabb and I'll bet even more that he's got it stashed somewhere so if 
something happens to him, you'll never know. You won't waste me because I'm 
so goddamned lovable. And because there's a homicide cop named Quirk that 
knows I'm here. Besides, I'm not sure you got the manpower."

"You're doing a lot of guessing."

As far as you could tell from Doerr's face, I might have been in there 
arranging a low-budget funeral. And maybe I was.

"I'm licensed to," I said. "The state of Massachusetts says I'm 
permitted to make guesses and investigate them."

"So what do you want?"

"I want it to stop. I want Maynard to give me the item he's using for 
blackmail, and I want everyone to leave the Rabbs alone."

"Or what?"

"I don't suppose you'd accept 'or else."' "I'm getting sick of you, 
Spenser. I'm sick of the way you look, and the way you dress, and the way 
you get your hair cut, and the way you keep shoving your face into my work. 
I'm sick of you being alive and making wise remarks.

You understand what I'm saying to you, turd?"

"What's wrong with the way I dress?"

"Shut up." Doerr's face had gotten a little red under the health club 
tan. He swung his chair sideways and stared out the window. And he had begun 
to fiddle with a pencil.

Tapping it against his thigh until it had slid through his fingers and 
then reversing it and tapping it again. Tap-tap-tap.

Reverse. Tap-tap-tap. Reverse. Lead end. Erasure end. Taptap-tap. 
Another train went by, almost empty, heading this time from Everett Station 
toward City Square. I slid my gun out of the hip holster and held it between 
my legs under my thighs with my hands clasped over it so it looked like I 
was leaning forward in concealed anxiety. I had no trouble at all simulating 
the anxiety.

Doerr swung his chair back around, still holding the pencil. He pointed 
it at me.

"Okay," he said. "I'm going to let you walk out of here.

But before you go, I'm going to give you an idea of what happens when I 
get sick of someone."

There must have been a button under the desk that he could hit with his 
knee, or maybe the room was bugged. Either way a door to the left of the 
desk opened and Wally Hogg came in. He had on another flowered shirt, 
hanging outside the double knit pants, and the same wraparound sunglasses.

In his right hand was one of those rubber truncheons that French cops 
use for riot control. He reminded me of one of the nasty trolls that used to 
lurk under bridges.

"Wally," Doerr said, looking at me while he said it, "show him what 
hurts."

Wally came around the desk. "You want it sitting down or standing up," 
he said. "It don't make no difference to me."

He stood directly in front of me, looking down as I leaned over in even 
greater anxiety. I brought the gun up from between my thighs, thumbed the 
hammer back while I was doing that, and put the muzzle against the underside 
of his jaw, behind the jawbone, where it's soft. And I pressed up a little.

"Wally," I said, "have you ever thought of renting out as a goblin for 
Halloween parties?"

Wally's body was between Doerr and me, and Doerr couldn't see the gun. 
"What the hell are you waiting for, Wally? I want to hear him yelling."

I stood up and Wally inched back. The pressure of the gun muzzle made 
him rise slightly on the balls of his feet.

"Overconfidence," I said. "Overconfidence again, Frankie. That's twice 
you said ugly things to me and then couldn't back them up. Now I am thinking 
about whether I should shoot Wally in the tongue or not. Put the baton in my 
left hand, porklet," I said to Wally. He did. Our faces were about an inch 
apart, and his was as blank as it had been when he'd walked into the room. 
Without looking, I tossed it into the corner behind me.

"Of course, you could try me, Frank. You could rummage around in your 
desk maybe and come up with a weapon and have a go at me. Pretty good odds, 
Frankie. I have to shoot the Hog first before I can get you. Why not? It's 
quicker than scaring me to death." I kept the pressure of the gun barrel up 
under Wally's chin and looked past his shoulder at Doerr. Doerr had his 
hands, palms down, on the desk in front of him. His face was quite red and 
his lips were trembling.

But he didn't move. He stared at me and the lines from his nostrils to 
the corners of his mouth were deep and there was a very small tic in his 
left eyelid. With my left hand I patted Wally down and found the P .38 in 
its shoulder holster under his belt. All the time I watched Doerr. His mouth 
was open maybe an inch, and a small bubble of saliva had formed in the 
right-hand corner. I could see the tip of his tongue and it seemed to 
tremble, like the tic in his eye and in counterpoint to the movement of his 
lips. It was kind of interesting. But I was getting sick of standing that 
close to Wally.

"Turn around, Wall," I said. "Rest your hands on the desk and back away 
with your feet apart till all your weight is on your arms. You probably know 
the routine." I stepped away from him around the desk closer to Doerr, and 
Wally did as he was told.

"Okay, Frank," I said. "So much for what hurts. Are you going to climb 
down from Marty Rabb's back, or am I going to have to take you off?"

Doerr's mouth had opened wider and his tongue was quivering against his 
lower lip much more violently than it had been. The small bubble had popped 
and a small trickle of saliva had replaced it. His head had dropped, and as 
he began to look at me, he had to roll his eyes up toward his eyebrows.

His mouth was moving too, but he wasn't making any noise.

"How about it, Frank? I like standing around watching you drool, but I 
got things to do."

Doerr opened his middle drawer and came out with a gun. I slammed my 
gun down on the back of his wrist, and it cracked against the edge of the 
desk. The gun rattled across the desk top and fell on the floor. Wally Hogg 
raised his head and I turned the gun at him. Doerr doubled up over his hand 
and made a repetitive grunting noise. Rocking back and forth in the swivel 
chair, grunting and drooling and making a sound that was very much like 
crying.

"Am I to interpret this as a rejection, Frank?"

He kept rocking and moaning and crying. "Aw balls," I said. I picked up 
Doerr's little automatic and stuck it in my pocket and said to Wally, "If 
you try to stop me, I'll kill you," and walked out the door. No one was 
downstairs. No one let me out. No one pursued me as I drove off.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

THERE'S A BIRD I read about that lives around rhinos and feeds on the
insects that the rhinos stir up when they walk. I'd always figured that
my work was like that. If the rhinos were moving, things would happen.
This time, though, the rhino had started to cry and I wasn't too sure
how to deal with that.

I had a feeling, though, how Doerr would deal with that once he stopped 
crying. I didn't like the feeling. Maybe the technique only worked with real 
birds and real rhinos. Maybe I was doing more harm than good. Maybe I should 
get back on the cops and do what the watch commander said. I could get rid 
of a lot of maybes that way. I drove out Main Street, past the candy factory 
and around the circle at Sullivan Square, and back in toward Boston on 
Rutherford Ave. The sweet smell from the factory masked the smoke that 
billowed out of the skyscraper chimneys at the Edison plant across the 
Mystic River. Past the community college I turned right over the Prison 
Point Bridge, which had been torn down and rebuilt and called the Somebody 
T. Gilmore Bridge. The traffic reporters called it the Gilmore Bridge, but I 
remembered when it led to the old prison in Charlestown, where the walls 
were red brick like the rest of the city, and on execution nights people 
used to gather in the streets to watch the lights dim when they turned on 
the current in the chair. Now state prison was in Walpole and electrocutions 
were accidental. Ah sweet bird of youth.

It was before lunchtime still and traffic was light. In five minutes I 
was at my office and sliding into a handy tow zone to park. I bought a copy 
of the Globe at a cigar store and went up to my office to read it. The Sox 
had an off day today and opened at home against Cleveland tomorrow. Marty 
Rabb had beaten Oakland 2 to 0 yesterday on the coast, and the team had 
flown into Logan this morning early.

I called Harold Erskine and got Bucky Maynard's home address. It was 
what I thought it would be.

"Why do you want to know?" Erskine asked.

"Because it's there," I said.

"I don't want you screwing around with Maynard.

That's the surest way to have this whole thing blow wide open."

"Don't worry, I am a model of circumspection."

"Yeah," Erskine said, "sure. You find out anything yet?"

"Nothing I can report on yet. I need to put some things together."

"Well, for crissake, what have you found out? Is Marty or isn't he?"

"It's not that simple, Mr. Erskine. You'll have to give me a little 
more time."

"How much more? You're costing me a hundred a day.

What do your expenses look like?"

"High," I said. "I been to Illinois and New York City and spent a 
hundred and nineteen bucks buying dinner for a witness."

"Jesus Galloping Christ, Spenser. I got a goddamned budget to work 
with, and I don't want you appearing in it.

How the Christ am I going to bury that kind of dough? Goddamn it, I 
want you to check with me before you go spending my money like that."

"I don't work that way, Mr. Erskine, but I think I won't run up much 
more expense money." I needed to stay on this thing. I couldn't afford to 
get fired and shut off from the Sox. Also I needed the money. My charger 
needed feed and my armor needed polish. "I'm closing in on the truth."

"Yeah, well, close in on it quick," Erskine said, and hung up.

The old phrasemaker, Closing In on the Truth. I should have been a 
poet. If I went back on the cops, I wouldn't need to worry about charger 
feed and armor polish.

Harbor Towers is new, a complex of highrise apartments that looks out 
over Boston Bay. It represents a substantial monument to the renaissance of 
the waterfront, and the smell of new concrete still lingers in the lobbies. 
The central artery cuts them off from the rest of the city, penning them 
against the ocean, and they form a small peninsula of recent affluence where 
once the wharves rotted.

I parked in the permanent shade under the artery, on Atlantic Ave, near 
Maynard's apartment. It was hot enough for the asphalt to soften and the air 
conditioning in the lobby felt nice. I gave my name to the houseman, who 
called it up, then nodded at me. "Top floor, sir, number eight." The 
elevator was lined with mirrors and I was trying to see how I looked in 
profile when we got to the top floor and the doors opened. I looked quickly 
ahead, but no one was there. It's always embarrassing to get caught admiring 
yourself. Number 8 was opposite the elevator and Lester Floyd opened it on 
my first ring.

He had on white denim shorts, white sandals, a white headband, and 
sunglasses with big white plastic frames and black lenses. His upper body 
was as smooth and shiny as a snake's, tight-muscled and flexible. Instead of 
a belt, there was what looked like a black silk scarf passed through the 
belt loops and knotted over his left hip. He was chewing bubble gum. He held 
the door open and nodded his head toward the living room. I went in. He shut 
the door behind me. The living room looked to be thirty feet long, with the 
far wall a bank of glass that opened onto a balcony. Beyond the balcony, the 
Atlantic, blue and steady and more than my eye could fully register. Lester 
slid open one of the glass doors, went out, slid it shut behind him, settled 
down on a chaise made from filigreed white iron, rubbed some lotion on his 
chest, and chewed his gum at the sun. Mr. Warm.

I sat in a big red leather chair. The room was full of pictures, mostly 
eight-by-ten framed glossy prints of Maynard and various celebrities. 
Ballplayers, politicians, a couple of movie types. I didn't see any private 
eyes. Discriminatory bastard. Or maybe just discriminating. The sound of a 
portable radio drifted in faintly from Lester's sun deck. The top forty. 
Music with the enchantment and soul of a penny gum machine. Ah when you and 
I were young, Sarah.

Bucky Maynard came into the living room from a door in the far 
right-hand wall. He was wearing bright yellow pajamas under a maroon silk 
bathrobe with a big velvet belt. He needed a shave and his eyes were puffy. 
He hadn't been awake long.

"Y'all keep some early hours, Spenser. Ah didn't get to bed till four 
A.M.

"Early to bed," I said, "early to rise. I wanted to ask you what Lester 
was doing down in New York talking with Patricia Utley."

The collar of Maynard's robe was turned up on one side. He smoothed it 
down carefully. "Ah can't say ah know what you mean, Spenser. Ah can ask 
him."

"As us kids say out in the bleachers, don't jive me, Bucko. Lester was 
down there on your business. I've talked with Utley. I've talked with Frank 
Doerr and Wally the bone breaker. I've seen a film called Suburban Fancy and 
I've talked with Linda Rabb. Actually I guess I asked the wrong question. I 
know what Lester was doing down there. What I want to know is what we do now 
that I know."

"Lester." Maynard showed no change in expression.

Lester left the radio playing and came into the living room and blew a 
pink bubble that nearly obscured his face.

"Criminentlies, Lester," I said. "That's a really heavy bubble. I think 
you're my bubble-blowing idol. Zowie." Lester chewed the bubble back into 
his mouth without even a trace sticking to his lips. "Hours," I said. "It 
must take hours of practice."

Lester looked at Maynard. "Spenser and ah are going to talk, and ah 
want you to be around and to listen, Lester."

Lester leaned against the edge of the sliding door and crossed his arms 
and looked at me. Maynard sat in one of the leather chairs and said, "Now 
what exactly is the point of your question, Spenser?"

"I figure that we've got a mutual problem and maybe we could conspire 
to solve it. Conspire, Lester. That means get together."

"Get to the point, Spenser. Lester gonna get mad at you."

"You owe Frank Doerr money and you can't pay, so you're blackmailing 
Marty Rabb into going into the tank for you and you're feeding the 
information to Doerr so he won't hurt you."

"Frank Doerr gotta deal with me before he hurts anybody," Lester said.

"Yeah, that's a big problem for him," I said. "Flex at him next time he 
and the Hog come calling. See if he faints."

"I'm getting goddamned sick of you, you wise bastard."

Lester unfolded his arms and moved a step toward me.

"Lester," Maynard said, "we're talking." Lester refolded, stepped back, 
and leaned on the door again. Like reversing a film sequence.

"Ah don't know why you think all that stuff, Spenser.

But say y'all was right. What business would that be of yours?

You being a writer and all?"

"You know and I know that I'm not a writer."

"Ah do? Ah don't know any such thing. You told me you was a writer." 
The cornpone accent had gotten thicker. I didn't know if it was the real one 
coming through under duress or a fake one getting faker. Actually I couldn't 
see that it mattered much.

"Yeah, and you hollered to Doerr and he looked me up and we both know 
I'm a private cop."

"How about that?" Maynard raised both eyebrows. "A private detective. 
That still leaves the question, though, Spenser. What is your interest?"

"I would like you to stop blackmailing the Rabbs."

"And if ah was blackmailing them, and ah stopped, what would ah get out 
of that?"

"Well, I'd be grateful."

From his post by the sliding door, Lester said, "Shit," drawing it out 
into a two-syllable word.

"Anything besides that?" Maynard said.

"I'll help you with Frank Doerr."

Lester said, "Shit," again. This time in three syllables.

"Well, Spenser, that's awful kind of you, but there's some things wrong 
with it all. One, ah don't much give a rat's ass for your gratitude, you 
know? And number two, ah don't figure, even if ah was having trouble with 
Frank Doerr, that you'd be the one ah'd ask to help me. And of course, 
number three, ah'm not blackmailing anybody. Am I, Lester?"

Lester shook his head no.

"So, ah guess you wasted some time coming up here.

Interesting to know about you being a detective, though. Isn't that 
interesting, Lester?"

Lester nodded his head yes. From the radio on the sun deck the disk 
jockey was yelling about a "rock classic."

I said, "Yall seem to be takin' the short view." Christ, now he had me 
doing it.

"Why do you say so?"

"Because you have only a short-term solution. How long will Marty Rabb 
pitch? Five more years. You think that when he's through with baseball, 
Doerr will be through with you? Doerr will feed on you till you die."

"I can handle Doerr," Lester said. He didn't get too much variety into 
the conversation.

"Lester," I said, "you can't handle Doerr. Handling Doerr is different 
from beating up some tourist in a bar or breaking bricks with your bare 
hand. Wally Hogg is a professional tough guy. You are an amateur. He would 
blow you away like a midsummer dandelion."

Lester said, "Shit." You find a line that works for you, I suppose you 
ought to stick with it.

Maynard said, "If these people are so tough, Spenser, what makes you 
think you can help?"

"Because I'm a professional too, Bucko, and that means I know what I 
can do and also what I can't do. It means I don't walk around thinking I can 
go up against the likes of Frank Doerr, head-on, without getting my body 
creased. It means I know how to even things up a bit. It means I know what 
I'm doing and you two clowns don't."

"You don't look so frigging tough to me," Lester said.

"That's the difference between you and me, Lester.

Aside from our taste in music. I don't worry about how things look. You 
do. I don't have to prove whether I'm tough. You do.

You'll say something like that to Wally the Hog and he'll shoot you 
three times or so in your nose, while you're posing and blowing bubbles."

Lester had gone into the stance, legs bent, left fist forward, right 
drawn back, clenched palms up, a little like the old pictures of the great 
John L. "Why don't you try me, you mother?"

I stood up. "Lester, let me show you something," I said.

And brought my gun out and aimed it at his forehead. "This is a 
thirty-eight caliber Colt detective special. If I pull the trigger, your 
mastery of the martial arts will be of very little use to you."

Maynard said, "Now, Spenser . . ."

Lester looked at the gun.

"Now put that thing down, Spenser," Maynard said.

"Lester. Y'all just relax over there."

Lester said, "If you didn't have that gun."

"But that's the point, Les, baby, I do have the gun.

Wally Hogg has a gun. You don't have a gun. Professionals are the 
people with the guns who get them out first."

"Now relax, y'all, just relax," Maynard said.

"You won't always have that gun, Spenser."

"See, boy, see what a baby you are," I said. "You're wrong again. I 
will always have the gun. You'd forget the gun, you wouldn't have it where 
you could get at it, but I will always have it."

"Lester," Maynard said again. This time loud. "Y'all just settle down. 
You hear me. Now you settle down. Ah don't want no more of this."

Lester eased out of his attack stance and leaned back against the 
doorjamb, but he kept his eyes on me and one of the eyelids seemed to 
flicker as he stared. I put the gun away.

I said to Maynard, "You keep him away from me or I will hurt him 
badly."

"Now, Spenser," Maynard said. "Lester excites kind of prompt, but he's 
not a fool. Right, Lester?"

Lester didn't speak. I noticed that there was a glisten of sweat on 
Maynard's upper lip. "Suppose ah was interested in joining forces with you," 
Maynard said. "What would be your plan? How would you keep Doerr from coming 
around and killing me?"

"I'd tell him that right now we call off the scheme and end the 
blackmail and he's out some bread, but no one's incriminated. If he causes 
trouble, it'll mean the cops, and then someone will be incriminated. And 
it'll be him, because we've stashed evidence where the cops will find it if 
anything happens to you."

"What about the money I owe him, Ah mean hypothetically?"

"You've paid that off long ago if Doerr got any bread down at all on 
Rabb's pitching."

"But maybe Doerr will want more, and ah don't have it."

"It'll be my job to convince him not to want more."

"That's it. That's the part ah want to know," Maynard said, and his 
face looked very moist. "How you going to convince him of anything?"

"I don't know. Appeal to his business sense. Dropping the scheme is a 
lot less trouble than sticking to it. He can pick up dough a lot of other 
ways. You and Rabb aren't the only goobers in the patch."

Maynard took a deep breath. The top forty played on outside on the 
deck. Lester glared at me from the doorjamb.

Whitecaps continued to pattern the bay. Maynard shook his head. "Not 
good enough, Spenser. What you say may be so, but right now ah'm not getting 
hurt. And what you say makes getting hurt more likely."

"I can handle Doerr, Bucky." Lester sounded almost plaintive from the 
doorjamb.

"Maybe yes, maybe no, Lester. You couldn't have handled Spenser here, 
if it had been for real. Ah'm saying right now, no. Ah'm not going to take 
the chance. Things have worked out so far."

"But it's different now, Buck," I said. "I'm in it now.

And I'm going to poke around and aggravate the hornets. It's not safe 
anymore to go along with the program."

"Maybe that's true too," Maynard said. "But ah got a choice between you 
and Frank Doerr, and right now ah'm betting on Frank Doerr. But ah'll tell 
you this. If you come up with something better than you have, ah'm willing 
to listen."

He had me. Maybe if I were he, I'd go that way too.

"Lester," Maynard said, "show Mr. Spenser out."

I shook my head. "I'll show myself out. I want Lester to stay there. 
Mad, like he is, he might slam the door on my foot."

Maynard nodded. There was a little drip of sweat at the tip of his 
beaky little canary nose. It was the last thing I saw as I backed out.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

THE AQUARIUM IS NEAR Harbor Towers, and I walked to it. Inside, it was
nearly empty at midday, dark and cool and unconnected with the city
outside. I went up the spiral walkway around it and watched the fish
glide in silent pattern around and around the tank, swimming at
different strata, sharks and groupers and turtles and fish I didn't know
in the clear water. They were oblivious of me and seemed oblivious of
each other as they swam in a kind of implacable order around and around
the tank. The spiral walk was open and the rest of the aquarium was
spacious. Below the flat pool, bottom lit and cool green, silhouetted
other, smaller fish, black and quick in the bright water.

A small group of children, perhaps a second-grade class on a field 
trip, came in, shepherded by a plump little nun with horn-rimmed glasses. 
After a fast inspection of the fish, the children ignored them and began to 
enjoy the building and the space as if the real occasion for the visit was 
not the fish but the feel of the aquarium. The kids ran up and down the 
spiral and looked over the balcony and yelled at each other from above and 
below. The nun made no serious attempt to shush them, and the open space and 
the darkness seemed to absorb the noise. It was still nearly quiet.

I stood and stared in through the six-inch-thick glass windows of the 
tank and watched the sharks, small, well fed, and without threat, as they 
glided in their endless circle. I had screwed up the situation. I knew that. 
I had made Frank Doerr mad and Doerr was a cuckoo. Maynard was right not to 
buy what I was selling. Doerr wouldn't let Maynard off the hook and he 
wouldn't bargain with me. Maybe he never would have, but his honor was at 
stake now and he'd die before he let me talk him into, or scare him into, 
doing anything.

A small boy pushed in front of me to stare through the glass. His belt 
was too long, I noticed, and the surplus had been tucked through his belt 
loops halfway around his body.

Another kid joined him and I found myself being moved away from the 
fish tank. Kids already know how to block out, I thought. I walked off the 
spiral and looked at the penguins on the first balcony. They were the false 
note in the place. There was no glass wall, no separation between us except 
six feet of space. The smell of fish and, I supposed, penguin was rank and 
uninsulated. I didn't like it. The silent fish in the lucid water were 
fantasy. The smelly penguins were real.

I went on back down the spiral and out into the bright hot day that met 
me with a clang as I came out of the aquarium. I could put Doerr and Maynard 
away by going to the cops. But that would humiliate Linda Rabb and probably 
get Marty Rabb barred from baseball. I could disarm Doerr and Maynard by 
getting Linda to make a public confession. But that would have the same 
results. The top was down on my car and the seats were hot and uncomfortable 
when I got in. I couldn't shake Maynard loose from Doerr. Doerr was the key 
and I had handled him wrong. If I got near him again, he'd try to kill me. 
It made negotiations difficult.

Back to the Rabbs. The lobby attendant called up, and Marty Rabb was 
waiting for me at the apartment door. His face was white, and the hinge 
muscles of his jaw were bunched.

"You sonovabitch," he said. His voice was hoarse.

"Maybe," I said, "but that won't help."

"What do you want now, plant a bug in our bedroom maybe?"

"I don't want to talk about it out in the corridor."

"I don't give a shit what you don't want. I don't want you in my 
goddamned house, stinking up the place."

"Look, kid, I feel lousy and I understand how you feel, and I don't 
blame you, but I need to talk and I can't do it out here in the hall with 
you yelling at me."

"You're lucky I'm yelling, you bastard. You're lucky I don't knock you 
on your ass."

Linda Rabb came to the door beside her husband. "Let him in, Marty," 
she said. "We're in trouble. Yelling won't change that. Neither will hitting 
him."

"The sonovabitch caused it. We were doing all right till he came 
sticking his goddamned nose into things."

"I caused it as much as he did, Marty. I'm the whore, not Spenser."

Rabb turned at her. "I don't want to hear you say that again," he said. 
"Not again. I won't have any talk like that in my house. I don't want my son 
hearing that kind of talk."

Linda Rabb's voice sounded as if she were tired. "Your son's not home, 
Marty; he's at nursery. You know that. Come in, Spenser." She pulled Rabb 
away from the door, holding his right arm in both her hands. I went in.

I sat on the edge of the sofa. Rabb didn't sit. He stood looking at me 
with his hands clenched. "Be goddamned careful what you say, Spenser. I want 
to belt you so bad I can feel it in my guts, and if you make one smart 
remark, I'm going to level you."

"Marty, you are the third person this morning who has offered to 
disassemble my body. You are also third in order of probable success. I 
can't throw a baseball like you can, but the odds are very good that I could 
put you in the hospital before you ever got a hand on me." I was getting 
sick of people yelling at me.

"You think so."

I was proud of myself. I didn't say, "I know so."

Linda Rabb let go of his arm and came around in front of him and put 
both her arms around his waist. "Stop it, Marty. Both of you, grow up. This 
isn't a playground where you little boys can prove to each other how tough 
you are.

This is our home and our future and little Marty and our life.

You can't handle every problem as if it were an arm-wrestling contest." 
Her voice was getting thicker and she pressed her face against Rabb's chest. 
I knew she was crying, and I bet it wasn't the first time today.

"But, Jesus Christ, Linda, a man's gotta--" She screamed at him, the 
voice muffled against his chest. "Shut up. Just shut up about a man's 
gotta."

I wished I smoked. It would have given me something to do with my 
hands. Rabb put his arms around his wife and rubbed the top of her head with 
his chin.

"I don't know," he said. "I don't know what in hell to do."

"Me either," I said. "But if you'd sit down, maybe we could figure 
something out."

Linda Rabb said, "Sit down, Marty," and pushed him away from her with 
both hands against his chest. He sat. She sat beside him, her head turned 
away, and wiped her eyes with a Kleenex.

"I don't know," Rabb said again. He was sitting on the edge of the 
couch, his elbows on his thighs, his hands clasped together between his 
knees, staring at his thumbnails. Then he looked up at me.

"How much does Erskine know?" he said.

"Nothing. He had heard just the hint that something might not be 
square. He hired me to prove it was square. He wants to believe it's square 
and you're square."

"Yeah," Rabb said, "I'm square okay. You got any good ideas?"

"Your wife's told you what I said yesterday?" He nodded. "I've talked 
with Doerr and I've talked with Maynard.

Doerr won't let go of Maynard and Maynard won't let go of you. He's too 
scared."

"Maynard really is in debt to a loan shark?"

"Yes."

"I can't see anything else to do but keep on the way we have been," 
Rabb said.

"If you can stand it," I said.

"You can stand what you can't change," Rabb said.

"You got a better idea?"

"You could blow the whistle."

Linda Rabb had finished with her Kleenex and was looking at us again.

"Yes," she said.

"No," Rabb said.

"Marty," she said.

"No."

"Marty," she said again, "we can't stand it. I can't stand it. I can't 
stand the guilt and watching how you feel every time you lose a game so they 
can make money."

"I don't always have to lose," he said. "Sometimes I give up a run or 
two for the inning pools."

"Don't quibble, Marty. You're in a funk for a week after every letter. 
You have lived too long believing in do-or-die for dear old Siwash. It's 
killing you and it's killing me."

"I'm not having your name blabbed all over the country. You want your 
kid to hear that kind of talk about his mother. Maybe we should show him the 
movie."

"It will pass, Marty. He's only three."

"And it'll make nice talk in the bullpen, you know. You want me to 
listen to those bastards laughing in the dugout when I go out to pitch? Or 
maybe that doesn't matter either because if it gets out that I been dumping 
games I won't be pitching anyway. You want that?"

"No, but I don't want this either, Marty."

"Yeah, well maybe you should have thought of that when you were 
spreading your legs in New York."

I felt a jangle of shock in my solar plexus. Linda Rabb never flinched. 
She looked at her husband steadily. The silence hung between them. It was 
Rabb who broke it. "Jesus, honey, I'm sorry," he said and put his arms 
around her. She didn't pull away, but her body was as stiff and remote as a 
wire coat hanger and her eyes were focused on something far beyond the room 
as he held her.

"Jesus," he said again, "Jesus Christ, what is going to happen to us? 
What are we going to do?"

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

WHAT WOULD YOU DO if you didn't play ball? I said.

"Coach."

"And if you didn't coach?"

"Scout, maybe."

"And if you couldn't scout and couldn't coach? If you were out of 
baseball altogether?"

Rabb was looking at his thumbnails again. "I don't know," he said.

"What did you major in in college?"

"Phys ed."

"Well, what would you like to do?"

"Play ball and then coach."

"I mean, if you couldn't play ball." Rabb stared harder at his 
thumbnails. Linda Rabb looked at the coffee table. Neither one spoke.

"Mrs. Rabb?"

She shook her head.

"How sure are you that if this all comes out you'll be suspended?" I 
said to Rabb.

"Sure," he said. "I threw some games. If the commissioner's office 
finds out, I'm finished for life."

"What if I confessed," Linda Rabb said. "If I told everyone about my 
past and no one said anything about the gambling part. I could say Marty 
didn't even know about me."

"They could still blackmail me with the fact I dumped the games," Rabb 
said.

"Not necessarily," I said. "If I could find a way to get Doerr out of 
it, we might be able to bargain with Maynard. If Maynard told about you, 
he'd have to tell about himself. He'd be out of work too. With Maynard you'd 
have a standoff."

"Doesn't matter," Rabb said. He looked up from his thumbnails. "I won't 
let her." Linda Rabb was looking at me too.

"Could you get Doerr out of it, Spenser?"

"I don't know, Mrs. Rabb. If I can't, we're stuck. I guess I'll have 
to."

"She's not saying anything about it. What the hell kind of a man do you 
think I am?"

"How can you?" Linda Rabb said, and I realized we weren't paying 
attention to Marty.

"I don't know," I said.

"If you can, I'll do it," she said.

"No," Rabb said.

"Marty, if he can arrange it, I'll do it. It's for me too. I can't 
stand watching you pulled apart like this. You love two things, us and 
baseball, and you have to hurt one to help the other. I can't stand knowing 
that it's my fault, and I can't stand the tension and the fear and the 
uncertainty. If Spenser can do something about the other man, I will confess 
and we'll be free."

Rabb looked at me. "I'm warning you, Spenser."

"Grow up, Marty," I said. "The world's not all that clean. You do what 
you can, not what you oughta. You're involved in stuff that gets people 
dead. If you can get out of it with some snickers in the bullpen and some 
embarrassment for your wife, you call that good. You don't call it perfect. 
You call it better than it was."

Rabb was shaking his head. Linda Rabb was still looking at me. She 
nodded. I noticed that her body was still stiff and angular, but there was 
color in her face. Rabb said, "I . . ." and shook his head again.

I said, "We don't need to argue now. Let me see what I can do about 
Doerr. Maybe I can't do anything about him.

Maybe he'll do something about me. But I'll take a look."

"Don't do anything without checking here," Rabb said.

I nodded. Linda Rabb got up and opened the door for me. I got up and 
walked out. No one said be careful, or win this one for the Gipper, or it 
counts not if you win or lose but how you play the game. In fact, no one 
said anything, and all I heard as I left was the door closing behind me.

Outside on Mass Ave I looked at my watch: 1:30. I went home.

In my kitchen I opened a can of beer. I was having trouble getting 
Amstel these days and was drinking domestic stuff. Didn't make a hell of a 
lot of difference, though. The worst beer I ever had was wonderful. The 
apartment was very quiet. The hum of the air conditioner made it seem 
quieter. Doerr was the key. If I could take him out of this, I could reason 
with Maynard. All I had to do was figure out what to do about Doerr. I 
finished the beer. I didn't know what to do about Doerr. I applied one of 
Spenser's Rules: When in doubt, cook something and eat it. I took off my 
shirt, opened another can of beer, and studied the refrigerator.

Spareribs. Yeah. I doused them with Liquid Smoke and put them in the 
oven. Low. I had eaten once in a restaurant in Minneapolis, Charlie's 
something-or-other, and had barbecued spareribs with Charlie's own sauce. 
Since then I'd been trying to duplicate it. I didn't have it right yet, but 
I'd been getting close. This time I tried starting with chili sauce instead 
of ketchup. What did Doerr like? I'd been through that: money. What was he 
afraid of? Pain? Maybe. He hadn't liked me whacking his hand. I put a little 
less brown sugar in with the chili sauce this time. But maybe he hadn't 
liked me standing up to him. He was a weird guy and his reaction might be 
more complicated than just crying because his hand hurt. Two cloves of 
garlic this time. But first another beer, helps neutralize the garlic fumes. 
Either way I had got to him today. So what? I squeezed a couple of lemons 
and added the juice to my sauce. The smell of the spareribs was beginning to 
fill the kitchen. Even with the air conditioner on, the oven made the 
kitchen warm and sweat trickled down my bare chest.

Getting to Doerr and getting him to do what I wanted were different 
things. I had a feeling that right now if I saw him, I'd have to kill him. I 
never met a guy before who actually foamed at the mouth. If I killed him, 
I'd have to kill the Hog. Maybe a little red wine. I hadn't tried that 
before. I put in about half a cupful. Or would I? If Doerr were dead, the 
Hog might wither away like an uprooted weed. Best if I never found out. One 
dash of Tabasco? Why not? I opened another beer. If I were dead, I'd shrivel 
up like an uprooted weed. I put the sauce on to cook and began to consider 
what else to have. Maybe I could call Wally and Frank over and cook at them 
until they agreed to terms. Way to a man's heart and all that.

There was zucchini squash in the vegetable drawer, and I sliced it up 
and shook it in flour and set it aside while I made a beer batter. It always 
hurt me to pour beer into a bowl of flour, but the results were good. That's 
me. Mr. Results. Lemme see, what was I going to do about Frankie Doerr? The 
barbecue sauce began to bubble, and I turned the gas down to simmer. I put 
two dashes of Tabasco into the beer batter and stirred it and put it aside 
so the yeast in the beer would work on the flour.

I looked in the freezer. Last Sunday Susan Silverman and I had made 
bread all afternoon at her house while we watched the ball game and drank 
Rhine wine. She had mixed and I had kneaded and at the end of the day we had 
twelve loaves, baked and wrapped in foil. I'd brought home six that night 
and put them in the freezer. There were four left. I took one out and put it 
in the oven, still in the foil. Maybe old Suze would have an idea about what 
to do with Frankie Doerr, or how to get my barbecue sauce to taste like 
Charlie's or whether I was drinking too much lately. I looked at my watch: 
3:30. She'd be home from school. I called her and let it ring ten times and 
she didn't answer, so I hung up. Brenda Loring? No. I wanted to talk about 
things I had trouble talking about. Brenda was for fun and wisecracks and 
she did a terrific picnic, but she wasn't much better than I was at talking 
about hard things.

The spareribs were done and the bread was hot. I dipped my sliced 
zucchini in the beer batter and fried it in a little olive oil. I'd eaten 
alone before. Why didn't I like it better this time?

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

I ATE AND DRANK and thought about my problem for the rest of the
afternoon and went to bed early and woke up early. When I woke up, I
knew what I was going to do. I didn't know how yet, but I knew what.

It was drizzly rainy along the Charles. I ran along the esplanade with 
my mind on other things, and it took a lot longer to do my three miles. It 
always does if you don't concentrate. I was on the curb by Arlington Street, 
looking to dash across Storrow Drive and head home, when a black Ford with a 
little antenna on the roof pulled alongside and Frank Belson stuck his head 
out the window on the passenger side and said, "Get in."

I got in the back seat and we pulled away. "Drive around for a while, 
Billy," Belson said to the other cop, and we headed west toward Allston.

Belson was leaning forward, trying to light a cigar butt with the 
lighter from the dashboard. When he got it going, he shifted around, put his 
left arm on the back of the front seat, and looked at me.

"I got a snitch tells me that Frank Doerr's going to blow you up."

"Frank personally?"

"That's what the snitch says. Says you roughed Frank up yesterday and 
he took it personally." Belson was thin, with tight skin and a dark beard 
shaved close. "Marty thought you oughta know."

We stayed left where the river curved and drove out Soldiers Field 
Road, past the 'BZ radio tower.

"I thought Wally Hogg did that kind of work for Doerr."

"He does," Belson said. "But this one he's gonna do himself."

"If he can," I said.

"That ain't to say he might not have Wally around to hold you still," 
Belson said.

Billy U-turned over the safety island and headed back in toward town. 
He was young and stylish with a thick blond mustache and a haircut that hid 
his ears. Belson's sideburns were trimmed at the temple.

"Reliable snitch?"

Belson nodded. "Always solid in the past."

"How much you pay him for this stuff?"

"C-note," Belson said.

"I'm flattered," I said.

Belson shrugged. "Company money," he said.

We were passing Harvard Stadium. "You or Quirk got any thoughts about 
what I should do next?"

Belson shook his head.

"How about hiding?" Billy said. "Doerr will probably die in the next 
ten, twenty years."

"You think he's that tough?"

Billy shrugged. Belson said, "It's not tough so much.

It's crazy. Doerr's crazy. Things don't work out, he wants to kill 
everybody. I hear he cut one guy up with a machete. I mean, cut him up. 
Dis-goddamn-membered him. Crazy."

"You don't think a dozen roses and a note of apology would do it, huh?"

Billy snorted. Belson didn't bother. We passed the Kenmore exit.

I said to Billy, "You know where I live?"

He nodded.

Belson said, "You got a piece on you?"

"Not when I'm running," I said.

"Then don't run," Belson said. "If I was Doerr, I coulda aced you right 
there at the curb when we picked you up."

I remembered my lecture to Lester about professionals. I had no 
comment. We swung off at Arlington and then right on Marlborough. Billy 
pulled up in front of my apartment.

"You're going up a one-way street," I said to Billy.

"Geez, I hope there's no cops around," Billy said.

I got out. "Thanks," I said to Belson.

He got out too. "I'll walk up to your place with you."

"With me? Frank, you old softy."

"Quirk told me to get you inside safe. After that you're on your own. 
We don't run a babysitting service. Not even for you, baby."

When I unlocked my apartment door, I noticed that Belson unbuttoned his 
coat. We went in. I looked around. The place was empty. Belson buttoned his 
coat.

"Watch your ass," he said and left.

From my front window I looked down while Belson got in the car and 
Billy U-turned and drove off. Now I knew what and was getting an idea of 
how. I took my gun from the bureau drawer and checked the load and brought 
it with me to the bathroom. I put it on the toilet seat while I took a 
shower and put it on the bed while I dressed. Then I stuck the holster in my 
hip pocket and clipped it to my belt. I was wearing broken-in jeans and 
white sneakers with a racing stripe and my black polo shirt with a beaver on 
the left breast. I wasn't up in the alligator bracket yet. I put on a 
seersucker jacket, my aviator sunglasses, and checked myself in the hall 
mirror.

Battle dress.

I unlocked the front hall closet and got out a 12-gauge Iver Johnson 
pump gun and a box of double-aught shells.

Then I went out. In the hall I put the shotgun down and closed a 
toothpick between the jamb and the hinge side of the door, a couple of 
inches up from the ground. I snapped it off so only the edge was visible at 
the crack of the door. It would be good to know if someone had gone in.

I picked up the shotgun and went out to my car. On the way down I 
passed another tenant. "Hunting season so early?" he said.

"Yeah."

Outside I locked the shotgun and the box of shells in the trunk of my 
car, got in, put the top down, and headed for the North Shore. I knew what 
and how, now I had to find where.

I drove Route 93 out of Boston through Somerville and Medford. Along 
the Mystic River across from Wellington Circle, reeds and head-high marsh 
grass still grew in an atmosphere made garish with neon and thick exhaust 
fumes. Past Medford Square, I turned off 93 and took the Lynn Fells Parkway 
east, looking at the woods and not seeing what I was looking for. Medford 
gave way to Melrose. I turned off the Fellsway and drove up around Spot 
Pond, past the MDC Zoo in Stoneham, and back into Melrose. Still nothing 
that looked right to me. I drove through Melrose, past red clay tennis 
courts by the lake, past the high school and the Christian Science Church. 
Just before I got to Route 1, I turned off into Breakhart Reservation. Past 
the MDC skating rink the road narrows to a single lane and becomes one way. 
I'd been there on a picnic once with Susan Silverman, and I knew that the 
road looped through the woods and returned here, one way all the way. There 
were saddle trails, and lakes, and picnic areas scattered through thick 
woods.

Thirty yards into the reservation I found the place. I pulled off the 
narrow hot top road, the bushes scraping my car fenders and crunching under 
the tires, and got out. A small hill sloped up from the road, and scooped 
out of the side of it was a hollow the size of a basketball court and the 
shape of a free-form pool. About in the middle was a flatplaned granite 
slab, higher than a man's head at one end that tapered into the ground in a 
shape vaguely like a shark fin.

The sides of the gully were yellow clay, streaked with erosion troughs, 
scattered with small white pines. The sides sloped steeply up to the 
somewhat gentler slope of the hill, which was thick with white pine and 
clustered birch saplings and bunches of sumac. I walked into the hollow and 
stood by the slab of granite. The high end was a foot above my head.

There was a high hum of locust in the hot, still woods and the sound of 
birds. A squirrel shot down the trunk of a birch tree and up the trunk of a 
maple without pausing. I took my coat off and draped it over the rock. Then 
I scrambled up the slope of the gully and looked down. I walked around the 
rim of the hollow, looking at the woods and at the sun and down into the 
hollow. It would do. I looked at my watch: 2:00.

I went back down, put my coat on again, got in my car, and drove on 
around the loop and out of the reservation.

There was a small shopping center next to the exit road and I parked my 
car in among a batch of others in front of a Purity Supreme Supermarket. 
There was a pay phone in the supermarket, and I used it to call Frank Doerr.

He wasn't in, but the solicitous soft-voiced guy that answered said 
he'd take a message.

"Okay," I said, "my name is Spenser. S-p-e-n-s-e-r, like the English 
poet. You know who I am?"

"Yeah, I know." No more solicitude.

"Tell Frank if he wants to talk to me, he should drive up to the 
Breakhart Reservation in Saugus. Come in by the skating rink entrance, drive 
thirty yards down the road. Park and walk into the little gully that's 
there. He'll know it.

There's a big rock like a shark fin in the middle of the gully.

You got that?"

"Yeah, but why should he want to see you? Frank wants to see someone he 
calls them into the office. He don't go riding around in the freaking 
woods."

"He'll ride around in them this time because if he doesn't, I am going 
to sing songs to the police that Frank will hate the sound of."

"If Frank does want to do this, and I ain't saying he will, when should 
he be there?"

"Six o'clock tonight."

"For crissake, what if he ain't around at that time?

Maybe he's busy. Who the Christ you think you're talking to?"

"Six o'clock tonight," I said, "or I'll be down on Berkeley Street 
crooning to the fuzz." I hung up.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

I BOUGHT A POUND of Hebrew National bologna, a loaf of pumpernickel, a
jar of brown mustard, and a half gallon of milk and walked back to my
car. I opened the trunk and got an old duffel bag from it. I put the
shotgun, the shells, and my groceries in the duffel bag, closed the
trunk, shouldered the duffel bag, and walked back toward Breakhart.

It took about fifteen minutes for me to walk back to my gully in the 
hillside. I climbed up the hill past it, halfway to the top of the hill, and 
found a thick stand of white pine screened by some dogberry bushes that let 
me look down into the hollow and the road below it. I took my groceries, my 
shotgun, and my ammunition out of the duffel bag, took off my coat, and put 
it in the duffel bag. I spread the bag on the ground, sat down on it, and 
loaded the shotgun. It took six shells. I put six extras in my hip pocket 
and cocked the shotgun and leaned it against the tree. Then I got out my 
groceries and made lunch. I spread the mustard on the bread with my 
pocketknife and used the folded paper bag as a plate. I drank the milk from 
the carton. Not bad. Nothing like dining al fresco. I looked at my watch: 
2:45. I ate another sandwich.

Three o'clock. The locusts keened at me. Some sparrows fluttered above 
me in the pines. On the road below cars with children and mothers and dogs 
and inflatable beach toys drove slowly by every few minutes but less often 
as the afternoon wore on.

I finished the milk with my fourth sandwich and wrapped the rest of the 
bread and bologna back up in the paper sack and shoved it in the duffel bag. 
At four fifteen a silver gray Lincoln Continental pulled off the road by the 
gully and parked for a long time. Then the door opened and Wally Hogg 
climbed out. He was alone. He stood and looked carefully all over the hollow 
and up the hill at where I sat behind my bushes and everywhere else. Finally 
he looked up and down the road, reached back into the car, and came out with 
a shoulder weapon. He held it inconspicuously down along his leg and stepped 
away from the car and in behind the trees along the road. The Lincoln 
started up and drove away.

In the shelter of the trees Wally was less careful with the weapon, and 
I got a good look at it. An M-16 rifle. Standard U.S. infantry weapon. 7.62 
millimeter. Twenty rounds.

Fancy carry handle like the old BARs and a pistol grip back of the 
trigger housing like the old Thompsons. M-16? Christ, I was just getting 
used to the M-1.

Wally and his M-16 climbed the gully wall about opposite me. He was 
wearing stacked-heel shoes. He slipped once on the steep sides and slid 
almost all the way back down.

Hah! I made it first try. When the Lincoln had arrived, I'd picked up 
the shotgun and held it across my lap. I noticed that my hands were a little 
sweaty as I held it. I looked at my knuckles. They were white. Wally didn't 
climb as high as I had. Too fat. Ought to jog mornings, Wally, get in shape. 
A few yards above the gully edge he found some thick bushes and settled in 
behind them. From the hollow he would be invisible. Once he got settled, he 
didn't move and looked like a big toad squatting in his ambush.

I looked at my watch again. Quarter of five. Some people went by on 
horseback, the shod hooves of the horses clattering on the paved road. It 
was a sound you didn't hear often, yet it brought back the times when I was 
small and the milkman had a horse, and so did the trash people. And manure 
in the street, and the sparrows. All three of the horses on the road below 
were a shiny, sweat-darkened chestnut color. The riders were kids. Two girls 
in white blouses and riding boots, a boy in jeans and no shirt.

The draft horses that used to pull the trash wagons were much 
different. Big splayed feet and massive, almost sumptuous haunches. Necks 
that curved in a stolid, muscular arch. When I was very small, I remembered, 
horses pulling a scoop were used to dig a cellar hole on the lot next to my 
house.

The riders disappeared and the clopping dwindled.

Wally Hogg still sat there, silent and shapeless, watching the road. I 
heard a match scrape and smelled cigarette smoke.

