Back Story

by Robert B. Parker

“And if that is unpersuasive,” he said, “I might suggest that it would be very much in your best interest as well.”

  I finished my sub. It was excellent. But that was true of almost all subs.

  “Agreed?” Pale Fingers said.

  I finished the rest of my drink.

  “Buzz off,” I said.

  The guy at my desk was tenting his fingers again. He glanced at the blond guy. The blond guy was still giving me the hard eye.

  “Are you sure you want to provoke the animosity of your government?” Pale Fingers said.

  His mouth was tight and his eyes, even magnified by his glasses, looked very small.

  “If this be treason,” I said, “let us make the most of it.”

  “Unless you reconsider,” Pale Fingers said, “we may find reason to investigate you.”

  “Given your track record,” I said, “I remain undaunted.”

  “And a tax audit is not impossible.”

  “Yikes,” I said.

  Pale Fingers and the blond guy looked at each other. Pale Fingers shrugged. The blond guy shrugged back. Pale Fingers stood.

  “You’ll hear from us again,” he said.

  “Oh good,” I said. “I hate when friendships sour.”

  We all looked at each other for a moment. None of us seemed scared. When they left, I made myself a fresh drink and went around behind my desk and reclaimed my chair. I put my feet up and looked at the open door into the bright, empty hallway, and thought.

  16

  I met Epstein for breakfast in a coffee shop near his office. He was there when I arrived, sitting at a table, drinking coffee.

  “Get a couple of these inside you and the day looks better,” he said.

  A waitress brought me orange juice and coffee. I drank the juice, put cream and sugar in my coffee, stirred, and had a sip. Epstein was right. Orange juice and coffee never let you down.

  “This conversation going to be long enough so we should eat?” I said.

  “We’d be fools not to,” Epstein said.

  I had a raspberry scone. Epstein had two eggs sunny-side up, bacon, home fries, and a bagel.

  “Maintaining the old cholesterol?” I said.

  “Except for the bagel,” Epstein said. “The bagel’s a gesture toward my heritage.”

  “On that basis, I should have had the potatoes,” I said.

  “You want to know why I offered to buy you breakfast?” Epstein said.

  “I figured you wanted some law enforcement tips.”

  “That too,” Epstein said. “But I been thinking about your old murder case.”

  “Emily Gordon,” I said.

  “Yes. I was thinking it might help matters a little if you knew the name of the agent in charge of the investigation.”

  “There was an investigation?”

  “Well, we normally look into bank robberies.”

  My scone had a light brush of frosting on the top, which seemed to me an excellent touch.

  “So who looked into this one,” I said.

  “Of course,” Epstein said, “I am not at liberty to give you his name.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “On the other hand, if you were to bribe me by paying for breakfast, simple courtesy would mandate some sort of response.”

  “Breakfast is on me,” I said.

  “Agent’s name is Evan Malone.”

  “He still around?”

  “He’s retired,” Epstein said. “You know where he is?”

  “Of course.”

  “What do I do for his address.”

  “I may need a second bagel,” Epstein said.

  “Jesus, you’re hard,” I said. “No wonder you got to be SAC.”

  “Do I get the bagel?” Epstein said.

  “Yes.”

  “Malone’s on a lake in New Hampshire. I took the liberty of writing it out for you.”

  “You knew I’d cave on the second bagel, didn’t you?”

  Epstein smiled. I took the address and put it in my shirt pocket.

  “I’m willing to go as high as a dozen bagels,” I said. “But I need to ask you a question.”

  Epstein nodded gravely and spread his hands in a welcoming gesture.

  “You send a couple of employees around to talk with me last night?”

  Epstein frowned.

  “Employees?”

  “Geeky-looking guy with big, round glasses and a lot of teeth,” I said. “Blond guy, heavyset, big mustache.”

  “Employees,” Epstein said.

  “That’s what they told me.”

  “They said they were with the Bureau?”

  “Government,” I said. “I inferred Bureau.”

  “Inferred? What kind of talk is that for a guy your size?”

  “Large, but literate,” I said. “They yours?”

  Epstein shook his head. “Not mine,” he said. “What did they want?”

  “For me to leave Emily Gordon alone.”

