Hundred-Dollar Baby

by Robert B. Parker

  “You can’t,” I said. “It’s a question without context. I don’t know enough. I can only do what I can do. And I can only do that when it’s time to do it.”

  The room was silent. I didn’t blame it. I sounded metaphysical, even to myself.

  Then Amy said, “At least he’s not lying to us.”

  Darleen shook her head.

  “They all lie to us,” she said.

  34

  Ollie’s clubhouse was locked. There was a big crime-scene sign on the door. But I had a key from Belson, and unlocked the door, and strolled brazenly in. I closed the door behind me and turned the bolt. It was very quiet. The only sound was the hum of the refrigerator against the wall of the outer room. The crime-scene people had dusted for prints and collected and bagged and photographed and studied and gone through the place like they were auditioning for CSI: South Boston. I didn’t have to be careful. I opened the refrigerator door. It was empty. I looked around the room. It looked the same as it had. There were two windows. Each of them had a thick security screen. I walked down the short hall. At the end was a small bathroom. I looked in. It was empty of everything except the toilet and the sink. I went into Ollie’s office. Nothing different. I looked around. There was a security screen over the window in Ollie’s office. There were no other windows. No doors but the front one. I opened Ollie’s desk drawer. Crime Scene had cleaned it out. The wastebasket was empty. I went back to the front door and began to walk through it.

  Okay. Killer came in here. No one’s here, or they are here and they leave, for whatever reason. TV might be on, might not. I walk across the room. Even if I’ve never been here before, there’s no place else to go. Down the hall. Ollie’s door is open. I go in. He is at his desk. He sees me. He doesn’t open the drawer. Doesn’t go for his gun. I walk over. Do I talk? Does he talk? Do I have the gun out? Do I take it out? Whatever happened, I am right across the desk, I lean forward a little, point my gun in front of me, and plug him in the forehead right above his nose. I pantomimed the shot. He snaps back, bounces forward, starts bleeding onto his shirt. I put the gun away. Turn around and walk out? Why would I stick around? Somebody might have heard the shot. Unless he had something I wanted. Crime Scene found no sign of anyone looking for anything. No way to know. Anyway, as soon as I can, I leave. I walk back down the hall, out through the lounge, and out the front door.

  I stood at the front door and then turned around and looked at everything again. Nothing spoke to me. I went to one of the ratty chairs in front of the TV and sat and looked at the room and the hall. Nothing. I’d seen Belson do this for an hour. Simply sit and look until he saw something. Or until he was certain there was nothing to see. It was more than close observation. I always suspected that if he did it long enough, he’d begin to intuit what happened. He never said so. But I was always suspicious.

  Ollie DeMars was a rough guy in a rough business. He would not sit here at night alone in an unlocked building and allow somebody to wander in and shoot him. He had to have known the shooter. The slug they dug out of him was a .22. A woman’s gun? Or was I being a sexist oinker? A woman made some sense, though. If he was expecting someone to come in and haul his ashes, maybe he’d send people away, and maybe he’d let a woman walk in and shoot him at close range. ME had said there was no indication of sexual activity. Which meant only that she’d gotten right to the shooting. If she was a she. Lionel was the kind of guy might use a .22, nothing big and heavy that might break the line of his suit. Or it might be some pro trying to confuse us. If so, what happened to Ollie’s crew? Did they sell him out? Were they frightened away? If it was a woman, was it April? Why would she shoot him? We’d already chased him off. Could she shoot him? It was hard to figure April. She had not lived like most people.

  Maybe it had nothing to do with anything I knew anything about. Ollie was a freelancer and busy. It could have nothing to do with me. But assuming that didn’t lead anywhere. I wanted it to go somewhere. Things didn’t make sense enough for me to leave it be. I didn’t want to blow April’s cover. But I wasn’t exactly clear on what she was covering. I understood why she and her professional staff wanted to stay off the screen. She was running an illegal enterprise, and if it went public, the cops would be obliged to bust her. I didn’t care about the illegal enterprise. Prostitution was probably bad for a lot of prostitutes. But it seemed pretty good to the group I was dealing with. And I had a limited attention span for larger issues. Smaller ones were hard enough.