Careless Wally, what if I were just arriving and smelled the smoke? It 
carries out here in the woods. But Wally probably wasn't all that at home in 
the woods. Places Wally hung out you could probably smoke a length of garden 
hose and no one would smell it. The woods were dry, and I hoped he was 
careful with the cigarette. I didn't want this thing getting screwed up by a 
natural disaster.

I checked my watch again: 5:15. My chest felt tight, as if the 
diaphragm were rusty, and I had that old tingling toothache feeling in 
behind my navel. There was a lump in my throat. Above me the sky was still 
bright blue in the early summer evening, dappling through the green leaves. 
Five thirty, getting on toward supper. The road was empty now below me. The 
mommas and the kids and the dogs were going home to get supper going and eat 
with Daddy. Maybe a cookout. Too hot to eat in tonight. Maybe a couple of 
beers and some gin and tonic with a mint leaf in the glass. And after supper 
maybe the long quiet arc of the water from the hoses of men in shirt sleeves 
watering their lawns. My stomach rolled. Smooth. How come Gary Cooper's 
stomach never rolled? Oh, to be torn 'tween love and duty, what if I lose . 
. .

Five forty. My fingertips tingled and the nerves along the insides of 
my arms tingled. The pectoral muscles, particularly near the outside of my 
chest, up by the shoulder, felt tight, and I flexed them, trying to loosen 
up. I took two pieces of gum out of my shirt pocket and peeled off the 
wrappers and folded the gum into my mouth. I rolled the wrappers up tight 
and put them in my shirt pocket and chewed on the gum.

Quarter of six. I remembered in Korea, before we went in at Inchon, 
they'd fed us steak and eggs, not bologna and bread, but it hadn't mattered. 
My stomach rolled before Inchon too.

And at Inchon I hadn't been alone. Ten of six.

I looked down at Wally Hogg. He hadn't moved. His throat wasn't almost 
closed, and he wasn't taking deep breaths and not getting enough oxygen. He 
thought he was going to sit up there and shoot me in the back when Frank 
Doerr gave the nod, which would be right after Frank Doerr found out exactly 
what I had on him and if I'd given anything to the cops. Or maybe Doerr 
wanted to fan me himself and Wally was just backup. Anyway, we'd find out 
pretty soon, wouldn't we? Seven of six. Christ, doesn't time flit by when 
you're having a big time and all?

I stood up. The shotgun was cocked and ready. I carried it muzzle down 
along my leg in my right hand and began to move down the hill in a half 
circle away from where Wally Hogg was. I was about 100 yards away. If I was 
careful, he wouldn't hear me. I was careful. It took me ten minutes to get 
down the slope to the road, maybe 50 yards down the road beyond the gully.

Still daylight and bright, but under the trees along the road a bit 
dimmer than midday. I stayed out of sight behind some trees just off the 
road and listened. At five past six I heard a car stop and a door open and 
close. With the shotgun still swinging along by my side, I walked up the 
road toward the dell. High-ho a dairy-o. The car was a maroon Coupe de 
Ville, pulled off on the shoulder of the road. No one was in it. I went past 
it and turned into the hollow. The sun was shining behind me and the hollow 
was bright and hot. Doerr was standing by the shark-fin rock. Maroon slacks, 
white shoes, white belt, black shirt, white tie, white safari jacket, 
blackrimmed sunglasses, white golf cap. A really neat dresser.

Probably a real slick dancer too. His hands were empty as I walked in 
toward him. I didn't look up toward Wally. But I knew where he was, maybe 
thirty yards up and to my left. I kept the rock on his side of me as I 
walked into the gully. I kept the shotgun barrel toward the ground. Relaxed, 
casual.

Just had it with me and thought I'd bring it along. Ten feet from 
Doerr, with the shark-fin rock not yet between me and Wally Hogg, I stopped. 
If I got behind the rock, Wally would move.

"What the hell is the shotgun for, Spenser?" Doerr said.

"Protection," I said. "You know how it is out in the woods. You might 
run into a rampaging squirrel or something."

I could feel Wally Hogg's presence up there to my left, thirty yards 
away. I could feel it along the rib cage and in my armpits and behind the 
knees. He wasn't moving around. I could hear him if he did; he wasn't that 
agile and he wasn't dressed for it. You can't sneak around in high-heeled 
shoes unless you take them off. I listened very hard and didn't hear him.

"I hear you have been bad-mouthing me, Frankie."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you been saying you were going to blow me up."

Still no sound from Wally. I was about five feet from the shelter of 
the rock.

"Who told you that?"

I wished I hadn't thought about Wally taking his shoes off.

"Never mind who told me that. Say it ain't so, Frankie."

"Look, shit-for-brains. I didn't come out here into the freaking woods 
to talk shit with a shit-for-brains like you.

You got something to say to me or not?"

"You haven't got the balls, Frankie."

Doerr's face was red. "To blow you up? A shit-forbrains pimple like 
you? I'll blow you up anytime I goddamned feel like it."

"You had the chance yesterday in your office, Frankie, and I took your 
piece away from you and made you cry."

Doerr's voice was getting hoarse. The level of it dropped. "You got me 
out here to talk shit at me or you got something to say?"

I was listening with all I had for Wally. So hard I could barely hear 
what Doerr was saying.

"I got you out here to tell you that you're a gutless, slobbering freak 
that couldn't handle an aggressive camp fire girl without hiring someone to 
help you." I was splitting my concentration, looking at Doerr as hard as I 
was listening for Wally, and the strain made the sweat run down my face. I 
almost grunted with the effort.

Doerr's voice was so hoarse and constricted he could barely talk. 
"Don't you dare talk to me that way," he said.

And the oddly quaint phrase squeezed out like dust through a clogged 
filter.

"You gonna cry again, Frankie? What is it? Did your momma toilet-train 
you funny? Is that why you're such a goddamned freak-o?"

Doerr's face was scarlet and the carotid arteries stood out in his 
neck. His mouth moved, but nothing came out.

Then he went for his gun. I knew he would sometime.

I brought the pump up level and shot him. The gun flew from his hand 
and clattered against the shark-fin rock and Doerr went over backwards. I 
didn't see him land; I dove for the rock and heard Wally's first burst of 
fire spatter the ground behind me. I landed on my right shoulder, rolled 
over and up on my feet. Wally's second burst hit the rock and sang off in 
several directions. I brought the shotgun down over the slope end of the 
rock where it was about shoulder-high and fanned five rounds into the woods 
in Wally Hogg's area as fast as I could pump.

I was back down behind the rock, feeding my extra rounds into the 
magazine, when I heard him fall. I looked and he came rolling through the 
brush down the side of the gully and came to a stop at the bottom, face up, 
the front of him already wet with blood. Leaves and twigs and dirt had stuck 
to the wetness as he rolled. I looked at Doerr. At ten feet the shotgun 
charge had taken most of his middle. I looked away.

A thick and sour fluid rose in my throat and I choked it down.

They were both dead. That's the thing about a shotgun. At close range 
you don't have to go around checking pulses after.

I sat down and leaned back against the rock. I hadn't planned to, and I 
didn't want someone to find me there. But I sat down anyway because I had 
to. My legs had gotten weak.

I was taking deep breaths, yet I didn't seem to be getting enough 
oxygen. My body was soaking wet and in the early evening I was feeling cold. 
I shivered. The sour fluid came back and this time I couldn't keep it down. 
I threw up with my head between my knees and the two stiffs paying no 
attention.

Beautiful.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

IT WAS QUARTER TO SEVEN. I had the shotgun back in the duffel bag and
the duffel bag back in the trunk of my car and my car on the overpass
where the Fellsway meets Route 1. I drove north on 1 toward Smithfield.
On the way I stopped and bought a quart of Wild Turkey bourbon. Turning
off Route 1

toward Smithfield Center, I twisted the top off, took a mouthful, 
rinsed my mouth, spit out the window, and drank about four ounces from the 
bottle. My stomach jumped when the booze hit it, but then it steadied and 
held. I was coming back.

I drove past the old common, with its white church and meetinghouse, 
and turned left down Main Street. I'd been up here a year or so back on a 
case and since then had learned my way around the town pretty well. At least 
I knew the way to Susan Silverman's house. She lived 100 yards up from the 
common in a small weathered shingle Cape with blue window boxes filled with 
red petunias. Her car was in the driveway.

She was home. It hadn't occurred to me until now that she might not be.

I walked up the brick path to her front door. On either side of the 
path were strawberry plants, white blossoms, green fruit, and some 
occasional flashes of ripe red. A sprinkler arced slowly back and forth. The 
front door was open and I could hear music which sounded very much like Stan 
Kenton. "Artistry in Rhythm." Goddamn.

I rang her bell and leaned against the doorjamb, holding my bottle of 
Wild Turkey by the neck and letting it hang against my thigh. I was very 
tired. She came to the door.

Every time I saw her I felt the same click in my solar plexus I'd felt 
the first time I saw her. This time was no different.

She had on faded Levi cutoffs and a dark blue ribbed halter top. She 
was wearing octagonal horn-rimmed glasses and carried a book in her right 
hand, her forefinger keeping the place.

I said, "What are you reading?"

She said, "Erikson's biography of Gandhi."

I said, "I've always liked Leif's work."

She looked at the bourbon bottle, four ounces gone, and opened the 
door. I went in.

"You don't look good," she said.

"You guidance types don't miss a trick, do you?"

"Would it help if I kissed you?"

"Yeah, but not yet. I been throwing up. I need a shower. Then maybe we 
could sit down and talk and I'll drink the Wild Turkey."

"You know where," she said. I put the bourbon down on the coffee table 
in the living room and headed down the little hall to the bathroom. In the 
linen closet beside the bathroom was a shaving kit of mine with a toothbrush 
and other necessaries. I got it out and went into the bathroom. I brushed 
and showered and rinsed my mouth under the shower and soaped and scrubbed 
and shampooed and lathered and rinsed and washed for about a half an hour.

Out, out, damned spot.

When I got through, I toweled off and put on some tennis shorts I'd 
left there and went looking for Susan. The stereo was off, and she was on 
the back porch with my Wild Turkey, a bucket of ice, a glass, a sliced 
lemon, and a bottle of bitters.

I sat in a blue wicker armchair and took a long pull from the neck of 
the bottle.

"Were you bitten by a snake?" Susan said.

I shook my head. Beyond the screen porch the land sloped down in rough 
terraces to a stream. On the terraces were shade plants. Coleus, patient 
Lucy, ajuga, and a lot of vincas. Beyond the stream were trees that 
thickened into woods.

"Would you like something to eat?"

I shook my head again. "No," I said. "Thank you."

"Drinking bourbon instead of beer, and declining a snack. It's bad, 
isn't it?"

I nodded. "I think so," I said.

"Would you like to talk about it?"

"Yeah," I said, "but I don't quite know what to say."

I put some ice in the glass, added bitters and a squeeze of lemon, and 
filled the glass with bourbon. "You better drink a little," I said. "I'll be 
easier to take if you're a little drunk too."

She nodded her head. "Yes, I was thinking that," she said. "I'll get 
another glass." She did, and I made her a drink.

In front of the house some kids were playing street hockey and their 
voices drifted back faintly. Birds still sang here and there in the woods, 
but it was beginning to get dark and the songs were fewer.

"How long ago did you get divorced?" I asked.

"Five years."

"Was it bad?"

"Yes."

"Is it bad now?"

"No. I don't think about it too much now. I don't feel bad about myself 
anymore. And I don't miss him at all anymore. You have some part in all of 
that."

"Mr. Fixit," I said. My drink was gone and I made another.

said.

"How does someone who ingests as much as you do get those muscle ridges 
in his stomach?" Susan said.

"God chose to make me beautiful instead of good," I "How many sit-ups 
do you do a week?"

"Around a zillion," I said. I stretched my legs out in front of me and 
slid lower in the chair. It had gotten dark outside and some fireflies 
showed in the evening. The kids out front had gone in, and all I could hear 
was the sound of the stream and very faintly the sound of traffic on 128.

"There is a knife blade in the grass," I said. "And a tiger lies just 
outside the fire."

"My God, Spenser, that's bathetic. Either tell me about what hurts or 
don't. But for crissake, don't sit here and quote bad verse at me."

"Oh damn," I said. "I was just going to swing into Hamlet."

"You do and I'll call the cops."

"Okay," I said. "You're right. But bathetic? That's hard, Suze."

She made herself another drink. We drank. There was no light on the 
porch, just that which spilled out from the kitchen.

"I killed two guys earlier this evening," I said.

"Have you ever done that before?"

"Yeah," I said. "But I set these guys up."

"You mean you murdered them?"

"No, not exactly. Or . . . I don't know. Maybe."

She was quiet. Her face a pale blur in the semidarkness. She was 
sitting on the edge of a chaise opposite me. Her knees crossed, her chin on 
her fist, her elbow on her knee. I drank more bourbon.

"Spenser," she said, "I have known you for only a year or so. But I 
have known you very intensely. You are a good man. You are perhaps the best 
man I've ever known. If you killed two men, you did it because it had to be 
done. I know you. I believe that."

I put my drink on the floor and got up from the chair and stood over 
her. She raised her face toward me and I put one hand on each side of it and 
bent over and looked at her close. She had a very strong face, dark and 
intelligent, full of kinetic suggestion, with faint laugh lines at the 
corners of her mouth. She was still wearing her glasses, and her big dark 
eyes looked bigger through the lenses.

"Jesus Christ," I said.

She put her hands over mine and we stayed that way for a long time.

Finally she said, "Sit."

I sat and she leaned back on the chaise and pulled me down beside her 
and put my head against her breast. "Would you like to make love?" she said.

I was breathing in big low inhales. "No," I said. "Not now, let's just 
lie here and be still."

Her right arm was around me and she reached up and patted my cheek with 
her left hand. The stream murmured and after a while I fell asleep.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

IT WAS A HOT, windy Tuesday when I finished breakfast with Susan and
drove back into Boston. I stopped on the way to look at the papers. The
Herald American had it, page one, below the fold: GANGLAND FIGURE GUNNED
DOWN. Doerr and Wally Hogg had been found after midnight by two kids
who'd slipped in there to neck. State and MDC police had no comment as
yet.

Under the expressway, street grit was blowing about in the postcommuter 
lull as I pulled up and parked in front of Harbor Towers. I went through the 
routine with the houseman again and went up in the elevator. Bucky Maynard 
let me in. He was informal in a Boston Red Sox T-shirt stretched over his 
belly.

"What do you want, Spenser?" Informal didn't mean friendly. Lester 
leaned against the wall by the patio doors with his arms folded across his 
bare chest. He was wearing dark blue sweat pants and light blue track shoes 
with dark blue stripes. He blew a huge pink bubble and glared at me around 
it.

"It's hard to look tough blowing bubbles, Lester," I said. "You ever 
think about a pacifier?"

"Ah asked what you want, Spenser." Maynard still had his hand on the 
door.

I handed him the paper. "Below the fold," I said, "right side."

He looked at it, read the lead paragraph, and handed it to Lester.

"So?"

"So, maybe your troubles are over."

"Maybe they are," Maynard said.

"So are Marty Rabb's troubles over too?"

"Troubles?"

"Yeah, maybe you'll stop sucking on him now that Frank Doerr's not 
going to suck on you anymore."

"Spenser, y'all aren't making any sense. Ah'm not doing anything to 
Marty Rabb. Ah don't know, for a fact, what you are talking of."

"You're going to recoup your losses," I said. "You mean, stupid 
sonovabitch."

"No reason to stand there shaking your head, Spenser.

Ah'm the one should be offended."

"Doerr bled Rabb through you, and you never got any blood. Now he's 
dead, you want yours."

"Ah think you ought to leave now, Spenser. You're becoming abusive."

Lester popped his bubble gum and tittered. There were newspapers on the 
coffee table, the Globe and the Herald American. They'd known before I got 
here, and Maynard had already figured out that he had the money machine now.

"Don't you want to know why I think you're stupid?" I said.

"No, ah don't."

"Because you were off the hook, clean. And you won't take the break."

"Move out," Lester said. "And just keep in mind, Spenser, if anybody 
was blackmailing Rabb, they could get him for throwing games just as much as 
for marrying a whore."

"Never mind, Lester," Maynard said sharply. "We don't know anything 
about it and Spenser is on his way out."

"I'd be glad to make him go faster, Buck."

"He's on his way, Lester. Aren't you, Spenser?"

"Yeah, I am, but as they say in all the movies, Bucky, I'll be back."

"Ah wouldn't if ah were you. Ah can't restrain Lester too much more."

"Well, do what you can," I said. "I don't want to kill him." Maynard 
opened the door. He'd never taken his hand off the knob.

"Hey, Spenser," Lester said, "I got something you haven't seen before." 
He put his hands behind his back and brought them back out front. In his 
right hand was a nickelplated automatic pistol. It looked like a Beretta. 
"How's that look to you, Mr. Pro?"

I said, "Lester, if you point that thing at me again, I'll take it away 
from you and shoot you with it." Then I stomped out. The door closed behind 
me and I headed for the street.

Outside, the wind was hotter and stronger. I drove home in such a funk 
that I didn't even check the skirts on the girls, something I did normally 
as a matter of course, even on still days. Across the street from my 
apartment was a city car, and in it were Belson and the cop named Billy.

I walked over to the car. "You guys want something or are you hiding 
from the watch commander?"

"Lieutenant wants you," Billy said.

"Maybe I don't want him."

Belson was slumped down in the passenger seat with his hand over his 
eyes. He said, "Aw knock off the bullshit, Spenser. Get in the car. Quirk 
wants you and we both know you're going to come."

He was right, of course. The way I felt if someone said up I'd say 
down. I got in the back seat. In the two minutes it took us to drive to 
police headquarters no one said anything.

Quirk's office had moved since last time. He was thirdfloor front now, 
facing out onto Berkeley Street. With a view of the secretaries from the 
insurance companies when they broke for lunch. On his door it said 
COMMANDER, HOMICIDE.

Belson knocked and opened the door. "Here he is, Marty."

Quirk sat at a desk that had nothing on it but a phone and a clear 
plastic cube containing pictures of his family. He was immaculate and 
impervious, as he had been every other time I ever saw him. I wondered if 
his bedroom slippers had a spit shine. Probably didn't own bedroom slippers. 
Probably didn't sleep. He said, "Thanks, Frank. I'll see him alone."

Belson nodded and closed the door behind me. There was a straight chair 
in front of the desk. I sat in it. Quirk looked at me without saying 
anything. I looked back. There was a traffic cop outside at the Stuart 
Street intersection and I could hear his whistle as he moved cars around the 
construction.

Quirk said, "I think you burned those two studs up in Saugus."

I said, "Uh-huh."

"I think you set them up and burned them."

"Uh-huh."

"I went up and took a look early this morning. One of the MDC people 
asked me to. Informal. Doerr never fired his piece. Wally Hogg did, the 
magazine's nearly empty, there's a lot of brass up above the death scene in 
the woods, and there's ricochet marks on one side of the big rock. There's 
also six spent twelve-gauge shells on the ground on the other side of the 
rock. The shrubs are torn up around where the M-sixteen brass was. Like 
somebody fired off about five rounds of shotgun into the area."

"Uh-huh."

"You knew that Doerr was gunning for you. You let him know you'd be 
there and you figured they'd try to backshoot you and you figured you could 
beat them. And you were right."

"That's really swell, Quirk, you got some swell imagination."

"It's more than imagination, Spenser. You're around buying me a drink, 
asking about Frank Doerr. Next day I get a tip that Doerr is going to blow 
you up, and this morning I was looking at Doerr and his gunsel dead up the 
woods. You got an alibi for yesterday afternoon and evening?"

"Do I need one?"

Quirk picked up the clear plastic cube on his desk and looked at the 
pictures of his family. In the outer office a phone rang. A typewriter 
clacked uncertainly. Quirk put the cube down again on the desk and looked at 
me.

"No," he said. "I don't think you do."

"You mean you didn't share your theories with the Saugus cops?"

"It's not my territory."

"Then why the hell am I sitting here nodding my head while you talk?"

"Because this is my territory." The hesitant typist in the outer office 
was still hunting and pecking. "Look, Spenser, I am not in sorrow's clutch 
because Frank Doerr and his animal went down. And I'm not even all that 
unhappy that you put them down. There's a lot of guys couldn't do it, and a 
lot of guys wouldn't try. I don't know why you did it, but I guess probably 
it wasn't for dough and maybe it wasn't even for protection. If I had to 
guess, I'd guess it might have been to take the squeeze off of someone else. 
The squeezee, you might say."

"You might," I said. "I wouldn't."

"Yeah. Anyway. I'm saying to you you didn't burn them in my city. And 
I'm kind of glad they're burnt. But . . ."

Quirk paused and looked at me. His stare was as heavy and solid as his 
fist. "Don't do it ever in my city."

I said nothing.

"And," he said, "don't start thinking you're some kind of goddamned 
vigilante. If you get away with this, don't get tempted to do it again. Here 
or anywhere. You understand what I'm saying to you?"

"Yeah. I do."

"We've known each other awhile, Spenser, and maybe we got a certain 
amount of respect. But we're not friends. And I'm not a guy you know. I'm a 
cop."

"Nothing else?"

"Yeah," Quirk said, "something else. I'm a husband and a father and a 
cop. But the last one's the only thing that makes any difference to you."

"No, not quite. The husband and father makes a difference too. Nobody 
should be just a job."

"Okay, we agree. But believe what I tell you. I won't bite this bullet 
again."

"Got it," I said.

"Good."

I stood up, started for the door and stopped, and turned around and 
said, "Marty?"

"Yeah?"

"Shake," I said.

He put his hand out across his desk, and we did.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

No ONE DROVE me home. It's a short walk from Berkeley Street to my
place, and I liked the walk. It gave me time to think, and I needed
time. A lot had happened in a short while, and not all of it was going
my way. I hadn't thought it would, but there's always hope.

It was afternoon when I got home. I made two lettuce and tomato 
sandwiches on homemade wheat bread, poured a glass of milk, sat at the 
counter, and ate and drank the milk and thought about where I was at and 
where the Rabbs were at and where Bucky Maynard was at. I knew where Doerr 
and his gunner were at. I had a piece of rhubarb pie for dessert. Put the 
dishes in the dishwasher, wiped the counter off with a sponge, washed my 
hands and face, and headed for Church Park.

It was in walking distance and I walked. The wind was still strong, but 
there was less grit in the air along Marlborough Street, and what little 
there was rattled harmlessly on my sunglasses. Linda Rabb let me in.

"I heard on the radio that what's'isname Doerr and another man were 
killed," she said. She wore a loose sleeveless dress, striped black and 
white like mattress ticking, and white sandals. Her hair was in two braids, 
each tied with a small white ribbon, and her face was without makeup.

"Yeah, me too," I said. "Your husband home?"

"No, he's gone to the park."

"Your boy?"

"He's in nursery school."

"We need to talk," I said.

She nodded. "Would you like coffee or anything?"

"Yeah, coffee would be good."

"Instant okay?"

"Sure, black."

I sat in the living room while she made coffee. From the kitchen came 
the faintly hysterical sounds of daytime television. The set clicked off and 
Linda Rabb returned, carrying a round black tray with two cups of coffee on 
it. I took one.

"I've talked with Bucky Maynard," I said, and sipped the coffee. "He 
won't let go."

"Even though Doerr is dead?" Linda Rabb was sitting on an ottoman, her 
coffee on the floor beside her.

I nodded. "Now he wants his piece."

We were quiet. Linda Rabb sipped at her coffee, holding the cup in both 
hands, letting the steam warm her face. I drank some more of mine. It was 
too hot still, but I drank it anyway. The sound of my swallow seemed loud to 
me.

"We both know, don't we?" Linda Rabb said.

"I think so," I said.

"If I make a public statement about the way I used to be, we'll be free 
of Maynard, won't we?"

"I think so," I said. "He can still allege that Marty threw some games, 
but that implicates him too and he goes down the tube with you. I don't 
think he will. He gets nothing out of it. No money, nothing. And his career 
is shot as bad as Marty's."

She kept her face buried in the coffee cup.

"I can't think of another way," I said.

She lifted her face and looked at me and said, "Could you kill him?"

I said, "No."

She nodded, without expression. "What would be the best way to 
confess?"

"I will find you a reporter and you tell the story any way you wish, 
but leave out the blackmail. That way there's no press conferences, 
photographers, whatever. After he publishes the story, you refer all inquiry 
to me. You got any money in the house?"

"Of course."

"Okay, give me a dollar," I said.

She went to the kitchen and returned with a dollar bill. I took out one 
of my business cards and acknowledged receipt on the back of it and gave it 
to her.

"Now you are my client," I said. "I represent you."

She nodded again.

"How about Marty?" I said. "Don't you want to clear it with him or 
discuss it? Or something?"

"No," she said. "You get me the reporter. I'll give him my statement. 
Then I'll tell Marty. I never bother him before a game. It's one of our 
rules."

"Okay," I said. "Where's the phone?"

It was in the kitchen. A red wall phone with a long cord. I dialed a 
number at the Globe and talked to a police reporter named Jack Washington 
that I had gotten to know when I worked for the Suffolk County DA.

"You know the broad who writes that Feminine Eye column? The one that 
had the Nieman Fellowship to Harvard last year?"

"Yeah, she'd love to hear you call her a broad."

"She won't. Can you get her to come to an address I'll give you? If 
she'll come, she'll get a major news story exclusively. My word, but I can't 
tell you more than that."

"I can ask her," Washington said. There was silence and the distant 
sound of genderless voices. Then a woman's voice said, "Hello, this is Carol 
Curtis."

I repeated what I'd said to Washington.

"Why me, Mr. Spenser?"

"Because I read your column and you are a class person when you write. 
This is a story that needs more than who, what, when, and where. It involves 
a woman and a lot of pain, and more to come, and I don't want some 
heavy-handed slug with a press pass in his hatband screwing it up."

"I'll come. What's the address?"

I gave it to her and she hung up. So did I.

When I hung up, Linda Rabb asked, "Would you like more coffee? The 
water's hot."

"Yes, please."

She put a spoonful of instant coffee in my cup, added hot water, and 
stirred.

"Would you care for a piece of cake or some cookies or anything?"

I shook my head. "No, thanks," I said. "This is fine."

We went back to the living room and sat down as before. Me on the 
couch, Linda Rabb on the ottoman. We drank our coffee. It was quiet. There 
was nothing to say. At two fifteen the door buzzer buzzed. Linda Rabb got up 
and opened the door The woman at the door said, "Hello, I'm Carol Curtis."

"Come in, please. I'm Linda Rabb. Would you like coffee?"

"Yes, thank you."

Carol Curtis was small with brown hair cut short and a lively, 
innocent-looking face. There was a scatter of freckles across her nose and 
cheekbones, and her light blue eyes were shadowed with long thick lashes. 
She had on a pink dress with tan figures on it that looked expensive.

Linda Rabb said, "This is Mr. Spenser," and went to the kitchen. I 
shook hands with Carol Curtis. She had a gold wedding band on her left hand.

"You are the one who called," she said.

"Yeah."

"Jack told me a little about you. It sounded good." She sat on the 
couch beside me.

"He makes things up," I said.

Linda Rabb came back with coffee and a plate of cookies, which she 
placed on the coffee table in front of the couch.

Then she sat back down on the ottoman and began to speak, looking 
directly at Carol Curtis as she did.

"My husband is Marty Rabb," she said. "The Red Sox pitcher. But my real 
name is not Linda, it's Donna, Donna Burlington. Before I married Marty, I 
was a prostitute in New York and a performer in pornographic films when I 
met him."

Carol Curtis was saying, "Wait a minute, wait a minute," and rummaging 
in her purse for pad and pencil. Linda Rabb paused. Carol Curtis got the pad 
open and wrote rapidly in some kind of shorthand. "When did you meet your 
husband, Mrs. Rabb?"

"In New York, in what might be called the course of my profession," and 
off she went. She told it all, in a quiet, uninflected voice the way you 
might read a story to a child when you'd read it too often. Carol Curtis was 
a professional.

She did not bat one of her thick-lashed eyes after the opening 
sentence. She asked very little. She understood her subject and she let 
Linda Rabb talk.

When it was over, she said, "And why are you telling me this?"

Linda Rabb said, "I've lived with it too long. I don't want a secret 
that will come along and haunt me, later, maybe when my son is older, maybe 
. . ." She let it hang.

Listening, I had the feeling that she had given a real reason.

Not the only reason, but a real one.

"Does your husband know?"

"He knows everything."

"Where is he now?"

"At the park."

"Does he know about this . . . ah . . . confession?"

"Yes, he does," Linda said without hesitation.

"And he approves?"

"Absolutely," Linda said.

"Mrs. Rabb," Carol Curtis said. And Linda Rabb shook her head.

"That's all," she said. "I'm sorry. Mr. Spenser represents me and 
anything else to be said about this he will say."

Then she sat still with her hands folded in her lap and looked at me 
and Carol Curtis sitting on the couch.

I said, "No comment," and Carol Curtis smiled.

"I bet you'll say that often in the future when we talk, won't you?"

"No comment," I said.

"Why is a private detective representing Mrs. Rabb in this? Why not a 
lawyer or a PR man or perhaps a husband?"

"No comment," I said. And Carol Curtis said it silently along with me, 
nodding her head as she did so. She closed the notebook and stood up.

"Nice talking with you, Spenser," she said, and put out her hand. We 
shook. "Don't get up," she said. Then she turned to Linda Rabb.

"Mrs. Rabb," she said and put out her hand. Linda Rabb took it, and 
held it for a moment. "You are a saint, Mrs.

Rabb. Not a sinner. That's the way I'll write this story."

Linda Rabb said, "Thank you."

"You are also," Carol Curtis said, "a hell of a woman."

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

WHEN CAROL CURTIS LEFT, I said to Linda Rabb, Shall I stay with you?"

"I would rather be by myself," she said.

"Okay, but I want to call Harold Erskine and tell him what's coming. I 
took some of his money and I don't want him blindsided by this. I probably 
better resign his employ too."

She nodded.

"I'll call him from my office," I said. "Would you like me around when 
you tell Marty?"

"No," she said. "Thank you."

"I think this will work, kiddo," I said. "If you hear from Maynard, I 
want to know, right off. Okay?"

"Yes, certainly."

"You know what Carol Curtis said to you?"

She nodded.

"Me too," I said. "Me too."

She smiled at me slightly and didn't move. I let myself out of the 
apartment and left her sitting on her ottoman.

Looking, as far as I could tell, at nothing at all.

I caught a cab to my office and called Harold Erskine.

I told him what Linda Rabb had said in the papers and that it was 
likely to be on the street in the morning. I told him I'd found not a trace 
of evidence to suggest that Marty Rabb gambled or threw games or chewed 
snuff. He was not happy about Linda Rabb, and he was not happy that I didn't 
know more about it. Or wouldn't tell.

"Goddamnit, Spenser. You are not giving it to me straight. There's more 
there than you're saying. I hire a man I expect cooperation. You are holding 
out on me."

I told him I wasn't holding out, and if he thought so, he could refuse 
to pay my bill. He said he'd think about that too. And we hung up. On my 
desk were bills and some letters I should get to. I put them in the middle 
drawer of my desk and closed the drawer. I'd get to them later. Down the 
street a construction company was tearing down the buildings along the south 
side of Stuart Street to make room for a medical school. Since early spring 
they had been moving in on my building. I could hear the big iron wrecking 
ball thump into the old brick of the garment lofts and palm-reading parlors 
that used to be there. By next month I'd have to get a new office. What I 
should do right now is call a real estate broker and get humping on 
relocation. When you have to move in a hurry, you get screwed. That's just 
what I should do. Be smart, move before I had to. I looked at my watch: 
4:45. I got up and went out of my office and headed for home. Once I got 
this cleared up with the Rabbs, I'd look into a new office.

As I walked across the Common, the Hare Krishnas were chanting and 
hopping around in their ankle-length saffron robes, Hush Puppies and 
sneakers with white sweat socks poking out beneath the hems. Did you have to 
look funny to be saved? If Christ were around today, He'd probably be 
wearing a chambray shirt and flared slacks. There were kids splashing in the 
wading pool and dogs on leashes and squirrels on the loose and pigeons. In 
the Public Garden the swan. boats were still making their circuit of the 
duck pond under the little footbridge.

At home I got out a can of beer, read the morning Globe, warmed up some 
leftover beef stew for supper, ate it with Syrian bread while I watched the 
news, and settled down in my living room with my copy of Morison. I'd bought 
it in three-volume soft-cover and was halfway through the third volume. I 
stared at it for half an hour and made no progress at all. I looked at my 
watch: 7:20. Too early to go to bed.

Brenda Loring? No. Susan Silverman? No. Over to the Harbor Health Club 
and lift a few and talk with Henry Cimoli?

No. Nothing. I didn't want to talk with anyone. And I didn't want to 
read. I looked at the TV listings in the paper. There was nothing I could 
stand to look at. And I didn't feel like woodcarving and I didn't feel like 
sitting in my apartment. If I had a dog, I could take him for a walk. I 
could pretend.

I went out and strolled along Arlington to Commonwealth and up the mall 
on Commonwealth toward Kenmore Square. When I got there, I turned down 
Brookline Ave and went into a bar called Copperfield's and drank beer there 
till it closed. Then I walked back home and went to bed.

I didn't sleep much, but after a while it was morning and the Globe was 
delivered. There it was, page one, lower left, with a Carol Curtis by-line. 
sox WIFE REVEALS OTHER LIFE. I read it, drinking coffee and eating corn 
bread with strawberry jam, and it was all it should have been. The facts 
were the way Linda Rabb had given them. The writing was sympathetic and 
intelligent. Inside on the sports page was a picture of Marty, and one of 
Linda, obviously taken in the stands on a happier occasion. Balls.

The phone rang. It was Marty Rabb.

"Spenser, the doorman says Maynard and another guy are here to see me. 
Linda said to call you."

"She there too?"

"Yes."

"I'll be over. Don't let them in until I come."

"Well, shit, I'm not scared . . ."

"Be scared. Lester's got a gun."

I hung up and ran for my car. In less than ten minutes I was in the 
lobby at Church Park and Bucky and Lester were glaring at me. The houseman 
called up and we three went together in the same elevator. No one said 
anything. But the silence in the elevator had the density of clay.

Marty Rabb opened the door and the three of us went in. Me first and 
Lester last. Linda Rabb came out of the bedroom with her little boy holding 
on to her hand. Rabb faced us in the middle of the living room. Legs 
slightly apart, hands on hips. He had on a short-sleeved white shirt, and 
his lean, wiry arms were tanned halfway up the forearms and pale thereafter. 
Must pitch with a sweat shirt on, I thought.

"Okay," he said. "Get it done, and then get the hell out of here. All 
three of you."

Bucky Maynard said, "Ah want to know just what in hell you think you 
gonna accomplish with that nonsense in the newspapers. You think that's 
gonna close the account between you and me? 'Cause if you think so, you 
better think on it some more, boy."

"I thought on it all I'm going to think on it, Maynard," Rabb said. 
"You and me got nothing else to say to each other."

"You think ah can't squeeze you some more, boy? Ah got records of every 
game you dumped, boy. Every inning you fudged a run for the office pools, 
and ah can talk just as good as your little girl to the newspapers, don't 
you think ah can't."

Lester was leaning bonelessly against the wall by the door with his 
arms across his chest and his jaws working. He was doing Che Guevara today, 
starched fatigue pants, engineer boots, a fatigue shirt with the sleeves cut 
off, and black beret. The shirt hung outside the pants. I wondered if he had 
the nickel-plated Beretta stuck in his belt.

"You can," I said. "But you won't."

Linda and the boy stood beside Marty, Linda's left hand touching his 
arm, her right holding the boy's.

"Ah won't?"

"Nope. Because you can't do it without sinking yourself too. You won't 
make any money by turning him in and you can't do it without getting caught 
yourself. Marty will be out of the league, okay. But so will you, fats."

Maynard's face got bright red. "You think so?" he said.

"Yeah. You say one word to anybody and you'll be calling drag races in 
Dalrymple, Georgia. And you know it."

Everybody looked at everybody. No one said anything.

Lester cracked his gum. Then Rabb said, "So it looks like I got you and 
you got me. That's a tie, you fat bastard. And that's the way it'll end. But 
I tell you one time: I'll pitch and you broadcast, but you come near me or 
my wife or my kid and I will kill you."

Lester said, "You can't kill shit."

Rabb kept looking at Maynard. "And keep that goddamn freak away from 
me," he said, "or I'll kill him too."

Lester moved away from the wall, the slouch gone. He shrugged into his 
tae kwon do stance like a man putting on armor . . .

The little boy said, "Momma," not very loud, but with tears in it.

Marty said, "Get him out of here, Linda." And the woman and the boy 
backed away toward the bedroom. Maynard's face was red and sweaty.

"Hey, kid," Lester said, "your momma's a whore."

Rabb swung a looping left hand that Lester shucked off his forearm. He 
planted his left foot and swung his right around in a complete circle so 
that the back of his heel caught Rabb in the right side, at the kidneys. The 
kick had turned Lester all the way around. But he spun back forward like an 
unwinding spring. He was good. The kick staggered Rabb but didn't put him 
down. The next one would, and if it didn't, Lester would really hurt him. 
Maybe he already had. A kick like that will rupture a kidney.

Linda Rabb said, "Spenser." And grabbed hold of her husband, both arms 
around him. "Stop it, Marty," she said, "stop it." The boy pressed against 
her leg and his father's.

Marty Rabb dragged his wife and son with him as he started back toward 
Lester. Lester was back in his stance, blowing a big bubble and chewing it 
back in again. He was about three feet to my left. I took one step and 
sucker-punched him in the neck, behind the ear. He fell down, his legs 
folding under him at the knees so that he sank to the floor like a penitent 
in prayer.

"Marty," I said, "get your wife and kid out of here. You don't want the 
kid seeing this. Look at him."

The kid was in a huddle of terror against his mother's leg. Marty 
reached down and picked him up, and with his other arm tight around Linda 
Rabb, he hustled them into the bedroom.

"I will say to you what Rabb did, you great sack of guts," I said. "You 
and your clotheshorse stay away from Rabb as long as you live or I will put 
you both in the hospital."

Lester came off the floor at me, but he was wobbly. He tried the kick 
again, but it was too slow. I leaned away from it. I moved in behind the 
kick and drove a left at his stomach.

He blocked it and hit me in the solar plexus. I tensed for it, but it 
still made me numb. A good punch turning the fist over as it came, but there 
wasn't as much steam as there should have been behind it, and I was inside 
now, up against him. I had weight on him, maybe fifteen pounds, and I was 
stronger.

As long as I stayed up against him, I could neutralize his quickness 
and I could outmuscle him. I rammed him against the wall. My chin was locked 
over his shoulder, and I hit him in the stomach with both fists. I hurt him. 
He grunted. He hammered on my back with both fists, but I had a lot of 
muscle layer to protect back there. Twenty years of working on the lats and 
the lateral obliques. I got hold of his shirtfront with both hands and 
pulled him away from the wall and slammed him back up against it. His hand 
whiplashed back and banged on the wall. It was plasterboard and it broke 
through. I slammed him again and he sagged. I brought my left fist up over 
his arms and hit him on the side of the face, at the temple, with the side 
of my clenched fist. Don't want to break the knuckles. A kind of pressure 
was building in me, and I saw everything indistinctly. I slammed him on the 
wall and then stepped back and hit him left, left, right, in the face.

I could barely see his face now, white and disembodied in front of me. 
I hit it again. He started to sag, I got hold of his collar with my left 
hand and pulled him up and hit him with my right. He sagged heavier, and I 
jammed him against the wall with my left and hammered him with my right. His 
face was no longer white. It was bloody, and it bobbled limply when I hit 
him. I could feel my whole self surging up into my fist as I held him and 
hit him. The rhythm of the punches thundered in my head, and I couldn't hear 
anything else. I was vaguely aware of someone pulling at me and I brushed 
him away with my right hand. Then I could hear voices. I kept punching. Then 
I could hear Linda Rabb's voice. The pounding in my head modified a little.

"Stop it, Spenser. Stop it, Spenser. You're killing him.

Stop it."

Someone had hold of my arm, and it was Marty Rabb, and Lester's face 
was a bloody mess, unconscious in front of me. Maynard was sitting 
openmouthed on the floor, blood trickling from his nose. It must have been 
him I brushed away.

"Stop it, stop it, stop it." Linda Rabb had hold of my left arm and was 
trying to pry my hand loose from Lester's shirtfront. I opened the fingers 
and stepped away, and Lester slid to the floor. Maynard slid over to him 
without getting up and with a handkerchief began to wipe the blood from 
Lester's face. I could see Lester's chest rising and falling as he breathed. 
I noticed I was breathing heavy too. Marty and Linda Rabb both stood in 
front of me, the kid holding Linda's hand. Tears were running down his 
cheeks and his eyes were wide with fright, but he was quiet.

"Jesus, Spenser," Rabb said. "What happened? You were crazy."

I was sweating now, as if a fever had broken. I shook my head. "A lot 
of strain," I said. "We've all had a lot of strain.

I'm sorry the kid saw it."

Maynard had gone to the bathroom and come back with wet towels and was 
cleaning Lester up and putting a cold compress on his forehead. "Pay 
attention to what happened, Bucky boy," I said. "Don't irritate me."

Lester moved a little. His lips were swollen and one eye was closed. 
Maynard kept washing his face with the damp towel.

"It's okay, Lester," he said. "It's okay."

Lester sat up and pushed the towel away. "Help me up," he mumbled.

Maynard got up and got Lester on his feet.

"Let's get out of here," Lester said.

Maynard started to take him toward the door, his arm around Lester's 
back.

"Bucky," I said, "we agree about the tie? And how we got no further 
business?"

Maynard nodded. There was no color left in his face, just the slight 
smear of brown, drying blood on his lip.

"I want to go home, Bucky," Lester mumbled, and Bucky said, "Yeah, 
yeah, Lester, we'll go home." And out they went.

Linda Rabb sat on the floor with her son and held him against her and 
put her face in his hair. They rocked back and forth slightly on the floor, 
and Marty Rabb and I stood awkwardly above them and said nothing at all. 
Finally I said, "Okay, Marty. I think we've done all there is to do."

He put his hand out. "Thank you, Spenser, I guess. We were in a mess we 
couldn't have gotten out of without you. I can't say quite where we're at 
now, but thank you for what you did. Including Lester. I think probably he's 
too good at tae kwon dong or whatever it is for me."

"He might have been too good for me if I hadn't sucker-punched him 
first."

We shook hands. Linda Rabb didn't look up. I went out the front door. 
She didn't say goodbye.

I never saw her again.

CHAPTER THIRTY

AND YOU KEPT HITTING him, Susan Silverman said.

We were sitting in a back booth in The Last Hurrah, looking at the menu 
and having the first drink of the evening.

Mine was a stein of Harp; hers, a vodka gimlet.

"It all seemed to bubble up inside me and explode. It wasn't Lester; it 
was Doerr and Wally Hogg and me and the case and the way things worked out 
so everyone got hurt some. It all just exploded out of me, and I damn near 
killed the poor creep."

"From what you say he probably earned the beating."

"Yeah, he did. That's not what bothers me. I'm what bothers me. I'm not 
supposed to do that."

"I know, I've seen the big red S on your chest."

"That ain't all you seen, sweet patooti."

"I know, but it's all I remember."

"Oh," I said.

She smiled at me, that sunrise of a smile that colored her whole face 
and seemed to enliven her whole body. "Well, maybe I can remember something 
else if I think on it."

"Perhaps a refresher course later on tonight," I said.

"Perhaps ."

The waiter came and took our order, went away, and returned shortly 
with another beer for me.

"The irony is," I said, "that Linda Rabb is married to one of the 
all-time greats of jockdom, and she's being helped by me, with the red S on 
my chest and the gun in my pocket, and she's the one that saves them. She's 
the one, while us two stud ducks are standing around flexing, that does what 
had to be done. And it hurt and I couldn't save them and her husband 
couldn't save them. She saved herself and her husband."

"Maynard has stopped the blackmail?"

"Sure, he had to. He had nothing to gain and everything to lose." I 
drank some beer. The waiter brought us each a plate of oysters and a bottle 
of Chablis.

"The papers have been kind to Mrs. Rabb."

"Yeah, pretty good. There's been a lot of mail, some of it really ugly, 
but the club publicity people are handling it and she hasn't had to read 
much of it."

"How about Marty?"

"He went into the stands for some guy out in Minnesota and got a 
three-day suspension for it. Since then he's kept his mouth shut, but you 
can tell it hurts."

"And you?"

I shrugged. The waiter took away the empty oyster plates and put down 
two small crocks of crab and lobster stew.

"And you?" she said again.

"I killed two guys, and almost killed another one."

"Killing those two was what made it possible for Linda Rabb to do what 
she did."

"I know."

"You've killed people before."

"Yeah."

"They would have killed you."

"Yeah."

"Then it had to be, didn't it?"

"I set them up," I said. "I got them up there to kill them."

"Yes, and you walked in on them from the front, two of them to one of 
you, like a John Wayne movie. How many men do you think would have done 
that?"

I shook my head.

"Do you think they would have done it? They weren't doing it. They were 
trying to ambush you. And if they'd succeeded, would they be agonizing about 
it now?"

I shook my head again.

"You'd have had to kill them," Susan said. "Sometime.

Now it's done. What does it matter how?"

"That's the part that does matter. How. It's the only part that 
matters."

"Honor?" Susan said.

"Yeah," I said. The waiter came and took the crocks and returned with 
scrod for Susan and steak for me. We ate a little.

"I am not making fun," Susan said, "but aren't you older and wiser than 
that?"

I shook my head. "Nope. Neither is Rabb. I know what's killing him. 
It's killing me too. The code didn't work."

"The code," Susan said.

"Yeah, jock ethic, honor, code, whatever. It didn't cover this 
situation."

"Can't it be adjusted?"

"Then it's not a code anymore. See, being a person is kind of random 
and arbitrary business. You may have noticed that. And you need to believe 
in something to keep it from being too random and arbitrary to handle. Some 
people take religion, or success, or patriotism, or family, but for a lot of 
guys those things don't work. A guy like me. I don't have religion or 
family, that sort of thing. So you accept some system of order, and you 
stick to it. For Rabb it's playing ball.

