The Widening Gyre

by Robert B. Parker

  Amazing. And here I was as youthful and vigorous as ever.

  "What the fuck do you want?" Broz said.

  "Ah, Joe," I said. "It's what makes you special, that little spike of real class."

  "I asked you a question."

  In addition to Vinnie, Ed was there leaning against the padded bar, an open copy of People on the bar in front of him. There was another member of the firm sitting in a black leather chair with his feet up on the coffee table. He had longish black hair and a vandyke beard. He had on a pink cashmere sweater that was stretched to a gossamer web around his upper arms and his waist. Fat, but hard fat. A bodybuilder gone bad.

  "This is family talk, Joe. You want them around?"

  Without taking his eyes off me he said, "Ed, you and Roger wait in the other office."

  They went at once, without question or comment. When they were gone Vinnie leaned against the door, his arms folded.

  Broz leaned back. His face was tanned and full of lines. He still had a big mouthful of white teeth and he still wore a diamond pinky ring. And his eyes were without humanity. He nodded his head once for me to begin.

  "I can put your kid in the pokey, Joe."

  Broz made no movement. It was like staring deep into the eyes of a turtle.

  "He's selling cocaine. He's involved in sex orgies with underage children. He's distributing pornographic materials. I know that and I can prove it."

  Vinnie was immobile against the door. Broz's eyes were barely open. Nothing moved.

  "What I don't know, but I can guess, is how much of this is performed as your agent."

  Still nothing moved.

  "I say he's not. I say he's out on his own and trying to be a success on his own to impress the old man."

  I paused. There was a crystal stillness in the room. Broz seemed to have gone deeper inside his own silence.

  "I say he's also blackmailing Meade Alexander with dirty pictures of Mrs. Alexander."

  The sky through Broz's picture window was a clean blue, no clouds, some pale winter sunshine. Below and at a distance I could see the curve of the harbor and the shoreline south past Columbia Point.

  Broz's voice when he finally spoke seemed barely connected to him; it seemed to ease out of something deep and remote.

  "Tell me about it," he said.

  I told him about the death threats to Alexander. I told him about the two kids that got shoved around in Springfield. I told him about Louis Nolan. I told him about the blackmail threat and about the films. I told him that one of the actors in Mrs. Alexander's film was Gerry. I told him about burglarizing Gerry's apartment. About the two teenyboppers, and the cocaine delivery route and the granny party and the talk I had with Bobby Browne in his office with the fake mahogany paneling. Throughout the whole recitation Joe's eyes were barely visible through the lowered slits of his eyelids. He might have been made of terra cotta as he sat tanned, old, and impeccable, without even the signs of breath stirring him. Behind me, at the door, Vinnie was no different.

  Then I was through. Broz's gaze stayed on me and then moved away and settled on Vinnie. Only his eyes moved. The tanned, wrinkled face and gray head remained stationary. His old man's hands rested stilly on the desk before him. The pallid sun shining in through the picture window made a small spectrum on his desktop, where it shined through the diamond on his finger.

  When Broz spoke it was again in that distant deep remote voice.

  "Vinnie?"

  "Yeah, Joe. I knew about it."

  "And I didn't," Broz said.

  "I knew about it after the kid was into it, Joe. I did the best I could."

  I looked back at Vinnie. He was as he had been, arms folded, leaning against the door. He paid no attention to me. His eyes were on Broz.

  Again silence. I could hear the sound of Joe's breathing now, soft and unlabored.

  "And what he's telling me is so?" Broz said.

  "Yeah, it is, Joe. Kid wants you to respect him. He…" Vinnie shrugged and turned his palms up.

  Broz's voice got softer. "I love him," he said. "He should settle for that."

  "He ain't very old, Joe," Vinnie said.

  Broz nodded slowly. It was the first movement he'd made since I started talking. "I know."

  Vinnie was quiet. Broz shifted his look to me.

  "You don't have kids," he said.

  "Not exactly."

  "I didn't either until I was old. What the kid did he did on his own. Some of what he done ain't my way. Dirty movies, that stuff. I don't like that."

  "And you don't like him risking Browne on something like this."