  I sat for a while longer in the silent room, made more silent by the white sound of the refrigerator. I let the silence sink in, looking for an intuition. I didn’t get one. Maybe Belson never did, either.

  35

  I was back in New York. I had spent so much time in New York on this thing that people were beginning to greet me on the street. Spenser, Mr. Broadway.

  It was the middle of February. The sun was bright. The snow had melted except in occasional shady lees. Either spring was early this year or the gods were making sport of us. The gods seemed more likely. On the other hand, pitchers and catchers had reported in Florida. And the first spring training game was only fifteen days away.

  I met Patricia Utley for lunch uptown at Café Boulud. She had a glass of white wine. I had a Virgin Mary.

  “You still in the same place?” I said, just to say something.

  “No, after Stephen died, I moved a little east,” she said, “and a little uptown.”

  “He was more than a bodyguard,” I said.

  “Yes,” Patricia Utley said. “He was.”

  “Do you have someone now?”

  “I have a security man who works the house when there are clients. He’s very capable.”

  “I hear a but,” I said.

  “But he is not there except during business hours. He is not Stephen.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Love makes you vulnerable,” she said.

  “Better than not love,” I said.

  “Yes,” she said. “That’s probably true. I’m glad I didn’t miss it.”

  It was the first time she had ever alluded to a relationship with Stephen. We were quiet. The room was comfortably full but not noisy, with no sense of crowd.

  “Is someone paying you for all of this?” she said when her wine arrived.

  “Goodness is its own reward,” I said.

  She took a small sip and enjoyed it. Then she smiled at me.

  “No,” she said. “It isn’t.”

  “It’s not?” I said. “You mean I’ve been living a lie?”

  “Sadly, yes,” Patricia Utley said. “Is there more trouble with April?”

  I nodded.

  “And you need something from me on that score?”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  She nodded and sipped some wine. I drank some Virgin Mary. I didn’t like it, but it was there. Susan contended that I drank automatically, and that if I were given turnip juice, I would drink five glasses.

  “I have gone nearly as far as I care to with April,” Patricia Utley said. “I had very little reason to go anywhere with her. But years ago, when you brought her to me, I relaxed my cynicism enough to get caught up in your Goody Two shoes passion.”

  “Goody Two-shoes?”

  “I have been in the flesh trade in New York City for thirty years,” she said. “I have earned my cynicism. I know in your own way you are probably more cynical than I am. Yet it hasn’t made you cynical.”

  “You might be losing me,” I said.

  “No,” she said, “I’m not. You may be the smartest person I have ever met. You understand me fine. I am not ready to give April too much more line.”

  “She fell in love again,” I said.

  “Oh, good God,” Patricia Utley said.

  “Guy named Lionel Farnsworth,” I said.

  She nodded.

  “Yes, he always requested her. Then he stopped.”

  “She was giving him freebies,” I said.

&n
bsp; “Always a risk,” Patricia Utley said.

  “When you sent her up to Boston, he came along, cut himself into the business. They’ve been skimming. Putting aside the down payment so they could start a chain of their own boutique cathouses. Farnsworth says he has the rest of the financing in place.”

  Patricia Utley nodded.

  “And,” she said, “has she given the skimmed savings to Lionel?”

  “I don’t know, but what would you guess?”

  “We both know she has,” Patricia Utley said.

  “We do,” I said.

  Maybe my cynicism had made me cynical after all. Our salads arrived. We paused while they were served. Patricia Utley ordered a second glass of wine. I had another Virgin Mary.

  “According to April, Lionel cheated on her. She broke it off. He wanted his share of everything. She refused. He hired some bad guys. And now the guy he hired has been murdered.”