You give it all you got and you play hurt and you don't complain and so 
on and if you're good you win and the better you are the more you win so the 
more you win the more you prove you're good. But for Rabb it's also taking 
care of the wife and kid, and the two systems came into conflict. He 
couldn't be true to both. And now he's compromised and he'll never have the 
same sense of self he had before."

"And you, Spenser?"

"Me too, I guess. I don't know if there is even a name for the system 
I've chosen, but it has to do with honor. And honor is behavior for its own 
reason. You know?"

"Who has it," Susan said, "he that died a Wednesday?"

"Yeah, sure, I know that too. But all I have is how I act. It's the 
only system I fit into. Whatever the hell I am is based in part on not doing 
things I don't think I should do. Or don't want to do. That's why I couldn't 
last with the cops.

That's the difference between me and Martin Quirk."

"Perhaps Quirk has simply chosen a different system," Susan said.

"Yeah. I think he has. You're catching on."

"And," Susan said, "two moral imperatives in your system are never to 
allow innocents to be victimized and never to kill people except 
involuntarily. Perhaps the words aren't quite the right ones, but that's the 
idea, isn't it?"

I nodded.

"And," she said, "this time you couldn't obey both those imperatives. 
You had to violate one."

I nodded again.

"I understand," she said.

We ate for a bit in silence.

"I can't make it better," she said.

"No," I said. "You can't."

We ate the rest of the entree in silence.

The waiter brought coffee. "You will live a little diminished, won't 
you?" she said.

"Well, I got a small sniff of my own mortality. I guess everyone does 
once in a while. I don't know if that's diminishment or not. Maybe it's got 
to do with being human."

She looked at me over her coffee cup. "I think maybe it has to do with 
that," she said.

I didn't feel good, but I felt better. The waiter brought the check.

Outside on Tremont Street, Susan put her arm through mine. It was a 
warm night and there were stars out.

We walked down toward the Common.

"Spenser," she said, "you are a classic case for the feminist movement. 
A captive of the male mystique, and all that.

And I want to say, for God's sake, you fool, outgrow all that 
Hemingwayesque nonsense. And yet . . ." She leaned her head against my 
shoulder as she spoke. "And yet I'm not sure you're wrong. I'm not sure but 
what you are exactly what you ought to be. What I am sure of is I'd care for 
you less if killing those people didn't bother you."

At Park Street we crossed to the Common and walked down the long walk 
toward the Public Garden. The swan boats were docked for the night. We 
crossed Arlington onto Marlborough Street and turned in at my apartment. We 
went up in silence. Her arm still through mine. I opened the door and she 
went in ahead of me. Inside the door, with the lights still out, I put my 
arms around her and said, "Suze, I think I can work you into my system."

"Enough with the love talk," she said. "Off with the clothes."

PROMISED LAND

For Joan, David and Daniel

CHAPTER ONE

I HAD BEEN urban-renewed right out of my office and had to move uptown.
My new place was on the second floor of a twostory round turret that
stuck out over the corner of Mass Ave and Boylston Street above a cigar
store. The previous tenant had been a fortuneteller and I was standing
in the window scraping her patchy gilt lettering off the pane with a
razor blade when I saw him. He had on a pale green leisure suit and a
yellow shirt with long pointed collar, open at the neck and spilling
onto the lapels of the suit. He was checking the address on a scrap of
paper and looking unhappily at the building.

"I've either got my first client in the new office," I said, "or the 
last of Madam Sosostris'."

Behind me Susan Silverman, in cut-off jeans and a 
blue-and-white-striped tank top, was working on the frosted glass of the 
office door with Windex and a paper towel. She stepped to the window and 
looked down.

"He doesn't look happy with the neighborhood," she said.

"If I were in a neighborhood that would make him happy, he couldn't 
afford me."

The man disappeared into the small door beside the tobacco store and a 
minute later I heard his footsteps on the stairs. He paused, then a knock. 
Susan opened the door. He looked uncertainly in. There were files on the 
floor in cardboard boxes that said FALSTAFF on them, the walls still smelled 
of rubber-based paint and brushes and cans of paint clustered on newspaper 
to the left of the door. It was hot in the office and I was wearing only a 
pair of paint-stained jeans and worse sneakers.

"I'm looking for a man named Spenser," he said.

"Me," I said. "Come on in." I laid the razor blade on the windowsill 
and came around the desk to shake his hand. I needed a client. I bet Philo 
Vance never painted his own office.

"This is Mrs. Silverman," I said. "She's helping me to move in. The 
city knocked down my old office." I was conscious of the trickle of sweat 
that was running down my chest as I talked. Susan smiled and said hello.

"My name is Shepard," he said. "Harvey Shepard. I need to talk."

Susan said, "I'll go out and get a sandwich. It's close to lunchtime. 
Want me to bring you back something?"

I shook my head. "Just grab a Coke or something.

When Mr. Shepard and I are finished I'll take you to lunch somwhere 
good."

"We'll see," she said. "Nice to have met you, Mr. Shepard."

When she was gone, Shepard said, "Your secretary?"

"No," I said. "Just a friend."

"Hey, I wish I had a friend like that."

"Guy with your kind of threads," I said, "shouldn't have any trouble."

"Yeah, well, I'm married. And I work all the time."

There was silence. He had a high-colored square face with crisp black 
hair. He was a little soft around the jowls and his features seemed a bit 
blurred, but he was a goodlooking guy. Black Irish. He seemed like a guy who 
was used to talking and his failure to do so now was making him 
uncomfortable. I primed the pump.

"Who sent you to me, Mr. Shepard?"

"Harv," he said. "Call me Harv, everyone does."

I nodded.

"I know a reporter on the New Bedford Standard Times. He got your name 
for me."

"You from New Bedford, Harv?"

"No, Hyannis."

"You're gonna run for President and you want me for an advance man."

"No." He did a weak uncertain smile. "Oh, I get it, Hyannis, hah."

"Okay," I said, "you're not going to run for President.

You don't want me as an advance man. What is your plan?"

"I want you to find my wife."

"Okay."

"She's run away, I think."

"They do that sometimes."

"I want her back."

"That I can't guarantee. I'll find her. But I don't do kidnaping. If 
she comes back is between you and her."

"She just left. Me and three kids. Just walked out on us."

"You been to the cops?"

He nodded.

"They don't suspect, if you'll pardon the expression, foul play?"

He shook his head. "No, she packed up her things in a suitcase and 
left. I know Deke Slade personally and he is convinced she's run off."

"Slade a cop?"

"Yes, Barnstable police."

"Okay. A hundred a day and expenses. The expenses are going to include 
a motel room and a lot of meals. I don't want to commute back and forth from 
Boston every day."

"Whatever it costs, I'll pay. You want something up front?"

"Harv, if you do run for President I will be your advance man."

He smiled his weak smile again. I wasn't taking his mind off his 
troubles.

"How much you want?"

"Five hundred."

He took a long wallet from his inside coat pocket and took five 
hundred-dollar bills out of it and gave them to me. I couldn't see how much 
was left in the wallet. I folded them up and stuck them in my pants pocket 
and tried to look like they were joining others.

"I'll come down in the morning. You be home?"

"Yeah. I'm on Ocean Street, eighteen Ocean Street.

When do you think you'll get there? I got just a ton of work to do. 
Jesus, what a time for her to walk out on us."

"I'll be there at nine o'clock. If you got pictures of her, get them 
ready, I'll have copies made. If you have any letters, phone bills, 
charge-card receipts, that sort of thing, dig them out, I'll want to see 
them. Check stubs? List of friends or family she might go to? How about 
another man?"

"Pam? Naw. She's not interested much in sex."

"She might be interested in love."

"I give her that, Spenser. All she could ever use."

"Well, whatever. How about the kids? Can I talk in front of them?"

"Yeah, we don't hide things. They know she took off.

They're old enough anyway, the youngest is twelve."

"They have any thoughts on their mother's whereabouts?"

"I don't think so. They say they don't."

"But you're not certain?"

"It's just, I'm not sure they'd tell me. I mean I haven't talked with 
them much lately as much as I should. I don't know for sure that they're 
leveling with me. Especially the girls."

"I have that feeling all the time about everybody. Don't feel bad."

"Easy for you."

"Yeah, you're right. You have anything else to tell me?"

He shook his head.

"Okay, I'll see you tomorrow at nine."

We shook hands.

"You know how to get there?"

"Yes," I said. "I know Hyannis pretty well. I'll find you."

"Will you find her, Spenser?"

"Yep."

CHAPTER TWO

WHEN SUSAN SILVERMAN CAME back from her Coke I was sitting at the desk
with the five one-hundred-dollar bills spread out in front of me.

"Whose picture is on a one-hundred-dollar bill?" I said.

"Nelson Rockefeller."

"Wrong."

"David Rockefeller?"

"Never mind."

"Laurance Rockefeller?"

"Where would you like to go to lunch?"

"You shouldn't have shown me the money. I was ready to settle for Ugi's 
steak and onion subs. Now I'm thinking about Pier 4."

"Pier 4 it is. Think I'll have to change?"

"At least wipe the sweat off your chest."

"Come on, we'll go back to my place and suit up."

"When you get a client," Susan said, "you really galvanize into action, 
don't you?"

"Yes, ma'am. I move immediately for the nearest restaurant."

I clipped my gun on my right hip, put on my shirt and left the 
shirttail out to hide the gun and we left. It was a tenminute walk to my 
apartment, most of it down the mall on Commonwealth Ave. When we got there, 
Susan took the first shower and I had a bottle of Amstel while I called for 
reservations. In fact I had three.

Pier 4 looms up on the waterfront like a kind of Colonial Stonehenge. 
Used brick, old beams and a Hudson River excursion boat docked alongside for 
cocktails. A monument to the expense account, a temple of business lunches. 
One of the costumed kids at the door parked my convertible with an 
embarrassed look. Most of the cars in the lot were newer and almost none 
that I could see had as much gray tape patching the upholstery.

"That young man seemed disdainful of your car," Susan said.

"One of the troubles with the culture," I said. "No respect for age."

There'd be a wait for our table. Would we care for a cocktail in the 
lounge? We would. We walked across the enclosed gangplank to the excursion 
boat and sat and looked at Boston Harbor. Susan had a Margarita, I had some 
Heinekens. Nobody has Amstel. Not even Pier 4.

"What does your client want you to do?"

"Find his wife."

"Does it sound difficult?"

"No. Sounds like she's simply run off. If she has she'll be easy to 
find. Most wives who run off don't run very far. The majority of them, in 
fact, want to be found and want to come home."

"That doesn't sound particularly liberated."

"It isn't particularly liberated but it's the way it is. For the first 
time the number of runaway wives exceeds the number of runaway husbands. 
They read two issues of Ms. Magazine, see Marlo Thomas on a talk show and 
decide they can't go on. So they take off. Then they find out that they have 
no marketable skills. That ten or fifteen years of housewifing has prepared 
them for nothing else and they end up washing dishes or waiting tables or 
pushing a mop and they want out.

Also lots of them get lonesome."

"And they can't just go home," Susan said, "because they are 
embarrassed and they can't just go crawling back."

"Right. So they hang around and hope someone looks for them."

"And if someone does look for them it's a kind of communicative act. 
That is, the husband cared enough about them to try to find them. It's a 
gesture, in its odd way, of affection."

"Right again. But the guilt, particularly if they have kids, the guilt 
is killing them. And when they get home things are usually worse than they 
were when they left."

Susan sipped at her Margarita. "The husband has a new club to beat her 
with."

I nodded. "Yep. And partly he's right. Partly he's saying, hey, you son 
of a bitch. You ducked out on us. You left me and the kids in the goddamned 
lurch and you ran. That's no reason for pride, sweetheart. You owe us."

"But," Susan said.

"Of course, but. Always but. But she's lived her life in terms of them 
and she needs a chance to live it in terms of her. Natch." I shrugged and 
drank the rest of my beer.

"You make it sound so routine."

"It is routine in a way," I said. "I've seen it enough. In the sixties 
I spent most of my time looking for runaway kids.

Now I spend it looking for runaway mommas. The mommas don't vary the 
story too much."

"You also make it sound, oh I don't know, trivial. Or, commonplace. As 
if you didn't care. As if they were only items in your work. Things to look 
for."

"I don't see much point to talking with a tremor in my voice. I care 
enough about them to look for them. I do it for the money too, but money's 
not hard to make. The thing, in my line of work at least, is not to get too 
wrapped up in caring. It tends to be bad for you." I gestured to the 
waitress for another beer. I looked at Susan's drink. She shook her head.

Across the harbor a 747 lifted improbably off the runway at Logan and 
swung slowly upward in a lumbering circle before heading west. L.A.? San 
Francisco?

"Suze," I said. "You and I ought to be on that."

"On what?"

"The plane, heading west. Loosing the surly bonds of earth."

"I don't like flying."

"Whoops," I said, "I have trod on a toe."

"Why do you think so?"

"Tone, babe, tone of voice. Length of sentence, attitude of head. I am, 
remember, a trained investigator. Clues are my game. What are you mad at?"

"I don't know."

"That's a start."

"Don't make fun of me, Spenser. I don't exactly know.

I'm mad at you, or at least in that area. Maybe I've read Ms.

Magazine, maybe I spend too much time seeing Marlo Thomas on talk 
shows. I was married and divorced and maybe I know better than you do what 
this man's wife might be going through."

"Maybe you do," I said. The maitre d' had our table and we were silent 
as we followed him to it. The menus were large and done in a stylish 
typeface. The price of lobster was discreetly omitted.

"But say you do," I picked up. "Say you understand her problem better 
than I do. What's making you mad?"

She looked at her menu. "Smug," she said. "That's the word I was 
looking for, a kind of smugness about that woman's silly little fling."

The waitress appeared. I looked at Susan. "Escargots," she said to the 
waitress. "And the cold crab." I ordered assorted hot hors d'oeuvres and a 
steak. The waitress went away.

"I don't buy smug," I said. "Flip, maybe, but not smug."

"Condescending," Susan said.

"No," I said. "Annoyed, maybe, if you push me. But not at her, at all 
the silliness in the world. I'm sick of movements.

I'm sick of people who think that a new system will take care of 
everything. I'm sick of people who put the cause ahead of the person. And I 
am sick of people, whatever sex, who dump the kids and run off: to work, to 
booze, to sex, to success. It's irresponsible."

The waitress reappeared with our first course. My platter of hot hors 
d'oeuvres included a clam casino, an oyster Rockefeller, a fried shrimp, a 
soused shrimp and a stuffed mushroom cap.

"I'll trade you a mushroom cap for a snail," I said to Susan.

She picked a snail up in the tongs and put it on my plate. "I don't 
want the mushroom," she said.

"No need for a hunger strike, Suze, just because you're mad." I poked 
the snail out of its shell and ate it. "Last chance for the mushroom."

She shook her head. I ate the mushroom.

Susan said, "You don't know why she ran off."

"Neither of us does."

"But you assumed a feminist reason."

"I should not have. You are right."

"I'll take that soused shrimp," Susan said. I put it on her plate with 
my fork.

I said, "You know they're my favorite."

She said, "And I know you don't care that much for the mushroom caps."

"Bitch."

Susan smiled. "The way to a man's remorse," she said, "is through his 
stomach."

The smile did it, it always did it. Susan's smile was Technicolor, 
Cinemascope and stereophonic sound. I felt my stomach muscles tighten, like 
they always did when she smiled, like they always did when I really looked 
at her.

"Where in hell were you," I said, "twenty years ago?"

"Marrying the wrong guy," she said. She put her right hand out and ran 
her forefinger over the knuckles on my left hand as it lay on the tabletop. 
The smile stayed but it was a serious smile now. "Better late than never," 
she said.

The waitress came with the salad.

CHAPTER THREE

I WAS UP EARLY and on my way to Hyannis before the heavy rush hour
traffic started in Boston. Route 3 to the Cape is superhighway to the
Sagamore Bridge. Twenty years ago there was no superhighway and you went
to the Cape along Route 28 through the small southern Mass towns like
Randolph. It was slow but it was interesting and you could look at
people and front yards and brown mongrel dogs, and stop at diners and
eat hamburgers that were cooked before your very eyes. Driving down
Route 3 that morning the only person I saw outside a car was a guy
changing a tire near a sign that said PLYMOUTH.

As I arched up over the Cape Cod Canal at the Sagamore Bridge, Route 3 
became Route 6, the Mid-Cape Highway. In the center strip and along each 
roadside was scrub white pine, and some taller, an occasional maple tree and 
some small oak trees. At high points on the road you could see ocean on both 
sides, Buzzards Bay to the south, Cape Cod Bay to the north. In fact the 
whole Cape echoed with a sense of the ocean, not necessarily its sight and 
not always its scent or sound. Sometimes just the sense of vast space on 
each side of you. Of open brightness stretching a long way under the sun.

Route 132 took me into Hyannis center. The soothing excitements of 
scrub pine and wide sea gave way to McDonald's and Holiday Inn and prefab 
fence companies, shopping malls and Sheraton Motor Inns, and a host of less 
likely places where you could sleep and eat and drink in surroundings 
indistinguishable from the ones you'd left at home. Except there'd be a 
fishnet on the wall. If Bartholomew Gosnold had approached the Cape from 
this direction he'd have kept on going.

At the airport circle, I headed east on Main Street.

Hyannis is surprisingly congested and citylike as you drive into it. 
Main Street is lined with stores, many of them branches of Boston and New 
York stores. The motel I wanted was at the east end of town, a big handsome 
resort motel with a health club and a good restaurant of Victorian decor. A 
big green sign out front said DUNFEY'S. I had stayed there two months ago 
with Brenda Loring and had a nice time.

I was in my room and unpacked by nine-thirty. I called Shepard. He was 
home and waiting for me. Ocean Street is five minutes from the motel, an 
extension of Sea Street, profuse with weathered shingles and blue shutters. 
Shepard's house was no exception. A big Colonial with white cedar shingles 
weathered silver, and blue shutters at all the windows. It was on a slight 
rise of ground on the ocean side of Ocean Street. A white Caddie convertible 
with the top down was parked in front. A curving brick path ran up to the 
front door and small evergreens clustered along the foundation. The front 
door was blue. I rang the bell and heard it go bing-bong inside. To the left 
of the house was a beach, where the street curved. To the right was a high 
hedge concealing the neighbors' house next door. A blond teenage girl in a 
very small lime green bikini answered the door. She looked maybe seventeen. 
I carefully did not leer at her when I said, "My name's Spenser to see Mr. 
Shepard."

The girl said, "Come in."

I stepped into the front hallway and she left me standing while she 
went to get her father. I closed the door behind me. The front hall was 
floored in flagstone and the walls appeared to be cedar paneling. There were 
doors on both sides and in the rear, and a stairway leading up. The ceilings 
were white and evenly rough, the kind of plaster ceiling that is sprayed on 
and shows no mark of human hand.

Shepard's daughter came back. I eyed her surreptitiously behind my 
sunglasses. Surreptitious is not leering.

She might be too young, but it was hard to tell.

"My dad's got company right now, he says can you wait a minute?"

"Sure."

She walked off and left me standing in the hall. I didn't insist on 
port in the drawing room, but standing in the hall seemed a bit cool. Maybe 
she was distraught by her mother's disappearance. She didn't look 
distraught. She looked sullen. Probably mad at having to answer the door.

Probably going to paint her toenails when I'd interrupted.

Terrific-looking thighs though. For a little kid.

Shepard appeared from the door past the stairs. With him was a tall 
black man with a bald head and high cheekbones. He had on a powder blue 
leisure suit and a pink silk shirt with a big collar. The shirt was 
unbuttoned to the waist and the chest and stomach that showed were as hard 
and unadorned as ebony. He took a pair of wraparound sunglasses from the 
breast pocket of the jacket and as he put them on, he stared at me over 
their rims until very slowly the lenses covered his eyes and he stared at me 
through them.

I looked back. "Hawk," I said.

"Spenser."

Shepard said, "You know each other?"

Hawk nodded.

I said, "Yeah."

Shepard said to Hawk, "I've asked Spenser here to see if he can find my 
wife, Pam."

Hawk said, "I'll bet he can. He's a real firecracker for finding 
things. He'll find the ass off of a thing. Ain't that right, Spenser?"

"You always been one of my heroes too, Hawk. Where you staying?"

"Ah'm over amongst de ofays at de Holiday Inn, Marse Spensah."

"We don't say ofays anymore, Hawk. We say honkies.

And you don't do that Kingfish dialect any better than you used to."

"Maybe not, but you should hear me sing 'Shortnin' Bread,' babe."

"Yeah, I'll bet," I said.

Hawk turned toward Shepard. "I'll be in touch, Mr.

Shepard," he said. They shook hands and Hawk left. Shepard and I 
watched him from the front door as he walked down toward the Caddie. His 
walk was graceful and easy yet there was about him an aura of taut muscle, 
of tight coiled potential, that made it seem as if he were about to leap.

He looked at my '68 Chevy, and looked back at me with a big grin. 
"Still first cabin all the way, huh, baby?"

I let that pass and Hawk slid into his Cadillac and drove away. 
Ostentatious.

Shepard said, "How do you know him?"

"We used to fight on the same card twenty years ago.

Worked out in some of the same gyms."

"Isn't that amazing, and twenty years later you run into him here."

"Oh, I've seen him since then. Our work brings us into occasional 
contact."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"You know, I could sense that you knew each other pretty well. 
Salesman's instinct at sizing people up, I guess.

Come on in. Have a cup of coffee or something? It's pretty early for a 
drink, I guess."

We went into the kitchen. Shepard said, "Instant okay?"

I said, "Sure," and Shepard set water to boiling in a red porcelain 
teakettle.

The kitchen was long with a divider separating the cooking area from 
the dining area. In the dining area was a big rough hewn picnic table with 
benches on all four sides.

The table was stained a driftwood color and contrasted very nicely with 
the blue floor and counter tops.

"So you used to be a fighter, huh?"

I nodded.

"That how your nose got broken?"

"Yep."

"And the scar under your eye, too, I'll bet."

"Yep."

"Geez, you look in good shape, bet you could still go a few rounds 
today, right?"

"Depends on who I went them with."

"You fight heavyweight?"

I nodded again. The coffee water boiled. Shepard spooned some Taster's 
Choice from a big jar into each cup.

"Cream and sugar?"

"No thank you," I said.

He brought the coffee to the table and sat down across from me. I'd 
been hoping, maybe for a doughnut, or a muffin. I wondered if Hawk had 
gotten one.

"Cheers," Shepard said, and raised his cup at me.

"Harv," I said, "you got more troubles than a missing wife."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean I know Hawk, I know what he does. He's an enforcer, what the 
kids on my corner used to call a legbreaker. He freelances and these days he 
freelances most often for King Powers."

"Now wait a minute. I hired you to find my wife. Whatever business I'm 
in with Hawk is my business. Not yours.

I'm not paying you to nose around in my business."

"That's true," I said. "But if you are dealing with Hawk, you are 
dealing with pain. Hawk's a hurter. You owe Powers money?"

"I don't know a goddamned thing about Powers. Don't worry about Powers 
or Hawk or anybody else. I want you looking for my wife, not peeking into my 
books, you know?"

"Yeah, I know. But I've spent a lot of years doing my business with 
people like Hawk. I know how it goes. This time Hawk came and talked to you, 
pleasantly enough, spelled out how much you owed and how far behind you were 
on the vig and when you had to pay it by."

"How the hell do you know what we were talking about."

"And at the end he told you, with a friendly enough smile, what would 
happen if you didn't pay. And then I came and he said goodby politely and he 
left."

"Spenser, are you going to talk about this anymore or are you going to 
get to work on what I hired you for."

"Harv. Hawk means it. Hawk is a bad man. But he keeps his word. If you 
owe money, pay it. If you haven't the money, tell me now, and we can work on 
the problem. But don't bullshit me, and don't bullshit yourself. If you're 
dealing with Hawk you are in way, way, far way, over your head."

"There's nothing to talk about. Now that's it. There's no more to say 
about it."

"You may even be in over mine," I said.

CHAPTER FOUR

I HAD A SENSE, call it a hunch, that Shepard didn't want to talk about
his dealings with Hawk, or King Powers or anybody else. He wanted to
talk about his wife.

"Your wife's name is Pam, right?"

"Right."

"Maiden name?"

"What difference does that make?"

"She might start using it when she took off."

"Pam Neal." He spelled it.

"Folks living?"

"No."

"Siblings?"

He looked blank.

"Brothers or sisters," I said.

"No. She's an only child."

"Where'd she grow up?"

"Belfast, Maine. On the coast, near Searsport."

"I know where it is. She have friends up there she might visit?"

"No. She left there after college. Then her folks died.

She hasn't been back in fifteen years, I'd bet."

"Where'd she go to college?"

"Colby."

"In Waterville?"

"Yeah."

"What year she graduate?"

"Nineteen fifty-four, both of us. College sweethearts."

"How about college friends?"

"Oh, hell, I don't know. I mean we still see a lot of people we went to 
school with. You think she might be visiting someone?"

"Well, if she ran off, she had to run somewhere. She ever work?"

He shook his head strongly. "No way. We got married right after 
graduation. I've supported her since her father stopped."

"She ever travel without you, separate vacations, that sort of thing?"

"No, Christ, she gets lost in a phone booth. I mean she's scared to 
travel. Anywhere we've ever gone, I've taken her."

"So if you were her, no work experience, no travel skills, no family 
other than this one, and you ran off, where would you go?"

He shrugged.

"She take money," I said.

"Not much. I gave her the food money and her house money on Monday and 
she took off Thursday, and she'd already done the food shopping. She 
couldn't a had more than twenty bucks."

"Okay, so we're back to where could she go. She needed help. There's 
not a lot you can do on twenty bucks.

What friends could she have gone to?"

"Well, I mean most of her friends were my friends too, you know. I mean 
I know the husband and she knows the wife. I don't think she could be hiding 
out anywhere like that.

One of the guys would tell me."

"Unmarried friend?"

"Hey, that's a problem, I don't think I know anybody who isn't 
married."

"Does your wife?"

"Not that I know. But, hell, I don't keep track of her every move. I 
mean she had some friends from college, I don't think ever married. Some of 
them weren't bad either."

"Could you give me their names, last known address, that sort of 
thing?"

"Jesus, I don't know. I'll try, but you gotta give me a little time. I 
don't really know too much about what she did during the day. I mean maybe 
she wrote to some of them, I don't know."

"Any who live around here?"

"I just don't know, Spenser. Maybe Millie might know."

"Your daughter?"

"Yeah, she's sixteen. That's old enough for them to have girl talk and 
stuff, I imagine. Maybe she's got something you could use. Want me to get 
her?"

"Yeah, and old phone bills, letters, that kind of thing, might be able 
to give us a clue as to where she'd go. And I'll need a picture."

"Yeah, okay. I'll get Millie first, and I'll look for that stuff while 
you're talking with her." He hadn't come right home and done it like I told 
him. Maybe I lacked leadership qualities.

Millie didn't look happy to talk with me. She sat at the table and 
turned her father's empty coffee cup in a continuous circle in front of her. 
Shepard went off to collect the phone bills and letters. Millie didn't 
speak.

"Any thoughts on where your mother might be, Millie?"

She shook her head.

"Does that mean you don't know or you won't say."

She shrugged and continued to turn the coffee cup carefully.

"You want her back?"

She shrugged again. When I turn on the charm they melt like butter.

"Why do you think she ran off?"

"I don't know," she said, staring at the cup. Already she was starting 
to pour out her heart to me.

"If you were she," I said, "would you run off?"

"I wouldn't leave my children," she said and there was some emphasis on 
the my.

"Would you leave your husband?"

"I'd leave him," she said and jerked her head toward the door her 
father had gone through.

"Why?"

"He's a jerk."

"What's jerky about him?"

She shrugged.

"Work too hard? Spend too much time away from the family?"

She shrugged again.

"Honey," I said. "On the corner I hang out, when you call someone a 
jerk you're supposed to say why, especially if it's family."

"Big deal," she said.

"It's one of the things that separate adults from children," I said.

"Who wants to be an adult?"

"I been both and adult is better than kid."

"Sure," she said.

"Who's your mother's best friend?" I said.

She shrugged again. I thought about getting up and throwing her through 
the window. It made me feel good for a minute, but people would probably 
call me a bully.

"You love your mother?"

She rolled her eyes at the ceiling and gave a sigh.

"Course," she said and looked back at the circles she was making with 
the coffee cup. Perhaps I could throw it through the window instead.

"How do you know she's not in trouble?"

"I don't know."

"How do you know she's not kidnaped?"

"I don't know."

"Or sick someplace with no one to help her." Ah, the fertility of my 
imagination. Maybe she was the captive of a dark mysterious count in a 
castle on the English moors.

Should I mention to the kid a fate worse than death?

"I don't know. I mean my father just said she ran away. Isn't he 
supposed to know?"

"He doesn't know. He's guessing. And he's trying to spare you in his 
jerky way from worse worry."

"Well, why doesn't he find out?"

"Ahhh, oh giant of brain, come the light. What the hell do you think 
he's hired me for?"

"Well, why don't you find out." She had stopped turning the coffee cup.

"That's what I'm trying to do. Why don't you help? So far your 
contribution to her rescue is four I-don't-knows and six shrugs. Plus 
telling me your old man's a jerk but you don't know why."

"What if she really did run away and doesn't want to come back?"

"Then she doesn't come back. I almost never use my leg irons on women 
anymore."

"I don't know where she is."

"Why do you suppose she left?"

"You already asked me that."

"You didn't answer."

"My father got on her nerves."

"Like how?"

"Like, I don't know. He was always grabbing at her, you know. Patting 
her ass, or saying gimme a kiss when she was trying to vacuum. That kind of 
stuff. She didn't like it."

"They ever talk about it?"

"Not in front of me."

"What did they talk about in front of you?"

"Money. That is, my old man did. My old lady just kind of listened. My 
old man talks about money and business all the time. Keeps talking about 
making it big. Jerk."

"Your father ever mistreat your mother?"

"You mean hit her or something?"

"Whatever."

"No. He treated her like a goddamned queen, actually.

That's what was driving her crazy. I mean he was all over her. It was 
gross. He was sucking after her all the time. You know?"

"Did she have any friends that weren't friends of your father's?"

She frowned a little bit, and shook her head. "I don't think so. I 
don't know any."

"She ever go out with other men?"

"My mother?"

"It happens."

"Not my mother. No way."

"Is there anything you can think of, Millie, that would help me find 
your mother?"

"No, nothing. Don't you think I'd like her back. I have to do all the 
cooking and look out for my brother and sister and make sure the cleaning 
lady comes and a lot of other stuff."

"Where's your brother and sister?"

"At the beach club, the lucky stiffs. I have to stay home for you."

"For me?"

"Yeah, my father says I have to be the hostess and stuff till my mother 
comes home. I'm missing the races and everything."

"Life's hard sometimes," I said. She made a sulky gesture with her 
mouth. We were silent for a minute.

"The races go on all week," she said. "Everybody's there. All the 
summer kids and everybody."

"And you're missing them," I said. "That's a bitch."

"Well, it is. All my friends are there. It's the biggest time of the 
summer."

So young to have developed her tragic sense so highly.

Shepard came back in the room with a cardboard carton filled with 
letters and bills. On top was an 8 1/2 x 11 studio photo in a gold filigree 
frame. "Here you go, Spenser. This is everything I could find."

"You sort through any of it?" I asked.

"Nope. That's what I hired you for. I'm a salesman, not a detective. I 
believe in a man doing what he does best. Right, Mill?"

Millie didn't answer. She was probably thinking about the races.

"A man's gotta believe in something," I said. "You know where I'm 
staying if anything comes up."

"Dunfey's, right? Hey, mention my name to the maitre d' in The Last 
Hurrah, get you a nice table."

I said I would. Shepard walked me to the door. Millie didn't. "You 
remember that. You mention my name to Paul over there. He'll really treat 
you good."

As I drove away I wondered what races they were running down at the 
beach club.

CHAPTER FIVE

I ASKED AT THE TOWN hall for directions to the police station. The lady
at the counter in the clerk's office told me in an English accent that
it was on Elm Street off Barnstable Road. She also gave me the wrong
directions to Barnstable Road, but what can you expect from a foreigner.
A guy in a Sunoco station straightened me out on the directions and I
pulled into the parking lot across the street from the station a little
before noon.

It was a square brick building with a hip roof and two small A dormers 
in front. There were four or five police cruisers in the lot beside the 
station: dark blue with white tops and white front fenders. On the side was 
printed BARNSTABLE POLICE. Hyannis is part of Barnstable Township. I know 
that but I never did know what a township was and I never found anyone else 
who knew.

I entered a small front room. To the left behind a low rail sat the 
duty officer with switchboard and radio equipment. To the right a long bench 
where the plaintiffs and felons and penitents could sit in discomfort while 
waiting for the captain. All police stations had a captain you waited for 
when you came in. Didn't matter what it was.

"Deke Slade in?" I asked the cop behind the rail.

"Captain's busy right now. Can I help you?"

"Nope, I'd like to see him." I gave the cop my business card. He looked 
at it with no visible excitement.

"Have a seat," he said, nodding at the bench. "Captain'll be with you 
when he's free." It's a phrase they learn in the police academy. I sat and 
looked at the color prints of game birds on the walls on my side of the 
office.

I was very sick of looking at them when, about one-ten, a gray-haired
man stuck his head through the door on my side of the railing and said, 
"Spenser?"

I said, "Yeah."

He jerked his head and said, "In here." The head jerk is another one 
they learn in the police academy. I followed the head jerk into a square 
shabby office. One window looked out onto the lot where the cruisers parked. 
And beyond that a ragged growth of lilacs. There was a green metal filing 
cabinet and a gray metal desk with matching swivel chair. The desk was 
littered with requisitions and flyers and such. A sign on one corner said 
CAPTAIN SLADE.

Slade nodded at the gray metal straight chair on my side of the desk. 
"Sit," he said. Slade matched his office.

Square, uncluttered and gray. His hair was short and curly, the face 
square as a child's block, outdoors tan, with a gray blue sheen of heavy 
beard kept close shave. He was short, maybe five-eight, and blocky, like an 
offensive guard from a small college. The kind of guy that should be running 
to fat when he got forty, but wasn't. "What'll you have," he said.

"Harv Shepard hired me to look for his wife. I figured you might be 
able to point me in the right direction."

"License?"

I took out my wallet, slipped out the plasticized photostat of my 
license and put it in front of him on the desk. His uniform blouse had short 
sleeves and his bare arms were folded across his chest. He looked at the 
license without unfolding his arms, then at me and back at the license 
again.

"Okay," he said.

I picked up the license, slipped it back in my wallet.

"Got a gun permit?"

I nodded, slipped that out of the wallet and laid it in front of him. 
He gave it the same treatment and said, "Okay."

I put that away, put the wallet away and settled back in the chair.

Slade said, "Far as I can tell she ran off. Voluntary. No foul play. 
Can't find any evidence that she went with someone. Took an Almeida bus to 
New Bedford and that's as far as we've gone. New Bedford cops got her 
description and all, but they got things more pressing. My guess is she'll 
be back in a week or so dragging her ass."

"How about another man?"

"She probably spent the night prior to her disappearance with a guy 
down the Silver Seas Motel. But when she got on the bus she appeared to be 
alone."

"What's the guy's name she was with?"

"We don't know." Slade rocked back in his chair.

"And you haven't been busting your tail looking to find out either."

"Nope. No need to. There's no crime here. If I looked into every 
episode of extramarital fornication around here I'd have the whole force out 
on condom patrol. Some babe gets sick of her husband, starts screwing around 
a little, then takes off. You know how often that happens?" Slade's arms 
were still folded.

"Yeah."

"Guy's got money, he hires somebody like you to look.

The guy he hires fusses around for a week or so, runs up a big bill at 
the motel and the wife comes back on her own because she doesn't know what 
else to do. You get a week on the Cape and a nice tan, the husband gets a 
tax deduction, the broad starts sleeping around locally again."

"You do much marriage counseling?"

He shook his head. "Nope, I try to catch people that did crimes and put 
them in jail. You ever been a cop? I mean a real one, not a private 
license?"

"I used to be on the States," I said. "Worked out of the Suffolk County 
D.A.'s office."

"Why'd you quit?"

"I wanted to do more than you do."

"Social work," he said. He was disgusted.

"Any regular boyfriends you know of?" .

He shrugged. "I know she slept around a little, but I don't think 
anybody steady."

"She been sleeping around long or has this developed lately?"

"Don't know."

I shook my head.

Slade said, "Spenser, you want to see my duty roster?

You know how many bodies I got to work with here. You know what a 
summer weekend is like when the weather's good and the Kennedys are all out 
going to Mass on Sunday."

"You got any suggestions who I might talk to in town that could get my 
wheels turning?" I said.

"Go down the Silver Seas, talk with the bartender, Rudy. Tell him I 
sent you. He pays a lot of attention and the Silver Seas is where a lot of 
spit gets swapped. Pam Shepard hung out down there."

I got up. "Thank you, captain."

"You got questions I can answer, lemme know."

"I don't want to take up too much of your time."

"Don't be a smart-ass, Spenser, I'll do what I can. But I got a lot of 
things to look at and Pam Shepard's just one of them. You need help, gimme a 
call. If I can, I'll give you some."

"Yeah," I said. "Okay." We shook hands and I left.

It was two-fifteen when I pulled into the lot in front of the Silver 
Seas Motel. I was hungry and thirsty. While I took care of that I could talk 
to Rudy, start running up that big bar bill. Slade was probably right, but 
I'd give Shepard his money's worth before she showed up. If she was going 
to.

There's something about a bar on the Cape in the daytime. The 
brightness of lowland surrounded by ocean maybe makes the air-conditioned 
dimness of the bar more striking.

Maybe there's more people there and they are vacationers rather than 
the unemployed. Whatever it is, the bar at the Silver Seas Motel had it. And 
I liked it.

On the outside, the Silver Seas Motel was two-storied, weathered 
shingles, with a verandah across both stories in front. It was tucked into 
the seaward side of Main Street in the middle of town between a hardware 
store and a store that sold scallop shell ashtrays and blue pennants that 
said CAPE COD on them. The bar was on the right, off the lobby, at one end 
of the dining room. A lot of people were eating lunch and several were just 
drinking. Most of the people looked like college kids, cut-offs and 
T-shirts, sandals and halter tops. The decor in the place was surfwood and 
fishnet. Two oars crossed on one wall, a harpoon that was probably made in 
Hong Kong hung above the mirror behind the bar. The bartender was 
middle-aged and big-bellied. His straight black hair was streaked here and 
there with gray and hung shoulder length.

He wore a white shirt with a black string bow tie like a riverboat 
gambler. The cuffs were turned neatly back in two careful folds. His hands 
were thick with long tapering fingers that looked manicured.

"Draft beer?" I asked.

"Schlitz," he said. He had a flat nose and dark coppery skin. American 
Indian? Maybe.

"I'll have one." He drew it in a tall straight glass. Very good. No 
steins, or schooners or tulip shapes. Just a tall glass the way the hops god 
had intended. He put down a paper œ coaster and put the beer on it, fed the 
check into the register, rang up the sale and put the check on the bar near 
me.

"What have you got for lunch," I said.

He took a menu out from under the bar and put it in front of me. I 
sipped the beer and read the menu. I was working on sipping. Susan Silverman 
had lately taken to reprimanding me for my tendency to empty the glass in 
two swallows and order another. The menu said linguica on a crusty roll. My 
heart beat faster. I'd forgotten about linguica since I'd been down here 
last. I ordered two. And another beer. Sip.

sip.

The juke box was playing something by Elton John. At least the box 
wasn't loud. They'd probably never heard of Johnny Hartman here. Rudy 
brought the sandwiches and looked at my half-sipped glass. I finished 
it--simple politeness, otherwise he'd have had to wait while I sipped--and 
he refilled the glass.

"You ever hear of Johnny Hartman," I said.

"Yeah. Great singer. Never copped out and started singing this shit." 
He nodded at the juke box.

"You Rudy," I said.

"Yeah."

"Deke Slade told me to come talk with you." I gave him a card. "I'm 
looking for a woman named Pam Shepard."

"I heard she was gone."

"Any idea where?" I took a large bite of the linguica sandwich. 
Excellent. The linguica had been split and fried and in each sandwich 
someone had put a fresh green pepper ring.

"How should I know?"

"You knew Johnny Hartman, and you add green peppers to your linguica 
sandwich."

"Yeah, well, I don't know where she went. And the cook does the 
sandwiches. I don't like green pepper in mine."

"Okay, so you got good taste in music and bad taste in food. Mrs. 
Shepard come in here much?"

"Lately, yeah. She's been in regular."

"With anyone?"

"With everyone."

"Anyone special?"

"Mostly young guys. In a dim light you might have a shot."

"Why?"

"You're too old, but you got the build. She went for the jocks and the 
muscle men."

"Was she in here with someone before she took off?

That would have been a week ago Monday." I started on my second 
linguica sandwich.

"I don't keep that close a count. But it was about then.

She was in here with a guy named Eddie Taylor. Shovel operator."

"They spend the night upstairs?"

"Don't know. I don't handle the desk. Just tend bar. I'd guess they 
did, the way she was climbing on him." A customer signaled Rudy for another 
stinger on the rocks. Rudy stepped down the bar, mixed the drink, poured it, 
rang up the price and came back to me. I finished my second sandwich while 
he did that. When he came back my beer glass was empty and he filled that 
without being asked. Well, I couldn't very well refuse, could I. Three with 
lunch was about right anyway.

"Where can I find Eddie Taylor?" I said.

"He's working on a job in Cotuit these days. But he normally gets off 
work at four and is in here by four-thirty to rinse out his mouth."

I looked at the clock behind the bar: 3:35. I could wait and sip my 
beer slowly. I had nothing better to do anyway.

"I'll wait," I said.

"Fine with me," Rudy said. "One thing though, Eddie's sorta hard to 
handle. He's big and strong and thinks he's tough. And he's too young to 
know better yet."

"I'm big-city fuzz, Rudy. I'll dazzle him with wit and sophistication."

"Yeah, you probably will. But don't mention it was me that sicked you 
on to him. I don't want to have to dazzle him too."

CHAPTER SIX

IT WAS FOUR-TWENTY when Rudy said, "Hi, Eddie" to a big blond kid who
came in. He was wearing work shoes and cut-off jeans and a blue tank top
with red trim. He was a weightlifter: lots of tricep definition and
overdeveloped pectoral muscles. And he carried himself as if he were
wearing a medal. I'd have been more impressed with him if he weren't
carrying a twenty-pound roll around his middle. He said to Rudy, "Hey,
Kemo Sabe, howsa kid?"

Rudy nodded and without being asked put a shot of rye and a glass of 
draft beer on the bar in front of Eddie.

Eddie popped down the shot and sipped at the beer.

"Heap good, red man," he said. "Paleface workem ass off today." He 
talked loudly, aware of an audience, assuming his Lone Ranger Indian dialect 
was funny. He turned around on the barstool, hooked his elbows over the bar 
and surveyed the room. "How's the quiff situation, Rudy?" he said.

"Same as always, Eddie. You don't usually seem to have any trouble." 
Eddie was staring across the room at two college-age girls drinking Tom 
Collinses. I got up and walked down the bar and slipped onto the stool 
beside him. I said, "You Eddie Taylor?"

"Who wants to know?" he said, still staring at the girls.

"There's a fresh line," I said.

He turned to look at me now. "Who the hell are you?"

I took a card out of my jacket pocket, handed it to him.

"I'm looking for Pam Shepard," I said.

"Where'd she go?" he said.

"If I knew I'd go there and look for her. I was wondering if you could 
help me."

"Buzz off," he said and turned his stare back at the girls.

"I understand you spent the night with her just before she 
disappeared."

"Who says?"

"Me, I just said it."

"What if I did? I wouldn't be the first guy. What's it to you?"

"Poetry," I said. "Pure poetry when you talk."

"I told you once, buzz off. You hear me. You don't want to get hurt, 
you buzz off."

"She good in bed?"

"Yeah, she was all right. What's it to you?"

"I figure you had a lot of experience down here, and I'm new on the 
scene, you know? Just asking."

"Yeah, I've tagged a few around the Cape. She was all right. I mean for 
an old broad she had a nice tight body, you know. And, man, she was eager. I 
thought I was gonna have to nail her right here in the bar. Ask Rudy. Huh, 
Rudy?

Wasn't that Shepard broad all over me the other night?"

"You say so, Eddie." Rudy was cleaning his thumbnail with a matchbook 
cover. "I never notice what the customers do." .

"So you did spend the night with her?" I said.

"Yeah. Christ, if I hadn't she'd have dropped her pants right here in 
the bar."

"You already said that." .

"Well, it's goddamned so, Jack, you better believe it."

Eddie dropped another shot of bar whiskey and sipped at a second beer 
chaser that Rudy had brought without being asked.

"Did you know her before you picked her up?"

"Hell, I didn't pick her up, she picked me up. I was just sitting here 
looking over the field and she came right over and sat down and started 
talking to me."

"Well, then, did you know her before she picked you up?"

Eddie shrugged, and gestured his shot glass at Rudy.

"I'd seen her around. I didn't really know her, but I knew she was 
around, you know, that she was easy tail if you were looking." Eddie drank 
his shot as soon as Rudy poured it, and when he put the glass back on the 
bar Rudy filled it again.

"She been on the market long," I said. Me and Eddie were really rapping 
now, just a couple of good old boys, talking shop. Eddie drained his beer 
chaser, burped loudly, laughed at his burp. Maybe I wouldn't be able to 
dazzle him with my sophistication.

"On the market? Oh, you mean, yeah, I get you. No, not so long. I don't 
think I noticed her or heard much about her before this year. Maybe after 
Christmas, guy I know banged her. That's about the first I heard." His 
tongue was getting a little thick and his S's were getting slushy.

"Was your parting friendly?" I said.

"Huh?"

"What was it like in the morning when you woke up and said goodby to 
each other?"

"You're a nosy bastard," he said and looked away, staring at the two 
college girls across the room.

"People have said that."