  Broz nodded. "I invested in him his first time out for office," Broz said. "I been putting money in every year since, investing. Browne gets his cover blown and I've lost money on my investment. You should have told me, Vinnie."

  "Maybe. But I knew how you'd feel about it, Joe. I tried to clean it up before you knew."

  "My kid, Vinnie, my problem."

  "I'd have cleaned it up if Alexander hadn't gotten him." Vinnie pointed at me with his chin.

  Broz nodded. "Okay, Vinnie, I was you I'd have done the same." He looked at me. "What do you want?"

  "I want the tapes of Mrs. Alexander destroyed. I want the both of them left alone."

  "That's all?"

  "Yes."

  "What about the election?"

  I grinned. "May the best man win," I said.

  "We could drop you in the harbor," Broz said.

  I nodded.

  "We'll be in touch," Broz said.

  Chapter 28

  At 6:45 that evening I was hanging around the shuttle terminal at Eastern Airlines waiting for Paul Giacomin to arrive from New York for the Christmas holidays. Traffic was heavy and the flight would be late.

  I stared out the windows at the airport and thought about Joe Broz. He had two roads he could follow. He could kill me and hope I hadn't given evidence on his kid to anyone else. Or he could go along, give me back the tapes, and trust me to keep my end of the bargain. Killing me was the way Joe would normally go. I was hoping this once he'd take the road less traveled. And he might. His kid was involved. He didn't know what I'd done with the evidence, or how much evidence I had, or who else I'd told. He might figure that he could always kill me and wait to see what happened. No way to know really, and since you prepare for what the enemy can do, not what he might, I had my normal.38 under my coat, and a back-up.25 in an ankle holster. I also looked around a lot.

  At 7:20 Paul walked up the corridor carrying a suitcase in one hand and a dance bag on a strap over his shoulder. A young woman came with him. Her hair was pale blond and straight and almost to her waist. Paul had told me about her. Her name was Paige Cartwright. She had a suitcase too. Paul introduced us.

  She said, "Mr. Spenser. I've been dying to meet you."

  "Paul's been telling you all the funny things I say and do."

  "He's told me all about you," she said.

  I nodded. "It's not enough you gotta go to Sarah Lawrence," I said to Paul, "you have to carry a purse in public."

  He adjusted the shoulder bag. "It's to hold my tutu," he said.

  At my apartment we had roast duck with fruit stuffing and three bottles of Pinot Noir and at 1:15 Paul and I sat at my kitchen counter drinking brandy with soda. Paige had succumbed to the wine and gone to bed.

  "You've been to see Susan?" Paul said.

  "Yes."

  "How is it?"

  "It's okay," I said. "A little out of sync maybe."

  Paul nodded. "She coming home for Christmas?"

  "I don't know," I said. "We didn't discuss it."

  "You could go down there."

  "Sure," I said.

  "Paige and I would be fine here. If you want to go down, it's okay."

  I nodded.

  "You ever think about dating someone else?" Paul said.

  I drank some brandy and soda. "Someone else?"

  "Sure. That girl you used to go with before Susan.
Brenda? You could go out with her."

  There were three ice cubes in my glass, and a shot of brandy and the rest soda, except I had drunk half of it. Part of the top ice cube was above the surface.

  "No," I said.

  "Why not?"

  "I love Susan," I said. "I want to be with her. Other people bore me."

  "Never, no one but Susan? You never met anyone else?"

  "I liked a woman in L.A. Slept with her once."

  "Why don't you go visit her?"

  "She's dead," I said.

  Paul was silent for a moment. Then he nodded. "That one," he said.

  "Yes."

  The dishwasher finished its cycle and clicked off. The silence was nearly obtrusive in the aftermath.

  "It's more than that, Paul. It's more than finding no one else so interesting."

  He nodded. "If you could love somebody else, then what would it say about this great love you've been loving for ten years?"

  "The new religion calls all in doubt," I said.

  "You pay a very high price, as I said last time, for being what you are."

  I nodded.

  "It makes you better than other men," Paul said. "If you hadn't been what you are, where would I be? But it also traps you. Machismo's captive. Honor, commitment, absolute fidelity, the whole myth."