  “Oh dear,” Patricia Utley said. “That means police.”

  “Yep. I’ve got some pull. The cops are willing to let April stay below the radar for now.”

  “And you’ve talked with Lionel?”

  “Yes.”

  “How does his story jibe with April’s?”

  “Not as well as one would wish.”

  Patricia Utley smiled sadly and nodded. The drinks arrived.

  “What would you have me do?” Patricia Utley said when we were alone.

  “What do you know about Farnsworth?” I said.

  “Probably less than you. The girls liked him, April obviously. But the other girls he was with. They all said he was charming and gentlemanly.”

  “Did he continue to patronize your establishment after he stopped requesting April?”

  “Yes.”

  “He have other favorites?”

  She was silent for a moment, thinking about something.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “You ever open up any other, ah, branch offices like you did with April?”

  She was silent for a longer while and then began to nod slowly. I found myself nodding with her.

  “Goddamn,” she said.

  “Not all of his favorites opened up boutiques of their own,” I said.

  Patricia nodded.

  “But all of the people in business for themselves had been favorites of Lionel,” I said.

  She nodded again.

  “Thirty years,” she said, “making it big in a tough business, and I’m getting hustled.”

  “Humbling,” I said. “Isn’t it.”

  “That sonova bitch,” Patricia Utley said.

  “I’ll need to talk with those women,” I said.

  Patricia Utley nodded.

  “Of course,” she said.

  I ate my salad. Every time I turned a corner, the truth seemed to have turned the next corner, just out of sight.

  “That sonova fucking bitch,” she said.

  I finished my salad.

  “My sentiments exactly,” I said.

  36

  Alana Adler’s mansion was in a brick rowhouse in Philadelphia, not far from Logan Square. I always liked Philly. It felt like Boston, only bigger. I went into the rowhouse.

  “My name is Spenser,” I said to the receptionist. “I have an appointment with Ms. Adler.”

  “Have a seat, please,” the receptionist said. “I’ll let her know you’re here.”

  I sat in the chair provided. The receptionist sat at her desk. Except for the announcement of my arrival, everything was very quiet. The place was so starchy, I felt like I was going to the principal’s office. After a few motionless, soundless moments, a door opened and a woman came into the room.

  “Mr. Spenser?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “Mrs. Utley told me to expect you. Come on in.”

  Easy so far.

  The room I entered was a small sitting room. There were heavy drapes, Tiffany lamps, a two-person love seat, a couple of club chairs, and a small antique writing table that Alana apparently used as a desk. She sat at it. I chose a club chair. We were at street level, and through the window you could watch people strolling by.

  “How can I help you,” Alana said.

  She looked like a mature cheerleader. Probably in her late forties. She had a pretty face; short, blond hair; and a sturdy and serviceable-looking body. She was wearing a black turtleneck sweater and a gray pantsuit. Her heels were very high.

  “Do you know Lionel Farnsworth?” I said.

  The lines around her mouth deepened as if she were setting her jaw. It didn’t look very effective, given the soft cuteness of her cheerleader face.

  She shrugged.

  “Did Mrs. Utley tell you why I’m interested in him?” I said.

  “She said he is suspected of some, um, irregularities,” she said.

  “Before you became an executive,” I said, “when you were working out of Mrs. Utley’s house, you were one of the girls he often requested.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “You know now why that is?”

  “I was good at what I did,” she said.

  She smiled a little and thought about it.

  “Actually,” she said, “I still am.”

  “Do you and he have any sort of relationship now?” I said.

  “Like what?”

  I smiled.

  “Like any sort,” I said.

  “Well, I see him now and then when he’s in Philadelphia.”

  “Professionally?” I said.

  “No, no. We’re friends.”

  “Friends with benefits?” I said.

  “I’m not sure that’s your business.”

  “Does seem kind of nosy, doesn’t it?” I said.