"Well, I'm saying it."

"Yes, you are. And beautifully."

Eddie turned his stare at me. "What are you, a wise guy?"

"People have said that too."

"Well, I don't like wise guys."

"I sort of figured you wouldn't."

"So get lost or I'll knock you on your ass."

"And I sort of figured you'd put it just that way."

"You looking for trouble, Jack. I'm just the man to give it to you."

"I got all the trouble I need," I said. "What I'm looking for is 
information. What kind of mood was Pam Shepard in the morning after she'd 
been all over you?"

Eddie got off the barstool and stood in front of me. "I'm telling you 
for the last time. Get lost or get hurt." Rudy started drifting toward the 
phone. I checked the amount of room in front of the bar. Maybe ten feet. 
Enough. I said to Rudy, "It's okay. No one will get hurt. I'm just going to 
show him something."

I stood up. "Tubbo," I said to Eddie, "if you make me, I can put you in 
the hospital, and I will. But you probably don't believe me, so I'll have to 
prove it. Go ahead. Take your shot."

He took it, a right-hand punch that missed my head when I moved. He 
followed up with a left that missed by about the same margin when I moved 
the other way.

"You'll last about two minutes doing that," I said. He rushed at me and 
I rolled around him. "Meanwhile," I said, "if I wanted to I could be hitting 
you here." I tapped him openhanded on the right cheek very fast three times. 
He swung again and I stepped a little inside the punch and caught it on my 
left forearm. I caught the second one on my right. "Or here," I said and 
patted him rat-a-tat with both hands on each cheek. The way a grandma pats a 
child. I stepped back away from him. He was already starting to breathe 
hard.

"Some shape you're in, kid. In another minute you won't be able to get 
your arms up."

"Back off, Eddie," Rudy said from behind the bar.

"He's a pro, for crissake, he'll kill you if you keep shoving him."

"I'll shove the son of a bitch," Eddie said and made a grab at me. I 
moved a step to my right and put a left hook into his stomach. Hard. His 
breath came out in a hoarse grunt and he sat down suddenly. His face blank, 
the wind knocked out of him, fighting to get his breath. "Or there," I said.

Eddie got his breath partially back and climbed to his feet. Without 
looking at anyone he headed, wobbly legged, for the men's room. Rudy said to 
me, "You got some good punch there."

"It's because my heart is pure," I said.

"I hope he don't puke all over the floor in there," Rudy said.

The other people in the room, quiet while the trouble had flared, began 
to talk again. The two college girls got up and left, their drinks 
unfinished, their mothers' parting fears confirmed. Eddie came back from the 
men's room, his face pale and wet where he'd probably splashed it with 
water.

"The boilermakers will do it to you," I said. "Slow you down and tear 
up your stomach."

"I know guys could take you," Eddie said. There was no starch in his 
voice when he said it and he didn't look at me.

"I do too," I said. "And I know guys who can take them.

After a while counting doesn't make much sense. You just got into 
something I know more about than you do."

Eddie hiccupped.

"Tell me about how you left each other in the morning," I said. We were 
sitting at the bar again.

"What if I don't?" Eddie was looking at the small area of bar top 
encircled by his forearms.

"Then you don't. I don't plan to keep punching you in the stomach."

"We woke up in the morning and I wanted to go one more time, you know, 
sort of a farewell pop, and she wouldn't let me touch her. Called me a pig. 
Said if I touched her she'd kill me. Said I made her sick. That wasn't what 
she said before. We were screwing our brains out half the night and next 
morning she calls me a pig. Well, I don't need that shit, you know? So I 
belted her and walked out. Last I seen her she was lying on her back on the 
bed crying loud as a bastard. Just staring up at the ceiling and screaming 
crying." He shook his head. "What a weird bitch," he said. "I mean five 
hours before she was screwing her brains out for me."

I said, "Thanks, Eddie." I took a twenty-dollar bill out of my wallet 
and put it on the bar. "Take his out too, Rudy, and keep what's left."

When I left, Eddie was still looking at the bar top inside his 
forearms.

CHAPTER SEVEN

I HAD LAMB STEW and a bottle of Burgundy for supper and then headed into
my room to start on the box of bills and letters Shepard had given me. I
went through the personal mail first and found it sparse and
unenlightening. Most people throw away personal mail that would be
enlightening, I'd found. I got all the phone bills together and made a
list of the phone numbers and charted them for frequency. Then I
crosscharted them for locations. A real sleuth, sitting on the motel bed
in my shorts shuffling names and numbers. There were three calls in the
past month to a number in New Bedford, the rest were local. I assembled
all the gasoline credit-card receipts. She had bought gasoline twice
that month in New Bedford. The rest were around home. I catalogued the
other credit-card receipts. There were three charges from a New Bedford
restaurant. All for more than thirty dollars. The other charges were
local. It was almost midnight when I got through all of the papers. I
made a note of the phone number called in New Bedford, of the New
Bedford restaurant and the name of the gas station in New Bedford, then
I stuffed all the paper back in the carton, put the carton in the closet
and went to bed. I spent most of the night dreaming about phone bills
and charge receipts and woke up in the morning feeling like Bartleby the
Scrivener.

I had room service bring me coffee and corn muffins and at 9:05 put in 
a call to the telephone business office in New Bedford. A service rep 
answered.

"Hi," I said. "Ed MacIntyre at the Back Bay business office in Boston. 
I need a listing for telephone number 5553688, please."

"Yes, Mr. MacIntyre, one moment please . . . that listing is Alexander, 
Rose. Three Centre Street, in New Bedford."

I complimented her on the speed with which she found the listing, 
implied perhaps a word dropped to the district manager down there, said 
goodby with smily pleasant overtones in my voice and hung up. Flawless.

I showered and shaved and got dressed. Six hours of paper shuffling had 
led me to a surmise that the Hyannis cops had begun by checking the bus 
terminal. She was in New Bedford. But I had an address, maybe not for her, 
but for someone. It pays to do business with your local gumshoe. 
Personalized service.

The drive to New Bedford up Route 6 was forty-five miles and took about 
an hour through small towns like Wareham and Onset, Marion and Mattapoisett. 
Over the bridge from Fairhaven across the interflow of the harbor and the 
Acushnet River, New Bedford rose steeply from the docks. Or what was left of 
it. The hillside from the bridge to the crest looked like newsreel footage 
of the Warsaw ghetto. Much of the center of the city had been demolished and 
urban renewal was in full cry. Purchase Street, one of the main streets the 
last time I'd been in New Bedford, was now a pedestrian mall.

I drove around aimlessly in the bulldozed wasteland for perhaps ten 
minutes before I pulled off into a rutted parking area and stopped. I got 
out, opened the trunk of my car and got out a street directory for 
Massachusetts.

Centre Street was down back of the Whaling Museum.

I knew the hill and turned left past the public library. Out front they 
still had the heroic statue of the harpooner in the whaleboat. A dead whale 
or a stove boat. The choices then were simple, if drastic. I turned left 
down the hill toward the water, then onto Johnny Cake Hill and parked near 
the Whaling Museum, in front of the Seaman's Bethel.

I checked my street map again and walked around the Whaling Museum to 
the street behind it and looked and there was Centre Street. It was a short 
street, no more than four or five buildings long, and it ran from North 
Water Street, behind the museum, to Front Street, which paralleled the 
water. It was an old street, weedy and dank. Number three was a narrow two 
story building with siding of gray asbestos shingles and a crumbly looking 
red brick chimney in the center of the roof. The roof shingles were old and 
dappled in various shades as though someone had patched it periodically with 
what he had at hand. It needed more patching. There was worn green paint on 
the trim here and there and the front door on the right side of the building 
face was painted red. It had the quality of an old whore wearing lipstick.

I hoped she wasn't in there. I wanted to find her but I hated to think 
of her coming from the big sunny house in Hyannis to burrow in rat's alley. 
What to do now? No one knew me, neither Rose Alexander or Pam Shepard, nor, 
as far as I knew, anyone in New Bedford. In fact the number of places where 
I could go and remain anonymous continuously amazed me. I could enter on any 
pretext and look around. Or I could knock on the door and ask for Pam 
Shepard. The safest thing was to stand around and watch. I liked to know as 
much as I could before I went in where I hadn't been before.

That would take time, but I wouldn't run the risk of scaring anyone 
off. I looked at my watch: 12:15. I went back up toward what was left of the 
business district and found a restaurant. I had fried clams and cole slaw 
and two bottles of beer. Then I strolled back down to Centre Street and took 
up station about five past one. On North Water Street a municipal crew was 
at work with a backhoe and some jackhammers, while several guys with shirts 
and ties and yellow hard hats walked around with clipboards and conferred. 
Nobody came down Centre Street, or up it. Nobody had anything to do with 
Centre Street. No evidence of life appeared at number three. I had picked up 
a copy of the New Bedford Standard Times on my way back from lunch and I 
read it while I leaned on a telephone pole on the corner of North Water and 
Centre. I read everything, glancing regularly over the rim of the paper to 
check the house. I read about a bean supper at the Congregational church in 
Mattapoisett, about a father-son baseball game at the junior high school 
field in Rochester, about a local debutante's ball at the Wamsutta Club. I 
read the horoscope, the obituaries, the editorial, which took a strong stand 
against the incursion of Russian trawlers into local waters. I read "Dondi" 
and hated it. When I finished the paper, I folded it up, walked the short 
length of Centre Street and leaned against the doorway of an apparently 
empty warehouse on the corner of Centre and Front streets.

At three o'clock a wino in a gray suit, a khaki shirt and an orange 
flowered tie stumbled into my doorway and urinated in the other corner. When 
he got through I offered to brush him off and hand him a towel but he paid 
me no attention and stumbled off. What is your occupation, sir? I'm an 
outdoor men's room attendant. I wondered if anyone had ever whizzed on Allan 
Pinkerton's shoe.

At four-fifteen Pam Shepard came out of the shabby house with another 
woman. Pam was slim and Radcliffy looking with a good tan and her brown hair 
back in a tight French twist. She was wearing a chino pantsuit that 
displayed a finelooking backside. I'd have to get closer but she looked 
worth finding. The woman she was with was smaller and sturdier looking. 
Short black hair, tan corduroy jeans and a pink muslin shirt like Indira 
Gandhi. They headed up the street toward the museum and turned left on the 
Purchase Street pedestrian mall. The mall had been created by curbing across 
the intersection streets and had a homemade look to it. Pam Shepard and her 
friend went into a supermarket and I stood under the awning of a pawnshop 
across the street and watched them through the plate-glass window. They 
bought some groceries, consulting a shopping list as they went, and in about 
a half-hour they were back out on the street, each with a large brown paper 
sack in her arms. I followed them back to the house on Centre Street and 
watched them disappear inside. Well, at least I knew where she was. I 
resumed my telephone pole. The warehouse door had lost some of its appeal.

It got dark and nothing else happened. I was beginning to hope for the 
wino again. I was also hungry enough to eat at a Hot Shoppe. I had some 
thinking it over to do and while I always did that better eating, the fried 
clams had not sold me on New Bedford cuisine and I would probably have to 
sleep sometime later on anyway. So I went back and got my car and headed 
back for Hyannis. There was a parking ticket under the wiper but it blew off 
somewhere near a bowling alley in Mattapoisett.

During the ride back to Hyannis I decided that the best move would be 
to go back to New Bedford in the morning and talk with Pam Shepard. In a 
sense I'd done what I hired on for. That is, I had her located and could 
report that she was alive and under no duress. It should be up to Shepard to 
go and get her. But it didn't go down right, giving him the address and 
going back to Boston. I kept thinking of Eddie Taylor's final look at her, 
lying on the bed on her back screaming at the ceiling. There had been a 
pathetic overdressed quality to her as she came out of the shabby two-story 
on Centre Street. She'd had on pendant earrings.

It was nine-thirty when I got back to the motel. The dining room was 
still open so I went in and had six oysters and a half bottle of Chablis and 
a one-pound steak with Bearnaise sauce and a liter of beer. The salad had an 
excellent house dressing and the whole procedure was a great deal more 
pleasant than hanging around in a doorway with an incontinent wino. After 
dinner I went back to my room and caught the last three innings of the Sox 
game on channel six.

CHAPTER EIGHT

IN THE MORNING I was up and away to New Bedford before eight. I stopped
at a Dunkin' Donuts shop for a training-table breakfast to go, and ate
my doughnuts and drank my coffee as I headed up the Cape with the sun at
my back. I hit New Bedford at commuter time and while it wasn't that big
a city its street system was so confused that the traffic jam backed up
across the bridge into Fairhaven. It was nine-forty when I got out of
the car and headed for the incongruous front door at 3 Centre Street.
There was no doorbell and no knocker so I rapped on the red panels with
my knuckles. Not too hard, the door might fold.

A big, strong-looking young woman with light brown hair in a long 
single braid opened the door. She had on jeans and what looked like a black 
leotard top. She was obviously braless, and, less noticeably, shoeless.

"Good morning," I said, "I'd like to speak with Pam Shepard, please."

"I'm sorry, there's no Pam Shepard here."

"Will she be back soon?" I was giving her my most engaging smile. 
Boyish. Open. Mr. Warm.

"I don't know any such person," she said.

"Do you live here?" I said.

"Yes."

"Are you Rose Alexander?"

"No." Once I give them the engaging smile they just slobber all over 
me.

"Is she in?"

"Who are you?"

"I asked you first," I said.

Her face closed down and she started to shut the door.

I put my hand flat against it and held it open. She shoved harder and I 
held it open harder. She seemed determined.

"Madam," I said, "if you will stop shoving that door at me, I will 
speak the truth to you. Even though, I do not believe you have spoken the 
truth to me."

She paid no attention. She was a big woman and it was getting hard to 
hold the door open effortlessly.

"I stood outside this house most of yesterday and saw Pam Shepard and 
another woman come out, go shopping and return with groceries. The phone 
here is listed to Rose Alexander." My shoulder was beginning to ache. "I 
will talk civilly with Pam Shepard and I won't drag her back to her 
husband."

Behind the young woman a voice said, "What the hell is going on here, 
Jane?"

Jane made no reply. She kept shoving at the door. The smaller, 
black-haired woman I'd seen with Pam Shepard yesterday appeared. I said, 
"Rose Alexander?" She nodded. "I need to talk with Pam Shepard," I said.

"I don't . . ." Rose Alexander started.

"You do too," I said. "I'm a detective and I know such things: If 
you'll get your Amazon to unhand the door we can talk this all out very 
pleasantly."

Rose Alexander put her hand on Jane's arm. "You'd better let him in, 
Jane," she said gently. Jane stepped away from the door and glared at me. 
There were two bright smudges of color on her cheekbones, but no other sign 
of exertion. I stepped into the hall. My shoulder felt quite numb as I took 
my hand off the door. I wanted to rub it but was too proud. What price 
machismo?

"May I see some identification?" Rose Alexander said.

"Certainly." I took the plastic-coated photostat of my license out of 
my wallet and showed it to her.

"You're not with the police then," she said.

"No, I am self-employed," I said.

"Why do you wish to talk with me?"

"I don't," I said. "I wish to talk with Pam Shepard."

"Why do you wish to talk with her?"

"Her husband hired me to find her."

"And what were you to do when you did?"

"He didn't say. But he wants her back."

"And you intend to take her?"

"No, I intend to talk with her. Establish that she's well and under no 
duress, explain to her how her husband feels and see if she'd like to 
return."

"And if she would not like to return?"

"I won't force her." .

Jane said, "That's for sure," and glared at me.

"Does her husband know she's here?" Rose Alexander asked.

"No."

"Because you've not told him?"

"That's right."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I guess I just wanted to see what was happening in the 
china shop before I brought in the bull."

"I don't trust you," Rose Alexander said. "What do you think, Jane?"

Jane shook her head.

"I'm not here with her husband, am I?"

"But we don't know how close he is," Rose Alexander said.

"Or who's with him," Jane said.

"Who's with him?" I was getting confused.

Rose said, "You wouldn't be the first man to take a woman by force and 
never doubt your right."

"Oh," I said.

"We back down from you now," Jane said, "and it will be easier next 
time. So we'll draw the line here, up front, first time."

"But if you do," I said, "you'll make me use force. Not to take anyone, 
but to see that she's in fact okay."

"You saw that yesterday," Jane said. The color was higher on her 
cheekbones now, and more intense. "You told me you saw Pam and Rose go 
shopping together."

"I don't think you've got her chained in the attic," I said. "But 
duress includes managing the truth. If she has no chance to hear me and 
reject me for herself she's not free, she's under a kind of duress."

"Don't you try to force your way in," Jane said. "You'll regret it, I 
promise you." She had stepped back away from me and shifted into a martial 
arts stance, her feet balanced at right angles to each other in a kind of T 
stance, her open hands held in front of her in another kind of T, the left 
hand vertical, the right horizontal above it. She looked like she was 
calling for time out. Her lips were pulled back and her breath made a 
hissing sound as it squeezed out between her teeth.

"You had lessons?" I asked.

Rose Alexander said, "Jane is very advanced in karate.

Do not treat her lightly. I don't wish to hurt you, but you must 
leave." Her black eyes were quite wide and bright as she spoke. Her round 
pleasant face was flushed. I didn't believe the part about not wishing to 
hurt me.

"Well, I'm between a rock and a hard place right now. I don't want you 
to hurt me either, and I don't take Jane lightly. On the other hand the more 
you don't want me to see Pam Shepard, the more I think I ought to. I could 
probably go for the cops, but by the time we got back, Pam Shepard would be 
gone. I guess I'm going to have to insist."

Jane kicked me in the balls. Groin just doesn't say it.

I'd never fought with a woman before and I wasn't ready. It felt like 
it always does: nausea, weakness, pain and an irresistible compulsion to 
double over. I did double over. Jane chopped down on the back of my neck. I 
twisted away and the blow landed on the big trapezious muscles without doing 
any serious damage. I straightened up. It hurt but not as much as it was 
going to if I didn't make a comeback. Jane aimed the heel of her hand at the 
tip of my nose. I banged her hand aside with my right forearm and hit her as 
hard a left hook as I've used lately, on the side of her face, near the 
hinge of her jaw. She went over backward and lay on the floor without 
motion. I'd never hit a woman before and it scared me a little.

Had I hit her too hard? She was a big woman but I must have outweighed 
her by forty pounds. Rose Alexander dropped to her knees beside Jane, and 
having got there didn't know what to do. I got down too, painfully, and felt 
her pulse. It was nice and strong and her chest heaved and fell steadily. 
"She's okay," I said. "Probably better than I am."

At the far end of the hall was a raised panel door that had been 
painted black. It opened and Pam Shepard came through it. There were tears 
running down her face. "It's me," she said. "It's my fault, they were just 
trying to protect me. If you've hurt her it's my fault."

Jane opened her eyes and stared up blankly at us. She moved her head. 
Rose Alexander said, "Jane?"

I said, "She's going to be all right, Mrs. Shepard. You didn't make her 
kick me in the groin."

She too got down on the floor beside Jane. I got out of the way and 
leaned on the door jamb with my arms folded, trying to get the sick feeling 
to go away, and trying not to show it. People did not seem to be warming to 
me down here.

I hoped Jane and Eddie never got together.

Jane was on her feet, Pam Shepard holding one arm and Rose Alexander 
the other. They went down the hall toward the black door. I followed along. 
Through the door was a big kitchen. A big old curvy-legged gas stove on one 
wall, a big oilcloth-covered table in the middle of the room, a couch with a 
brown corduroy spread along another wall. There was a pantry at the right 
rear and the walls were wainscoted narrow deal boards that reminded me of my 
grandmother's house. They sat Jane down in a black leather upholstered 
rocker. Rose went to the pantry and returned with a wet cloth. She washed 
Jane's face while Pam Shepard squeezed Jane's hand. "I'm all right," Jane 
said and pushed the wet cloth away. "How the hell did you do that," she said 
to me.

"That kick was supposed to finish you right there."

"I am a professional thug," I said.

"It shouldn't matter," she said, frowning in puzzlement. "A kick in the 
groin is a kick in the groin."

"Ever do it for real before?"

"I've put in hours on the mat."

"No, not instruction. Fighting. For real."

"No," she said. "But I wasn't scared. I did it right."

"Yeah, you did, but you got the wrong guy. One of the things that a 
kick in the groin will do is scare the kickee.

Aside from the pain and all, it's not something he's used to and he 
cares about the area and he tends to double over and freeze. But I've been 
kicked before and I know that it hurts, but it's not fatal. Not even to my 
sex life. And so I can force myself through the pain."

"But . . ." She shook her head.

"I know," I said. "You thought you had a weapon that made you 
impregnable. That would keep people from shoving you around and the first 
time you use it you get cold-cocked. I can bench-press three hundred pounds. 
I used to be a fighter.

And I scuffle for a living. The karate will still work for you.

But you gotta remember it's not a sport in the street."

"You think, goddamn you, you think it's because you're a man . . ."

"Nope. It's because a good big person will beat a good small person 
every time. Most men aren't as good as I am. A lot of them aren't as good as 
you are."

They were all looking at me and I felt isolated, unwelcome and uneasy. 
I wished there were another guy there. I said to Pam Shepard, "Can we talk?"

Rose Alexander said, "You don't have to say a word to him, Pam."

Jane said, "There's no point in it, Pam. You know how you feel."

I looked at Pam Shepard. She had sucked in both lips so they were not 
visible, and her mouth was a thin line. She looked back at me and we held 
the pose for about thirty seconds.

"Twenty-two years," I said. "And you knew him before you got married. 
More than twenty-two years you've known Harvey Shepard. Doesn't that earn 
him five minutes of talk.

Even if you don't like him? Even simple duration eventually obliges 
you."

She nodded her head, to herself, I think, more than to me.

"Tell him about obligation, I've known him since nineteen fifty," she 
said.

I shrugged. "He's forking out a hundred dollars a day and expenses to 
find you."

"That's his style, the big gesture. 'See how much I love; you,' but is 
he looking? No, you're looking."

"Better than no one looking."

"Is it?" There was color on her cheekbones now. "Is it really? Why 
isn't it worse? Why isn't it intrusive? Why isn't it a big pain in the ass? 
Why don't you all just leave me the goddamned hell alone?"

"I'm guessing," I said, "but I think it's because he loves you."

"Loves me, what the hell has that got to do with anything. He probably 
does love me. I never doubted that he did.

So what. Does that mean I have to love him? His way? By his 
definition?"

Rose Alexander said, "It's an argument men have used since the Middle 
Ages to keep women in subjugation."

"Was that a master-slave relationship Jane was trying to establish with 
me?" I said.

"You may joke all you wish," Rose said, "but it is perfectly clear that 
men have used love as a way of obligating women. You even used the term 
yourself." Rose was apparently the theoretician of the group.

"Rosie," I said. "I am not here to argue sexism with you. It exists and 
I'm against it. But what we've got here is not a theory, it's a man and a 
woman who've known each other a long time and conspired to produce children. 
I want to talk with her about that."

"You cannot," Rose said, "separate the theory from its application. 
And"--her look was very forceful--"you cannot get the advantage of me by 
using the diminutive of my name.

I'm quite aware of your tricks."

"Take a walk with me," I said to Pam Shepard.

"Don't do it, Pam," Jane said.

"You'll not take her from this house," Rose said.

I ignored them and looked at Pam Shepard. "A walk," I said, "down 
toward the bridge. We can stand and look at the water and talk and then 
we'll walk back."

She nodded. "Yes," she said, "I'll walk with you. Maybe you can make 
him understand."

CHAPTER NINE

PROTESTS, EXCURSION and alarums followed Pam Shepard's decision but in
the end it was agreed that we would, in fact, stroll down toward the
harbor and that Jane and Rose would follow along, at a discreet distance
in case I tried to chloroform her and stuff her in a sack.

As we walked along Front Street the light was strong on her face and I 
realized she was probably around my age.

There were faint lines of adulthood at her eyes and the corners of her 
mouth. They didn't detract, in fact they added a little, I thought, to her 
appeal. She didn't look like someone who'd need to pick up overweight shovel 
operators in bars.

Hell, she could have her choice of sophisticated private eyes. I 
wondered if she'd object to the urine stain on my shoe.

We turned onto the bridge and walked far enough out on it to look at 
the water. The water made the city look good.

Oil slick, cigarette wrappers, dead fish, gelatinous-looking pieces of 
water-soaked driftwood, an unraveled condom looking like an eel skin against 
the coffee-colored water. Had it looked like this when Melville shipped out 
on a whaler 130 years ago? Christ, I hope not.

"What did you say your name was?" Pam Shepard asked.

"Spenser," I said. We leaned our forearms on the railing and stared out 
toward the transmitter tower on one of the harbor islands. The wind off the 
ocean was very pleasant despite the condition of the water.

"What do you want to talk about?" Today she had on a dark blue polo 
shirt, white shorts and white Tretorn tennis shoes. Her legs were tan and 
smooth.

"Mrs. Shepard, I've found you and I don't know what to do about it. You 
are clearly here by choice, and you don't seem to want to go home. I hired 
on to find you, and if I call your husband and tell him where you are I'll 
have earned my pay. But then he'll come up here and ask you to come home, 
and you'll say no, and he'll make a fuss, and Jane will kick; him in the vas 
deferens, and unless that permanently discourages him, and it is 
discouraging, you'll have to move."

"So don't tell him."

"But he's hired me. I owe him something."

"I can't hire you," she said. "I have no money."

Jane and Rose stood alertly across the roadway on the other side of the 
bridge and watched my every move. Semper paratus.

"I don't want you to hire me. I'm not trying to hold you up. I'm trying 
to get a sense of what I should do."

"Isn't that your problem?" Her elbows were resting on the railing and 
her hands were clasped. The diamond-wedding ring combination on her left 
hand caught the sun and glinted.

"Yes it is," I said, "but I can't solve it until I know who and what 
I'm dealing with. I have a sense of your husband. I need to get a sense of 
you."

"For someone like you, I'd think the sanctity of marriage would be all 
you'd need. A woman who runs out on her 4

family deserves no sympathy. She's lucky her husband will take her 
back." I noticed the knuckles of her clasped hands were whitening a little.

"Sanctity of marriage is an abstraction, Mrs. Shepard.

I don't deal in those. I deal in what it is fashionable to call people. 
Bodies. Your basic human being. I don't give a goddamn about the sanctity of 
marriage. But I occasionally worry about whether people are happy."

"Isn't happiness itself an abstraction?"

"Nope. It's a feeling. Feelings are real. They are hard to talk about 
so people sometimes pretend they're abstractions, or they pretend that 
ideas, which are easy to talk about, are more important."

"Is the equality of men and women an abstraction?"

"I think so."

She looked at me a little scornfully. "Yet the failure of that equality 
makes a great many people unhappy."

"Yeah. So let's work on the unhappiness. I don't know what in hell 
equality means. I don't know what it means in the Declaration of 
Independence. What's making you unhappy with your husband?"

She sighed in a deep breath and heaved it out quickly.

"Oh, God," she said. "Where to begin." She stared at the transmitter 
tower. I waited. Cars went by behind us.

"He love you?"

She looked at me with more than scorn. I thought for a minute she was 
going to spit. "Yes," she said. "He loves me.

It's as if that were the only basis for a relationship. 'I love you.

I love you. Do you love me? Love. Love.' Shit!"

"It's better than I hate you. Do you hate me?" I said.

"Oh, don't be so goddamned superficial," she said. "A relationship 
can't function on one emotion. Love or hate. He's like a . . ." She fumbled 
for an appropriate comparison. "He's like when one of the kids eats cotton 
candy at a carnival on a hot day and it gets all over her and then all over 
you and you're sticky and sweaty and the day's been a long one, and 
horrible, and the kids are whiny. If you don't get away by yourself and take 
a shower you'll just start screaming. You have any children, Mr. Spenser?"

"No."

"Then maybe you don't know. Are you married?"

"No."

"Then certainly you don't know."

I was silent.

"Every time I walk by him he wants to hug me. Or he gives me a pat on 
the ass. Every minute of every day that I am with him I feel the pressure of 
his love and him wanting a response until I want to kick him."

"Old Jane would probably help you," I said.

"She was protecting me," Pam Shepard said.

"I know," I said. "Do you love him?"

"Harvey? Not, probably, by his terms. But in mine. Or at least I did. 
Until he wore me down. At first it was one of his appeals that he loved me 
so totally. I liked that. I liked the certainty. But the pressure of that . 
. ." She shook her head.

I nodded at her encouragingly. Me and Carl Rogers.

"In bed," she said. "If I didn't have multiple orgasms I felt I was 
letting him down."

"Have many," I said.

"No."

"And you're worried about being frigid."

She nodded.

"I don't know what that means either," I said.

"It's a term men invented," she said. "The sexual model, like 
everything else, has always been male."

"Don't start quoting Rose at me," I said. "That may or may not be true, 
but it doesn't do a hell of a lot for our problem at the moment."

"You have a problem," Pam Shepard said. "I do not."

"Yes you do," I said. "I've been talking with Eddie Taylor."

She looked blank.

"Eddie Taylor," I said, "big blond kid, runs a power shovel. Fat around 
the middle, and a loud mouth."

She nodded and continued to as I described him, the lines at the 
corners of her mouth deepening. "And why is he a problem?"

"He isn't. But unless he made it all up, and he's not bright enough to 
make it up, you're not as comfortably in charge of your own destiny as you 
seem to be."

"I'll bet he couldn't wait to tell you every detail. Probably 
embellished a great deal."

"No. As a matter of fact he was quite reluctant. I had to strike him in 
the solar plexus."

She made a slight smiling motion with her mouth for a moment. "I must 
say you don't talk the way I'd have expected."

"I read a lot," I said.

"So what is my problem?"

"I don't read that much," I said. "I assume you are insecure about your 
sexuality and ambivalent about it. But that doesn't mean anything that 
either one of us can bite into."

"Well, don't we have all the psychological jargon down pat. If my 
husband slept around would you assume he was insecure and ambivalent?"

"I might," I said. "Especially if he had a paroxysm the morning after 
and was last seen crying on the bed."

Her face got a little pink for a moment. "He was revolting. You've seen 
him. How I could have, with a pig like that. A drunken, foul, sweaty animal. 
To let him use me like that."

She shivered. Across the street Jane and Rose stood poised, eyes fixed 
upon us, ready to spring. I felt like a cobra at a mongoose festival. "He 
didn't give a damn about me. Didn't care about how I felt. About what I 
wanted. About sharing pleasure. He just wanted to rut like a hog and when it 
was over roll off and go to sleep."

"He didn't strike me too much as the Continental type," I said.

"It's not funny."

"No, it isn't no more than everything else. Laughing is better than 
crying though. When you can."

"Well, isn't that just so folksy and down home," she said. "What the 
hell do you know about laughing and crying?"

"I observe it a lot," I said. "But what I know isn't an issue. If Eddie 
Taylor was so revolting, why did you pick him up?"

"Because I goddamned well felt like it. Because I felt like going out 
and getting laid without complications. Just a simple straightforward screw 
without a lot of lovey-dovey-did-you-like-that-do-you-love-me crap."

"You do that much?"

"Yes. When I felt like it, and I've been feeling like it a lot these 
last few years."

"You usually enjoy it more than you did with old Eddie?"

"Of course, I--oh hell, I don't know. It's very nice sometimes when it 
happens, but afterwards I'm still hung up on guilt. I can't get over all
those years of nice-girls-don't-do-it, I guess."

"A guy told me you always went for the big young jocko types. Muscle 
and youth."

"You have yourself in mind? You're not all that young."

"I would love to go to bed with you. You are an excellent-looking 
person. But I'm still trying to talk about you."

"I'm sorry," she said. "That was flirtatious, and I'm trying to change. 
Sometimes it's hard after a long time of being something else. Flirtatious 
was practically the only basis for male-female relationship through much of 
my life."

"I know," I said. "But what about the guy who says you go for jockos. 
He right?"

She was silent awhile. An old Plymouth convertible went by with the top 
down and radio up loud. I heard a fragment of Roberta Flack as the sound 
dopplered past.

"I guess I do. I never really gave it much thought but I guess the kind 
of guy I seek out is big and young and strong looking. Maybe I'm hoping for 
some kind of rejuvenation."

"And a nice uncomplicated screw."

"That too."

"But not with someone who just wants to rut and roll off."

She frowned. "Oh, don't split hairs with me. You know what I mean."

"No," I said. "I don't know what you mean. And I don't think you know 
what you mean. I'm not trying to chop logic with you. I'm trying to find out 
how your head is. And I think it's a mare's nest."

"What's a mare's nest?"

"Something confused."

"Well, I'm not a mare's nest. I know what I want and what I don't 
want."

"Yeah? What?"

"What do you mean what?"

"I mean what do you want and what do you not want."

"I don't want to live the way I have been for twenty years."

And what do you want?"

"Something different."

"Such as?"

"Oh"--tears showed in her eyes--"I don't know. Goddamn it, leave me 
alone. How the hell do I know what I want.

I want you to leave me the goddamned hell alone." The tears were on her 
cheeks now, and her voice had thickened. Across the bridge Rose and Jane 
were in animated conference. I had the feeling Jane was to be unleashed in a 
moment. I took out one of my cards and gave it to her.

"Here," I said. "If you need me, call me. You got any money?"

She shook her head. I took ten of her husband's tendollar bills out of 
my wallet and gave them to her. The wallet was quite thin without them.

"I won't tell him where you are," I said, and walked off the bridge and 
back up the hill toward my car back of the museum.

CHAPTER TEN

HARVEY SHEPARD HAD a large purple bruise under his right eye and it
seemed to hurt him when he frowned. But he frowned anyway. "Goddamnit,"
he said. "I laid out five hundred bucks for that information and you sit
there and tell me I can't have it. What kind of a goddamned business is
that?"

"I'll refund your advance if you want, but I won't tell you where she 
is. She's well, and voluntarily absent. I think she's confused and unhappy 
but she's safe enough."

"How do I know you've even seen her. How do I know you're not trying to 
rip me off for five bills and expenses without even looking for her?"

"Because I offered to give it back," I said.

"Yeah, lots of people offer but try to get the money."

"She was wearing a blue polo shirt, white shorts, white Tretorn tennis 
shoes. Recognize the clothes?"

He shrugged.

"How'd you get the mouse?" I said.

"The what?"

"The bruise on your face. How'd you get it?"

"For crissake, don't change the subject. You owe me information and I 
want it. I'll take you right the hell into court if I have to."

"Hawk lay that on you?"

"Lay what?"

"The mouse. Hawk give it to you?"

"You keep your nose out of my business, Spenser. I hired you to find my 
wife, and you won't even do that. Never mind about Hawk."

We were in his office on the second floor overlooking Main Street. He 
was behind his big Danish modern desk. I was in the white leather director's 
chair. I got up and walked to the door.

"Come here," I said. "I want you to see something in the outer office."

"What the hell is out there?"

"Just get up and come here, and you'll see."

He made a snort and got up, slowly and stiffly, and walked like an old 
man, holding himself very carefully. Keeping his upper body still. When he 
got to the door, I said, "Never mind."

He started to frown, but his eye hurt, so he stopped and swore at me. 
"Jesus Christ! What are you trying to do?"

"You been beat up," I said. He forgot himself for a moment, turned 
sharply toward me, grunted with pain and put his hand against the wall to 
keep steady.

"Get out of here," he said as hard as he could without raising his 
voice.

"Somebody worked you over. I thought so when I saw the mouse, and I 
knew so when you tried to walk. You are in money trouble with someone Hawk 
works for and this is your second notice."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Yeah, I do. Hawk works that way. Lots of pressure on the body, where 
it doesn't show. Actually I'm surprised that there's any mark on your face."

"You're crazy," Shepard said. "I fell downstairs yesterday. Tripped on 
a rug. I don't owe anybody anything. I'm just doing business with Hawk."

I shook my head. "Hawk doesn't do business. It bores him. Hawk collects 
money, and guards bodies, that sort of thing. You're with him one day and 
the next you can hardly walk. Too big a coincidence. You better tell me."

Shepard had edged his way back to the desk and gotten seated. His hands 
shook a little as he folded them in front of him on the desk.

"You're fired," he said. "Get out of here. I'm going to sue you for 
every cent I gave you. You'll be hearing from my lawyer."

"Don't be a goddamned fool, Shepard. If you don't get out of what 
you're in, I'll be hearing from your embalmer. You got three kids and no 
wife. What happens to the kids if you get planted?"

Shepard made a weak attempt at a confident smile.

"Listen, Spenser, I appreciate your concern, but this is a private 
matter, and it's nothing I can't handle. I'm a businessman, I know how to 
handle a business deal." His hands, clasped on the desk in front of him, 
were rigid, white-knuckled like his wife's had been on the New 
Bedford-Fairhaven bridge. Probably for the same reason. He was scared to 
death.

"One last try, Shepard. Are you doing business with King Powers?"

"I told you, Spenser, it is not your business." His voice did a chord 
change. "Stop trying to hustle yourself up some business. You and I are 
through. I want a check for five hundred dollars in the mail to me tomorrow 
or you'll find yourself in court." His voice was hitting the upper registers 
now. The tin clatter of hysteria.

"You know where to reach me," I said and walked out.

Living around Boston for a long time you tend to think of Cape Cod as 
the promised land. Sea, sun, sky, health, ease, boisterous camaraderie, a 
kind of real-life beer commercial.

Since I'd arrived no one had liked me, and several people had told me 
to go away. Two had assaulted me. You're sure to fall in love with old Cape 
Cod.

I drove to the end of Sea Street and parked illegally and walked on the 
beach. I seemed to be unemployed. There was no reason I could not pack up 
and go home. I looked at my watch. I could call Susan Silverman from the 
motel and in two hours we could be having a late lunch and going to the 
Museum of Fine Arts to look at the Vermeer exhibit that had just arrived. 
Giving Shepard back his retainer didn't thrill me, maybe Suze would pick up 
the lunch tab, but telling Shepard where his wife was didn't thrill me 
either.

I liked the idea of seeing Susan. I hadn't seen her in four days. 
Lately I had found myself missing her when I didn't see her. It made me 
nervous.

The beach was crowded and a lot of kids were swimming off a float 
anchored fifty yards from shore. Down the curve of the beach there was a 
point and beyond I could see part of the Kennedy compound. I found some open 
beach and sat down and took off my shirt. A fat woman in a flowered bathing 
suit eyed the gun clipped to my belt. I took it off and wrapped it in the 
shirt and used the package for a pillow. The woman got up and folded her 
beach chair and moved to a different spot. At least people were consistent 
in their response. I closed my eyes and listened to the sound of the water 
and the children and occasionally a dog. Down the beach someone's portable 
radio was playing something about a man who'd been crying for a million 
years, so many tears. Where have you gone, Cole Porter?

It was a mess, too big a mess. I couldn't walk away from it. How big a 
mess, I didn't know, but a mess. More mess than even Shepard could handle, I 
thought.

I got up, clipped the gun back on my hip, stuck the holster in my hip 
pocket, put on my pale blue madras shirt with the epaulets and let it hang 
out to cover up the gun. I walked back to my car, got in and drove to my 
motel. It was nearly noontime.

From my room I called Susan Silverman at home. No answer. I went to the 
restaurant and had oyster stew and two draft beers and came back and called 
again. No answer. I called Deke Slade. He was in.

"Spenser," I said, "known in crime-detection circles as Mr. Sleuth."

"Yeah?"

"I have a couple of theories I'd like to share with you on some 
possible criminal activity in your jurisdiction. Want me to come in?"

"Criminal activity in my jurisdiction? You gotta stop watching those TV 
crime shows. You sound like Perry Mason."

"Just because you don't know how to talk right, Slade, is no reason to 
put me down. You want to hear my theories or not.

"Come on in," he said and hung up. He didn't sound excited.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

"WHAT'S HAWK'S FULL NAME? Slade said.

"I don't know," I said. "Just Hawk."

"He's gotta have a full name."

"Yeah, I know, but I don't know what it is. I've known him about twenty 
years and I've never heard him called anything but Hawk."

Slade shrugged and wrote Hawk on his pad of yellow, legal sized lined 
paper. "Okay," he said. "So you figure that Shepard owes money and isn't 
paying and the guy he owes it to has sent a bone-breaker down. What's 
Shepard's story?"

"He has none," I said. "He says he's in business with Hawk and it's got 
nothing to do with me."

"And you don't believe him."

"Nope. First place Hawk doesn't do business, with a big B like Shepard 
means. Hawk's a free spirit."

"Like you," Slade said.

I shook my head. "Nope, not like me. I don't hire out for the things 
Hawk does."

"I heard you might," Slade said.

"From who?"

"Oh, guys I know up in Boston. I made a couple of calls about YOU."

"I thought you were too busy keeping a close tail on the litterbugs," I 
said.

"I did it on my lunch hour," Slade said.

"Well, don't believe all you hear," I said.

Slade almost smiled. "Not likely," he said. "How sure are you he was 
beat up?"

"Shepard? Certain. I've seen it done before, fact I've had it done 
before. I know the look and feel of it."

"Yeah, it does stiffen you up some," Slade said. "What's Shepard's 
story?"

"Says he fell downstairs."

Slade wrote on his yellow pad again. "You got thoughts on who hired 
Hawk?"

"I'm guessing King Powers. Hawk normally gives first refusal to 
Powers." Slade wrote some more on his pad. "Powers is a shylock," I said. 
"Used to . . ."

"I know Powers," Slade said.

"Anyway, he's in trouble. Bad, I would guess, and he's too scared to 
yell for help."

"Or maybe too crooked."

I raised both eyebrows at Slade. "You know something I don't," I said.

Slade shook his head. "No, just wondering. Harv has always been very 
eager to get ahead. Not crooked really, just very ambitious. This leisure 
community he's building is causing a lot of hassle and it doesn't seem to be 
going up very fast, and people are beginning to wonder if something's 
wrong."

"Is there?"

"Hell," Slade said, "I don't know. You ever looked into a land swindle? 
It takes a hundred C.P.A.s and a hundred lawyers a hundred years just to 
find out if there's anything to look into." Slade made a disgusted motion 
with his mouth.

"You usually can't find out who owns the goddamned property."

"Shepard doesn't strike me as crooked," I said.

"Adolf Hitler was fond of dogs," Slade said. "Say he's not crooked, say 
he's just overextended. Could be."

"Yeah," I said, "could be. But what are we going to do about it?"

"How the hell do I know. Am I the whiz-bang from the city? You tell me. 
We got, to my knowledge, no crime, no victim, no violation of what you 
big-city types would call the criminal statutes. I'll have the patrol cars 
swing by his place more often and have everyone keep an eye out for him. 
I'll see if the A.G.'s office has anything on Shepard's land operation.

You got any other thoughts?"

I shook my head.

"You find his wife?" Slade asked.

"Yeah."

"She coming home?"

"I don't think so."

"What's he going to do about that?"

"Nothing he can do." .

"He can go get her and drag her ass home."

"He doesn't know where she is. I wouldn't tell him."

Slade frowned at me for about thirty seconds. "You are a pisser," Slade 
said. "I'll give you that."

"Yeah."

"Shepard take that okay?"

"No, he fired me. Told me that he was going to sue me."

"So you're unemployed."

"I guess so."

"Just another tourist."

"Yep."

Slade did smile this time. A big smile that spread slowly across his 
face making deep furrows, one on each cheek. "Goddamn," he said and shook 
his head. "Goddamn."

I smiled back at him, warmly, got up and left. Back in my car, on the 
hot seats, with the top down, I thought something I've thought before. I 
don't know what to do, I thought. I started the car, turned on the radio and 
sat with the motor idling. I didn't even know where to go. Mrs. Shepard sure 
wasn't happy, and Mr. Shepard sure wasn't happy. That didn't make them 
unusual of course. I wasn't right at the moment all that goddamned happy 
myself. I supposed I ought to go home. Home's where you can go and they have 
to take you in. Who said that? I couldn't remember. Cynical bastard though. 
I put the car in gear and drove slowly down Main Street toward the motel. 
Course at my home there wasn't any they. There was just me. I'd take me in 
any time. I stopped for a light. A red-haired girl wearing powder blue 
flared denim slacks and a lime-colored halter top strolled by. The slacks 
were so tight I could see the brief line of her underpants slanting across 
her buttocks. She looked at the car in a friendly fashion. I could offer her 
a drink and a swim and dazzle her with my Australian crawl. But she looked 
like a college kid and she'd probably want me to do some dope and rap about 
the need for love and a new consciousness. The light turned green and I 
moved on. A middle-aged grump with nowhere to go. It was a little after one 
when I pulled into the parking lot at my motel. Time for lunch. With renewed 
vigor I strode into the lobby, turned left past the desk and headed down the 
corridor toward my room. A fast wash, and then on to lunch. Who'd have 
thought but moments ago that I was without purpose. When I opened the door 
to my room Susan Silverman was lying on the bed reading a book by Erik 
Erikson and looking like she should.

I said, "Jesus Christ, I'm glad to see you."

With her finger in the book to keep her place she turned her head 
toward me and said, "Likewise, I'm sure" and grinned. Often she smiled, but 
sometimes she didn't smile, she grinned. This was a grin. I never knew for 
sure what the difference was but it had something to do with gleeful 
wickedness. Her smile was beautiful and good, but in her grin there was just 
a hint of evil. I dove on top of her on the bed, breaking the impact of my 
weight with my arms, and grabbed her and hugged her.

"Ow," she said. I eased up a little on the hug, and we kissed each 
other. When we stopped I said, "I am not going to ask how you got in here 
because I know that you can do anything you want to, and getting the 
management to aid and abet you in a B and E would be child's play for you."

"Child's play," she said. "How has it been with you, blue eyes?"

We lay on our backs on the bed beside each other while I told her. When 
I finished telling her I suggested an afternoon of sensual delight, starting 
now. But she suggested that it start after lunch and after a brief scuffle I 
agreed.

"Suze," I said in the dining room starting my first stein of Harp while 
she sipped a Margarita, "you seemed uncommonly amused by the part where Jane 
tried to caponize me."

She laughed. "I think your hips are beginning to widen out," she said. 
"Are you still shaving?"

"Naw," I said, "it did no damage. If it had, all the waitresses here 
would be wearing black armbands and the flag would fly half-mast at 
Radcliffe."

