"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 ten-dollar 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 10
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, "Nevermind."
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 11
"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 statut
es. 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.
Robert B Parker - Spenser 04 - Promised Land Page 6