  "Love," I said. "Love's in there."

  "Of course it is, and, if need be, to love pure and chaste from afar. But, damn it, I'd like to see you get more back."

  "Me too," I said.

  "I don't mean from Susan. I mean from life, for crissake. You deserve it. You deserve everything you want. You have a right to it."

  I drank the rest of my drink and made another one.

  "I am what I am, kid. Not by accident. By effort, a brick at a time. I knew what I wanted to be and I finally am. I won't go back."

  "I know," Paul said. "You can't even talk about things like this unless you're drinking."

  "I can," I said. "But unless I'm drinking, talking about things like this seems pointless. I can't be what I am and love Susan differently."

  "And you won't be something else?" he said.

  "I worked too hard to be this," I said.

  Paul got up and made himself another drink.

  "Maybe the question is can you be what you are if Susan's change of life is permanent," he said.

  "The way I feel about her won't change," I said.

  "How about the way you feel about yourself?"

  "I'm working on that," I said.

  Chapter 29

  Paul slept in my bed with Paige. I took the couch. In the morning I got up with a half hangover and an odd sense that somewhere last night I had turned a corner. I looked at my watch. 6:20. A few miles along the Charles and maybe the half hangover would go away.

  I went silently into my bedroom, got my running things, and brought them out to the living room, where I dressed. Running with a gun on the hip is jouncy. But running without one when Joe Broz had speculated about dropping you in the harbor is shortsighted. My solution was to take the little.25 automatic that I used for a back-up. I pumped a shell up into the chamber and then eased the hammer back down and carried it in my hand. It was small enough so that my hand concealed it and other joggers would be unlikely to overreact.

  The weather was superior for Boston in December. The temperature was nearly forty and the walkways along the esplanade were clear and black. I began to run along the river, westbound. To my left the backs of Beacon Street apartments faced out onto the river. A lot of small balconies, a lot of big picture windows, at ground level, and a narrow alley cleverly named Back Street, with parking spaces and occasional garages. Between me and Back Street Storrow Drive was still nearly empty in the slowly developing light. In an hour commuter traffic would fill it, and the air would be thick with hydrocarbons. An MDC police cruiser moved slowly up behind me on the pathway. I stepped aside to let it pass and it drove slowly on and disappeared as the pathway curved with the river.

  Paul understood me in a way that few people did. He was only eighteen but he'd had to rebuild from scratch and understood self-creation. He'd explained to me once about how a dancer has to be physically centered in order to perform properly. He was centered in ways beyond dancing and I understood the effort that had gone into it. Some of the effort had been mine. But I hadn't done it. He had done it.

  Ahead of me a man in a beige jogging suit unhooked the leash from a golden retriever and the dog dashed toward the river bank, its nose to the ground. Maybe I should get a dog. Man's best friend.

  I was feeling pretty good. It was always easier to feel good when something I was working on was winding up. There was a sense of completion. Especially if the wind-up was orderly. The sun was up now, not very high, but fully above the horizon, and I squinted against it. I hated running in winter. In spring you worked up a good sweat and the muscles rocked easy in vernal heat. But when I didn't run I began to feel angular and stiff, as if I would make a clanking sound when I moved. Runner's high, where are you when I need you?

  The way I felt about Susan was not Susan's problem, of course. I loved her not for her sake, but for mine. Loving her was easy, maybe even irresistible. It was also necessary, but it was my necessity, not hers. What the hell was she doing so bad? Devoting a lot of time to her work, being caught up in it even. So what, thousands of people cared deeply for their work and were able to love one another. Whether I came first with Susan, or second, I could love her as much as I cared to, or needed to. The trick was to do it with dignity. As I went under the Mass Ave bridge I saw a pale blue Buick sedan parked there and standing beside it were Ed and his fat friend with the van-dyke beard. Ed pointed a gun at me. So did Vandyke. With my hands at my side I thumbed back the hammer on the.25.

  "Joe wants you wasted," Ed said.