"Well, we'll see, later, when there's nothing better to do."

"There's never anything better to do," I said. She yawned elaborately.

The waitress came and took our order. When she'd departed Susan said, 
"What are you going to do?"

"Jesus, I don't know." .

"Want me to hang around with you while you do it?"

"Very much," I said. "I think I'm in over my head with Pam, Rose and 
Jane."

"Good, I brought my suitcase on the chance you might want me to stay."

"Yeah, and I noted you unpacked it and hung up your clothes. 
Confidence."

"Oh, you noticed. I keep forgetting you are a detective."

"Spenser's the name, clues are my game," I said. The waitress brought 
me a half-dozen oysters and Susan six soused shrimp. Susan looked at the 
oysters.

"Trying to make a comeback?"

"No," I said, "planning ahead."

We ate our seafood.

"What makes you say you're in over your head?" Susan asked.

"I don't feel easy. It's an element I'm not comfortable in. I'm good 
with my hands, and I'm persevering, but . . .

Pam Shepard asked me if I had children and I said no. And she said I 
probably couldn't understand, and she asked if I were married and I said no 
and she said then for sure I couldn't understand." I shrugged.

"I've never had children either," Susan said. "And marriage wasn't the 
best thing that ever happened to me. Nor the most permanent. I don't know. 
There's all the cliches about you don't have to be able to cook a souffle to 
know when one's bad. But . . . at school, I know, parents come in sometimes 
for counseling with the kids and they say, but you don't know. You don't 
have children . . . there's probably something to it. Say there is. So what? 
You've been involved in a lot of things that you haven't experienced 
firsthand, as I recall.

Why is this one different?"

"I don't know that it is," I said.

"I think it is. I've never heard you talk about things like this 
before. On a scale of ten you normally test out about fifteen in 
confidence."

"Yeah, I think it is too."

"Of course, as you explain it, the case is no longer your business 
because the case no longer exists."

"There's that," I said.

"Then why worry about it. If it's not your element, anyway, why not 
settle for that. We'll eat and swim and walk on the beach for a few days and 
go home."

The waitress came with steak for each of us, and salad, and rolls and 
another beer for me. We ate in silence for maybe two minutes.

"I can't think of anything else to do," I said.

"Try to control your enthusiasm," Susan said.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't mean it that way. It's just bothering 
me. I've been with two people whose lives are screwed up to hell and I can't 
seem to get them out of it at all."

"Of course you can't," she said. "You also can't do a great deal about 
famine, war, pestilence and death."

"A great backfield," I said.

"You also can't be everyone's father. It is paternalistic of you to 
assume that Pam Shepard with the support of several other women cannot work 
out her own future without you. She may in fact do very well. I have."

"Me paternalistic? Don't be absurd. Eat your steak and shut up or I'll 
spank you."

CHAPTER TWELVE

AFTER LUNCH we took coffee on the terrace by the pool, sitting at a
little white table made of curlicued iron shaded by a blue and white
umbrella. It was mostly kids in the pool, splashing and yelling while
their mothers rubbed oil on their legs. Susan Silverman was sipping
coffee from a cup she held with both hands and looking past me. I saw
her eyes widen behind her lavender sunglasses and I turned and there was
Hawk.

He said, "Spenser."

I said, "Hawk."

He said, "Mind if I join you?"

I said, "Have a seat. Susan, this is Hawk. Hawk, this is Susan 
Silverman."

Hawk smiled at her and she said, "Hello, Hawk."

Hawk pulled a chair around from the next table, and sat with us. Behind 
him was a big guy with a sunburned face and an Oriental dragon tattooed on 
the inside of his left forearm. AS Hawk pulled his chair over he nodded at 
the next table and the tattooed man sat down at it. "That's Powell," Hawk 
said. Powell didn't say anything. He just sat with his arms folded and 
stared at us.

"Coffee?" I said to Hawk.

He nodded. "Make it iced coffee though." I gestured to the waitress, 
ordered Hawk his iced coffee.

"Hawk," I said, "you gotta overcome this impulse toward anonymity 
you've got. I mean why not start to dress so people will notice you instead 
of always fading into the background like you do."

"I'm just a retiring guy, Spenser, just my nature." He stressed the 
first syllable in retiring. "Don't see no reason to be a clotheshorse." Hawk 
was wearing white Puma track shoes with a black slash on them. White linen 
slacks, and a matching white linen vest with no shirt. Powell was more 
conservatively dressed in a maroon-and-yellow-striped tank top and maroon 
slacks.

The waitress brought Hawk his iced coffee. "You and Susan having a 
vacation down here?"

"Yep."

"Sure is nice, isn't it? Always like the Cape. Got atmosphere you don't 
usually find. You know? Hard to define it, but it's kind of leisure spirit. 
Don't you think, Spenser?"

"I'll tell you if you'll tell me."

"Susan," Hawk said, "this man is a straight-ahead man, you know? Just 
puts it right out front, hell of a quality, I'd say."

Susan smiled at him and nodded. He smiled back.

"Come on, Hawk, knock off the Goody Two-shoes shtick. You want to know 
what I'm doing with Shepard and I want to know what you're doing with 
Shepard."

"Actually, it's a little more than that, babe, or a little less, 
whichever way you look at it. It ain't that I so much care what you're doing 
with Shepard as it is I want you to stop doing it."

"Ah-ha," I said. "A threat. That explains why you brought Eric the Red 
along. You knew Susan was with me and you didn't want to be outnumbered."

Powell said from his table, "What did you call me?"

Hawk smiled. "Still got that agile mind, Spenser."

Powell said again, "What did you call me?"

"It is hard, Powell," I said to him, "to look tough when your nose is 
peeling. Why not try some Sun Ban, excellent, greaseless, filters out the 
harmful ultraviolet rays."

Powell stood up. "Don't smart-mouth me, man. You wising off at me?"

"That a picture of your mom you got tattooed on your left arm?" I said.

He looked down at the dragon tattoo on his forearm for a minute and 
then back at me. His face got redder and he said, "You wise bastard. I'm 
going to straighten you out right now."

Hawk said, "Powell, I wouldn't if I was you."

"I don't have to take a lot of shit from a guy like this," Powell said.

"Don't swear in front of the lady," Hawk said. "You gotta take about 
whatever he gives you 'cause you can't handle him."

"He don't look so tough to me," Powell said. He was standing and people 
around the pool were beginning to look.

"That's cause you are stupid, Powell," Hawk said. "He is tough, he may 
be damn near as tough as me. But you want to try him, go ahead."

Powell reached down and grabbed me by the shirt front. Susan Silverman 
inhaled sharply.

Hawk said, "Don't kill him, Spenser, he runs errands for me."

Powell yanked me out of the chair. I went with the yank and hit him in 
the Adam's apple with my forearm. He said something like "ark" and let go of 
my shirt front and stepped back. I hit him with two left hooks, the second 
one with a lot of shoulder turned into it, and Powell fell over backward 
into the pool. Hawk was grinning as I turned toward him.

"The hayshakers are all the same, aren't they," he said. "Just don't 
seem to know the difference between amateurs and professionals." He shook 
his head. "That's a good lady you got there though." He nodded at Susan, who 
was on her feet holding a beer bottle she'd apparently picked up off another 
table.

Hawk got up and walked to the pool and dragged Powell out of it 
negligently, with one hand, as if the dead weight of a 200-pound man were no 
more than a flounder.

The silence around the pool was heavy. The kids were still hanging on 
to the edge of the pool, staring at us. Hawk said, "Come on, let's walk out 
to my car and talk." He let Powell slump to the ground by the table and 
strolled back in through the lobby. Susan and I went with him. As we passed 
the desk we saw the manager come out of his office and hurry toward the 
terrace.

I said, "Why don't you go down to the room, Suze. I'll be along in a 
minute. Hawk just wants me to give him some pointers on poolside fighting." 
The tip of her tongue was stuck out through her closed mouth and she was 
obviously biting on it. "Don't bite your tongue," I said. "Save some for 
me." She shook her head.

"I'll stay with you," she said.

Hawk opened the door on the passenger's side of the Cadillac. "My 
pleasure," he said to Susan. If Hawk and I were going to fight he wouldn't 
pick a convertible for the place. I got in after Susan. Hawk went around and 
got in the driver's side. He pushed a button and the roof went up smoothly. 
He started the engine and turned on the air conditioning. A blue and white 
Barnstable Township police car pulled into the parking lot and two cops got 
out and walked into the motel.

Hawk said, "Let's ride around." I nodded and he put us in gear and 
slipped out of the parking lot.

"Where the hell did you get him?" I said to Hawk as we drove.

"Powell? Oh, man, I don't know. He's a local dude. People that hired me 
told me to work with him."

"They trying to set up an apprentice program?"

Hawk shrugged. "Beats me, baby, he got a long way to go though, don't 
he?"

"It bother you that the cops are going to ask him what he was doing 
fighting with a tourist, and who the tourist was and who was the black stud 
in the funny outfit?"

Hawk shook his head. "He won't say nothing. He dumb, but he ain't that 
dumb."

Between us on the front seat Susan Silverman said, "What are we doing?"

Hawk laughed. "A fair question, Susan. What in hell are we doing?"

"Let me see if I can guess," I said. "I guess that Harv Shepard owes 
money to a man, probably King Powers, and Hawk has been asked to collect it. 
Or maybe just oversee the disbursement of funds, whatever, and that things 
are going the way they should." I said to Susan, "Hawk does this stuff, 
quite well. And then surprise, I appear, and I'm working for Shepard. And 
Hawk and his employer, probably King Powers, wonder if Harv hired me to 
counteract Hawk. So Hawk has dropped by to inquire about my relationship 
with Harv Shepard, and to urge me to sever that relationship."

The Caddie went almost soundless along the MidCape Highway, down Cape, 
toward Provincetown. I said, "How close, Hawk?"

He shrugged. "I have explained to the people that employ me about how 
you are. I don't expect to frighten you away, and I don't expect to bribe 
you, but my employer would like to compensate you for any loss if you were 
to withdraw from the case."

"Hawk," I said. "All this time I've known you I never could figure out 
why sometimes you talk like an account exec from Merrill Lynch and sometimes 
you talk like Br'er Bear."

"Ah is the product of a ghetto education." He pronounced both t's in 
ghetto. "Sometimes my heritage keep popping up."

"Lawdy me, yes," I said. "What part of the ghetto you living in now?"

Hawk grinned at Susan. "Beacon Hill," he said. He U-turned the Caddie 
over the center strip and headed bac up Cape toward Hyannis. "Anyway, I told 
the people you weren't gonna do what they wanted, whatever I said, but they 
give me money to talk to you, so I'm talking. What your interest in 
Shepard?"

"He hired me to look for his wife."

"That all?"

"Yes."

"You find her?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"I won't say."

"Don't matter, Shepard'll tell me. If I need to know."

"No." I shook my head. "He doesn't know either."

"You won't tell him?"

"Nope."

"Why not, man? That's what you hired on for."

"She doesn't want to be found."

Hawk shook his head again. "You complicate your life, Spenser. You 
think about things too much."

"That's one of the things that makes me not you, Hawk."

"Maybe," Hawk said, "and maybe you a lot more like me than you want to 
say. 'Cept you ain't as good looking."

"Yeah, but I dress better."

Hawk snorted, "Shit. Excuse me, Susan. Anyway, my problem now is 
whether I believe you. It sounds right. Sounds just about your speed, 
Spenser. Course you ain't just fell off the sugar-beet truck going through 
town, and if you was lying it would sound good. You still work for Shepard?"

"No, he canned me. He says he's going to sue me."

"Ah wouldn't worry all that much about the suing," Hawk said. "Harv's 
kinda busy."

"Is it Powers?" I said.

"Maybe it is, maybe it ain't. You gonna stay out of this, Spenser?"

"Maybe I will, maybe I won't."

Hawk nodded. We drove a way in silence.

"Who's King Powers?" Susan said.

"A thief," I said. "Loan sharking, numbers, prostitution, laundromats, 
motels, trucking, produce, Boston, Brockton, Fall River, New Bedford."

Hawk said, "Not Brockton anymore. Angie Degamo has got Brockton now."

"Angie chase Powers out?"

"Naw, some kind of business deal. I wasn't in it."

"Anyway," I said to Susan, "Powers is like that."

"And you work for him," she said to Hawk.

"Some."

"Hawk's a free-lance," I said. "But Powers asks him early when he's got 
Hawk's kind of work."

"And what is Hawk's kind of work?" Susan said, still to Hawk.

"He does muscle and gun work."

"Ah prefer the term soldier of fortune, honey," Hawk said to me.

"Doesn't it bother you," Susan said, "to hurt people for money?"

"No more than it does him." Hawk nodded to me.

"I don't think he does it for money," she said.

"That's why ah'm bopping down the Cape in a new Eldorado and he's 
driving that eight-year-old hog with the gray tape on the upholstery."

"But . . ." Susan looked for the right words. "But he does what he 
must, his aim is to help. Yours is to hurt."

"Not right," Hawk said. "Maybe he aiming to help. But he also like the 
work. You know? I mean he could be a social worker if he just want to help. 
I get nothing out of hurting people. Sometimes just happens that way. Just 
don't be so sure me and old Spenser are so damn different, Susan." .

We pulled back into the parking lot at the motel. The blue and white 
was gone. I said, "You people through discussing me yet, I got a couple 
things to say, but I don't want to interrupt. The subject is so goddamned 
fascinating."

Susan just shook her head.

"Okay," I said. "This is straight, Hawk. I'm not working for Shepard, 
or anybody, at the moment. But I can't go home and let you and Powers do 
what you want. I'm gonna hang around, I think, and see if I can get you off 
Shepard's back."

Hawk looked at me without expression. "That's what I told them," he 
said. "I told them that's what you'd say if I came around and talked. But 
they paying the money. I'll tell them I was right. I don't think it gonna 
scare them."

"I don't suppose it would," I said.

I opened the door and got out and held it open for Susan. She slid out, 
and then leaned back in and spoke to Hawk. "Goodby," she said. "I'm not sure 
what to say. Glad to have met you wouldn't do, exactly. But"--she 
shrugged-"thanks for the ride."

Hawk smiled at her. "My pleasure, Susan. Maybe I'll see you again."

I closed the door and Hawk slid the car out of the parking lot, 
soundless and smooth, like a shark cruising in still water.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

SUSAN SAID, I want a drink.

We went in and sat on two barstools, at the corner, where the bar 
turns. Susan ordered a martini and I had a beer. "Martini?" I said.

She nodded. "I said I wanted a drink. I meant it." She drank half the 
martini in a single pull and put the glass back on the bar.

"How different?" she said, and looked at me.

"You mean me and Hawk?"

"Uh huh."

"I don't know. I don't beat people up for money. I don't kill people 
for money. He does."

"But sometimes you'll do it for nothing. Like this afternoon."

"Powell?"

"Powell. You didn't have to fight him. You needled him into it."

I shrugged.

"Didn't you?" Susan said.

I shrugged again. She belted back the rest of the martini.

"Why?"

I gestured the bartender down. "Another round," I said.

We were silent while he put the martini together and drew the beer and 
placed them before us.

"Got any peanuts," I said.

He nodded and brought a bowl up from under the bar.

The place was almost deserted, a couple having a late lunch across the 
room, and four guys, who looked like they'd been golfing, drinking mixed 
drinks at a table behind us. Susan sipped at her second martini.

"How can you drink those things?" I said. "They taste like a toothache 
cure."

"It's how I prove I'm tough," she said.

"Oh," I said. I ate some of the peanuts. The voices of the golf 
foursome were loud. Full of jovial good fellowship like the voice of a 
game-show host. A little desperate.

"Millions of guys spend their lives that way," I said.

"Sitting around pretending to be a good fellow with guys they have 
nothing to say to."

Susan nodded. "Not just guys," she said.

"I always thought women did that better though," I said.

"Early training," Susan said, "at being a phony, so men would like you. 
You going to answer my question?"

"About why I badgered Powell?"

"Uh huh."

"You don't give up easy, do you?"

"Un unh."

"I don't know exactly why I pushed him. He annoyed me sitting there, 
but it also seemed about the right move to make at the time."

"To show Hawk you weren't afraid?"

"No, I don't think it impressed Hawk one way or the other. It was a gut 
reaction. A lot of what I do is a gut reaction. You're a linear thinker, you 
want to know why and how come and what the source of the problem is and how 
to work out a solution to it. I assume it comes, in part, with being a 
guidance type."

"You're reversing the stereotype, you know," Susan said.

"What? Women emotional, men rational? Yeah. But that was always 
horseshit anyway. Mostly, I think it's just the opposite. In my case anyway. 
I don't think in ABC order.

I've gotten to be over forty and done a lot of things, and I've learned 
to trust my impulses usually. I tend to perceive in images and patterns 
and--what to call it--whole situations."

"Gestalt," Susan said.

"Whatever, so when you say why I feel like the best I can do is 
describe the situation. If I had a video tape of the situation I would point 
at it and say, "See, that's why."

"Would you have done the same thing if I weren't there?"

"You mean was I showing off?" The bartender came down and looked at our 
glasses. I nodded and he took them away for refill. "Maybe." The bartender 
brought the drinks back. "Would you have hit someone with that beer bottle 
if I needed it?"

"You insufferable egotist," Susan said. "Why don't you think I picked 
the bottle up to defend myself?"

"You got me," I said. "I never thought of that. Is that why you picked 
it up?"

"No," she said. "And stop grinning like a goddamned idiot." She drank 
some of her third martini. "Smug bastard," she said.

"You did it because I'm such terrific tail, didn't you."

"No," she said. The force of her face and eyes were on me. "I did it 
because I love you."

The couple across the room got up from the table and headed out. She 
was Clairol blond, her hair stiff and brittle, he was wearing white loafers 
and a matching belt. As they left the dining room their hands brushed and he 
took hers and held it. I drank the rest of my beer. Susan sipped at her 
martini. "Traditionally," she said, "the gentleman's response to that remark 
is, 'I love you too.'" She wasn't looking at me now. She was studying the 
olive in the bottom of her martini.

"Suze," I said. "Do we have to complicate it?"

"You can't say the traditional thing?"

"It's not saying 'I love you,' it's what comes after."

"You mean love and marriage, they go together like a horse and 
carriage?"

I shrugged. "I don't suppose they have to, I've seen a lot of marriages 
without love. I guess it could work the other way."

Susan said, "Um hum" and looked at me steadily again.

"The way we're going now seems nice," I said.

"No," she said. "It is momentary and therefore finally pointless. It 
has no larger commitment, it involves no risk, and therefore no real 
relationship."

"To have a real relationship you gotta suffer?"

"You have to risk it," she said. "You have to know that if it gets 
homely and unpleasant you can't just walk away."

"And that means marriage? Lots of people walk away from marriage. For 
crissake, I got a lady client at this moment who has done just that."

"After what, twenty-two years?" Susan said.

"One point for your side," I said. "She didn't run off at the first 
sprinkle of rain, did she. But does that make the difference? Some J.P. 
reading from the Bible?"

"No," Susan said. "But the ceremony is the visible symbol of the 
commitment. We ritualize our deepest meanings usually, and marriage is the 
way we've ritualized love.

Or one of the ways."

"Are you saying we should get married?"

"At the moment I'm saying I love you and I'm waiting for a response."

"It's not that simple, Suze."

"And I believe I've gotten the response." She got up from the bar and 
walked out. I finished my beer, left a ten on the bar and walked back to my 
room. She wasn't there. She also was not on the terrace or in the lobby or 
in the parking lot. I looked for her small blue Chevy Nova and didn't see 
it. I went back to the room. Her suitcase was still on the rack, her clothes 
hanging in the closet. She wouldn't go home without her clothes. Without me 
maybe, but not without her clothes. I sat down on the bed and looked at the 
red chair in the corner.

The seat was one form of molded plastic, the legs four thin rounds of 
dark wood with little brass booties on the bottom.

Elegant. I was much too damn big and tough to cry. Too old also. It 
wasn't that goddamned simple.

On the top of the bureau was a card that said, "Enjoy our health club 
and sauna." I got undressed, dug a pair of white shorts and a gray T-shirt 
out of the bureau, put them on and laced up my white Adidas track shoes with 
the three black stripes, no socks. Susan always bitched at me about no socks 
when we played tennis, but I liked the look. Besides, it was a bother 
putting socks on.

The health club was one level down, plaid-carpeted, several rooms, 
facilities for steam, sauna, rubdowns, and an exercise room with a Universal 
Trainer. A wiry middle-aged man in white slacks and a white T-shirt gave me 
a big smile when I came in.

"Looking for a nice workout, sir?"

"Yeah."

"Well, we've got the equipment. You familiar with a Universal, sir?"

"Yeah."

"It is, as you can see, a weightlifting machine that operates on 
pulleys and runs, thus allowing a full workout without the time-consuming 
inconvenience of changing plates on a barbell."

"I know," I said.

"Let me give you an idea of how ours works. There are eight positions 
on the central unit here, the bench press, curls, over-the head press . . ."

"I know," I said.

"The weight numbering on the left is beginning weight, the markings on 
the right are overload weights resulting from the diminishment of fulcrum . 
. ."

I got on the bench, shoved the pin into the slot marked 300, took a big 
breath and blew the weight up to arm's length and let it back. I did it two 
more times. The trainer said, "I guess you've done this before."

"Yeah," I said.

He went back toward the trainer's room. "You want anything, you let me 
know," he said.

I moved to the lat machine, did 15 pull downs with 150, did 15 tricep 
presses with 90, moved to the curl bar, then to the bench again. I didn't 
normally lift that heavy on the bench but I needed to bust a gut or 
something and 300-pound bench presses were just right for that. I did four 
sets of everything and the sweat was soaking through my shirt and running 
down the insides of my arms, so I had to keep wiping my hands to keep a grip 
on the weight bars. I finished up doing twenty-five dips, and when I stepped 
away my arms were trembling and my breath was coming in gasps. It was a slow 
day for the health club. I was the only one in there, and the trainer had 
come out after a while and watched.

"Hey," he said, "you really work out, don't you?"

"Yeah," I said. There was a heavy bag in one corner of the training 
room. "You got gloves for that thing?" I said.

"Got some speed gloves," the trainer said.

"Gimme," I said.

He brought them out and I put them on and leaned against the wall, 
getting my breath under control and waiting for my arms to stop feeling 
rubbery. It didn't used to take as long. In about five minutes, I was ready 
for the bag. I stood close to it, maybe six inches away, and punched it in 
combinations as hard as I could. Two lefts, a right. Left jab, left hook, 
right cross, left jab, left jab, step-back right uppercut. It's hard to hit 
a heavy bag with an uppercut. It has no chin. I hit the bag for as long as I 
could, as hard as I could. Grunting with the effort. Staying up against it 
and trying to get all the power I could into the six-inch punches. If you've 
never done it you have no idea how tiring it is to punch something. Every 
couple of minutes I had to back away and lean on the wall and recover.

The trainer said to me, "You used to fight?"

"Yeah," I said.

"You can always tell," he said. "Everybody comes in here slaps at the 
bag, or gives it a punch. They can't resist it.

But one guy in a hundred actually hits it and knows what he's doing."

"Yeah." I went back to the bag, driving my left fist into it, 
alternating jabs and hooks, trying to punch through it. The sweat rolled 
down my face and dripped from my arms and legs. My shirt was soaking and I 
was beginning to see black spots dancing like visions of sugar plums before 
my eyes.

"You want some salt," the trainer said. I shook my head. My gray 
T-shirt was soaked black with sweat. Sweat ran down my arms and legs. My 
hair was dripping wet. I stepped back from the bag and leaned on the wall. 
My breath was heaving in and out and my arms were numb and rubbery.

I slid my back down the wall and sat on the floor, knees up, back 
against the wall, my forearms resting on my knees, my head hanging, and 
waited while the breath got under control and the spots went away. The speed 
gloves were slippery with sweat as I peeled them off. I got up and handed 
them to the trainer.

"Thanks," I said.

"Sure," he said. "When you work out, man, you work out, don't you?"

"Yeah," I said.

I walked slowly out of the training room and up the stairs. Several 
people looked at me as I crossed the lobby toward my room. The floor of the 
lobby was done in rustcolored quarry tile, about 8" x 8". In my room I 
turned up the air conditioner and took a shower, standing a long time under 
the hard needle spray. Susan's make-up kit was still on the vanity. I 
toweled dry, put on a blue and white tank top, white slacks and black 
loafers. I looked at my gun lying on the bureau. "Screw it." I headed clean 
and tired and unarmed down the corridor, back to the bar, and began to drink 
bourbon.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I WOKE UP at eight-fifteen the next morning feeling like a failed
suicide. The other bed had not been slept in. At twenty to nine I got
out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom, took two aspirin.

and another shower. At nine-fifteen I walked stiffly and slow down to 
the coffee shop and drank two large orange juices and.

three cups of black coffee. At ten of ten I walked less stiffly,; but 
still slow, back to my room and called my answering service. In desperate 
times, habit helps give form to our lives.

Pam Shepard had called and would call again. "She said it was urgent, 
Spenser."

"Thank you, Lillian. When she calls again give her this number." I hung 
up and waited. Ten minutes later the phone rang.

"Spenser," I said.

"I need help," she said. "I've got to talk with you."

"Talk," I said.

"I don't want to talk on the phone, I need to see you, and be with you 
when I talk. I'm scared. I don't know who else to call."

"Okay, I'll come up to your place."

"No, we're not there anymore. Do you know where Plimoth Plantation is?"

"Yes."

"I'll meet you there. Walk down the main street of the village. I'll 
see you."

"Okay, I'll leave now. See you there about noon?"

"Yes. I mustn't be found. Don't let anyone know you're going to see me. 
Don't let anyone follow you."

"You want to give me a hint of what your problem is?"

"No," she said. "Just meet me where we said."

"I'll be there."

We hung up. It was ten-thirty. Shouldn't take more than half an hour to 
drive to Plymouth. Susan's clothes were still in the closet. She'd come back 
for them, and the make-up kit. She must have been incensed beyond reason to 
have left that. She'd probably checked into another motel. Maybe even 
another room in this one. I could wait an hour. Maybe she'd come back for 
her clothes. I got a piece of stationery and an envelope from the drawer of 
the desk, wrote a note, sealed it in the envelope and wrote Susan's name on 
the outside. I got Susan's cosmetic case from the bathroom and put it on the 
desk. I propped the note against it, and sat down in a chair near the 
bathroom door.

At eleven-thirteen someone knocked softly on my door.

I got up and stepped into the bathroom, out of sight, behind the open 
bathroom door. Another knock. A wait. And then a key in the lock. Through 
the crack of the hinge end of the bathroom door I could see the motel room 
door open. Susan came in. Must have gotten the key at the desk. Probably 
said she'd lost hers. She walked out of sight toward the desk top where the 
note was. I heard her tear open the envelope. The note said, "Lurking in the 
bathroom is a horse's ass. It requires the kiss of a beautiful woman to turn 
him into a handsome prince again." I stepped out from behind the door, into 
the room. Susan put the note down, turned and saw me. With no change of 
expression she walked over and gave me a small kiss on the mouth. Then she 
stepped back and studied me closely. She shook her head. "Didn't work," she 
said. "You're still a horse's ass."

"It was the low-voltage kiss," I said. "Transforming a horse's ass into 
a handsome prince is a high-intensity task."

"I'll try once more," she said. And put both arms around me and kissed 
me hard on the mouth. The kiss held, and developed into much more and 
relaxed in post-climactic languor without a sound. Without even breaking the 
kiss. At close range I could see Susan's eyes still closed.

I took my mouth from hers and said, "You wanta go to Plimoth 
Plantation?"

Susan opened her eyes and looked at me. "Anywhere at all," she said. 
"You are still a horse's ass, but you are my horse's ass."

I said, "I love you."

She closed her eyes again and pushed her face against the hollow of my 
neck and shoulder for a moment. Then she pulled her head back and opened her 
eyes and nodded her head. "Okay, prince," she said. "Let's get to Plimoth."

Our clothes were in a scattered tangle on the floor and by the time we 
sorted them out and got them back on it was noon. "We are late," I said.

"I hurried as fast as I could," Susan said. She was putting on her 
lipstick in the mirror, bending way over the dresser to do it.

"We were fast," I said. "A half-hour from horse's ass to handsome 
prince. I think that fulfills the legal definition of a quickie."

"You're the one in a hurry to go see Plimoth Plantation. Given the 
choice between sensual delight and historical restoration, I'd have 
predicted a different decision on your part."

"I've got to see someone there, and it may help if you're with me. 
Perhaps later we can reconsider the choice."

"I'm ready," she said. And we went out of the room to my car. On the 
drive up Route 3 to Plymouth I told Susan what little I knew about why we 
were going.

Susan said, "Won't she panic or something if I show up with you? She 
did say something about alone."

"We won't go in together," I said. "When I find her, I'll explain who 
you are and introduce you. You been to the Plantation before?"

She nodded. "Well, then, you can just walk down the central street a 
bit ahead of me and hang around till I holler."

"Always the woman's lot," she said.

I grunted. A sign on my left said Plimoth Plantation Road and I turned 
in. The road wound up through a meadow toward a stand of pines. Behind the 
pines was a parking lot and at one edge of the parking lot was a ticket 
booth. I parked and Susan got out and walked ahead, bought a ticket and went 
through the entrance. When she was out of sight I got out and did the same 
thing. Beyond the ticket booth was a rustic building containing a gift shop, 
lunch room and information service. I went on past it and headed down the 
soft path between the high pines toward the Plantation itself. A few years 
back I had been reading Samuel Eliot Morison's big book of American history, 
and got hooked and drove around the East going to Colonial restorations. 
Williamsburg is the most dazzling, and Sturbridge is grand, but Plimoth 
Plantation is always a small pleasure.

I rounded the curve by the administration building and saw the 
blockhouse of dark wood and the stockade around the little town and beyond 
it the sea. The area was entirely surrounded by woods and if you were 
careful you could see no sign of the twentieth century. If you weren't 
careful and looked too closely you could see Bert's Restaurant and somebody 
else's motel down along the shore. But for a moment I could go back, as I 
could every time I came, to the small cluster of zealous Christians in the 
wilderness of seventeenth-century America, and experience a sense of the 
desolation they must have felt, minute and remote and resolute in the vast 
woods.

I saw Susan on top of the blockhouse, looking out at the village, her 
arms folded on the parapet, and I came back to business and walked up the 
hill, past the blockhouse and into the Plantation. There was one street, 
narrow and rutted, leading downhill toward the ocean. Thatched houses along 
each side, behind the herb gardens, some livestock and a number of people 
dressed in Colonial costume. Lots of children, lots of Kodak Instamatics. I 
walked down the hill, slowly, letting Pam Shepard have ample time to spot me 
and see that I wasn't followed. I went the whole length of the street and 
started back up. As I passed Myles Standish's house, Pam came out of the 
door wearing huge sunglasses and fell into step beside me.

"You're alone."

"No, I have a friend with me. A woman." It seemed important to say it 
was a woman.

"Why," she said. Her eyes were wide and dark.

"You are in trouble, and maybe she could help. She's an A-1 woman. And 
I had the impression you weren't into men much lately."

"Can I trust her?"

"Yes."

"Can I trust you?"

"Yes."

"I suppose you wouldn't say so if I couldn't anyway, would you?" She 
was wearing a faded denim pants and jacket combo over a funky-looking 
multicolored T-shirt. She was exactly as immaculate and neat and 
fresh-from-the-showerand-make-up-table as she had been the last time I saw 
her.

"No, I wouldn't. Come on, I'll introduce you to my friend, then we can 
go someplace and sit down and maybe have a drink or a snack or both and talk 
about whatever you'd like to talk about."

She looked all around her as if she might dart back into one of the 
thatched houses and hide in the loft. Then she took a deep breath and said, 
"Okay, but I mustn't be seen."

"Seen by who?"

"By anyone, by anyone who would recognize me."

"Okay, we'll get Susan and we'll go someplace obscure." I walked back 
up the street toward the gate to the blockhouse, Pam Shepard close by me as 
if trying to stay in my shadow. Near the top of the hill Susan Silverman met 
us.

I nodded at her and she smiled.

"Pam Shepard," I said. "Susan Silverman." Susan put out her hand and 
smiled.

Pam Shepard said, "Hello."

I said, "Come on, we'll head back to the car."

In the car Pam Shepard talked with Susan. "Are you a detective too, 
Susan?"

"No, I'm a guidance counselor at Smithfield High School," Susan said.

"Oh, really? That must be very interesting."

"Yes," Susan said, "it is. It's tiresome, sometimes, like most things, 
but I love it."

"I never worked," Pam said. "I always just stayed home with the kids."

"But that must be interesting too," Susan said. "And tiresome. I never 
had much chance to do that."

"You're not married?"

"Not now, I was divorced quite some time ago."

"Children?"

Susan shook her head, I pulled into the parking lot at Bert's. "You 
know anybody in this town," I said to Pam.

"No."

"Okay, then this place ought to be fairly safe. It doesn't look like a 
spot people would drive up from the Cape to go to."

Bert's was a two-story building done in weathered shingles fronting on 
the ocean. Inside, the dining room was bright, pleasant, informal and not 
very full. We sat by the window and looked at the waves come in and go out. 
The waitress came. Susan didn't want a drink. Pam Shepard had a stinger on 
the rocks. I ordered a draft beer. The waitress said they had none. "I've 
learned," I said, "to live with disappointment." The waitress said she could 
bring me a bottle of Heineken. I said it would do. The menu leaned heavily 
toward fried seafood. Not my favorite, but the worst meal I ever had was 
wonderful. At least they didn't feature things like the John Alden Burger or 
Pilgrim Soup.

The waitress brought the drinks and took our food order. I drank some 
of my Heineken. "Okay, Mrs. Shepard," I said. "What's up?"

She looked around. There was no one near us. She drank some of her 
stinger. "I . . . I'm involved in a murder."

I nodded. Susan sat quietly with her hands folded in front of her on 
the table.

"We . . . there was . . ." She took another gulp of the stinger. "We 
robbed a bank in New Bedford, and the bank guard, an old man with a red 
face, he . . . Jane shot him and he's dead."

The tide was apparently ebbing. The mark was traced close to the 
restaurant by an uneven line of seaweed and driftwood and occasional scraps 
of rubbish. Much cleaner than New Bedford harbor. I wondered what flotsam 
was. I'd have to look that up sometime when I got home. And jetsam.

"What bank?" I said.

"Bristol Security," she said. "On Kempton Street."

"Were you identified?"

"I don't know. I was wearing these sunglasses."

"Okay, that's a start. Take them off."

"But . . ."

"Take them off, they're no longer a disguise, they are an 
identification." She reached up quickly and took them off and put them in 
her purse.

"Not in your purse, give them to me." She did, and I slipped them in 
Susan Silverman's purse. "We'll ditch them on the way out," I said.

"I never thought," she said.

"No, probably you don't have all that much experience at robbery and 
murder. You'll get better as you go along."

Susan said, "Spenser."

I said, "Yeah, I know. I'm sorry."

"I didn't know," Pam Shepard said. "I didn't know Jane would really 
shoot. I just went along. It seemed . . . it seemed I ought to--they'd stood 
by me and all."

Susan was nodding. "And you felt you had to stand by them. Anyone 
would."

The waitress brought the food, crab salad for Susan, lobster stew for 
Pam, fisherman's plate for me. I ordered another beer.

"What was the purpose of the robbery?" Susan said.

"We needed money for guns."

"Jesus Christ," I said.

"Rose and Jane are organizing . . . I shouldn't tell you this . . ."

"Babe," I said, "you better goddamned well tell me everything you can 
think of. If you want me to get your ass out of this."

Susan frowned at me.

"Don't be mad at me," Pam Shepard said.

"Bullshit," I said. "You want me to bring you flowers for being a 
goddamn thief and a murderer? Sweets for the sweet, my love. Hope the old 
guy didn't have an old wife who can't get along without him. Once you all 
get guns you can liberate her too."

Susan said, "Spenser," quite sharply. "She feels bad enough."

"No she doesn't," I said. "She doesn't feel anywhere near bad enough. 
Neither do you. You're so goddamned empathetic you've jumped into her frame. 
'And you felt you had to stand by them. Anyone would.' Balls. Anyone 
wouldn't. You wouldn't."

I snarled at Pam Shepard. "How about it. You thought you were going to 
a dance recital when you went into that bank with guns to steal the money? 
You thought you were Faye Dunaway, la de da, we'll take the money and run 
and the theme music will come up and the banjos will play and all the shots 
will miss?" I bit a fried shrimp in half. Not bad.

Tears were rolling down Pam Shepard's face. Susan looked very grim. But 
she was silent.

"All right? Okay. We start there. You committed a vicious and mindless 
goddamned crime and I'm going to try and get you out of the consequences. 
But let's not clutter up the surface with a lot of horseshit about who stood 
by who and how you shouldn't tell secrets, and 
oh-of-course-anyonewould-have."

Susan said, between her teeth, "Spenser."

I drank some beer and ate a scallop. "Now start at the beginning and 
tell me everything that happened."

Pam Shepard said, "You will help me?"

"Yes."

She dried her eyes with her napkin. Snuffled a little.

Susan gave her a Kleenex and she blew her nose. Delicately.

My fisherman's platter had fried haddock in it. I pushed it aside, over 
behind the French fries, and ate a fried clam.

"Rose and Jane are organizing a women's movement.

They feel we must overcome our own passivity and arouse our sisters to 
do the same. I think they want to model it on the Black Panthers, and to do 
that we need guns. Rose says we won't have to use them. But to have them 
will make a great psychological difference. It will increase the level of 
militancy and it will represent power, even, Jane says, a threat to phallic 
power."

"Phallic power?"

She nodded.

I said, "Go ahead."

"So they talked about it, and some other women came over and we had a 
meeting, and decided that we either had to steal the guns or the money to 
buy them. Jane had a gun, but that was all. Rose said it was easier to steal 
money than guns, and Jane said that it would be easy as pie to steal from a 
bank because banks always instruct their employees to cooperate with robbers 
anyway. What do they care, they are insured. And banks are where the money 
is. So that's where we should go."

I didn't say anything. Susan ate some crab salad. Pam Shepard seemed to 
have no interest in her lobster stew.

Looked good too.

"So Rose and Jane said they would do the actual work," she said. "And 
I--I don't know exactly why--I said I'd go with them. And Jane said that was 
terrific of me and proved that I was really into the women's movement. And 
Rose said a bank was the ideal symbol of masculine-capitalist oppression. 
And one of the other women, I don't know her name, she was a black woman, 
Cape Verdean I think, said that capitalism was itself masculine, and racist 
as well, so that the bank was a really perfect place to strike. And I said I 
wanted to go."

"Like an initiation," I said.

Susan nodded. Pam Shepard looked puzzled and shrugged. "Maybe, I don't 
know. Anyway we went and Jane and Rose and I all wore sunglasses and big 
hats. And Jane had the gun."

"Jane has all the fun," I said. Susan glared at me. Pam Shepard didn't 
seem to notice.

"Anyway, we went in and Rose and Jane went to the counter and I stayed 
by the door as a . . . a lookout . . .

and Rose gave the girl, woman, behind the counter a note and Jane 
showed her the gun. And the woman did what it said.

She took all her money from the cash drawer and put it in a bag that 
Rose gave her and we started to leave when that foolish old man tried to 
stop us. Why did he do that? What possessed him to take that chance?"

"Maybe he thought that was his job."

She shook her head. "Foolish old man. What is an old man like that 
working as a bank guard for anyway?"

"Probably a retired cop. Stood at an intersection for forty years and 
directed traffic and then retired and couldn't live on the pension. So he's 
got a gun and he hires out at the bank."

"But why try to stop us, an old man like that. I mean he saw Jane had a 
gun. It wasn't his money."

"Maybe he thought he ought to. Maybe he figured that if he were taking 
the money to guard the bank when the robbers didn't come, he ought to guard 
it when they did. Sort of a question of honor, maybe."

She shook her head. "Nonsense, that's the machismo convention. It gets 
people killed and for what. Life isn't a John Wayne movie."

"Yeah, maybe. But machismo didn't kill that old guy.

Jane killed him."

"But she had to. She's fighting for a cause. For freedom. Not only for 
women but for men as well, freedom from all the old imperatives, freedom 
from the burden of machismo for you as well as for us."

"Right on," I said. "Off the bank guard."

Susan said, "What happened after Jane shot the guard?"

"We ran," Pam said. "Another woman, Grace something, I never knew her 
last name, was waiting for us in her Volkswagen station wagon, and we got in 
and drove back to the house."

"The one on Centre Street?" I asked.

She nodded. "And we decided there that we better split up. That we 
couldn't stay there because maybe they could identify us from the cameras. 
There were two in the bank that Rose spotted. I didn't know where to go so I 
went to the bus station in New Bedford and took the first bus going out, 
which was coming to Plymouth. The only time I'd ever been to Plymouth was 
when we took the kids to Plimoth Plantation when they were smaller. So I got 
off the bus and walked here.

And then I didn't know what to do, so I sat in the snack bar at the 
reception center for a while and I counted what money I had, most of the 
hundred dollars you gave me, and I saw your card in my wallet and called 
you." She paused and stared out the window. "I almost called my husband. But 
that would have just been running home with my tail between my legs.

And I started to call you and hung up a couple of times. I . . .

Did I have to have a man to get me out of trouble? But then I had 
nowhere else to go and nothing else to try so I called."

She kept looking out the window. The butter in her lobster stew was 
starting to form a skin as the stew cooled. "And after I called you I walked 
up and down the main street of the village and in and out of the houses and 
thought, here I am, forty-three years old and in the worst trouble of my 
life and I've got no one to call but a guy I've met once in my life, that I 
don't even know, no one else at all." She was crying now and her voice shook 
as she talked. She turned her head away farther toward the window to hide 
it. The tide had gone out some more since I'd last looked and the dark water 
rounded rocks beyond the beach and made a kind of cobbled pattern with the 
sea breaking and foaming over them. It had gotten quite dark now, though it 
was early afternoon, and spits of rain splattered on the window. "And you 
think I'm a goddamned fool," she said. She had her hand on her mouth and it 
muffled her speech. "And I am."

Susan put her hand on Pam Shepard's shoulder. "I think I know how you 
feel," Susan said. "But it's the kind of thing he can do and others can't. 
You did what you felt you had to do, and you need help now, and you have the 
right person to help you. You did the right thing to call him. He can fix 
this. He doesn't think you are a fool. He's grouchy about other things, 
about me, and about himself, a lot of things and he leaned on you too hard. 
But he can help you with this. He can fix it."

"Can he make that old man alive again?"

"We don't work that way," I said. "We don't look around and see where 
we were. And we don't look down the road and see what's coming. We don't 
have anything to do but deal with what we know. We look at the facts and we 
don't speculate. We just keep looking right at this and we don't say what 
if, or I wish or if only. We just take it as it comes. First you need 
someplace to stay besides Plimoth Plantation. I'm not using my apartment 
because I'm down here working on things. So you can stay there. Come on, 
we'll go there now." I gestured for the check. "Suze," I said, "you and Pam 
go get in my car, I'll pay up here."

Pam Shepard said, "I have money."

I shook my head as the waitress came. Susan and Pam got up and went 
out. I paid the check, left a tip neither too big nor too small--I didn't 
want her to remember us--and went to the car after them.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

IT'S FORTY-FIVE MINUTES from Plymouth to Boston and the traffic was
light in midafternoon. We were on Marlborough Street in front of my
apartment at three-fifteen. On the ride up Pam Shepard had given me
nothing else I could use. She didn't know where Rose and Jane were. She
didn't know how to find them. She didn't know who had the money, she
assumed Rose. They had agreed, if they got separated, to put an ad in
the New Bedford Standard Times personals column. She didn't know where
Rose and Jane had expected to get the guns. She didn't know if they had
any gun permit or FID card.

"Can't you just go someplace and buy them?" she said.

"Not in this state," I said.

She didn't know what kind of guns they had planned to buy. She didn't 
really know that guns came in various kinds. She didn't know anyone's name 
in the group except Rose and Jane and Grace and the only last name she knew 
was Alexander.

"It's a case I can really sink my teeth into," I said. "Lot of hard 
facts, lot of data. You're sure I've got your name right?"

She nodded.

"What's the wording for your ad," I said.

"If we get separated? We just say, 'Sisters, call me at' --then we give 
a phone number and sign our first name."

"And you run it in the Standard Times?"

"Yes, in the personal column."

We got out of the car and Pam said, "Oh, what a pretty location. 
There's the Common right down there."

"Actually the Public Garden. The Common's on the other side of Charles 
Street," I said. We went up to my apartment, second floor front. I opened 
the door.

Pam Shepard said, "Oh, very nice. Why it's as neat as a pin. I always 
pictured bachelor apartments with socks thrown around and whiskey bottles on 
the floor and wastebaskets spilling onto the floor."

"I have a cleaning person, comes in once a week."

"Very nice. Who did the woodcarvings?"

"I have a woodcarver come in once a week."

Susan said, "Don't listen to him. He does them."

"Isn't that interesting, and look at all the books. Have you read all 
these books?"

"Most of them, my lips get awful tired though. The kitchen is in here. 
There should be a fair supply of food laid in."

"And booze," Susan said.

"That too," I said. "In case the food runs out you can starve to death 
happy."

I opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle of Amstel. "Want a 
drink?" Both Susan and Pam said no. I opened the beer and drank some from 
the bottle.

"There's some bread and cheese and eggs in the refrigerator. There's 
quite a bit of meat in the freezer. It's labeled.

And Syrian bread. There's coffee in the cupboard here." I opened the 
cupboard door. "Peanut butter, rice, canned tomatoes, flour, so forth. We 
can get you some vegetables and stuff later. You can make a list of what 
else you need."

I showed her the bathroom and the bedroom. "The sheets are clean." I 
said. "The person changes them each week, and she was here yesterday. You 
will need clothes and things." She nodded. "Why don't you make a list of 
food and clothes and toiletries and whatever that you need and Suze and I 
will go out and get them for you." I gave her a pad and pencil. She sat at 
the kitchen counter to write. While she did I talked at her. "When we 
leave," I said, "stay in here. Don't answer the door. I've got a key and 
Suze has a key and no one else has. So you won't have to open the door for 
us and no one else has reason to come here. Don't go out."