  “On the other hand, I am hardly a virgin,” she said.

  “There’s that,” I said. “Did you know he also has a friend in Boston? And one in New Haven?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean Lionel snuggles up to people that he wishes to exploit.”

  “Exploit?”

  “Has he shared his dream with you?” I said. “Dreamgirl? A chain of boutique sex mansions across America, appealing to all those upscale sophisticates who used to join Playboy clubs?”

  She stared at me.

  “Love like a playboy,” I said.

  “He told you this?”

  I smiled enigmatically. At least I hoped it was enigmatic. I was never exactly sure about my enigmatic smile.

  “Mrs. Utley opened up a branch in Boston, one in New Haven, one here. Probably trying to capture the Ivy League market. Each is headed by one of her former working girls. April Kyle in Boston, Kristen LeClaire in New Haven. You here. Lionel has a relationship with each of you.”

  Alana stared at me. The lines that had appeared around her mouth had hardened.

  “I would bet that you and he are planning to cut your ties to Mrs. Utley at an appropriate time and set up your own chain. From sea to shining sea.”

  She shook her head. Not so much in denial, I thought, as in disbelief.

  “He can do the financing,” I said. “But you have to come up with a down payment, and to acquire that quickly, he has helped you skim some earnings off the top and defraud Mrs. Utley.”

  “He has a relationship with April?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Kristen?” Alana said.

  “Yes.”

  “He told each of them those same things?”

  “Yes.”

  We were quiet. I could feel the pressure of soundlessness in the house. I thought of the receptionist sitting in the reception room in the imperative silence. It was like being entombed. Then Alana began to breathe as if it were difficult and tears began to roll down her face. She didn’t cover her face or say anything. She sat breathing hard with the tears flowing silently.

  “Yeah,” I said. “April and Kristen had pretty much the same thing to say.”

  37

  Susan and I had a Valentine’s Day supper at Aujou
rd’hui, the dining room at the Four Seasons Hotel. It was the right kind of place for such a supper. The ceilings were high, the lights were muted, the service was friendly and well executed, the food was good, and the window-wall view of the Public Garden was all that the architect had probably hoped it would be. Many of the dining-room staff knew Susan and stopped to talk with her. None of them knew me, but they treated me as if they did because I was with her.

  I didn’t mind. There were circles where people knew me better. Of course, they weren’t circles anyone wanted to move in.

  We began with cocktails. Cosmopolitan for Susan. Martini for me, on the rocks, with a twist. When we were alone and it was safe, we exchanged poems written expressly for the occasion, as we always did. Susan’s poem, like all her poems, began “roses are red, violets are blue” and went on through odd rhymes and strange metaphors to say very touching things, some of which were quite funny and some of which were quite obscene. My poetry was, of course, Miltonesque…in a vulgar sort of way. She read hers aloud, though softly, and I read mine the same. When we were through we leaned across the table and kissed each other lightly, and settled back to read the menu.

  “Do you ever throw your poems from me away?”

  “Of course not,” I said.

  “I keep yours, too.”

  “After we’re gone,” I said, “what do you suppose people will think?”

  “That we were foul-mouthed, oversexed, and clever,” Susan said.

  “Not a bad obit,” I said.

  The waiter came with his pad.

  “How was your trip,” she said to me after we had ordered.

  I told her.

  She frowned and took a small sip of Cosmopolitan.

  “Isn’t this beginning to give you a headache?” she said.

  “In the memorable words of L’il Abner,” I said, “‘Confusin,’ but not amusin’.’”

  “It’s beginning to sound like one of those tumultuous medieval paintings of hell, where it’s not easy to see who is doing what to whom.”

  “People aren’t always being open and frank with me,” I said. “But the best I can figure is that Mrs. Utley wanted to branch out. Lionel cut in on it and has seduced these three experienced professionals to think he loves them so they’ll help him steal Mrs. Utley’s money.”