  I shot him in the chest with the.25 and he spun half around and fell on his side. I hit the ground with him. Vandyke shot at me and hit me in the top of my left thigh and I fired three more shots at him. One of them caught him under the right eye and he was probably dead by the time he hit. I rolled over and checked Ed. He was dead too. I looked down at my left leg. The dark blue cotton sweat pants were black with blood. I undid them and looked at the wound. The bullet had entered on the inside of my thigh and gone right through. It didn't hurt much yet, but it would. I put the gun into the pocket of my jacket, stripped off the jacket, took off the white T-shirt I wore underneath, folded it the long way, and wrapped it around my thigh. I held it there with one hand while I pulled Ed's belt off and strapped it tight around the T-shirt. Then I put on my jacket and pulled up my sweat pants and experimented with standing up. I could. The bone in my thigh was probably not broken. The traffic on Storrow was starting to build, but the chances of flagging someone down were slim. The guy with the golden retriever was nowhere in sight. Neither was the dog. Neither was the MDC cruiser that had passed me earlier. Never a cop around when you need him.

  My leg still didn't hurt much, but I felt dizzy and sick. Mass General Hospital was a mile or so back. I swayed a little and looked at the Buick. I took a step toward it and almost fell. I steadied, took a sort of hop, and got my hands on its hood. The motor was running. Balancing against it, I edged along past the two dead men and got in. It was an automatic. A clutch would have been difficult. I put the car in gear, took off the emergency, and drove forward; the car bumped over something that I knew was Ed. But I didn't have much strength for maneuvering. Ed wouldn't care.

  It was like driving drunk. I could barely keep my eyes open. With both hands on the wheel I stared as hard as I could at the curving black ribbon of the pathway. Back eastbound I went. I didn't dare go fast for fear I'd lose control. The car wavered as I drove. My head kept drooping and jerking back up as I caught myself. A couple of joggers moved out of my way. They probably glared at me, but I didn't have the strength to notice. All of what I had left channeled onto the asphalt ahead of me. Dimly I realized that the radio was on and a morning ma
n was talking brightly about the last record and introducing the traffic reporter. Avoid the esplanade; there's a double homicide and a slow-moving vehicle on the footpath.

  The pathway began to waver and the steering wheel got more and more limber. The pathway curved in close to Storrow Drive and the wrought iron fence that separated me from Storrow Drive suddenly surged up in front of me and rammed into the car. The impact made no sound, and as I spiraled down into the dark I could hear clearly the radio still playing: "This is radio eighty-five… eighty-five… eighty-five…"

  And I woke up with Martin Quirk leaning over the end of the bed with his hands clasped and his forearms resting on the footboard.

  Chapter 30

  Quirk said, "The emergency room people tell me you're not going to die."

  "Heartening," I said. My voice seemed a little uncoordinated.

  "They say you can probably go home tomorrow," Quirk said.

  "I'm going home today." My voice was better. I could feel a connection with it.

  Quirk shrugged. An I.V. unit was plugged into the back of my left hand.

  "Want to tell me about it?" Quirk said.

  "I don't think so," I said.

  A small blond-haired nurse with big blue eyes came in and took my pulse.

  "Nice to see you awake," she said.

  "Nice to be awake," I said. Polite.

  She smiled and took my temperature. It was one of those electronic thermometers connected to a small pack on her belt. You didn't even have to shake it down. Where was the fun in that? Quirk was quiet while she took her readings. She noted her results on a small chart and said, "Good."

  When she was gone Quirk said, "Up under the Mass Ave bridge there are two stiffs shot to death with a small-caliber automatic; four ejected shells are scattered around them. In your jacket pocket the MDC cops found a twenty-five-caliber automatic with four rounds gone. One of the stiffs is Eddie DiBenardi. The car you rammed into the fence is registered to him. The other guy is Roger Francona. He had a nine-millimeter Smith amp; Wesson with a round missing. You have a hole in your leg. They told me downstairs that you're lucky, it missed the bone. Eddie DiBenardi's belt is missing, and one about the right size was wrapped around your leg when they brought you in." Quirk had straightened and walked to the window and was looking out with his hands in his hip pockets. He turned to look at me.