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

"I don't know," I said. "I'll have to think about it."

"I think maybe I'll have that drink you offered," she said.

"Okay, what would you like?"

"Scotch and water?"

"Sure."

I made her the drink, lots of ice, lots of Scotch, a dash of water. She 
sipped it while she finished her list.

When she gave it to me she also offered me her money.

"No," I said. "You may need it. I'll keep track of all this and when 
it's over I'll give you a bill."

She nodded. "If you want more Scotch," I said, "you know where it is."

Susan and I went out to shop. At the Prudential Center on Boylston 
Street we split up. I went into the Star Market for food and she went up to 
the shopping mall for clothes and toiletries. I was quicker with the food 
than she was with her part and I had to hang around for a while on the plaza 
by the funny statue of Atlas or Prometheus or whoever he was supposed to be. 
Across the way a movie house was running an action-packed double feature: 
The Devil in Miss Jones and Deep Throat. They don't make them like they used 
to. Whatever happened to Ken Maynard and his great horse, Tarzan? I; looked 
some more at the statue. It looked like someone had done a takeoff on 
Michelangelo, and been taken seriously. Did Ken Maynard really have a great 
horse named Tarzan? If Ken were still working, his great horse would 
probably be named Bruce and be a leather freak. A young woman went by 
wearing a white T-shirt and no bra. On the T-shirt was stenciled TONY'S PX, 
GREAT FALLS, MONTANA. I was watching her walk away when Susan arrived with 
several ornate shopping bags.

"That a suspect?" Susan said.

"Remember I'm a licensed law officer. I was checking whether those 
cut-off jeans were of legal length."

"Were they?"

"I don't think so." I picked up the groceries and one of Susan's 
shopping bags and we headed for the car. When we got home Pam Shepard was 
sitting by the front window looking out at Marlborough Street. She hadn't so 
far as I could see done anything else except perhaps freshen her drink. It 
was five o'clock and Susan agreed to join Pam for a drink while I made 
supper. I pounded some lamb steaks I'd bought for lamb cutlets. Dipped them 
in flour, then egg, then bread crumbs.

When they were what Julia Child calls nicely coated I put them aside 
and peeled four potatoes. I cut them into little egg-shaped oblongs, which 
took a while, and started them cooking in a little oil, rolling them around 
to get them brown all over. I also started the cutlets in another pan. When 
the potatoes were evenly browned I covered them, turned down the heat and 
left them to cook through. When the cutlets had browned, I poured off the 
fat, added some Chablis and some fresh mint, covered them and let them cook. 
Susan came out into the kitchen once to make two new drinks. I made a Greek 
salad with feta cheese and ripe olives and Susan set the table while I took 
the lamb cutlets out of the pan and cooked down the wine. I shut off the 
heat, put in a lump of unsalted butter, swirled it through the wine essence 
and poured it over the cutlets. With the meal we had warm Syrian bread and 
most of a half gallon of California Burgundy. Pam Shepard told me it was 
excellent and what a good cook I was.

"I never liked it all that much," Pam said. "When I was a kid my mother 
never wanted me in the kitchen. She said I'd be messy. So when I got married 
I couldn't cook anything."

Susan said, "I couldn't cook, really, when I got married either."

"Harv taught me," Pam said. "I think he kind of liked to cook, but . . 
." She shrugged. "That was the wife's job. So I did it. Funny how you cut 
yourself off from things you like because of . . . of nothing. Just 
convention, other people's assumptions about what you ought to be and do."

"Yet often they are our own assumptions, aren't they," Susan said. "I 
mean where do we get our assumptions about how things are or ought to be? 
How much is there really a discrete identifiable self trying to get out?" I 
drank some Burgundy.

"I'm not sure I follow," Pam said.

"It's the old controversy," Susan said. "Nature-nurture. Are you what 
you are because of genetics or because of environment? Do men make history 
or does history make men?"

Pam Shepard smiled briefly. "Oh yes, nature-nurture, Child Growth and 
Development, Ed. 103. I don't know, but I know I got shoved into a corner I 
didn't want to be in." She drank some of her wine, and held her glass toward 
the bottle.

Not fully liberated. Fully liberated you pour the wine yourself. Or 
maybe the half-gallon bottle was too heavy. I filled her glass. She looked 
at the wine a minute. "So did Harvey," she said.

"Get shoved in a corner?" Susan said.

"Money?" Susan asked.

"No, not really. Not money exactly. It was more being important, being 
a man that mattered, being a man that knew the score, knew what was 
happening. A mover and shaker. I don't think he cared all that much about 
the money, except it proved that he was on top. Does that make sense?"

She looked at me.

"Yeah, like making the football team," I said. "I understand that."

"You ought to," Susan said.

Pam Shepard said, "Are you like that?"

I shrugged. Susan said, "Yes, he's like that. In a specialized way."

Pam Shepard said, "I would have thought he wasn't but I don't know him 
very well."

Susan smiled. "Well, he isn't exactly, but he is if that makes any 
sense."

I said, "What the hell am I, a pot roast, I sit here and you discuss 
me?"

Susan said, "I think you described yourself quite well "Before or after 
you smothered me with passionate kisses?"

"Long before," she said.

"Oh," I said.

Pam Shepard said, "Well, why aren't you in the race?

Why aren't you grunting and sweating to make the team, be a star, 
whatever the hell it is that Harvey and his friends are trying to do?"

"It's not easy to say. It's an embarrassing question because it 
requires me to start talking about integrity and selfrespect and stuff you 
recently lumped under John Wayne movies. Like honor. I try to be honorable. 
I know that's embarrassing to hear. It's embarrassing to say. But I believe 
most of the nonsense that Thoreau was preaching. And I have spent a long 
time working on getting myself to where I could do it. Where I could live 
life largely on my own terms."

"Thoreau?" Pam Shepard said. "You really did read all those books, 
didn't you."

"And yet," Susan said, "you constantly get yourself involved in other 
lives and in other people's troubles. This is not Walden Pond you've 
withdrawn to."

I shrugged again. It was hard to say it all. "Everybody's got to do 
something," I said.

"But isn't what you do dangerous?" Pam Shepard said.

"Yeah, sometimes."

"He likes that part," Susan said. "He's very into tough.

He won't admit it, maybe not even to himself, but half of what he's 
doing all the time is testing himself against other men.

Proving how good he is. It's competition, like football."

"Is that so?" Pam Shepard said to me.

"Maybe. It goes with the job."

"And yet it cuts you off from a lot of things," Susan said. "You've cut 
yourself off from family, from home, from marriage."

"I don't know," I said. "Maybe."

"More than maybe," Susan said. "It's autonomy. You are the most 
autonomous person I've ever seen and you don't let anything into that. 
Sometimes I think the muscle you've built is like a shield, like armor, and 
you keep yourself private and alone inside there. The integrity complete, 
unviolated, impervious, safe even from love."

"We've gone some distance away from Harv Shepard, Suze," I said. I felt 
as if I'd been breathing shallow for a long time and needed a deep inhale.

"Not as far as it looks," Susan said. "One reason you're not into the 
corner that Pam's husband is in is because he took the chance. He married. 
He had kids. He took the risk of love and relationship and the risk of 
compromise that goes with it."

"But I don't think Harvey was working for us, Susan," Pam Shepard said.

"It's probably not that easy," I said. "It's probably not something you 
can cut up like that. Working for us, working for him."

"Well," Pam Shepard said. "There's certainly a difference."

"Sometimes I think there's never a difference and things never divide 
into column A and column B," I said. "Perhaps he had to be a certain kind of 
man for you, because he felt that was what you deserved. Perhaps to him it 
meant manhood, and perhaps he wanted to be a man for you."

Pam said, "Machismo again."

"Yeah, but machismo isn't another word for rape and murder. Machismo is 
really about honorable behavior."

"Then why does it lead so often to violence?"

"I don't know that it does, but if it does it might be because that's 
one of the places that you can be honorable."

"That's nonsense," Pam Shepard said.

"You can't be honorable when it's easy," I said. "Only when it's hard."

"When the going gets tough, the tough get going?" The scorn in Pam 
Shepard's voice had more body than the wine.

"You sound like Nixon."

I did my David Frye impression. "I am not a crook," I said and looked 
shifty.

"Oh, hell, I don't know," she said. "I don't even know what we're 
talking about anymore. I just know it hasn't worked. None of it, not Harv, 
not the kids, not me, not the house and the business and the club and 
growing older, nothing."

"Yeah," I said, "but we're working on it, my love."

She nodded her head and began to cry.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I COULDN'T THINK of much to do about Pam Shepard crying so I cleared the
table and hoped that Susan would come up with something. She didn't. And
when we left, Pam Shepard was still snuffling and teary. It was nearly
eleven and we were overfed and sleepy. Susan invited me up to Smithfield
to spend the night and I accepted, quite graciously, I thought,
considering the aggravation she'd been giving me.

"You haven't been slipping off to encounter groups under an assumed 
name, have you?" I said.

She shook her head. "I don't quite know why I'm so bitchy lately," she 
said.

"It's not bitchy, exactly. It's pushy. I feel from you a kind of steady 
pressure. An obligation to explain myself."

"And you don't like a pushy broad, right?"

"Don't start up again, and don't be so goddamned sensitive. You know I 
don't mean the cliche. If you think I worry about role reversal and who 
keeps in whose place, you've spent a lot of time paying no attention to me."

"True," she said. "I'm getting a little hyped about the whole subject."

"What whole subject? That's one of my problems. I think I know the 
rules of the game all right, but I don't know what the game is."

"Man-woman relationships, I guess."

"All of them or me and you."

"Both."

"Terrific, Suze, now we've got it narrowed down."

"Don't make fun. I think being middle-aged and female and single one 
must think about feminism, if you wish, women's rights and women vis-a-vis 
men. And of course that includes you and me. We care about each other, we 
see each other, we go on, but it doesn't develop. It seems directionless ."

"You mean marriage?"

"I don't know. I don't think I mean just that. My God, am I still that 
conventional? I just know there's a feeling of incompleteness in us. Or, I 
suppose I can only speak for me, in me, and in the way I perceive our 
relationship."

"It ain't just wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am."

"No, I know that. That's not a relationship. I know I'm more than good 
tail. I know I matter to you. But . . ."

I paid my fifteen cents on the Mystic River Bridge and headed down its 
north slope, past the construction barricades that I think were installed 
when the bridge was built.

"I don't know what's wrong with me," she said.

"Maybe it's wrong with me," I said.

There weren't many cars on the Northeast Expressway at this time of 
night. There was a light fog and the headlights made a scalloped apron of 
light in front of us as we drove.

"Maybe," she said. Far right across the salt marshes the lights of the 
G.E. River Works gleamed. Commerce never rests.

"Explaining myself is not one of the things I do really well, like 
drinking beer, or taking a nap. Explaining myself is clumsy stuff. You 
really ought to watch what I do, and, pretty much, I think, you'll know what 
I am. Actually I always thought you knew what I am."

"I think I do. Much of it is very good, a lot of it is the best I've 
ever seen."

"Ah-ha," I said.

"I don't mean that," Susan said. The mercury arc lights at the newly 
renovated Saugus Circle made the wispy fog bluish and the Blue Star Bar look 
stark and unreal across Route 1.

"I know pretty well what you are," she said. "It's what we are that is 
bothersome. What the hell are we, Spenser?"

I swung off Route 1 at the Walnut Street exit and headed in toward 
Smithfield. "We're together," I said. "Why have we got to catalogue. Are we 
a couple? A pair? I don't know. You pick one."

"Are we lovers?"

On the right Hawkes Pond gleamed through a very thin fringe of trees. 
It was a long narrow pond and across it the land rose up in a wooded hill 
crowned with power lines. In the moonlight, with a wispy fog, it looked 
pretty good.

"Yeah," I said. "Yeah. We're lovers."

"For how long?" Susan said.

"For as long as we live," I said. "Or until you can't bear me anymore. 
Whichever comes first."

We were in Smithfield now, past the country club on the left, past the 
low reedy meadow that was a bird sanctuary, and the place where they used to 
have a cider mill, to Summer Street, almost to Smithfield Center. Almost to 
Susan's house.

"For as long as we live will come first," Susan said.

I drove past Smithfield Center with its old meeting house on the 
triangular common. A banner stretched across the street announced some kind 
of barbecue, I couldn't catch what in the dark. I put my hand out and Susan 
took it and we held hands to her house.

Everything was wet and glistening in the dark, picking up glints from 
the streetlights. It wasn't quite raining, but the fog was very damp and the 
dew was falling. Susan's house was a small cape, weathered shingles, 
flagstone walk, lots of shrubs. The front door was a Colonial red with small 
bull'seye glass windows in the top. Susan unlocked it and went in. I 
followed her and shut the door. In the dark silent living room, I put my 
hands on Susan's shoulders and turned her slowly toward me, and put my arms 
around her. She put her face against my chest and we stood that way, 
wordless and still for a long time.

"For as long as we live," I said.

"Maybe longer," Susan said. There was an old steeple clock with brass 
works on the mantel in the living room and while I couldn't see in the dark, 
I could hear it ticking loudly as we stood there pressed against each other. 
I thought about how nice Susan smelled, and about how strong her body felt, 
and about how difficult it is to say what you feel. And I said, "Come on, 
honey, let's go to bed." She didn't move, just pressed harder against me and 
I reached down with my left hand and scooped up her legs and carried her to 
the bedroom.

I'd been there before and had no trouble in the dark.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

IN THE MORNING, still damp from the shower, we headed back for the Cape,
stopped on the way for steak and eggs in a diner and got to the hotel
room I still owned about noon. The fog had lifted and the sun was as
clean and bright as we were, though less splendidly dressed. In my
mailbox was a note to call Harv Shepard.

I called him from my room while Susan changed into her bathing suit.

"Spenser," I said, "what do you want?"

"You gotta help me."

"That's what I was telling you just a little while back," I said.

"I gotta see you, it's, it's outta control. I can't handle it.

I need help. That, that goddamned nigger shoved one of my kids. I need 
help."

"Okay," I said. "I'll come over."

"No," he said. "I don't want you here. I'll come there.

You in the hotel?"

"Yep." I gave him my room number. "I'll wait for you."

Susan was wiggling her way into a one-piece bathing suit.

"Anything?" she said.

"Yeah, Shepard's coming apart. I guess Hawk made a move at one of the 
kids and Shepard's in a panic. He's coming over."

"Hawk scares me," Susan said. She slipped her arms through the shoulder 
straps.

"He scares me too, my love."

"He's . . ." She shrugged. "Don't go against him."

"Better me than Shepard," I said.

"Why better you than Shepard?"

"Because I got a chance and Shepard has none."

"Why not the police?"

"We'll have to ask Shepard that. Police are okay by me.

I got no special interest in playing Russian roulette with Hawk. 
Shepard called him a nigger."

Susan shrugged. "What's that got to do?"

"I don't know," I said. "But I wish he hadn't done that.

It's insulting."

"My God, Spenser, Hawk has threatened this man's life, beaten him up, 
abused his children, and you're worried about a racial slur?"

"Hawk's kind of different," I said.

She shook her head. "So the hell are you," she said.

"I'm off to the pool to work on my tan. When you get through you can 
join me there. Unless you decide to elope with Hawk."

"Miscegenation," I said. "Frightful."

She left. About two minutes later Shepard arrived. He was moving better 
now. Some of the stiffness had gone from his walk, but confidence had not 
replaced it. He had on a western-cut, black-checked leisure suit and a white 
shirt with black stitching, the collar out over the lapels of the suit. 
There was a high shine on his black-tassled loafers and his face was gray 
with fear.

"You got a drink here," he said.

"No, but I'll get one. What do you like?"

"Bourbon."

I called room service and ordered bourbon and ice.

Shepard walked across the room and stared out the window at the golf 
course. He sat down in the armchair by the window and got right up again. 
"Spenser," he said. "I'm scared shit."

"I don't blame you," I said.

"I never thought . . . I always thought I could handle business, you 
know? I mean I'm a businessman and a businessman is supposed to be able to 
handle business. I'm supposed to know how to put a deal together and how to 
make it work. I'm supposed to be able to manage people. But this. I'm no 
goddamned candy-ass. I been around and all, but these people . ."

"I know about these people."

"I mean that goddamned nigger . . ."

"His name's Hawk," I said. "Call him Hawk."

"What are you, the NAACP?"

"Call him Hawk."

"Yeah, okay, Hawk. My youngest came in the room while they were talking 
to me and Hawk grabbed him by the shirt and put him out the door. Right in 
front of me. The black bastard."

"Who are they?"

"They?"

"You said your kid came in while they were talking to you."

"Oh, yeah," Shepard walked back to the window and looked out again. 
"Hawk and a guy named Powers. White guy. I guess Hawk works for him."

"Yeah, I know Powers."

The room service waiter came with the booze on a tray. I signed the 
check and tipped him a buck. Shepard rummaged in his pocket. "Hey, let me 
get that," he said.

"I'll put it on your bill," I said. "What did Powers want? No, better, 
I'll tell you what he wanted. You owe him money and you can't pay him and 
he's going to let you off the hook a little if you let him into your 
business a lot."

"Yeah." Shepard poured a big shot over ice from the bottle of bourbon 
and slurped at it. "How the hell did you know?"

"Like I said, I know Powers. It's also not a very new idea. Powers and 
a lot of guys like him have done it before. A guy like you mismanages the 
money, or sees a chance for a big break or overextends himself at the wrong 
time and can't get financing. Powers comes along, gives you the break, 
charges an exorbitant weekly interest. You can't pay, he sends Hawk around 
to convince you it's serious. You still can't pay so Powers comes around and 
says you can give me part of the business or you can cha-cha once more with 
Hawk. You're lucky, you got me to run to. Most guys got no one but the 
cops."

"I didn't mismanage the money."

"Yeah, course not. Why not go to the cops?"

"No cops," Shepard said. He drank some more bourbon.

"Why not?"

"They'll start wanting to know why I needed money from Powers."

"And you were cutting a few corners?"

"Goddamnit, I had to. Everybody cuts a few corners."

"Tell me about the ones you cut."

"Why? What do you need to know that for?"

"I won't know till you tell me."

Shepard drank some more bourbon. "I was in a box. I had to do 
something." The drape on the right side of the window hung crookedly. 
Shepard straightened it. I waited. "I was in business with an outfit called 
Estate Management Corporation. They go around to different vacation-type 
areas and develop leisure homes in conjunction with a local guy. Around .

here I was the local guy. What we did was set up a separate company 
with me as president. I did the developing, dealt with the town planning 
board, building inspector, that stuff, and supervised the actual 
construction. They provided architects, planners and financing and the sales 
force. It's a little more complicated than that, but you get the idea. My 
company was a wholly owned subsidiary of Estate Management. You follow that 
okay?"

"Yeah. I got that. I'm not a shrewd-o-business tycoon like you, but if 
you talk slowly and I can watch your lips move, I can keep up, I think. What 
was the name of your company?"

"We called the development Promised Land. And the company was Promised 
Land, Inc."

"Promised Land." I whistled. "Cu-ute," I said. "Were you aiming at an 
exclusive Jewish clientele?"

"Huh? Jewish? Why Jewish? Anybody was welcome. I mean we wouldn't be 
thrilled if the Shvartzes moved in maybe, but we didn't care about 
religion."

I wished I hadn't said it. "Okay," I said. "So you're president of 
Promised Land, Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Estate Management, Inc. 
Then what?"

"Estate Management went under."

"Bankrupt?"

"Yeah." Shepard emptied his bourbon and I poured some more in the 
glass. I offered ice and he shook his head.

"The way it worked was the Estate Management people would see the land, 
really high-powered stuff, contact people, closers, free trips to Florida, 
the whole bag. The buyer would put a deposit on the land and would also sign 
a contract for the kind of house he wanted. We had about six models to 
choose from. He'd put a deposit on the house as well, and that deposit would 
go into an escrow account."

"What happened to the land deposit?"

"Went to Estate Management."

"Okay, and who controlled the house escrow?"

Shepard said, "Me."

"And when Estate Management pulled out, and you were stuck with a lot 
of money invested and no backing, you dipped into the escrow."

"Yeah, I used it all. I had to. When Estate Management folded, the town 
held up on the building permits. All there was was the building sites staked 
off. We hadn't brought the utilities in yet. You know, water, sewage, that 
kind of thing."

I nodded.

"Well, the town said, nobody gets a permit to build anything until the 
utilities are in. They really screwed me. I mean, I guess they had to. 
Things smelled awful funny when Estate went bankrupt. A lot of money 
disappeared, all those land deposits, and a lot of people started wondering 
about what happened. It smelled awful bad. But I was humped. I had all my 
capital tied up in the goddamned land and the only way I was going to get it 
back was to build the houses and sell them. But I couldn't do that because I 
couldn't get a permit until I put in the utilities. And I couldn't put in 
the utilities because I didn't have any money. And nobody wanted to finance 
the thing. Banks only want to give you money when you can prove you don't 
need it, you know that. And they really didn't want to have anything to do 
with Promised Land, because by now the story was all around financial 
circles and the IRS and the SEC and the Mass attorney general's office and 
the FCC and a bunch of other people were starting to investigate Estate 
Management, and a group of people who'd bought land were suing Estate 
Management. So I scooped the escrow money. I was stuck. It was that or close 
up shop and start looking for work without enough money to have my resume 
typed. I'm forty-five years old."

"Yeah, I know. Let me guess the next thing that happened. The group 
that was suing Estate Management also decided to get its house deposit 
back."

Shepard nodded.

"And of course, since you'd used it to start bringing in utilities, you 
couldn't give it back."

He kept nodding as I talked.

"So you found Powers someplace and he lent you the dough. What was the 
interest rate? Three percent a week?"

"Three and a half."

"And, of course, payment on the principal."

Shepard nodded some more.

"And you couldn't make it."

Nod.

"And Hawk beat you up."

"Yeah. Actually he didn't do it himself. He had two guys do it, and he, 
like, supervised."

"Hawk's moving up. Executive level. He was always a comer.

"He said he just does the killing now, the sweaty work he delegates."

"And so here we are."

"Yeah," Shepard said. He leaned his head against the window. "The thing 
is, Powers' money bailed me out. I was coming back. The only money I owe is 
Powers and I can't pay.

It's like--I'm so close and the only way to win is to lose."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

SHEPARD LOOKED AT ME expectantly when he was through telling me his
sins.

"What do you want," I said, "absolution? Say two Our Fathers and three 
Hail Marys and make a good act of contrition? Confession may be good for the 
soul but it's not going to help your body any if we can't figure a way out."

"What could I do," he said. "I was in a corner, I had to crib on the 
escrow money. Estate Management got off with four or five million bucks. Was 
I supposed to watch it all go down the pipe? Everything I've been working 
for? Everything I am?"

"Someday we can talk about just what the hell you were working for, and 
maybe even what you are. Not now.

How hot is Powers breathing on your neck?"

"We've got a meeting set up for tomorrow."

"Where?"

"At Hawk's room in the Holiday Inn."

"Okay, I'll go with you."

"What are you going to do?"

"I don't know. I've got to think. But it's better than going alone, 
isn't it."

Shepard's breath came out in a rush. "Oh, hell, yes," he said, and 
finished the bourbon.

"Maybe we can talk them into an extension," I said.

"The more time I got, the more chance to work out something."

"But what can we do?"

"I don't know. What Powers is doing, remember, is illegal. If we get 
really stuck we can blow the whistle and you can be state's evidence against 
Powers and get out of it with a tongue-lashing."

"But I'm ruined."

"Depends how you define ruined," I said. "Being King Powers' partner, 
rich or poor, would be awful close to ruination. Being dead also."

"No," he said. "I can't go to the cops."

"Not yet you can't. Maybe later you'll have to."

"How would I get Pam back? Broke, no business, my name in the papers 
for being a goddamned crook? You think she'd come back and live with me in a 
four-room cottage while I collected welfare?"

"I don't know. She doesn't seem to be coming back to you while, as far 
as she knows, you're up on top."

"You don't know her. She's always watching. Who's got how much, whose 
house is better or worse than ours, whose lawn is greener or browner. You 
don't know her."

"She's another problem," I said. "We'll work on her too, but we can't 
get into marriage encounter until this problem is solved."

"Yeah, but just remember, what I told you is absolutely confidential. I 
can't risk everything. There's got to be another way."

"Harv," I said. "You're acting like you got lots of options. You don't. 
You reduced your options when you dipped into the escrow, and you goddamned 
near eliminated them when you took some of Powers' money. We're talking 
about people who might shoot you. Remember that."

Shepard nodded. "There's got to be a way."

"Yeah, there probably is. Let me think about it. What time's the 
meeting tomorrow?" .

"One o'clock."

"I'll pick you up at your house about twelve forty-five.

Go home, stay there. If I need you I want to be able to reach you."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to think."

Shepard left. Half sloshed and a little relieved. Talking about a 
problem sometimes gives you the illusion you've done something about it. At 
least he wasn't trying to handle it alone. Nice clientele I had. The cops 
wanted Pam and the crooks wanted Harv.

I went out to the pool. Susan was sitting in a chaise in her 
red-flowered one-piece suit reading The Children of the Dream, by Bruno 
Bettelheim. She had on big, gold-rimmed sunglasses and a large white straw 
hat with a red band that matched the bathing suit. I stopped before she saw 
me and looked at her. Jesus Christ, I thought. How could anyone have ever 
divorced her? Maybe she'd divorced him. We'd never really talked much about 
it. But even so, where was he?

If she'd divorced me, I'd have followed her around for the rest of our 
lives. I walked over, put my arms on either side of her and did a push-up on 
the chaise. Lowering myself until our noses touched.

"If you and I were married, and you divorced me, I would follow you 
around the rest of my life," I said.

"No you wouldn't," she said. "You'd be too proud."

"I would assault anyone you dated."

"That I believe. But you're not married to me and get off of me, you 
goof. You're just showing off."

I did five or six push-ups over her on the chaise.

"Why do you say that?" I said.

She poked me with her index finger in the solar plexus. "Off," she 
said.

I did one more push-up. "You know what this makes me think of?"

"Of course I know what it makes you think of. Now get the hell off me, 
you're bending my book."

I snapped off one more push-up and bounced off the chaise the way a 
gymnast dismounts the parallel bars.

Straightening to attention as my feet hit.

"Once you put adolescence behind you," Susan said, "you'll be quite an 
attractive guy, a bit physical but . . . attractive. What did Shepard want?"

"Help," I said. "He's into a loan shark as we assumed, and the loan 
shark wants his business." I got a folding chair from across the pool and 
brought it back and sat beside Susan and told her about Shepard and his 
problem.

"That means you are going to have to deal with Hawk," Susan said.

"Maybe," I said.

She clamped her mouth in a thin line and took a deep breath through her 
nose. "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know. I thought I'd go down and sit in the bar and think. Want 
to come?"

She shook her head. "No, I'll stay here and read and maybe swim in a 
while. When you think of something, let me know. We can have lunch or 
something to celebrate."

I leaned over and kissed her on the shoulder, and went to the bar. 
There were people having lunch, but not many drinking. I sat at the far end 
of the bar, ordered a Harp on draft and started in on the peanuts in the 
dark wooden bowl in front of me.

I had two problems. I had to take King Powers off of Shepard's back and 
I had to get Pam Shepard off the hook for armed robbery and murder. Saps. I 
was disgusted with both of them. It's an occupational hazard, I thought. 
Everyone gets contemptuous after a while of his clients. Teachers get 
scornful of students, doctors of patients, bartenders of drinkers, salesmen 
of buyers, clerks of customers. But, Jesus, they were saps. The Promised 
Land. Holy Christ. I had another beer. The peanut bowl was empty. I rattled 
it on the bar until the bartender came down and refilled it. Scornfully, I 
thought. Guns, I thought. Get guns and disarm phallic power.

Where the hell were they going to get guns? They could look in the 
Yellow Pages under gunrunner. I could put them in touch with somebody like 
King Powers. Then when he sold them the guns they could shoot him and that 
would solve Shepard's problem . . . or I could frame Powers. No, frame 
wasn't right. Entrapment. That's the word. I could entrap Powers. Not for 
sharking: That would get Shepard in the soup too. But for illegal gun sales. 
Done right it would get him off Shepard's back for quite a long time. It 
would also get Rose and Jane out of Pam Shepard's life. But why wouldn't 
they take Pam with them? Because I could deal with the local D.A.: Powers 
and two radical feminists on a fresh roll, if he kept the Shepards out of 
it. I liked it. It needed a little more shape and substance. But I liked it. 
It could work. My only other idea was appealing to Powers' better instincts. 
That didn't hold much promise. Entrapment was better. I was going to 
flimflam the old King. A little Scott Joplin music in the background, maybe. 
I had another beer and ate more peanuts and thought some more.

Susan came in from the pool with a thigh-length white lace thing over 
her bathing suit, and slid onto the barstool next to me.

"Cogito ergo sum," I said.

"Oh absolutely," she said. "You've always been sicklied over with the 
pale cast of thought."

"Wait'll you hear," I said.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

AFTER LUNCH I called the New Bedford Standard Times and inserted an ad
in the personals column of the classified section: "Sisters, call me at
555-1434. Pam."

Then I called 555-1434. Pam Shepard answered the first ring.

"Listen," I said. And read her the ad. "I just put that in the New 
Bedford Standard Times. When the sisters call you arrange for us to meet. 
You, me, them."

"Oh, they won't like that. They won't trust you."

"You'll have to get them to do it anyway. Talk to them of obligation 
and sororal affiliation. Tell them I've got a gun dealer who wants to talk. 
How you get us together is up to you, but do it."

"Why is it so important?"

"To save your hide and Harv's and make the world safe for democracy. 
Just do it. It's too complicated to explain. You getting stir-crazy there?"

"No, it's not too bad. I've seen a lot of daytime television."

"Don't watch too much, it'll rot your teeth."

"Spenser?"

"Yeah."

"What's wrong with Harvey? What did you mean about saving Harvey's 
hide?"

"Nothing you need worry about now. I'm just concerned with his value 
system."

"He's all right?"

"Sure."

"And the kids?"

"Of course. They miss you, Harv, too, but they're fine otherwise." Ah, 
Spenser, you glib devil you. How the hell did I know how they were? I'd seen 
one of them my first day on the case.

"Funny," she said. "I don't know if I miss them or not, sometimes I 
think I do, but sometimes I just think I ought to and am feeling guilty 
because I don't. It's hard to get in touch with your feelings sometimes."

"Yeah, it is. Anything you need right now before I hang up?"

"No, no thanks, I'm okay."

"Good. Suze or I will be in touch."

I hung up.

Susan in faded jeans and a dark blue blouse was heading down Cape to 
look at antiques. "And I may pick up some young stud still in college and 
fulfill my wildest fantasies," she said.

I said, "Grrrrrr."

"Women my age are at the peak of their erotic power," she said. "Men 
your age are in steep decline."

"I'm young at heart," I said. Susan was out the door.

She stuck her head back in. "I wasn't talking about heart," she said. 
And went. I looked at my watch. It was one-fifteen. I went in the bathroom, 
splashed some water on my face, toweled dry and headed for New Bedford.

At five after two I was illegally parked outside the New Bedford police 
station on Spring Street. It was three stories, brick, with A dormers on the 
roof and a kind of cream yellow trim. Flanking the entrance, just like in 
the Bowery Boys movies, were white globes on black iron columns. On the 
globes it said NEW BEDFORD POLICE in black letters. A couple of tan police 
cruisers with blue shields on the door were parked out front. One of them 
was occupied, and I noticed that the New Bedford cops wore white hats. I 
wondered if the crooks wore black ones.

At the desk I asked a woman cop who was handling the Bristol Security 
robbery. She had light hair and blue eyeshadow and shiny lipstick and she 
looked at me hard for about ten seconds.

"Who wants to know?" she said.

Not sex nor age nor national origin makes any difference. Cops are 
cops.

"My name's Spenser," I said. "I'm a private license from Boston and I 
have some information that's going to get someone promoted to sergeant."

"I'll bet you do," she said. "Why don't you lay a little on me and see 
if I'm impressed."

"You on the case?"

"I'm on the desk, but impress me anyway."

I shook my head. "Detectives," I said. "I only deal with detectives."

"Everybody only deals with detectives. Every day I sit here with my 
butt getting wider, and every day guys like you come in and want to talk 
with a detective." She picked up the phone on the desk, dialed a four-digit 
number and said into the mouthpiece, "Sylvia there? Margaret on the desk. 
Yeah.

Well, tell him there's a guy down here says he's got information on 
Bristol Security. Okay." She hung up. "Guy in charge is a detective named 
Jackie Sylvia. Sit over there, he'll be down in a minute."

It was more like five before he showed up. A squat bald man with dark 
skin. He was as dapper as a guy can be who stands five six and weighs two 
hundred. Pink-flowered shirt, a beige leisure suit, coppery brown patent 
leather loafers with a couple of bright gold links on the tops. It was hard 
to tell how old he was. His round face was without lines, but the 
close-cropped hair that remained below his glistening bald spot was mostly 
gray. He walked over to me with a light step and I suspected he might not be 
as fat as he looked.

"My name's Sylvia," he said. "You looking for me?"

"I am if you're running the Bristol Security investigation."

"Yeah."

"Can we go someplace and talk?"

Sylvia nodded toward the stairs past the desk and I followed him to the 
second floor. We went through a door marked ROBBERY and into a room that 
overlooked Second Street. There were six desks butted together in groups of 
two, each with a push-button phone and a light maple swivel chair. In the 
far corner an office had been partitioned off. On the door was a sign that 
read SGT. CRUZ. At one of the desks a skinny cop with scraggly blond hair 
sat with his feet up talking on the phone. He was wearing a black T-shirt, 
and on his right forearm he had a tattoo of a thunderbird and the words 
FIGHTING 45TH. A cigarette burned on the edge of the desk, a long ash 
forming. Sylvia grabbed a straight chair from beside one of the other desks 
and dragged it over beside his. "Sit," he said. I sat and he slid into his 
swivel chair and tilted it back, his small feet resting on the base of the 
chair. He wasn't wearing socks. A big floor fan in the far corner moved hot 
air back and forth across the desk tops as it scanned the room.

On Sylvia's desk was a paper coffee cup, empty, and part of a peanut 
butter sandwich on white bread. "Okay," Sylvia said. "Shoot."

"You know who King Powers is?" I said.

"Yeah."

"I can give you the people who did the Bristol Security and I can give 
you Powers, but there's got to be a trade."

"Powers don't do banks."

"I know. I can give him to you for something else, and I can give you 
the bank people and I can tie them together, but I gotta have something back 
from you."

"What do you want?"

"I want two people who are in this, left out of this."

"One of them you?"

"No, I don't do banks either."

"Let me see something that tells me what you do do."

I showed him my license. He looked at it, handed it back. "Boston, huh. 
You know a guy named Abel Markum up there, works out of Robbery?"

"Nope."

"Who do you know?"

"I know a homicide lieutenant named Quirk. A dick named Frank Belson. 
Guy in Robbery named Herschel Patton. And I have a friend that's a 
school-crossing guard in Billerica named . . ."

Sylvia cut me off. "Okay, okay, I done business with Patton." He took 
some grape-flavored sugarless bubble gum from his shirt pocket and put two 
pieces in his mouth. He didn't offer any to me. "You know, if you're in 
possession of evidence of the commission of a felony that you have no legal 
right to withhold that evidence."

"Can I have a piece of bubble gum?"

Sylvia reached into his pocket, took out the pack and tossed it on the 
desk in front of me. There were three pieces left. I took one.

"Take at least two," Sylvia said. "You can't work up a bubble with one. 
Stuff's lousy."

I took another piece, peeled off the paper and chewed it. Sylvia was 
right. It was lousy.

"Remember when Double Bubble used to put out the nice lump of pink 
bubble gum and it was all you needed to get a good bubble?"

"Times change," Sylvia said. "Withholding information of a felony is 
illegal."

I blew a small purple bubble. "Yeah, I know. You want to talk about 
trade?"

"How about we slap you in a cell for a while as an accessory to a 
felony?"

I worked on the bubble gum. It wasn't elastic enough. I could only 
produce a small bubble, maybe as big as a PingPong ball, before it broke 
with a sharp little snap.

"How about while you're in the cell we interrogate you a while. We got 
some guys down here can interrogate the shit out of a person. You know?"

"This stuff sticks to your teeth," I said.

"Not if you don't have any," Sylvia said.

"Why the hell would someone make gum that sticks to your teeth," I 
said. "Christ, you can't trust anyone."

"You don't like it, spit it out. I don't make you chew it."

"It's better than nothing," I said.

"You gonna talk to me about the Bristol Security job?"

"I'm gonna talk to you about a trade."

"Goddamnit, Spenser, you can't come waltzing in here and tell me what 
kind of deal you'll make with me. I don't know what kind of crap you get 
away with up in Boston, but down here I tell you what kind of deal there 
is."

"Very good," I said. "One look at my license and you remembered my 
name. I didn't even see your lips move when you looked at it either."

"Don't smart-ass with me, Johnny, or you'll be looking very close at 
the floor. Understand what I'm saying to you?"

"Aw come on, Sylvia, stop terrifying me. When I get panicky I tend to 
violence and there's only two of you in the room." The scraggly haired cop 
with the tattoo had hung up the phone and drifted over to listen.

"Want me to open the window, Jackie," he said. "Then if he gets mean we 
can scream for help?"

"Or jump," Sylvia said. "It's two floors but it would be better than 
trying to deal with an animal like this."

I said, "You guys want to talk trade yet, or are you working up a 
nightclub act?"

"How do I know you can deliver," Sylvia said.

"If I don't what have you lost. You're no worse off than you are now."

"No entrapment," scraggly hair said. "At least nothing that looks like 
entrapment in court. We been burned on that a couple of times."

"No sweat," I said.

"How bad are the people you want left out?"

"They are no harm to anybody but themselves," I said.

"They ran after the wrong promise and got into things they couldn't 
control."

"The bank guard that got killed," Sylvia said, "I knew him. Used to be 
in the department here, you know."

"I know," I said. "My people didn't want it to happen."

"Homicide during the commission of a felony is murder one."

"I know that too," I said. "And I know that these people are a good 
swap for what I can give you. Somebody's got to go down for the bank guard."

Sylvia interrupted. "Fitzgerald, his name was. Everybody called him 
Fitzy."

"Like I say, somebody has to go down for that. And somebody will. I 
just want to save a couple of goddamned fools."

Scraggly hair looked at Sylvia. "So far we got zip on the thing, 
Jackie. Air."

"You got a plan," Sylvia said.

I nodded.

"There's no guarantee. Whatever you got, I'm going to have to check you 
out first."

"I know that."

"Okay, tell me."

"I thought you'd never ask," I said.

CHAPTER TWENTY

SCRAGGLY HAIR'S NAME turned out to be McDermott. He and Jackie Sylvia
listened without comment while I laid it out and when I was through
Sylvia said, "Okay, we'll think about it. Where can I reach you?"

"Dunfey's in Hyannis. Or my service if I'm not there. I check with the 
service every day." I gave him the number.

"We'll get back to you."

On the drive back to Hyannis the grape bubble gum got harder and harder 
to chew. I gave up in Wareham and spit it out the window in front of the 
hospital. The muscles at my jaw hinges were sore, and I felt slightly 
nauseous. When I pulled into the parking lot at Dunfey's it was suppertime 
and the nausea had given way to hunger.

Susan was back from her antiquing foray and had a Tiffany style glass 
lampshade for which she'd paid $125. We went down to the dining room, had 
two vodka gimlets each, parslied rack of lamb and blackberry cheesecake. 
After dinner we had some cassis and then went down to the ballroom and 
danced all the slow numbers until midnight. We brought a bottle of champagne 
back to the room and drank it and went to bed and didn't sleep until nearly 
three.

It was ten-forty when I woke up. Susan was still asleep, her back to 
me, the covers up tight around her neck. I picked up the phone and ordered 
breakfast, softly. "Don't knock," I said. "Just leave it outside the door. 
My friend is still asleep."

I showered and shaved and with a towel around my waist opened the door 
and brought in the cart. I drank coffee and ate from a basket of assorted 
muffins while I dressed.

Susan woke up as I was slipping my gun into the hip holster.

I clipped the holster on to my belt. She lay on her back with her hands 
behind her head and watched me. I slipped on my summer blazer with the brass 
buttons and adjusted my shirt collar so it rolled out nicely over the 
lapels. Seductive.

"You going to see Hawk and what's'isname?" Susan said.

"Powers," I said. "Yeah. Me and Harv Shepard."

She continued to look at me.

"Want some coffee?" I said.

She shook her head. "Not yet."

I ate a corn muffin.

"Are you scared? Susan asked.

"I don't know. I don't think much about it. I don't see anything very 
scary happening today."

"Do you like it?"

"Yeah. I wouldn't do it if I didn't like it."

"I mean this particularly. I know you like the work.

But do you like this? You are going to frame a very dangerous man. That 
should scare you, or excite you or something."

"I'm not going to frame him. I'm going to entrap him, in fact."

"You know what I mean. If it doesn't work right he'll kill you."

"No, he'll have it done."

"Don't do that. Don't pick up the less important part of what I'm 
saying. You know what I'm after. What kind of man does the kinds of things 
you do? What kind of man gets up in the morning and showers and shaves and 
checks the cartridges in his gun?"

"Couldn't we talk over the transports of delight in which we soared 
last evening?"

"Do you laugh at everything?"

"No, but we're spending too much time on this kind of talk. The kind of 
man I am is not a suitable topic, you know.

It's not what one talks about."

"Why?"

"Because it's not."

"The code? A man doesn't succumb to self-analysis?

It's weak? It's womanish?"

"It's pointless. What I am is what I do. Finding the right words for it 
is no improvement. It isn't important whether I'm scared or excited. It's 
important whether or not I do it. It doesn't matter to Shepard why. It 
matters to Shepard if."

"You're wrong. It matters more than that. It matters why."

"Maybe it matters mostly how."

"My, aren't we epigrammatic. Spencer Tracy and Katharine Hepburn. 
Repartee."

"He spells his name differently," I said.

Susan turned over on her side, her back to me, and was quiet. I had 
some more coffee. The murmurous rush of the air conditioner seemed quite 
loud. I'd asked for the New Bedford Standard Times with breakfast, and in 
the quiet, I picked it up and turned to the classified section. My ad was 
there under personals. "Sisters, call me at 555-1434, Pam." I looked at the 
sports page and finished my coffee. It was ten after twelve. I folded the 
paper and put it on the room service cart.

"Gotta go, Suze," I said.

She nodded without turning over.

I got up, put on my sunglasses and opened the door.

"Spenser," she said, "I don't want us to be mad at each other."

"Me either," I said. I still had hold of the doorknob.

"Come back when you can," she said. "I miss you when you're gone." .

"Me too," I said. I left the door open and went back and kissed her on 
the cheekbone, up near the temple. She rolled over on her back and looked up 
at me. Her eyes were wet.

"Bye-bye," I said.

"Bye-bye."

I went out and closed the door and headed for Harv Shepard's place with 
my stomach feeling odd.

I don't know if I was scared or not, but Shepard was so scared his face 
didn't fit. The skin was stretched much too tight over the bones and he 
swallowed a lot, and loudly, as we drove out Main Street to the Holiday Inn.

"You don't need to know what I'm up to," I said. "I think you'll do 
better if you don't. Just take it that I've got something working that might 
get you out of this."

"Why can't you tell me?"

"Because it requires some deception and I don't think you're up to it."

"You're probably right," he said.

Hawk had a room on the second floor, overlooking the pool. He answered 
the door when we knocked, and Shepard and I went in. There was assorted 
booze on the bureau to the right, and a thin guy with horn-rimmed glasses 
reading the Wall Street Journal on one of the beds. King Powers was sitting 
at a round table with an open ledger in front of him, his hands folded on 
the edge of the table. Stagey bastard.

"What is that you have with you," Powers said in a flat Rudy Vallee 
voice.

"We're friends," I said. "We go everywhere together."

Powers was a tall, soft-looking man with pale skin and reddish hair 
trimmed long like a Dutch boy, and augmented with fuzzy mutton-chop 
sideburns. His wardrobe looked like Robert Hall Mod. Maroon-checked 
doubleknit leisure suit, white belt, white shoes, white silk shirt with the 
collar out over the lapels. A turquoise arrowhead was fastened around his 
neck on a leather thong and stuck straight out, like a gesture of derision.

"I didn't tell you to bring no friends," Powers said to Shepard.

"You'll be glad he did," I said. "I got a package for you that will put 
a lot of change in your purse."

"I don't use no goddamned purse," Powers said.

"Oh," I said. "I'm sorry. I thought that was your mistress on the bed."

Behind me Hawk murmured. "Hot damn" to himself.

The guy on the bed looked up from his Wall Street Gtournal and frowned.

Powers said, "Hawk, get him the fuck out of here."

Hawk said. "This is Spenser. I told you about him. He likes to kid 
around but he don't mean harm. Leastwise he don't always mean harm."

"Hawk, you hear me. I told you move him out."

"He talking money, King. Maybe you should listen."

"You working for me, Hawk? You do what you're told."

"Naw, I only do what I want. I never do what I'm told.

Same with old Spenser here. You yell your ass off at him, if you want, 
but he ain't going to do a goddamned thing he don't want to do. You and 
Macey listen to him. He talking about money, he probably ain't bullshitting. 
You don't like what you hear. Then I'll move him out."

"Aw right, aw right. Let's hear it, for crissake. Spit it out." Powers' 
pale face was a little red and he was looking at me hard. Macey, on the bed, 
had sat up, and put his feet on the floor. He still held the Journal in his 
left hand, his forefinger keeping the place.

"Okay, King. First. Harv can't pay up, at this time."

"Then his ass is grass and I'm a fucking lawnmower," Powers said.

"Trendy," I said.

"Huh?"

"Trendy as a bastard, that slick maroon and white combo. And to top it 
off you talk so good. You're just an altogether with-it guy."

"You keep fucking around with me, Spenser, and you're going to wish you 
never did."

"Whyn't you get to the part about the bread, Spenser," Hawk said. "In 
the purse. Whyn't you talk on that."

"I got a buyer with about a hundred thousand dollars who is looking for 
some guns. I will trade you the buyer for Shepard."

"What makes you think I can get guns?"

"King, for a hundred thousand skins you could get a dancing aardvark." 
He smiled. His lips were puffy and when he smiled the inside of his upper 
lip turned out. And his gums showed above his top teeth.

"Yeah, maybe I could," he said. "But Shepard's into me for a lot of 
fucking dough." He ran his eyes down the ledger page in front of him. 
"Thirty big ones. I took a lot of risk with that dough, just on a handshake, 
you know? It ain't easy to trade that off."

"Okay," I said. "See you, we'll take it elsewhere," I said. "Come on, 
Harv."

Powers said, "You're choice, but your pal better have the payment on 
him now, or we're going to be awful mad."

"The payment's in the offer. You turned it down, you got no bitch." I 
turned to go. Hawk was between us and the door. His hands resting delicately 
on his hips.

"Hawk," Powers said. "Shepard don't leave."

"Hundred thousand's a lotta vegetable matter, King," Hawk said. .

"Hawk's right, Mr. Powers." Macey on the bed had dropped his Journal 
and brought out a neat-looking little .25

automatic with a pearl handle and nickel plating. Probably matched his 
cuff links.

"What's in it for you, Spencer?" Powers said.

"Thirty percent," I said. "You can use it to pay off Shepard's loan."

Powers was quiet. We all were. It was like a stop frame in instant 
replay.

Hawk at ease in front of the door. Shepard with his skin squeezing 
tight on his body, Macey with his cute gun.

Powers sitting at the table, thinking.

The window was behind him and the light coming in framed him like a 
back-lit photograph. The little tendrils of fuzz in the double-knit were 
silhouetted and clear along his coat sleeves and the tops of the shoulders. 
The muttonchop sideburns where the whiskers individuated at the outer edge 
were more gold than copper against the light.

"Who's your customer?" King said. Hawk whistled 
shave-and-a-haircut-two-bits between his teeth. Softly.

"If I told you that I probably wouldn't be needed as gobetween, would 
I?"

Powers turned his lip up again and giggled. Then he turned to the thin 
guy. "Macey," he said, "I got some golf to play. Set this thing up." He 
looked at me. "This better be straight," he said. "If it ain't you are going 
to be pushing up your fucking daisies. You unnerstand? Fucking daisies 
you'll be pushing up." He got up and walked past me toward the door.

"Daisies," I said.

He went out. Macey put the .25 away and said, "Okay, let's get to 
work."

I said, "Is he going to play golf in his Anderson-Little cutaway?"

"He's going to change in the clubhouse," Macey said.

"Haven't you ever played golf?"

"Naw, we were into aggravated assault when I was a kid."

Macey smiled once, on and off like a blinking light.

Hawk went and lay down on the bed and closed his eyes.

Shepard went stiffly to the bureau where the booze was and made a big 
drink. Macey sat down at the round table and I joined him. "Okay," he said, 
"give me the deal."

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

THERE WASN'T ALL THAT MUCH to set up with Macey yet. I told him I'd have
to get in touch with the other principals first and get back to him, but
that the 100 grand was firm and he should start getting in touch with
his sources.

"The guns would be top dollar," Macey said. "There's the risk factor, 
and the added problem of market impact.

Large quantity like this causes ripples, as you must know."

"I know. And I know you can manage it. That's why I came to you."

Macey said, "Um-hum" and took a business card from the breast pocket of 
his seersucker suit. "Call me," he said, "when you've talked to the other 
party."

I took the card and put it in my wallet. "We're in business then," I 
said.

"Certainly," Macey said. "Assuming the deal is as you represent it."

"Yeah, that too," I said. "That means if we're in business that you 
folks will lay off old Harv here. Right?"

"Of course," Macey said. "You heard Mr. Powers. We borrow and lend, 
we're not animals. There's no problem there."

"Maybe not," I said. "But I want a little more reassurance. Hawk?"

Hawk was motionless on the bed, his hands folded over his solar plexus, 
his eyes closed. Without opening his eyes he said, "Shepard'll be okay."

I nodded. "Okay," I said. "Let's go, Harv."

Shepard put down what was left of his drink, and went out of the room 
without even looking around. I followed him.

Nobody said goodby.

When we got in my car and started out of the parking lot, Shepard said, 
"How do we know they'll keep their word?"

"About staying off your back?" I said.

Shepard nodded.

"Hawk said so," I said.

"Hawk? The nigger? He's the one beat me up last time."

"He keeps his word," I said. "And I told you before, call him Hawk. I'm 
not going to tell you again."

"Yeah, sure, sorry, I forgot. But, Jesus, trusting him. I mean the guy 
Macey seems reasonable, like a guy you can do business with . . . But Hawk."

"You don't know anything," I said. "Macey would take out your eyeballs 
for a dollar. You think he's a guy you can deal with 'cause he talks like he 
went to the Wharton School.

Maybe he did, but he's got no more honor than a toad. He'll do 
anything. Hawk won't. There's things Hawk won't do."

"Like what?"

"He won't say yes and do no."

"Well, I guess you know your business. Where the hell are you getting 
the money?"

"That's not your problem," I said. We pulled up in front of Shepard's 
house. He'd banged back two big drinks while I was talking with Macey and 
his mouth was a little slow.

"Thanks, Spenser," he said. "Just for going, let alone for making that 
gun deal. I was scared shit."

"You should have been," I said. We shook hands, Shepard got out and 
went in the house. I cruised back to the motel.

Susan wasn't around and her car wasn't in the lot. I called Pam Shepard 
from my hotel room.

"You hear from the girls?" I said.

"From Rose, yes. They'll meet us. I know you're being funny, but please 
don't call them girls."

"Where?"

"Where will they meet us?"

"Yeah."

"In Milton. There's an observatory on top of the Great Blue Hill. Do 
you know where that is?"

"Yeah."

"They'll meet us in the observatory. This afternoon at five."

I looked at my watch: 1:25. There was time. "Okay," I said. "I'll come 
pick you up and we'll go. I'll leave now, should be there around three. 
Start looking out the window then. I'll park on the street and when you see 
me, come on down."

"What are we going to do?"

"I'll talk with you about it while we drive to Milton."

"All right."

"You bored?"

"Oh God, I'm going crazy."

"Not too much longer," I said.

"I hope not."

We hung up, I went back to my car and set out for Boston again. If I 
made the trip many more times I'd be able to sleep on the way. I pulled up 
in front of my apartment at ten after three. In about forty seconds Pam 
Shepard came out the front door and got in the car. And we were off again 
for the Blue Hills.

The top was down and Pam Shepard leaned her head back against the seat 
and took a big inhale. "Good God, it's good to get out of there," she said.

"That's my home you're speaking of," I said. "I was kind of wishing I 
could get in there."

"I didn't mean it's not nice, and it's not even so much that it's been 
that long, it's just that, when you know you can't go out, it's almost like 
claustrophobia."

Her clean brown hair was pulled back, still in the French twist she'd 
worn since I met her, and the wind didn't bother it much. I went out along 
Park Drive and the Jamaicaway and the Arborway south on Route 28. Just 
across the Neponset River, Route 138 branched off from Route 28 and we went 
with it, taking our time. We pulled into the Blue Hills Reservation and 
parked near the Trailside Museum at four o'clock.

"We're awfully early," Pam Shepard said.

"Plan ahead," I said. "I want to be here waiting. I don't want them to 
get nervous waiting for us and leave."

"I don't mind," she said. "What are we going to do?"

"We'll walk up to the observatory on the top. And when they come, I'll 
tell them I have a seller for them."

"A seller?"

"A gun broker. I've got a guy who'll sell them all the guns they can 
afford."

"But why? Why would you do that?"

"Isn't that why you stole the money?"

"Yes, but you don't approve of us, do you? You don't want to arm us 
certainly."

"That doesn't matter. I'm working on a very fancy move, and I don't 
want you trying to pretend you don't know.

So I won't tell you. Then you won't have to pretend. You just assume 
I'm in your corner, and you vouch for me every time the question comes up."

"I've done that already. On the phone when they called. They don't 
trust you and they don't like you."

"Hard to imagine, isn't it," I said.

She smiled, and closed her eyes and shook her head slightly.

"Come on," I said, "let's get out and walk."

The blue hills are actually spruce green and they form the center of a 
large reservation of woods and ponds in an upper-middle-class suburb that 
abuts Boston. The biggest of the blue hills supports on its flank a nature 
museum, and on its crest a fieldstone observatory from which one gets a fine 
view of Boston's skyline, and an excellent wind for kite flying on the 
downside pitch of the hill below the building. It's a hike of maybe fifteen 
minutes to the top, through woods and over small gullies, and there are 
usually Cub Scout packs and Audubon members clambering among the 
slate-colored outcroppings. I offered Pam Shepard a hand over one of the 
gullies and she declined. I didn't offer on the next one. I'm a quick study.

The observatory at the top had two sets of stairs and two balconies and 
kids were running up and down the stairs and shouting at each other from the 
balconies. Several kites danced above us, one of them shaped like a large 
bat. "That's auspicious," I said to Pam, and nodded at the bat.

She smiled. "They have all sorts of fancy ones like that now," she 
said. "The kids went through the kite stage. Harvey and I could never get 
them to fly.... Or us either, now that I think of it."

"It can be done," I said. "I've seen it done."

She shrugged and smiled again and shook her head.

We stood on the upper balcony of the observatory and looked at the 
Boston skyline to the north. "What is it," Pam Shepard said, "about a 
cluster of skyscrapers in the distance that makes you feel . . . What? . . . 
Romantic? Melancholy? Excited? Excited probably."

"Promise," I said.

"Of what?"

"Of everything," I said. "From a distance they promise everything, 
whatever you're after. They look clean and permanent against the sky like 
that. Up close you notice dog litter around the foundations."

"Are you saying it's not real? The look of the skyscrapers from a 
distance."

"No. It's real enough, I think. But so is the dog litter and if you 
spend all your time looking at the spires you're going to step in it."

"Into each life some shit must fall?"

"Ah," I said, "you put it so much more gracefully than I."

She laughed.

Below us to the left Jane emerged from behind some trees where the 
trail opened out into a small meadow below the observatory. She looked 
around carefully and then looked up at us on the balcony. Pam Shepard waved. 
I smiled inoffensively. Jane turned her head and said something and Rose 
emerged from the trees and stood beside her. Pam waved again and Rose waved 
back. My smile became even more inoffensive. And earnest. I fairly vibrated 
with earnestness. This was going to be the tough part. Guys like Powers you 
can get with money, or the hope of it. Or fear, if you're in a position to 
scare them. But people like Rose, they were hard. Zealots were always hard. 
Zeal distorts them. Makes the normal impulses convolute. Makes people 
fearless and greedless and loveless and finally monstrous. I was against 
zeal. But being against it didn't make it go away. I had to persuade these 
two zealots to go along with the plan or the plan washed away and maybe so 
did the Shepards.

They trudged up the hill to the observatory warily, alert for an ambush 
among the kite-flying kids and the Cub Scouts looking at lichen growth on 
the north side of rocks.

They disappeared below us as they went into the stairwell and then 
appeared coming up the stairs behind us. As Rose reached the top of the 
stairs Pam Shepard went to her and embraced her. Rose patted her back as 
they hugged. With one arm still around Rose, Pam took Jane's hand and 
squeezed it.

"It's good to see you both," she said.

Rose said, "Are you all right?"

Jane said, "Have you got a place to stay?"

"Yes, yes, I'm all right, I'm fine, I've been using his apartment."

"With him?" Rose looked suddenly menopausal.

"No," I said. The way I used to say it to my mother.

"No, I've been down the Cape, working on a case. Besides I have a 
girlfriend, ah woman, ah, I have a person, I . . . I'm with Susan 
Silverman."

Rose said to Pam Shepard, "That's good of him."

Jane said to Rose and Pam Shepard, "I still don't trust him."

"You can," Pam said. "You really can. I trust him. He's a good man."

I smiled harder. Ingratiation. Jane eyes me for vulnerable points.

Rose said, "Well, whether or not we can trust him, we can talk some 
business with him at least. I'll reserve my opinion of his trustworthiness. 
What is his offer exactly?" And, while she hadn't yet addressed me directly, 
she looked at me.

Once they did that I always had them. I think it was the puckish charm. 
"Well?" she said. Yeah, it was the puckish charm.

"I can get you all the guns you need, one hundred thousand dollars' 
worth. And bullets. No questions asked."

"Why?"

"I get a broker's fee."

Rose nodded. Jane said, "Perhaps that's why we can trust him."

Rose said, "I suppose we give you the money and then you have the guns 
delivered? Something like that perhaps?

And when we get tired of waiting for delivery and call you up you seem 
to have moved?"

Pam Shepard said, "No. Rose, believe me, you can trust him. He's not 
dishonest."

"Pam, almost everyone is dishonest. He's as dishonest as anyone else. I 
don't want to do business with him."

"That's dumb," I said. "It's the kind of dumb that smart people get 
because they think they're smart."

"What the hell does that mean?" Jane said.

"It means that if everyone's dishonest you aren't going to do better 
elsewhere. And the devil you know is better than the devil you don't know. I 
got one character witness. Where you going to find a gun dealer that has 
that many?"

Rose said, "We are not fools. You assume women can't manage this sort 
of thing? That gunrunning is a masculine profession?"

"I don't assume anything. What I know is that amateurs can't handle 
this sort of thing. You will get ripped off if you're lucky and ripped off 
and busted if you're not." Ah, Spenser, master of the revolutionary argot. 
Word maven of the counterculture.

"And why should we believe you won't rip us off?" Jane said.

"You got my word, and the assurance of one of your own people. Have I 
lied to you yet? Have I turned Pam in to her husband, or the fuzz? You held 
up a bank and killed an old man. He used to be a cop and the New Bedford 
cops are not going to forget that. They are going to be looking for you 
until Harvard wins the Rose Bowl. You are fugitives from justice as the 
saying goes. And you are in no position to be advertising for a gun dealer. 
If the word gets out that a group of women are looking to make a gun buy, 
who do you think the first dealer will be? The easy one, the one that shows 
up one day and says he's got what you want?"

"So far," Rose said, "it seems to be you."

"Yeah, and you know who I am. The next one will be somebody undercover. 
An FBI informant, a special services cop, an agent from the Treasury 
Department, maybe a woman, a nice black woman with all the proper hatreds 
who wants to help a sister. And you show up with the cash and she shows up 
with thirteen cops and the paddy wagon."

"He's right, you know," Pam Shepard said. "He knows about this kind of 
thing, and we don't. Who would get us guns that we could trust better?"

"Perhaps," Rose said, "we can merely sit on the money for a while."

I shook my head. "No, you can't. Then you're just a felon, a robber and 
murderer. Now you're a revolutionary who killed because she had to. If you 
don't do what you set out to do then you have no justification for murdering 
that old man and the guilt will get you."

"I killed the guard," Jane said. "Rose didn't. He tried to stop us and 
I shot him." She seemed proud.

"Same, same," I said. "She's an accessory and as responsible as you 
are. Doesn't matter who squeezed off the round."

"We can do without the amateur psychoanalyzing, Spenser," Rose said. 
"How do we prevent you from taking our money and running?"

"I'll just be the broker. You and the gun dealer meet face to face. You 
see the guns, he sees the money."

"And if they're defective?"

"Examine them before you buy."

They were silent.

"If you're not familiar with the particular type of weapon, I'll 
examine it too. Have you thought of what kinds of guns you want?"

"Any kind," Jane said. "Just so they fire."

"No, Jane. Let's be honest. We don't know much about guns. You know 
that anyway. We want guns appropriate for guerrilla fighting. Including 
handguns that we can conceal easily, and, I should think, some kind of 
machine guns."

"You mean hand-held automatic weapons, you don't mean something you'd 
mount on a tripod."

"That's right. Whatever the proper terminology. Does that seem sensible 
to you?"

"Yeah. Let me check with my dealer. Any other preferences?"

"Just so they shoot," Jane said.

"Are we in business?" I said.

"Let us talk a bit, Mr. Spenser," Rose said. And the three women walked 
to the other end of the balcony and huddled.

On the walls of the observatory, mostly in spray paint, were graffiti. 
Mostly names, but also a pitch for gay liberation, a suggestion that blacks 
be bused to Africa and some remarks about the sister of somebody named 
Mangan. The conference broke up and Rose came back and said, "All right, 
we're agreed. When can you get the guns?"

"I'll have to be in touch with you," I said. "Couple days, probably."

"We're not giving you an address or phone number."

"No need to." I gave her my card. "You have my number. I'll leave a 
message with my answering service. Call every day at noon and check in. 
Collect is okay."

"We'll pay our way, Mr. Spenser."

"Of course you will, I was just being pleasant."

"Perhaps you shouldn't bother, Mr. Spenser. It seems very hard for 
you."

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

ROSE AND JANE LEFT as furtively as they'd come. They were hooked. I
might pull it off. Jane hadn't even kicked me.

"It's going to work," I said to Pam Shepard.

"Are they going to get hurt?"

"That's my worry, not yours."

"But I'm like the Judas goat if they are. They are trusting you because 
of me."

We were driving back into Boston passing the outbound commuting 
traffic. "Somebody has to go down," I said, "for the bank guard. It isn't 
going to be you and that's all you have to concentrate on."

"Damnit, Spenser, am I selling them out?"

"Yes," I said.

"You son of a bitch."

"If you kick me in the groin while I'm driving a traffic accident might 
ensue."

"I won't do it. I'll warn them now. As soon as I get home."

"First, you don't know how to reach them except through an ad in the 
paper, which you can't do right now.

Second, if you warn them you will screw yourself and your husband, 
whose troubles are as serious as yours and whose salvation is tied to 
selling out Rose and Jane."

"What's wrong? What's the matter with Harvey? Are the kids okay?"

"Everyone's okay at the moment. But Harv's in hock to a loan shark. I 
didn't want to tell you all this but you can't trust me if I lie to you. You 
kept asking."

"You have no right to manipulate me. Not even for my own good. You have 
not got that right maybe especially for my own good."

"I know. That's why I'm telling you. You're better off not knowing, but 
you have the right to know and I don't have the right to decide for you."

"So what in hell is going on?"

I told her. By the time I got through we were heading down Boylston 
Street through Copley Square with the sun reflecting off the empty John 
Hancock Building and the fountain sparkling in the plaza. I left out only 
the part about Hawk shoving one of the kids. Paternalism is hard to shake.

"Good Jesus," she said. "What the hell have we become."

"You've become endangered species among other things. The only way out 
for you is to do what I say. That includes throwing Rose and Jane off the 
back of the sleigh."

"I can't . . . double-cross them. I know that sounds melodramatic but I 
don't know how else to put it."

"It's better than saying you can't betray them. But however you put it, 
you're wrong. You've gotten yourself into a place where all the choices are 
lousy. But they seem clear.

You've got kids that need a mother, you've got a husband that needs a 
wife. You've got a life and it needs you to live it. You're a handsome 
intelligent broad in the middle of something that could still be a good 
life." I turned left at Bonwit's onto Berkeley Street. "Somebody has got to 
go inside for that old cop.

And I won't be crying if it's Rose and Jane. They snuffed him like a 
candle when he got in their way. And if we can hook King Powers on the same 
line, I say we've done good."

I turned right onto Marlborough Street and pulled into the curb by the 
hydrant in front of my apartment. We went up in silence. And we were silent 
when we got inside. The silence got awkward inside because it was pregnant 
with self-awareness. We were awkwardly aware that we were alone together in 
my apartment and that awareness hung between us as if Kate Millett had never 
been born. "I'll make us some supper," I said. "Want a drink first?" My 
voice was a little husky but I didn't want to clear my throat. That would 
have been embarrassing, like an old Leon Errol movie.

"Are you having one?" she said.

"I'm having a beer." My voice had gone from husky to hoarse. I coughed 
to conceal the fact that I was clearing it.

"I'll have one too," she said.

I got two cans of Utica Club cream ale out of the refrigerator.

"Glass?" I said.

"No, can's fine," she said.

"Ever try this," I said. "Really very good. Since they stopped 
importing Amstel, I've been experimenting around."

"It's very nice," she said.

"Want spaghetti?"

"Sure, that would be fine."

I took a container of sauce from the freezer and ran it under hot water 
and popped the crimson block of frozen sauce out into a saucepan. I put the 
gas on very low under the pan, covered it and drank some Utica Club cream 
ale.

"When I was a kid, I remember being out in western Mass somewhere and 
they used to advertise Utica Club with a little character made out of the U 
and the C. I think he was called Ukie." I coughed again, and finished the 
beer. Pam Shepard was leaning her backside on one of the two counter stools 
in my kitchen, her legs straight out in front of her and slightly apart so 
that the light summer print dress she wore pulled tight over the tops of her 
thighs. I wondered if tumescent could be a noun. I am a tumescent? Sounded 
good. She sipped a little of the beer from the can.

"Like it?" I said.

She nodded.

"And the plan? How about that."

She shook her head.

"All right, you don't like it. But will you go along?

Don't waste yourself. Go along. I can get you out of this mess.

Let me."

"Yes," she said. "I'm not pleased with myself, but I'll go along. For 
Harvey and for the children and for myself. Probably mostly for myself . . 
."

Ah-ha, the old puckish charm. I must use this power only for good.

I said, "Whew" and popped the top off another can of Utica Club. I put 
the water on for the spaghetti and started to tear lettuce for the salad.

"Want another beer?" I said. I put the lettuce in some ice water to 
crisp.

"Not yet," she said. She sat still and sipped on the beer and watched 
me. I glanced at her occasionally and smiled and tried not to look too long 
at her thighs.

"I can't figure you out," she said. I sliced a red onion paper thin 
with a wide-bladed butcher knife.

"You mean how someone with my looks and talent ended up in this kind of 
business?"

"I was thinking more about all the conflicts in your character. You 
reek of machismo, and yet you are a very caring person. You have all these 
muscles and yet you read all those books. You're sarcastic and a wise guy 
and you make fun of everything; and yet you were really afraid I'd say no a 
little while ago and two people you don't even like all that well would get 
into trouble. And now here you are cooking me my supper and you're obviously 
nervous at being alone with me in your apartment."

"Obviously?"

"Obviously."

"And you?"

"I too. But I'm just somebody's middle-class housewife.

I would have assumed that you were used to such things.

Surely I can't be the first woman you've made supper for?"

"I cook for Suze a lot," I said. I cut some native tomatoes into 
wedges. And started on a green pepper.

"And for no one else?"

"Lately, just for Suze."

"So what's different about me? Why is there this sense of strain?"

"I'm not sure. It has to do with you being desirable and me being 
randy. I know that much. But it also has to do with a sense that we should 
leave it at that."

"Why?" She had put the beer can down and her arms were folded under her 
breasts.

"I'm trying to get you and Harv back together and making a move at you 
doesn't seem the best way to get that done. And, I don't think Suze would 
like it all that much either."

"Why would she have to know?"

"Because if I didn't tell her then there would be things I kept from 
her. She couldn't trust me."

"But she wouldn't know she couldn't trust you."

"Yeah, but she couldn't."

"That's crazy."

"No. See the fact would be that she couldn't trust me.

That I am not trustworthy. The fact that she didn't know it would be 
simply another deception."

"So you confess every indiscretion?"

"Every one she has a right to know about."

"Have there been many?"

"Some."

"And Susan objects?"

"No. Not generally. But she doesn't know them. And she knows you. I 
think this would hurt her. Especially now.

We're at some kind of juncture. I'm not quite sure what, but I think 
this would be wrong. Damnit."

"She is, I think, a very lucky woman."

"Would you be willing to swear to that. Just recently she called me a 
horse's ass."

"That's possible," Pam Shepard said.

I sliced up three small pickling cucumbers, skin and all, and added 
them to my salad. I took the lettuce out of the water and patted it with a 
towel and then wrapped it and put it in the refrigerator. I checked my 
sauce, it was nearly melted. I added some seedless green grapes to the salad 
bowl.

"The thing is, all that explanation didn't do much for the randiness. I 
don't think it's fatal, but you can't say I'm resting comfortably."

Pam Shepard laughed. "That's good to know. In fact, I thought about us 
going to bed together and the thought was pleasant. You look like you'd hurt 
and somehow I know you wouldn't."

"Tough but oh so gentle," I said.

"But it isn't going to happen, and it's probably just as well. I don't 
usually feel so good about myself after I've made it with someone but 
Harvey." She laughed again, but this time harshly. "Come to think about it, 
I didn't feel all that good the last few times I made it with Harvey."

"Was that recently?"

She looked away from me. "Two years ago."

"That embarrass you?"

She looked back. "Yes," she said. "Very much. Don't you think it 
should?"

"Yeah, maybe. On the other hand you're not a sex vendomatic. He drops 
in two quarters and you come across. I guess you didn't want to sleep with 
him."

"I couldn't stand it." .

"And you both figured you were frigid. So you hustled out evenings to 
prove you weren't."

"I guess so. Not very pretty, is it?"

"Nope. Unhappiness never is. How about Harv, what was he doing to 
dissipate tension?"

"Dissipate tension. My God, I don't think I've ever heard anyone talk 
the way you do. I don't know what he was doing. Masturbation perhaps. I 
don't think he was with other women."

"Why not?"

"Loyalty, masochism, maybe love, who knows."

"Maybe a way to grind the guilt in deeper too."

"Maybe, maybe all that."

"It's almost always all that. It seems the longer I'm in business, the 
more it's always everything working at the same time." I took two cans of 
Utica Club from the refrigerator and popped the tops and handed one to her.

"The thing is," she said, "I never found out."

"If you were frigid?"

"Yes. I'd get drunk and I'd thrash around and bite and moan and do 
anything anyone wanted done, but part of it all was faking and the next day 
I was always disgusted. I think one reason I wanted to ball you was so I 
could ask you afterwards if you thought I was frigid." Her voice had a harsh 
sound to it, and when she said "ball you" it sounded wrong in her mouth. I 
knew the harsh sound. Disgust, I'd heard it before.

"For one thing, you're asking the wrong question.

Frigid isn't a very useful word. You pointed that out to me a while 
ago. It doesn't have a meaning. It simply means you don't want to do 
something that someone else wants you to do. If you don't enjoy screwing old 
Harv then why not say that. Why generalize. Say I don't enjoy screwing 
Harvey, or, even better, I didn't enjoy it last evening. Why turn it into an 
immutable law."

"It's not that simple."

"Sometimes I wonder. Sometimes I think everything is that simple. But 
you're probably right. Sex is as natural as breathing except it takes a 
partner and what one can do with ease, two mangle."

"Does Susan . . . I'm sorry, I have no right to ask that."

"Does Susan like to have sexual intercourse? Sometimes she does and 
sometimes she doesn't. Occasionally, just occasionally now, that's true of 
me. The occasions are more frequent than they were when I was nineteen."

She smiled.

I took the lettuce out of the refrigerator, unwrapped it and tossed it 
in the bowl with the rest of the vegetables. My sauce was starting to bubble 
gently and I took enough spaghetti for two and tossed it into my boiling 
pot. "Plenty of water," I said, "makes it less sticky, and it comes right 
back to a boil so it starts cooking right away. See that. I am a spaghetti 
superstar."

"Why do you want Harvey and me back together? I'm not sure that's your 
business. Or is it just American and apple pie. Marriages are made in 
heaven, they should never break up?"

"I just don't think you've given it a real shot."

"A real shot. Twenty-two years? That's not a real shot?"

"That's a long shot, but not a real one. You've been trying to be what 
you aren't until you can't swallow it anymore and now you think you're 
frigid. He's been panting after greatness all his life and he can't catch it 
because he thinks it's success."

"If I'm not what I've been trying to be, what am I?"

"I don't know. Maybe you could find out if you no longer decided that 
what you ought to be was what your husband expected you to be."

"I'm not sure I know what you're talking about."

"You too, huh? Well, look, if he's disappointed in you it doesn't mean 
you're wrong. It could mean he's wrong."

She shook her head. "Of course, I mean that's no news flash. That's 
every woman's problem. I know that."

"Don't generalize on me. I don't know if it's every woman's problem, or 
if it's only a woman's problem. What I do know is that it might be one of 
your problems. If so, it can be solved. It's one thing to know something. 
It's another to feel it, to act as if it were so, in short, to believe it."

"And how does one learn to believe something?"

"One talks for a while with a good psychotherapist."

"Oh God, a shrink?"

"There's good ones and bad ones. Like private eyes. I can put you in 
touch with some good ones."

"Former clients?"

"No, Suze knows a lot about that stuff. She's a guidance person and 
takes it seriously."

"Is that the answer, a damned shrink? Everything that happens some 
psychiatrist is in on it. Every time some kid gets an F the shrink's got to 
have his two cents' worth."

"You ever try it?"

"No."

"Harv?"

"No. He wanted me to, see if they could find out why I was frigid. But 
he didn't want to go too. Said there was nothing wrong with him. Didn't want 
some goddamned headshrinker prying around in his business trying to convince 
him he was sick."

"Doesn't have to be a psychiatrist, you know. Could be a good social 
worker. You ought to talk with Suze about it.

But Harv's got the wrong language again, just like frigid.

Doesn't help to talk about 'wrong' with a big W. You got a problem. 
They can help. Sometimes."

"What about all these people they commit to asylums for no reason and 
how in murder cases they can't agree on anything. One side gets a shrink to 
say he's crazy and the other side gets one to say he's sane."

"Okay, psychiatry boasts as many turkeys as any other business, maybe 
more. But the kinds of things you're talking about aren't relevant. Those 
things come from asking psychiatrists to do what they aren't equipped to do. 
Good ones know that, I think. Good ones know that what they can do is help 
people work out problems. I don't think they are very good at curing 
schizophrenia or deciding whether someone is legally sane. That's bullshit. 
But they might be quite useful in helping you get over defining yourself in 
your husband's terms, or helping your husband get over defining himself in 
Cotton Mather's terms."

"Cotton Mather?"

"Yeah, you know, the old Puritan ethic."

"Oh, that Cotton Mather. You do read the books, don't you?"

"I got a lotta time," I said. The timer buzzed and I twirled out a 
strand of spaghetti and tried it. "Al dente," I said. "His brother Sam used 
to play for the Red Sox." The spaghetti was done, I turned it into a 
colander, emptied the pan, shook the colander to drain the spaghetti, turned 
it back into the pan, added a little butter and some Parmesean cheese and 
tossed it.

"You made that up."

"What?"

"About Al Dente's brother."

"Nope, truth. Sam Dente used to play with the Sox about thirty years 
ago. Infielder. Left-handed batter." The spaghetti sauce was bubbling. I 
poured it into a big gravy boat and put two big heaps of spaghetti on two 
plates. I poured the salad dressing over the salad, tossed it and set 
everything on the kitchen counter. "Silverware in the drawer there," I said. 
I got some Gallo Burgundy in a half-gallon bottle and two wine glasses out 
of the cupboard.

We sat at the counter and ate and drank. "Did you make the spaghetti 
sauce?" she said.

"Yeah. A secret recipe I got off the back of the tomato paste can."

"And the salad dressing? Is there honey in it?"

"Yep. Got that from my mother."

She shook her head. "Fighter, lover, gourmet cook?

Amazing."

"Nope. I'll take the fighter, lover, but the gourmet cook is a sexist 
remark."

"Why?"

"If you'd cooked this no one would say you were a gourmet cook. It's 
because I'm a man. A man who cooks and is interested in it is called a 
gourmet. A woman is called a housewife. Now eat the goddamned spaghetti," I 
said. She did. Me too.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

I SLEPT ON THE COUCH. A triumph once more of virtue over tumescence. I
was up and showered and away before Pam Shepard woke up. At 10:00 A.M. I
was having coffee with King Powers' man Macey in the Holiday Inn in
Hyannis.

"Care for some fruit?" Macey said.

"No thanks. The coffee will do. When can you deliver the guns?"

"Tomorrow maybe, day after for sure."

"What you got?"

"M2 carbines, in perfect condition, one hundred rounds apiece."

"How many?"

"Four hundred and fifty."

"Jesus Christ, that's more than two bills apiece."

Macey shrugged. "Ammo's included, don't forget."

"Christ, you can pick 'em up in the gun shop for less than half that."

"Four hundred and fifty of them? M2s?"

"There's that," I said. "But a hundred grand for four hundred and fifty 
pieces. I don't think my people will like that."

"You came to us, Spence. You asked us. Remember."

I loved being called Spence. "And remember there's thirty thousand out 
for your share."

"Which you're keeping."

"Hey, Spence, it's owed us. We wouldn't be long in business if we 
didn't demand financial responsibility from our clients. We didn't go to 
Harvey either. He came to us. Just like you. You don't like the deal, you're 
free to make another one someplace else. Just see to it that Harvey comes up 
with the thirty thousand dollars he owes us. Which, incidentally, will 
increase as of Monday."

"Oh yeah, you private-service firms seem to work on an escalated 
interest scale, don't you."

Macey smiled and shrugged and spread his hands.

"What can I tell you, Spence? We have our methods and we attract 
clients. We must be doing something right." He folded his arms. "You want 
the guns or don't you?"

"Yes."

"Good, then we have a deal. When do you wish to take delivery? I can 
guarantee day after tomorrow." He checked his calendar watch. "The 
twenty-seventh. Sooner is iffy."

"The twenty-seventh is fine."

"And where do you wish to take delivery?"

"Doesn't matter. You got a spot?"

"Yes. Do you know the market terminal in Chelsea?"

"Yeah."

"There, day after tomorrow at six A.M. There are a lot of trucks 
loading and unloading at that time. No one will pay us any mind. Your 
principals have a truck?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. We've got a deal. You going to be there with your people?"

"Yeah."

"I won't be. But you should have ready for the man in charge one 
hundred thousand dollars in cash. Go to the restaurant there in the market 
center. You know where it is." I nodded. "Have a cup of coffee or whatever. 
You'll be contacted."

"No good," I said.

"Why not?"

"King's got to deliver them himself."

"Why?"

"My people want to do business with the principals.

They don't like working through me. They might want to do more business 
and they want to deal direct."

"Perhaps I can go."

"No. It's gotta be King. They want to be sure they don't get burned. 
They figure doing business with the boss is like earnest money. If he does 
it himself they figure it'll go right, there won't be anything sour, like 
selling us ten crates of lead pipe. Or shooting us and taking the money and 
going away.

They figure King wouldn't want to be involved in that kind of goings-on 
himself. Too much risk. So, King delivers personally or it's no deal."

"Mr. Powers doesn't like being told what to do," Macey said.

"Me either, but we been reasonable, and you're getting your price. He 
can bend on this one."

"I can assure you there will be no contrivances or double dealing on 
this. This is an on-the-table, straight-ahead business deal."

"That's good to know, Macey. And I believe you 'cause I'm here looking 
into your sincere brown eyes but my clients, they're not here. They don't 
know how sincere you are and they don't trust you. Even after I mentioned 
how you been to college and everything."

"How about we just cancel the whole thing and foreclose on Harvey."

"We go to the cops."

"And Harvey explains why he needed all that money we advanced him?"

"Better than explaining to you people why he can't pay."

"That would be a bad mistake."

"Yeah, maybe, but it would be a bad one for you too.

Even if you wasted Harvey you'd have the fuzzy-wuzzies following you 
around and you'd have me mad at you and trying to get you busted and for 
what? All because King was too lazy to get up one morning for a six o'clock 
appointment?"

Macey looked at me for maybe thirty seconds.

"You don't want to maneuver me and Harv into a place where we got no 
options. You don't want to make the law look more attractive than you guys. 
You don't want to arrange something where Harv's got nothing to lose by 
talking to the D.A. My people are adamant on this. They are interested in 
doing business with the man. And you ain't him. King is the man."

Macey said, "I'll check with him. I'm not authorized to commit him to 
something like this."

"You're not authorized to zip your fly without asking King. We both 
know that, preppy. Call him." Macey looked at me another thirty seconds. 
Then he got up and went into the next room.

He was gone maybe fifteen minutes. I drank my coffee and admired my 
Adidas Varsities, in rust-colored suede. Excellent for tennis, jogging and 
avoiding injury through flight.

I poured another cup of coffee from the room service thermos pitcher. 
It was not hot. I left the cup on the table and went to the window and 
looked down at the pool. It was as blue as heaven and full of people, 
largely young ones, splashing and swimming and diving. A lot of flesh was 
darkening on beach chairs around the pool and some of it was pleasant to 
see. I should probably call Susan. I hadn't been back last night.

Maybe she'd be worried. I should have called her last night.

Hard to keep everything in my head sometimes. Pam Shepard and Harvey 
and Rose and Jane and King Powers and Hawk, and the New Bedford cops and 
getting it to work. And the tumescence. There was that to deal with too. A 
girl with long straight blond hair appeared from under one of the sun 
umbrellas wearing a bikini so brief as to seem pointless. I was looking at 
her closely when Macey came back into the room.

"King okayed it."

"Say, isn't that good," I said. "Not only is he a King but he's a 
Prince. Right, Macey?"

"He wasn't easy to persuade, Spence. You've got me to thank for this 
deal. He was going to have you blown away when I first told him what you 
wanted."

"And you saved me. Macey, you've put it all together today, kid."

"You laugh, but I'm telling you it was a near thing.

This better go smooth or King'll do it. Take my word. He'll do it, 
Spence."

"Macey," I said. "If you call me Spence again I'll break your glasses."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

IT WAS ELEVEN-TWENTY when I got back to my motel. There was a note on
the bureau. "I'm walking on the beach," it said. "Be back around
lunchtime. Maybe I didn't come home all night either." I looked at my
watch: 11:22. I called my service and left word for Rose to call me at
the motel. At five past twelve she did.

"You know where the New England Produce Center is in Chelsea?" I said.

"No."

"I'm going to tell you, so get a pencil and write it down."

"I have one."

I told her. "When you get there," I said, "go to the restaurant and sit 
at the counter and have a cup of coffee. I'll be there by quarter of six."

"I want Pamela to be there as well."

"Why?"

"I'll trust you more if she's there."

"That's sort of like using a sister," I said.

"We use what we must. The cause requires it."

"Always does," I said.

"She'll be there?"

"I'll bring her with me."

"We will be there, with our part of the bargain."

"You'll need a truck."

"How large?"

"Not large, an Econoline van, something like that."

"We'll rent one. Will you help us load?"

"Yes."

"Very well. See you there." She hung up.

I wrote a note to Susan, told her I'd be back to take her to dinner, 
put twenty-seven X's at the bottom and replaced the one she'd written me. 
Then I called New Bedford. Jackie Sylvia said he and McDermott would meet me 
at the Bristol County Court House on County Street. They were there when I 
arrived, leaning on each side of a white pillar out front.

"Come on," Sylvia said when I got out of the car. "We got to talk with 
Linhares."

We went into the red brick courthouse, past the clerk's office, up some 
stairs and into an office that said ANTON LINHARES, ASST. DIST. ATT., on the 
door. Linhares stood, came around the desk and shook hands with me when we 
went in.

He was medium-size and trim with a neat Afro haircut, a dark 
three-piece suit and a white shirt with a black and red regimental stripe 
tie. His shoes looked like Gucci and his suit looked like Pierre Cardin and 
he looked like a future D.A. His handshake was firm and he smelled of after 
shave lotion.

Canoe I bet.

"Sit down, Spenser, good to see you. Jackie and Rich have me wired in 
on the case. I don't see any problem. When's it going down?"

"Day after tomorrow," I said, "at six in the morning, at the market 
terminal in Chelsea."

"That Suffolk or Middlesex County?"

"Suffolk," I said.

"You sure?"

"I used to work for the Suffolk County D.A. Everett's Middlesex, 
Chelsea's Suffolk."

"Okay, I'm going to need some cooperation from Suffolk." He looked at 
his wristwatch. It was big and had a luminous green face and you pressed a 
button to get the time displayed in digits. "That's no sweat," he said. 
"I'll get Jim Clancy on the horn up there. He'll go along."

He leaned back in his swivel chair, cocked one foot up on a slightly 
open drawer and looked at me. "What's the setup?" he said. I told him.

"So we set up around there ahead of time," Sylvia said, "and when they 
are in the middle of the transaction . . ." He raised an open hand and 
clamped it shut.

Linhares nodded. "Right. We've got them no matter what part of the swap 
they're in. One of them will have stolen money and the others will have 
stolen guns. I want to be there. I want part of this one."

McDermott said. "We thought you might, Anton."

Linhares smiled without irritation. "I didn't take this job to stay in 
it all my life."

Sylvia said, "Yeah, but let's make sure this doesn't get leaked to the 
press before it happens."

Linhares grinned again. "Gentlemen," he said. He shook his head in 
friendly despair. "Gentlemen. How unkind."

"Sylvia's right," I said. "These are very careful people.

King Powers by habit. Rose and Jane by temperament.

They'll be very skittish."

"Fair enough," Linhares said. "Now what about your people. How you want 
to handle that?"

"I want them not to exist," I said. "They can be referred to as two 
anonymous undercover operatives whose identity must be protected. Me too. If 
my name gets into this it may drag theirs in with it. They're both clients."

Linhares said, "I'll need the names. Not to prosecute but to bury. If 
they get scooped up in the net I've got to know who to let go."

I told him. "They're related?" he said.

"Yeah, husband and wife."

"And you put this thing together for them?"

"Yeah."

"How'd Suffolk ever let you get away?"

"Hard to figure," I said.

"Okay." Linhares looked at his watch again. He liked pushing the 
button. "Jackie, you and Rich get up there tomorrow with Spenser here and 
set this thing up. I'll call Jimmy Clancy and have him waiting for you."

"We gotta check with the squad," McDermott said.

"I'll take care of that," Linhares said. "I'll call Sergeant Cruz and 
have you assigned to me for a couple of days.

Manny and I are buddies. He'll go along. You get hold of Bobby Santos, 
he'll go up with you tomorrow so he can brief me for the bust." He reached 
over and punched an intercom on his phone and said into it, "Peggy, get me 
Jimmy Clancy up in the Suffolk D.A.'s office." With one hand over the 
mouthpiece he said to me, "Good seeing you, Spenser. Nice job on this one." 
And to Sylvia and McDermott, "You, too, guys, nice job all around."

He took his hand away and said into the phone, "Jimmy, Anton Linhares. 
I got a live one for you, kid." We got up and went out.

"Who's this Santos?" I said to Jackie Sylvia.

"State dick, works out of this office. He's okay. Wants to be public 
safety commissioner, but what the hell, nothing wrong with ambition. Right 
Rich?"

"I don't know," McDermott said. "I never had any. You want to ride up 
with us tomorrow, Spenser, or you want to meet us there?"

"I'll meet you there," I said. "In Clancy's office. About ten."

"Catch you then," Sylvia said. We reached my car.

There was a parking ticket under the windshield wiper. I took it out 
and slipped it into the breast pocket of Sylvia's maroon blazer. "Show me 
the kind of clout you got around here," I said. "Fix that." I got in the 
car. As I pulled away Sylvia took the ticket out of his pocket and tore it 
in two. As I pulled around the corner on County Street he was giving half to 
McDermott.

I was into the maze again and on my first pass at the Fairhaven Bridge 
I ended up going out Acushnet Street parallel to the river. There was a 
parking lot by the unemployment office and I pulled in to turn around. There 
was a long line at the unemployment office and a man with a pushcart and a 
striped umbrella was selling hot dogs, soft drinks, popcorn and peanuts. 
Festive.

I made the bridge on my second try, and headed back down the Cape. The 
sun was at my back now and ahead was maybe a swim, some tennis and supper. I 
hoped Susan hadn't eaten. It was five-twenty when I got back to the motel. I 
spotted Susan's Nova in the lot. When I unlocked the door to the room she 
was there. Sitting in front of the mirror with a piece of Kleenex in her 
hand, her hair up in big rollers, a lot of cream on her face, wearing a 
flowered robe and unlaced sneakers.

"Arrrgh," I said.

"You weren't supposed to be back yet," she said, wiping at some of the 
cream with her Kleenex.

"Never mind that shit, lady," I said, "what have you done with Susan 
Silverman?"

"It's time you knew, sweetie, this is the real me."

"Heavens," I said.

"Does this mean it's over?"

"No, but tell me the fake you will reappear in a while."

"Twenty minutes," she said, "I've made us reservations at the 
Coonamessett Inn for seven."

"How about a swim first and then some tennis, or vice versa."

"No. I just washed my hair. I don't want to get it wet and sweaty. Or 
vice versa. Why don't you swim while I conceal the real me. Then we can have 
a drink and a leisurely drive to the inn and you can explain yourself and 
where the hell you've been and what you've been doing and with or to whom, 
and that sort of thing."

I swam for a half-hour. The pool was only about fifty feet long so I 
did a lot of turns, but it was a nice little workout and I went back to the 
room with the blood moving in my veins. Susan didn't do anything to slow it 
down. The hair was unrolled and the robe and cream had disappeared. And she 
was wearing a pale sleeveless dress the color of an eggshell, and jade 
earrings. She was putting her lipstick on when I came in, leaning close to 
the mirror to make sure it was right.

I took a shower and shaved and brushed my teeth with a fluoride 
toothpaste that tasted like Christmas candy. I put on my dark blue summer 
suit with brass buttons on the coat and vest, a pale blue oxford button-down 
shirt and a white tie with blue and gold stripes. Dark socks, black tassel 
loafers. I checked myself in the mirror. Clear-eyed, and splendid. I clipped 
my gun on under my coat. I really ought to get a dress gun sometime. A pearl 
handle perhaps, in a patent leather holster. .

"Stay close to me," I said to Susan on the way out to the car. "The 
Hyannis Women's Club may try to kidnap me and treat me as a sex object."

Susan put her arm through mine. "Death before dishonor," she said.

In the car Susan put a kerchief over her hair and I drove slowly with 
the top down to the inn. We had a Margarita in the bar and got a table by 
the window where you could look out on the lake.

We had a second Margarita while we looked at the menu. "No beer?" Susan 
asked.

"Didn't seem to go with the mood or the occasion," I said. "I'll have 
some with dinner."

I ordered raw oysters and lobster thermidor. Susan chose oysters and 
baked stuffed lobster.

"It's all falling into place, Suze," I said. "I think I can do it."

"I hope so," she said. "Have you seen Pam Shepard?"

"Last night."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, I slept in my apartment last night."

"Oh? How is she?"

"Oh, nowhere near as good as you," I said.

"I don't mean that. I mean how is her state of mind."

"Okay, I think you should talk with her. She's screwed up pretty good, 
and I think she needs some kind of therapy."

"Why? You made a pass at her and she turned you down?"

"Just talk with her. I figure you can direct her someplace good. She 
and her husband can't agree on what she ought to be and she feels a lot of 
guilt about that."

Susan nodded. "Of course I'll talk with her. When?"

"After this is over, day after tomorrow it should be."

"I'll be glad to."

"I didn't make a pass at her."

"I didn't ask," Susan said.

"It was a funny scene though. I mean we talked about it a lot. She's 
not a fool, but she's misled, maybe unadult, it's hard to put my finger on 
it. She believes some very destructive things. What's that Frost line, 'He 
will not go behind his father's saying'?"

"'Mending Wall,"' Susan said.

"Yeah, she's like that, like she never went beyond her mother's 
sayings, or her father's and when they didn't work she still didn't go 
beyond them. She just found someone with a new set of sayings, and never 
went beyond them."

"Rose and Jane?" Susan said.

"You have a fine memory," I said. "It helps make up for your real 
appearance."

"There's a lot of women like that. I see a lot of them at school, and a 
lot of them at school parties. Wives of teachers and principals. I see a lot 
of them coming in with their daughters and I see a lot of daughters that 
will grow into that kind of woman."

"Frost was writing about a guy," I said.

"Yes, I know. I see." The waitress brought our oysters.

"It's not just women, is it."

"No, ma'am. Old Harv is just as bad, just as far into the sayings of 
his father and just as blind to what's beyond them as Pam is."

"Doesn't he need therapy too?"

The oysters were outstanding. Very fresh, very young.

"Yeah, I imagine. But I think she might be brighter, and have more 
guts. I don't think he's got the guts for therapy. Maybe not the brains 
either. But I've only seen him under stress.

Maybe he's better than he looks," I said. "He loves her. Loves the crap 
out of her."

"Maybe that's just another saying of his father's that he can't go 
behind."

"Maybe everything's a saying. Maybe there isn't anything but saying. 
You have to believe in something. Loving the crap out of someone isn't the 
worst one."

"Ah, you sweet talker you," Susan said. "How elegantly you put it. Do 
you love the crap out of anyone?"

"You got it, sweetheart," I said.

"Is that your Bogart impression again?"

"Yeah, I work on it in the car mirror driving back and forth between 
here and Boston and New Bedford."

The oysters departed and the lobster came. While we worked on it I told 
Susan everything we had set up for next day. Few people can match Susan 
Silverman for lobster eating. She leaves no claw uncracked, no crevice 
unpried. And all the while she doesn't get any on her and she doesn't look 
savage.

I tend to hurt myself when I attack a baked stuffed lobster. So I 
normally get thermidor, or salad, or stew or whatever they offered that had 
been shelled for me.

When I got through talking Susan said, "It's hard to keep it all in 
your head, isn't it. So many things depend on so many other things. So much 
is unresolved and will remain so unless everything goes in sequence."

"Yeah, it's nervous-making."

"You don't seem nervous."

"It's what I do," I said. "I'm good at it. It'll probably work."

"And if it doesn't."

"Then it's a mess and I'll have to think of something else. But I've 
done what I can. I try not to worry about things I can't control."

"And you assume if it breaks you can fix it, don't you?"

"I guess so. Something like that. I've always been able to do most of 
what I needed to do."

We each had a very good wild blueberry tart for dessert and retired to 
the bar for Irish coffee. On the ride back to the motel, Susan put her head 
back against the seat without the kerchief and let her hair blow about.

"Want to go look at the ocean," I said. "Yes," she said.

I drove down Sea Street to the beach and parked in the lot. It was late 
and there was no one there. Susan left her shoes in the car and we walked 
along the sand in the bright darkness with the ocean rolling in gently to 
our left. I took her hand and we walked in silence. Off somewhere to the 
right, inland, someone was playing an old Tommy Dorsey album and a vocal 
group was singing "Once in a while." The sound in the late stillness drifted 
out across the water.

Quaint and sort of old-fashioned now, and familiar.

"Want to swim," I said.

We dropped our clothes in a heap on the beach and went into the ebony 
water and swam beside each other parallel to the shore perhaps a quarter of 
a mile. Susan was a strong swimmer and I didn't have to slow down for her. I 
dropped back slightly so I could watch the white movement of her arms and 
shoulders as they sliced almost soundlessly through the water. We could 
still hear the stereo. A boy singer was doing "East of the Sun and West of 
the Moon" with a male vocal group for backing. Ahead of me Susan stopped and 
stood breast deep in the water. I stopped beside her and put my arms around 
her slick body. She was breathing deeply, though not badly out of breath, 
and I could feel her heart beating strongly against my chest. She kissed me 
and the salt taste of ocean mixed with the sweet taste of her lipstick. She 
pulled her head back and looked up at me with her hair plastered tight 
against her scalp. And the beads of sea water glistening on her face. Her 
teeth seemed very shiny to me, up close like that when she smiled.

"In the water?" she said.

"Never tried it in the water," I said. My voice was hoarse again.

"I'll drown," she said and turned and dove toward the shore. I plunged 
after her and caught her at the tidal margin and we lay in the wet sand and 
made love while Frank Sinatra and the Pied Pipers sang "There Are Such 
Things" and the waves washed about our legs. By the time we had finished the 
late-night listener had put on an Artie Shaw album and we were listening to 
"Dancing in the Dark." We were motionless for a bit, letting the waves flow 
over us. The tide seemed to be coming in. A wave larger than the ones before 
it broke over us, and for a moment we were underwater. We came up, both of 
us blowing water from our mouths, and looked at each other and began to 
laugh. "Deborah Kerr," I said.

"Burt Lancaster," she said.

"From here to eternity," I said.

"That far, at least," she said. And we snuggled in the wet sand with 
the sea breaking over us until our teeth began to chatter.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

WE GOT DRESSED and went back to the motel and took a long hot shower
together and ordered a bottle of Burgundy from room service and got into
bed and sipped the wine and watched the late movie, Fort Apache, one of
my favorites, and fell asleep.

In the morning we had breakfast in the room and when I left for Boston 
about eight-thirty, Susan was still in bed, drinking a cup of coffee and 
watching the Today program.

The Suffolk County Court House in Pemberton Square is a very large gray 
building that's hard to see because it's halfway up the east flank of Beacon 
Hill and the new Government Center buildings shield it from what I still 
call Bowdoin Square and Scollay Square. I parked down in Bowdoin Square in 
front of the Saltonstall State Office Building and walked up the hill to the 
courthouse.

Jim Clancy had an Errol Flynn mustache, and it looked funny because his 
face was round and shiny and his light hair had receded hastily from his 
forehead. Sylvia and McDermott were there already, along with a guy who 
looked like Ricardo Montalban and one who looked like a Fed. McDermott 
introduced me. Ricardo turned out in fact to be Bobby Santos who might 
someday be public safety commissioner. The Fed turned out to be a man named 
Klaus from Treasury.

"We'll meet some people from Chelsea over there," McDermott said. 
"We've already filled Bobby in, and we're about to brief these gentlemen."

McDermott was wearing a green T-shirt today, with a pocket over the 
left breast, and gray corduroy pants, and sandals. His gun was stuck in his 
belt under the T-shirt, just above his belt buckle, and bulged like a 
prosthetic device.

Klaus, in a Palm Beach suit, white broadcloth shirt and polka dot bow 
tie, looked at him like a virus. He spoke to Sylvia.

"What's Spenser's role in this?"

Sylvia said, "Why not ask him?"

"I'm asking you," Klaus said.

Sylvia looked at McDermott and raised his eyebrows.

McDermott said, "Good heavens."

"Did I ever explain to you," Sylvia said to McDermott, "why faggots 
wear bow ties?"

I said to Klaus, "I'm the guy set it up. I'm the one knows the people 
and I'm the one that supervises the swap.

I'm what you might call your key man."

Clancy said, "Go ahead, McDermott. Lay it out for us, we want to get 
the arrangements set."

McDermott lit a miserable-looking cigarette from the pack he kept in 
the pocket of his T-shirt.

"Well," he said, "me and Jackie was sitting around the squad room one 
day, thinking about crime and stuff, it was kind of a slow day, and here 
comes this key man here."

Klaus said, "For crissake, get on with it."

Santos said, "Rich."

McDermott said, "Yeah, yeah, okay, Bobby. I just don't want to go too 
fast for the G-man."

"Say it all, Rich," Santos said.

He did. The plan called for two vans, produce trucks, with Sylvia, 
McDermott, Santos, Linhares, Klaus and several Chelsea cops and two Staties 
from Clancy's staff to arrive in the area about five-thirty, park at a 
couple of unloading docks, one on one side and one on the other side of the 
restaurant, and await developments. When the time was right I'd signal by 
putting both hands in my hip pockets, and "Like locusts," McDermott said, 
"me and Jackie and J. Edgar over here will be on 'em."

Clancy opened a manila folder on his desk and handed around 8 x 10 
glossy mug shots of King Powers. "That's Powers," Clancy said. "We have him 
on file."

"The two women," I said, "I'll have to describe." And I did. Klaus took 
notes, Sylvia cleaned his fingers with the small blade of a pocketknife. The 
others just sat and looked at me. When I got through, Klaus said, "Good 
descriptions, Spenser."

McDermott and Sylvia looked at each other. Tomorrow it would be good if 
they were in one truck and Klaus was in another.

Clancy said, "Okay, any questions."

Santos said, "Warrants?"

Clancy said, "That's in the works, we'll have them ready for tomorrow."

Santos said, "How about entrapment."

"What entrapment," Sylvia said. "We got a tip from an informant that an 
illegal gun sale was going down, we staked it out and we were lucky."

Clancy nodded. "It should be clean, all we're arranging is the 
stakeout. We had nothing to do with Spenser doublecrossing them."

"One of my people's going to be there, Pam Shepard.

You'll probably have to pick her up. If you do, keep her separate from 
the others and give her to me as soon as the others are taken away."

"Who in hell are you talking to, Spenser," Klaus said.

"You sound like you're in charge of the operation." o McDermott said, 
"Operation, Jackie. That's what we're in, an operation."

Clancy said, "We agreed, Clyde. We trade the broad and her husband for 
Powers and the libbers."

"Clyde?" Sylvia said to McDermott.

"Clyde Klaus?" McDermott's face was beautiful with pleasure.

Klaus's face flushed slightly.

"Clyde Klaus." McDermott and Sylvia spoke in unison, their voices 
breaking on the very edge of a giggle.

Santos said, "You two clowns wanna knock off the horseshit. We got 
serious work to do here. Cruz got you detached to me on this thing, you 
know. You listen to what I tell you."

Sylvia and McDermott forced their faces into solemnity behind which the 
giggles still smirked.

"Anything else?" Clancy said. He turned his head in a half circle, 
covering all of us, one at a time. "Okay, let's go look at the site."

"I'll skip that one," I said. "I'll take a look at it later.

But if any of the bad persons got it under what Klaus would call 
surveillance I don't want to be spotted with a group of strange, 
fuzzy-looking men."

"And if they see you looking it over on your own," Santos said, 
"they'll assume you're just careful. Like they are.

Yeah. Good idea."

"You know the place?" Clancy said.

"Yeah."

"Okay, the Chelsea people are going to be under command of a lieutenant 
named Kaplan if you want to check on something over there."

I nodded. "Thanks, Clancy, nice to have met you gentlemen. See you 
tomorrow." I went out of Clancy's office. With the door ajar I reached back 
in with my right hand, gave it the thumbs-up gesture and said, "Good 
hunting, Clyde," and left. Behind me I could hear Sylvia and McDermott 
giggling again, now openly. Klaus said, "Listen," as I closed the door.

Outside I bought two hot dogs and a bottle of cream soda from a street 
vendor and ate sitting by the fountain in City Hall Plaza. A lot of women 
employed in the Government Center buildings were lunching also on the plaza 
and I ranked them in the order of general desirability. I was down to 
sixteenth when my lunch was finished and I had to go to work. I'd have 
ranked the top twenty-five in that time normally, but there was a three-way 
tie for seventh and I lost a great deal of time trying to resolve it.

Chelsea is a shabby town, beloved by its residents, across the Mystic 
River from Boston. There was a scatter of junk dealers, rag merchants and 
wholesale tire outlets, a large weedy open area where a huge fire had 
swallowed half the city, leaving what must be the world's largest vacant 
lot.

On the northwest edge of the city where it abuts Everett is the New 
England Produce Center, one of two big market terminals on the fringes of 
Boston that funnel most of the food into the city. It was an ungainly place, 
next door to the Everett oil farm, but it sports a restaurant housed in an 
old railroad car. I pulled my car in by the restaurant and went in. It 
bothered me a little, as I sat at the counter and looked out at it, that my 
car seemed to integrate so aptly with the surroundings.

I had a piece of custard pie and a cup of black coffee and looked 
things over. It was a largely idle gesture. There was no way I could know 
where the swap would take place.

There wasn't a hell of a lot for me to gain by surveying the scene. I 
had to depend on the buttons to show up, like they would when I put my hands 
in my hip pockets.

The restaurant wasn't very busy, more empty than full, and I glanced 
around to see if anyone was casing me. Or looked suspicious. No one was 
polishing a machine gun, no one was picking his teeth with a switchblade, no 
one was paying me any attention at all. I was used to it. I sometimes went 
days when people paid no attention to me at all. The bottom crust on my 
custard pie was soggy. I paid the bill and left.

I drove back into Boston through Everett and Charlestown. The elevated 
had been dismantled in Charlestown and City Square looked strangely naked 
and vulnerable without it. Like someone without his accustomed eyeglasses. 
They could have left it up and hung plants from it.

For reasons that have never been clear to me the midday traffic in 
Boston is as bad as the commuter traffic and it took me nearly thirty-five 
minutes to get to my apartment.

Pam Shepard let me in looking neat but stir-crazy.

"I was just having a cup of soup," she said. "Want some?"

"I ate lunch," I said, "but I'll sit with you and have a cup of coffee 
while you eat. We're going to have to spend another night together."

"And?"

"And then I think we'll have it whipped. Then I think you can go home."

We sat at my counter and she had her tomato soup and I had a cup of 
instant coffee.

"Home," she said. "My God, that seems so far away."

"Homesick?"

"Oh, yes, very much. But . . . I don't know. I don't know about going 
home. I mean, what has changed since I left."

"I don't know. I guess you'll have to go home and find out. Maybe 
nothing has changed. But tomorrow Rose and Jane are going to be in the jug 
and you can't sleep here forever. My restraint is not limitless."

She smiled. "It's kind of you to say so."

"After tomorrow we can talk about it. I won't kick you out."

"What happens tomorrow?"

"We do it," I said. "We go over to the Chelsea Market about six in the 
morning and we set up the gun sale and when it is what you might call 
consummated, the cops come with the net and you and Harv get another crack 
at it."

"Why do I have to go? I don't mean I won't, or shouldn't, but what good 
will I do?"

"You're kind of a hostage . . . Rose figures if you're implicated too, 
I won't double-cross them. She doesn't trust me, but she knows I'm looking 
out for you."

"You mean if she gets arrested, I'll get arrested too?"

"That seems her theory. I told her that didn't seem sisterly. She said 
something about the cause."

"Jesus Christ, maybe you are the only person I can depend on."

I shrugged.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

IT WAS RAINING like hell and still dark when I woke up with a crick in
my neck on the sofa in my living room. I shut off the alarm and dragged
myself out of bed. It was quarter of five. I took a shower, and got
dressed before I banged on my bedroom door, at five o'clock.

Pam Shepard said, "I'm awake."

She came out of the bedroom wearing my bathrobe and looking her age and 
went into the bathroom. I checked my gun. I stood in my front window and 
looked down at Marlborough Street and at the rain circles forming in the wet 
street. I thought about making coffee and decided we wouldn't have time and 
we could get some in the railroad car.

I got out my red warm-up jacket that said LOWELL CHIEFS on it and put 
it on. I tried getting the gun off my hip while wearing it, and I left it 
unbuttoned. It wasn't bad. At five-twenty Pam Shepard came out of the 
bathroom with her hair combed and her make-up on and my robe still folded 
around her, and went back into my bedroom and shut the door. I took my car 
keys out of my hip pocket and put them in my coat pocket. I went to the 
window and looked at the rain some more. It always excited me when it 
rained. The wet streets seemed more promising than the dry ones, and the 
city was quieter.

At five-thirty Pam Shepard came out of my bedroom wearing yellow slacks 
and a chocolate-colored blouse with long lapels.

She put on a powder blue slicker and a wide-brimmed rain hat that 
matched and said, "I'm ready."

"The wardrobe for every occasion," I said. "I have the feeling you had 
Susan buy you a safari hat just in case you had to shoot tiger while you 
stayed here."

She smiled but there wasn't much oomph in it. She was scared.

"This is going to be a milk run," I said. "There will be more cops than 
fruit flies there. And me, I will be right with you."

We went down the front stairs and got in my car and it started and we 
were off.

"I know," she said. "I know it'll be all right. There's just been so 
much, and now this. Police and gangsters and it's early in the morning and 
raining and so much depends on this."

"You and me babe," I said, "we'll be fine." I patted her leg. It was a 
gesture my father used to make. It combined, when he did it, affection and 
reassurance. It didn't seem to do a hell of a lot for Pam Shepard. At twelve 
minutes of six in the morning we pulled into the restaurant parking lot. It 
was daylight now, but a gray and dismal daylight, cold as hell, for summer, 
and the warm yellow of the lighted windows in the railroad car looked good. 
There were a lot of trucks and cars parked. The terminal does its work very 
early. I assumed that two of the trucks contained our side but there was no 
telling which ones.

Inside we sat in a booth and ordered two coffees and two English 
muffins. Pam didn't eat hers. At about two minutes past six King Powers came 
in wearing a trench coat and a plaid golf cap. Macey was with him in a 
London Fog, and outside in the entryway I could see Hawk in what looked like 
a white leather cape with a hood.

"Good morning, Kingo-babe," I said. "Care for a cup of java? English 
muffin? I think my date's not going to eat hers."

Powers sat down and looked at Pam Shepard. "This the buyer," he said.

"One of them. The ones with the bread haven't shown up yet."

"They fucking better show up," King said. Macey sat in the booth beside 
Powers.

"That's a most fetching hat, King," I said. "I remember my Aunt Bertha 
used to wear one very much like it on rainy days. Said you get your head wet 
you got the miseries."

Powers paid no attention to me. "I say fucking six o'clock I mean 
fucking six o'clock. I don't mean five after. You know what I'm saying."

Rose and Jane came into the restaurant.

"Speak of coincidence, King," I said. "There they are."

I gestured toward Rose and Jane and pointed outside.

They turned and left. "Let us join them," I said, "outside where fewer 
people will stand around and listen to us."

Powers got up, Macey went right after him and Pam and I followed along. 
As we went out the door I looked closely at Hawk. It was a white leather 
cape. With a hood. Hawk said, "Pow'ful nice mawning, ain't it, boss."

I said, "Mind if I rub your head for luck?"

I could see Hawk's shoulders moving with silent laughter. He drifted 
along behind me. In the parking lot I said, "King, Macey, Hawk, Rose, Jane, 
Pam. There now, we're all introduced, let us get it done."

Powers said, "You got the money?"

Jane showed him a shopping bag she was carrying under her black rubber 
raincoat.

"Macey, take it to the truck and count it."

Rose said, "How do we know he won't run off with it?"

Powers said, "Jesus Christ, sister, what's wrong with you?"

Rose said, "We want to see the guns."

"They're in the back of the truck," Macey said. "We'll get in and you 
can look at the guns while I count the money.

That way we don't waste time and we both are assured."

Powers said, "Good. You do that. I'm getting out of the fucking rain. 
Hawk, you and Macey help them load the pieces when Macey's satisfied."

Powers got up in the cab of a yellow Ryder Rental Truck and closed the 
door. Rose and Jane and Macey went to the back of the truck. Macey opened 
the door and the three of them climbed in. Hawk and I and Pam Shepard stood 
in the rain. In about one minute Rose leaned out of the back of the truck.

"Spenser," she said, "would you check this equipment for us?"

I said to Pam, "You stand right there. I'll be right back." Hawk was 
motionless beside her, leaning against the front fender of the truck. I went 
around back and climbed in.

The guns were there. Still in the original cases. M2 carbines.

I checked two or three. "Yeah," I said, "they're good. You can waste 
platoons of old men now."

Rose ignored me. "All right, Jane bring the truck over here. Spenser, 
you said you'd help us load the truck."

"Yes, ma'am," I said. "Me and Hawk."

Macey took the shopping bag that said FILENE'S on it, jumped down and 
went around to where Powers sat in the cab. He handed the money in to Powers 
and came back to the tailgate. "What do you think, Spenser. This okay to 
make the swap."

We were to the side of and nearly behind the restaurant. "Sure," I 
said. "This looks fine. Nobody around. Nobody pays any attention anyway. 
They load and unload all day around here."

Macey nodded. Jane backed in a blue Ford Econoline van, parked it tail 
to tail with Powers' truck, got out and opened the back doors. I went back 
to the front of the truck where Pam and Hawk were standing. "Hawk," I said 
softly, "the cops are coming. This is a setup." Macey and Rose and Jane were 
conspiring to move one case of guns from the truck to the van. "Hawk," Macey 
yelled, "you and Spenser want to give us a hand." Hawk walked silently 
around the front of the truck behind the restaurant and disappeared. I put 
my hands in my hip pockets. "Stay right beside me," I said to Pam Shepard.

From a truck that said ROLLIE'S PRODUCE Sylvia and McDermott and two 
state cops emerged with shotguns.

Jane screamed, "Rose," and dropped her end of the crate. She fumbled in 
the pocket of her raincoat and came out with a gun. Sylvia chopped it out of 
her hand with the barrel of the shotgun and she doubled over, clutching her 
arm against her. Rose said, "Jane," and put her arms around her.

Macey dodged around the end of the van and ran into the muzzle of Bobby 
Santos' service revolver, which Santos pressed firmly into Macey's neck. 
King Powers never moved.

Klaus and three Chelsea cops came around the other side of the truck 
and opened the door. One of the Chelsea cops, a fat guy with a boozer's 
nose, reached in and yanked him out by the coat front. Powers said nothing 
and did nothing except look at me.

I said to King, "Peekaboo, I see you," nodded at Jackie Sylvia, took 
Pam Shepard's hand and walked away. At seven we were in a deli on Tremont 
Street eating hash and eggs and toasted bagels and cream cheese and looking 
at the rain on the Common across the street.

"Why did you warn that black man?" Pam Shepard said, putting cream 
cheese on her bagel. She had skipped the hash and eggs, which showed you 
what she knew about breakfasts. The waitress came and poured more coffee in 
both our cups.

"I don't know. I've known him a long time. He was a fighter when I was. 
We used to train together sometimes."

"But isn't he one of them? I mean isn't he the, what, the muscle man, 
the enforcer, for those people?"

"Yeah."

"Doesn't that make a difference? I mean you just let him go."

"I've known him a long time," I said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

IT WAS STILL RAINING when we drove back to my apartment to get Pam's
things, and it was still raining when we set out at about eight-thirty
for Hyannis. There's an FM station in Boston that plays jazz from six in
the morning until eleven. I turned it on. Carmen McRae was singing
"Skyliner." The rain had settled in and came steadily against the
windshield as if it planned to stay awhile. My roof leaked in one corner
and dripped on the back seat.

Pam Shepard sat quietly and looked out the side window of the car. The 
Carmen McRae record was replaced by an album of Lee Wiley singing with Bobby 
Hackett's cornet and Joe Bushkin's piano. Sweet Bird of Youth. There wasn't 
much traffic on Route 3. Nobody much went to the Cape on a rainy midweek 
morning.

"When I was a little kid," I said, "I used to love to ride in the rain, 
in a car. It always seemed so self-contained, so private." There we were in 
the warm car with the music playing, and the rest of the world was out in 
the rain getting wet and shivering. "Still like it, in fact."

Pam Shepard kept looking out the side window. "Is it over, do you 
think?" she said.

"What?"

"Everything. The bank robbery, the trouble Harvey is in, the hiding out 
and being scared? The feeling so awful?"

"I think so," I said.

"What is going to happen to Harvey and me?"

"Depends, I guess. I think you and he can make it work better than it 
has worked."

"Why?"

"Love. There's love in the relationship."

"Shit," she said.

"Not shit," I said. "Love doesn't solve everything and it isn't the 
only thing that's important, but it has a big head start on everything else. 
If there's love, then there's a place to begin."

"That's romantic goo," Pam Shepard said. "Believe me.

Harvey's preached the gospel of love at me for nearly twenty years. 
It's crap. Believe me, I know."

"No, you don't know. You've had a bad experience, so you think it's the 
only experience. You're just as wrong as Harvey. It didn't work, doesn't 
mean it won't work. You're intelligent, and you've got guts. You can do 
therapy. Maybe you can get Harv to do it. Maybe when you've gotten through 
talking about yourself with someone intelligent you'll decide to roll Harv 
anyway. But it'll be for the right reasons, not because you think you're 
frigid, or he thinks you're frigid.

And if you decide to roll Harv you'll have some alternatives beside 
screwing sweaty drunks in one night cheap hotels, or living in a feminist 
commune with two cuckoos."

"Is it that ugly," she said.

"Of course it's that ugly. You don't screw people to prove things. You 
screw people because you like the screwing or the people or both. Preferably 
the last. Some people even refer to it as making love."

"I know," she said, "I know."

"And the two dimwits you took up with. They're theoreticians. They have 
nothing much to do with life. They have little connection with phallic power 
and patterns of dominance and blowing away old men in the service of things 
like that."

She stopped looking out the window and looked at me.

"Why so angry," she said.

"I don't know exactly. Thoreau said something once about judging the 
cost of things in terms of how much life he had to expend to get it. You and 
Harv aren't getting your money's worth. Thrift, I guess. It violates my 
sense of thrift."

She laughed a little bit and shook her head. "My God, I like you," she 
said. "I like you very much."

"It was only a matter of time," I said.

She looked back out the window and we were quiet most of the rest of 
the drive down. I hadn't said it right.

Maybe Suze could. Maybe nobody could. Maybe saying didn't have much 
effect anyway.

We got to the motel a little after ten and found Susan in the coffee 
shop drinking coffee and reading the New York Times.

"Was it okay," Susan said.

"Yeah, just the way it should have been."

"He warned one of them," Pam Shepard said. "And he got away."

Susan raised her eyebrows at me.

"Hawk," I said.

"Do you understand that," Pam Shepard said.

"Maybe," Susan said.

"I don't."

"And I'll bet he didn't give you a suitable explanation, did he?" Susan 
said.

"Hardly," Pam said.

"Everything else was good though?" Susan said.

I nodded.

"Are you going home, Pam?"

"I guess I am. I haven't really faced that, even driving down. But here 
I am, half a mile from my house. I guess I am going home."

"Good."

"I'm going to call Harv," I said. "How about I ask him to join us and 
we can talk about everything and maybe Suze can talk a little."

"Yes," she said. "I'm scared to see him again. I'd like to see him with 
you here and without the children."

I went back to the room and called Shepard and told him what had 
happened. It took him ten minutes to arrive. I met him in the lobby.

"Is Powers in jail?" he said.

I looked at my watch. "No, probably not. They've booked him by now, and 
his lawyer is there arranging bail and King's sitting around in the anteroom 
waiting to go home."

"Jesus Christ," Shepard said. "You mean he's going to be out loose 
knowing we set him up?"

"Life's hard sometimes," I said.

"But, for crissake, won't he come looking for us? You didn't tell me 
they'd let him out on bail. He'll be after us. He'll know we double-crossed 
him. He'll be coming."

"If I'd told you, you wouldn't have done it. He won't come after you."

"What the hell is wrong with them, letting him out on bail. You got no 
right to screw around with my life like that."

"He won't come after you, Shepard. Your wife's waiting for you in the 
coffee shop."

"Jesus, how is she?"

"She's fine."

"No, I mean, like what's her frame of mind? I mean, what's she been 
saying about me? Did she say she's going to come back?"

"She's in the coffee shop with my friend Susan Silverman. She wants to 
see you and she wants us to be there and what she's going to do is something 
you and she will decide.

She's planning, right now, I think, to stay. Don't screw it up."

Shepard took a big inhale and let it out through his nose. We went into 
the coffee shop. Susan and Pam Shepard were sitting opposite each other in a 
booth. I slid in beside Susan. Shepard stood and looked down at Pam Shepard. 
She looked up at him and said, "Hello, Harv."

"Hello, Pam."

"Sit down, Harv," she said. He sat, beside her. "How have you been?" 
she said.

He nodded his head. He was looking at his hands, close together on the 
table before him.

"Kids okay?"

He nodded again. He put his right hand out and rested it on her back 
between the shoulder blades, the fingers spread. His eyes were watery and 
when he spoke his voice was very thick. "You coming back?"

She nodded. "For now," she said and there was strain now in her voice 
too.

"Forever," he said.

"For now, anyway," she said.

His hand was moving in a slow circle between her shoulder blades. His 
face was wet now. "Whatever you want," he said in his squeezed voice. 
"Whatever you want. I'll get you anything you want, we can start over and 
I'll be back up on top for you in a year. Anything. Anything you want."

"It's not up on top I want, Harvey." I felt like a voyeur.

"It's, it's different. They think we need psychiatric help." She nodded 
toward me and Suze.

"What do they know about it or us, or anything?"

"I won't stay if we don't get help, Harvey. We're not just unhappy. 
We're sick. We need to be cured."

"Who do we go to? I don't even know any shrinks."

"Susan will tell us," Pam said. "She knows about these things."

"If that's what will bring you back, that's what I'll do."

His voice was easing a little, but the tears were still running down 
his face. He kept rubbing her back in the little circles.

"Whatever you want."

I stood up. "You folks are going to make it. And while you are, I'm 
going to make a call."

They paid me very little heed and I left feeling about as useful as a 
faucet on a clock. Back in the room I called Clancy in the Suffolk County 
D.A.'s office.

"Spenser," I said when he came on. "Powers out of the calaboose yet?"

"Lemme check."

I listened to the vague sounds that a telephone makes on hold for maybe 
three minutes. Then Clancy came back on.

"Yep."

"Dandy," I said.

"You knew he would be," Clancy said. "You know the score."

"Yeah, thanks." I hung up.

Back in the coffee shop Pam was saying, "It's too heavy. It's too heavy 
to carry the weight of being the center of everybody's life."

The waitress brought me another cup of coffee.

"Well, what are we supposed to do," Harv said. "Not love you. I tell 
the kids, knock it off on the love. It's too much for your mother? Is that 
what we do?"

Pam Shepard shook her head. "It's just . . . no of course, I want to be 
loved, but it's being the only thing you love, and the kids, being so 
central, feeling all that . . . I don't know . . . responsibility, maybe, I 
want to scream and run."

"Boy"--Harv shook his head--"I wish I had that problem, having somebody 
love me too much. I'd trade you in a goddamned second."

"No you wouldn't."

"Yeah, well, I wouldn't be taking off on you either. I don't even know 
where you been. You know where I been."

"And what you've been doing," she said. "You goddamned fool."

Harv looked at me. "You bastard, Spenser, you told her."

"I had to," I said.

"Well, I was doing it for you and the kids. I mean, what kind of man 
would I be if I let it all go down the freaking tube and you and the kids 
had shit? What kind of a man is that?"

"See," Pam said. "See, it's always me, always my responsibility. 
Everything you do is for me."

"Bullshit. I do what a man's supposed to do. There's nothing peculiar 
about a man looking out for the family. Dedicating his life to his family. 
That's not peculiar. That's right."

"Submerging your own ego to that extent is unusual," Susan said.

"Meaning what?"

Shepard's voice had lost its strangled quality and had gotten tinny. He 
spoke too loudly for the room.

"Don't yell at Suze, Harv," I said.

"I'm not yelling, but I mean, Christ, Spenser, she's telling me that 
dedication and self-sacrifice is a sign of being sick."

"No she's not, Harv. She's asking you to think why you can't do 
anything in your own interest. Why you have to perceive it in terms of 
self-sacrifice."

"I, I don't perceive . . . I mean I can do things I want to . . . for 
myself."

"Like what?" I said.

"Well, shit, I . . . Well, I want money too, and good things for the 
family . . . and . . . aw, bullshit. Whose side are you on in this?"

Pam Shepard put her face in her hands. "Oh God," she said. "Oh God, 
Jesus goddamned Christ," she said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

THE SHEPARDS WENT HOME after a while, uneasy, uncertain, but in the same
car with the promise that Susan and I would join them for dinner that
night. The rain stopped and the sun came out. Susan and I went down to
Sea Street beach and swam and lay on the beach. I listened to the Sox
play the Indians on a little red Panasonic portable that Susan had given
me for my birthday. Susan read Erikson and the wind blew very gently off
Nantucket Sound. I wondered when Powers would show up. Nothing much to
do about that. When he showed he'd show. There was no way to prepare for
it.

The Sox lost to Cleveland and a disc jockey came on and started to play 
"Fly Robin Fly."

I shut off the radio.

"You think they'll make it?" I said.

Susan shrugged. "He's not encouraging, is he?"

"No, but he loves her."

"I know." She paused. "Think we'll make it?"

"Yeah. We already have."

"Have we?"

"Yeah."

"That means that the status remains quo?"

"Nope."

"What does it mean?"

"Means I'm going to propose marriage."

Susan closed her book. She looked at me without saying anything. And 
she smiled. "Are you really?" she said.

"Yeah."

"Was that it?"

"I guess it was, would you care to marry me?"

She was quiet. The water on the sound was quiet.

Easy swells looking green and deep rolled in quietly toward us and 
broke gently onto the beach.

Susan said, "I don't know."

"I was under a different impression," I said.

"So was I."

"I was under the impression that you wanted to marry me and were angry 
that I had not yet asked."

"That was the impression I was under too," Susan said. "Songs unheard 
are sweeter far," I said.

"No, it's not that, availability makes you no less lovable. It's . . . 
I don't know. Isn't that amazing. I think I wanted the assurance of your 
asking more than I wanted the consummated fact."

"Consummation would hardly be a new treat for us," I said.

"You know what I mean," she said.

"Yeah, I do. How are you going to go about deciding whether you want to 
marry me or not?"

"I don't know. One way would be to have you threaten to leave. I 
wouldn't want to lose you."

"You won't lose me," I said.

"No, I don't think I will. That's one of the lovely qualities about 
you. I have the freedom, in a way, to vacillate. It's safe to be hesitant, 
if you understand that."

I nodded. "You also won't shake me," I said.

"I don't want to."

"And this isn't free-to-be-you-and-me-stuff. This is free to be us, no 
sharesies. No dibs, like we used to say in the schoolyard."

"How dreadfully conventional of you." Susan smiled at me. "But I don't 
want to shake you and take up with another man. And I'm not hesitating 
because I want to experiment around. I've done that. I know what I need to 
know about that. Both of us do. I'm aware you might be difficult about 
sharing me with guys at the singles bar."

"I'll say."

"There are things we have to think about though."

"Like what?"

"Where would we live?"

I was still lying flat and she was half sitting, propped up on her left 
elbow, her dark hair falling a little forward.

Her interior energy almost tangible. "Ah-ha," I said.

She leaned over and kissed me on the mouth. "That's one of your great 
charms, you understand so quickly."

"You don't want to leave your house, your work."

"Or a town I've lived in nearly twenty years where I have friends, and 
patterns of life I care about."

"I don't belong out there, Suze," I said.

"Of course you don't. Look at you. You are the ultimate man, the 
ultimate adult in some ways, the great powerful protecting father. And yet 
you are the biggest goddamned kid I ever saw. You would have no business in 
the suburbs, in a Cape Cod house, cutting the lawn, having a swim at the 
club.

I mean you once strangled a man to death, did not you?"

"Yeah, name was Phil. Never knew his other name, just Phil. I didn't 
like it."

"No, but you like the kind of work where that kind of thing comes up."

"I'm not sure that's childish."

"In the best sense it is. There's an element of play in it for you, a 
concern for means more than ends. It comes very close to worrying about 
honor."

"It often has to do with life and death, sweetie."

"Of course it does, but that only makes it a more significant game. My 
neighbors in Smithfield are more serious.

They are dealing with success or failure. For most of them it's no 
fun."

"You've thought about me some," I said.

"You bet your ass I have. You're not going to give up your work, I'm 
not going to stop mine. I'm not going to move to Boston. You're not going to 
live in Smithfield."

"I might," I said. "We could work something out there, I think. No 
one's asking you to give up your work, or me to give up mine."

"No, I guess not. But it's the kind of thing we need to think on."

"So a firm I-don't-know is your final position on this?"

"I think so."

I put my hands up and pulled her down on top of me.

"You impetuous bitch," I said. Her face pressed against my chest. It 
made her speech muffled.

"On the other hand," she mumbled, "I ain't never going to leave you."

"That's for sure," I said. "Let's go have dinner and consummate our 
friendship."

"Maybe." Susan said as we drove back to the motel, "we should 
consummate it before dinner."

"Better still," I said, "how about before and after dinner?"

"You're as young as you feel, lovey," Susan said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

WE RANG THE BELL at the Shepards house at seven-thirty, me with a bottle
of Hungarian red wine in a brown paper bag, and Hawk opened the door and
pointed a Colt .357 Magnum at me.

"Do come in," he said.

We did. In the living room were King Powers and Powell, the stiff I had 
knocked in the pool, and Macey and the Shepards. The Shepards were sitting 
on the couch together with Powell standing by with his gun out, looking at 
them, hard as nails. Macey stood by the mantel with his slim-line briefcase 
and Powers was in a wing chair by the fireplace.

Shepard's face was damp and he looked sick. Getting beaten up tends to 
take a lot of starch out of a person and Shepard looked like he was having 
trouble holding it together. His wife had no expression at all. It was as if 
she'd gone inside somewhere and was holding there, waiting.

"Where's the kids?" I said.

Hawk smiled. "They not here. Harv and the Mrs., I guess, thought they'd 
have a quiet time together, 'fore you come, so they shipped 'em off to 
neighbors for the night. That do make it cozier, I say."

Powers said, "Shut up, Hawk. You'd fuck around at your own funeral."

Hawk winked at me. "Mr. Powers a very grumpy man and I do believe I 
know who he grumpy at, babe."

"I figured I'd be seeing you, King," I said.

"You figured fucking right, too, smart guy. I got something for you, 
you son of a bitch. You think you can drop me into the bag like that and 
walk away, you don't know nothing about King Powers."

Macey said, "King, this is just more trouble. We don't need this. Why 
don't we just get going."

"Nope, first I burn this son of a bitch." Powers stood up. He was a 
paunchy man who looked like he'd once been thin, and his feet pointed out to 
the side like a duck's. "Hawk, take his gun away."

"On the wall, kid, you know the scene."

I turned and leaned against the wall and let him take the gun off my 
hip. He didn't have to search around. He knew right where it was. Probably 
smelled it. I stepped away from the wall. "How come you walk like a duck, 
King?" I said.

Powers' red face deepened a bit. He stepped close to me and hit me in 
the face with his closed fist. I rocked back from the waist and didn't fall.

"Quack," I said. Powers hit me again, and cut my lip.

It would be very fat in an hour. If I was around in an hour.

Susan said, "Hawk."

He shook his head at her. "Sit on the couch," he said.

Shepard said, "You gonna shoot us?" There wasn't much vitality in his 
voice.

"I'm fucking-A-well going to shoot this smart scumbag," Powers said. 
"Then maybe I'll like it so much I'll shoot the whole fucking bag of you. 
How's that sound to you, you fucking welcher."

"She's not in it," Shepard said, moving his head toward his wife. "Let 
her go. We got four kids. They never done anything to you."

Powers laughed with the inside of his upper lip showing. "But you did. 
You screwed me out of a lot of money, you gonna have to make that good to 
me."

"I'll make it good, with interest. Let her go."

"We'll talk about it, welcher. But I want to finish with this smart 
bastard first." He turned back to me and started to hit me again. I stepped 
inside and hit him hard in the side over the kidneys. His body was soft. He 
grunted with pain and buckled to his knees.

Macey brought out his little automatic and Powell turned his gun from 
the Shepards toward me.

Hawk said, "Hold it." There was no Amos and Andy mockery in it now.

Powers sat on the floor, his body twisted sideways, trying to ease the 
pain. His face red and the freckles looking pale against it.

"Kill him," he said. "Kill the fucker. Kill him, Hawk."

Susan said, "Hawk."

I kept my eyes on Hawk. Macey wouldn't have the stomach for it. He'd do 
it to save his ass, if he couldn't run.

But not just standing there; that took something Macey didn't get in 
business school. Powell would do what he was told, but so far no one had 
told him. Hawk was the one. He stood as motionless as a tree. From the 
corner of my eye, I could see Shepard's hand go out and rest in the middle 
of his wife's back, between the shoulder blades.

Susan said again, "Hawk."

Powers, still sitting on the floor with his knees up and his white 
socks showing above his brown loafers, said, "Hawk, you bastard, do what 
you're told. Burn him. Blow him away. Right now. Kill him."

Hawk shook his head. "Naw."

Powers was on his knees now, struggling to his feet.

He was so out of shape that just getting off the floor was hard for 
him. "No? Who the fuck you saying no to, nigger. Who pays your fucking ass? 
You do what you're told . . ."

Hawk's face widened into a bright smile. "Naw, I don't guess I am going 
to do what I'm told. I think I'm going to leave that up to you, boss."

Powell said, "I'll do it, Mr. Powers."

Hawk shook his head. "No, not you, Powell. You put the piece down and 
take a walk. You too, Macey. This gonna be King and Spenser here, one on 
one."

"Hawk, you gotta be out of your mind," Macey said.

"Hawk, what the fuck are you doing?" Powers said.

"Move it out, Macey," Hawk said. "You and Powell lay the pieces down on 
the coffee table and walk on away."

Powell said, "Hawk, for crissake . . ."

Hawk said. "Do it. Or you know I'll kill you."

Macey and Powell put the guns on the coffee table and walked toward the 
front door.

"What the fuck is happening here," Powers said. The color was down in 
his face now, and his voice was up an octave. "You don't take orders from 
this fucking coon, you take them from me."

"Racial invective," Hawk said to me.

"It's ugly," I said. "Ugly talk."

Powers said, "Macey. Call the cops when you get out, Macey. You hear 
me, you call the cops. They're going to kill me. This crazy nigger is trying 
to kill me."

Macey and Powell went out and closed the door. Powers' voice was high 
now. "Macey, goddamnit. Macey."

Hawk said, "They gone, King. Time for you to finish Spenser off, like 
you started to."

"I don't have a gun. You know that, Hawk. I never carry a piece. Lemme 
have Macey's."

"No guns, King. Just slap him around like you was doing before." Hawk 
put his .357 under his coat and leaned against the door with his arms folded 
and his glistening ebony face without expression. Powers, on his feet now, 
backed away two steps.

"Hey, wait up, now, hey, Hawk, you know I can't go on Spenser just me 
and him. I don't even know if you could. I mean that ain't fair, you know. I 
mean that ain't the way I work."

Hawk's face was blank. Harvey Shepard got off the couch and took a 
looping amateurish roundhouse righthand haymaker at Powers. It connected up 
high on the side of Powers' head near his right ear and staggered him. It 
also probably broke a knuckle in Shepard's hand. It's a dumb way to hit 
someone but Harv didn't seem to mind. He plowed on toward Powers, catching 
him with a left hand on the face and knocking him down. Powers scrambled for 
the two guns on the coffee table as Shepard tried to kick him. I stepped 
between him and the guns and he lunged at my leg and bit me in the right 
calf.

I said, "Jesus Christ," and reached down and jerked him to his feet. He 
clawed at my face with both hands and I twisted him away from me and slammed 
him hard against the wall. He stayed that way for a moment, face against the 
wall, then turned slowly away from the wall, rolling on his left shoulder so 
that when he got through turning, his back was against the wall. Shepard 
started toward him again and I put my hand out. "Enough," I said. Shepard 
kept coming and I had to take his shoulder and push him back. He strained 
against me.

From the couch Pam Shepard said, "Don't, Harvey."

Shepard stopped straining and turned toward her. "Jesus," he said and 
went and sat on the couch beside her and put his arms awkwardly around her 
and she leaned against him, a little stiffly, but without resistance.

Susan got up and walked over and put her hands on Hawk's shoulders and, 
standing on her toes to reach, kissed him on the mouth.

"Why not, Hawk? I knew you wouldn't, but I don't know why."

Hawk shrugged. "Me and your old man there are a lot alike. I told you 
that already. There ain't all that many of us left, guys like old Spenser 
and me. He was gone there'd be one less. I'd have missed him. And I owed him 
one from this morning."

"You wouldn't have done it anyway," Susan said.

"Even if he hadn't warned you about the police."

"Don't be too sure, honey. I done it lots of times before."

"Anyway, babe," Hawk said to me, "we even. Besides" --Hawk looked back 
at Susan and grinned--"Powers a foulmouthed bastard, never did like a guy 
swore in front of ladies that way." He stepped across, dropped my gun on the 
table, picked up those belonging to Macey and Powell and walked out. "See 
y'all again," he said. And then he was gone.

I looked at Powers. "I think we got you on assault with intent to 
murder, King. It ain't gonna help iron out the trouble you're already in in 
Boston, is it."

"Fuck you," Powers said and let his legs go limp and slid onto the 
floor and sat still.

"Hawk was right, King," I said. "Nobody likes a garbage mouth."

About the Author

ROBERT B. PARKER is the author of twenty-three books. Since his first
Spenser novel, The Godwulf Manuscript, he has had numerous bestsellers,
including Pale Kings and Princes, Crimson Joy, Valediction, A Catskill
Eagle and Taming a SeaHorse; Poodle Springs, his best-selling
collaboration with Raymond Chandler; and the more recent Stardust and
Playmates. Mr. Parker currently lives in Boston with his wife, Joan.