  “The thirty-year-old murder.”

  “Twenty-eight.”

  Epstein nodded and looked around for the waitress. When he caught her eye, he gestured for more coffee. She came and poured some for both of us.

  “Could I have another bagel?” Epstein said to her. “Toasted, with a shmeer?”

  “You want that with cream cheese?” she said.

  Epstein smiled. “Yes.”

  The waitress hurried off.

  Epstein said, “They show you any ID?”

  “No.”

  “So you don’t know they were government?”

  “No.”

  “But we know they were somebody, and somebody doesn’t want you investigating the death of Emily Gordon.”

  “Or the whole case,” I said. “It may not be Emily Gordon per se.”

  “Could be,” Epstein said. “Could be the fear that if you investigate Emily Gordon, you’ll find out something else.”

  “Or expose the cover-up.”

  Or both, Epstein said. “Remember Watergate?”

  “It wasn’t the crime, it was the cover-up?” I said.

  “Per se,” Epstein said.

  17

  It was Sunday morning. Susan and I were walking Pearl II along the Commonwealth Avenue Mall toward Kenmore Square. She was still a little nervous in the city and tended to press in against Susan’s leg when cars passed. I didn’t blame her. If you were going to press a leg, Susan’s would be an excellent choice.

  “So,” I said. “Daryl’s idyllic La Jolla childhood appears to be, ah, exaggerated.”

  “Poor kid,” Susan said.

  “Why the false history?” I said.

  “I imagine the real history is too painful,” Susan said. “And if you need to, you can pretend so hard that it’s almost true.”

  Traffic was sparse for the moment, and Pearl felt daring. She pulled vigorously on the leash in the direction of some pigeons.

  “You think she believes it is true?” I said.

  “No, she knows it’s not,” Susan said. “But it could have been. And she probably believes she’s the kind of person that such a childhood would have produced.”

  “It’s almost true, because it could have been true,” I said.

  “And because it is the best way to explain the kind of person you are.”

  A motorcycle went past us toward the common. Pearl shrunk in on herself, tucked her tail down, got low, and pressed against Susan. Susan patted her.

  “You’ll get used to it,” Susan said. “You’ll be a city girl soon.”

  We crossed Exeter Street.

  “You think I should tell Paul,” I said.

  “Does he need to know?”

  “As far as I can tell, he’s not planning to stroll into the sunset with her.”

  “Would it do him any good to know?”

  “Probably make life harder,” I said. “Having the secret, deciding whether to tell her he knows, thinking about the lie when he’s trying to direct her in a play.”


  “So why tell him?”

  “Because otherwise, I’ll be keeping a secret from him.”

  Susan smiled. Pearl had recovered from the motorcycle and was stalking a trash barrel.

  “Only you,” Susan said, “would worry about such a thing.”

  “You wouldn’t tell him?”

  “I would be perfectly comfortable doing what I thought was in his best interest.”

  I nodded.

  “I’ll think about it,” I said.

  “I know you will,” Susan said and bumped her head against my shoulder.

  We pulled Pearl away from the trash barrel and went on across Fairfield.

  “Did she think I wouldn’t find out?” I said. “When she asked me for help?”

  “Maybe she thought you would,” Susan said.

  18

  How much does it mean to you that I find out who murdered Daryl’s mother?” I said to Paul.

  We were up an alley off Broad Street, drinking Irish whisky in a saloon called Holly’s where I had once, for a couple months in my early youth, between fights, been a bouncer. The place looked the same, and I still liked to go there even though no one I knew then worked in Holly’s now.

  “What kind of question is that?” Paul said.

  “Are you being disrespectful?” I said.

  “I would say so, yes.”

  “Good.”

  “So why are you asking me about Daryl and her mother?” Paul said.

  “I talked to her aunt the other day.”

  “The one she said you shouldn’t talk to,” Paul said.

  “Yes, that one.”

  “And?”

  “And now I know why she didn’t want me to talk with her.”

  Paul sipped a little Irish whisky. He held the glass up a little and looked at the ice and whisky against the light from behind the bar.

  “Good stuff,” he said.

  “Perfect for male-bonding moments,” I said.

  “Are we having one?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He nodded. The bar was long and narrow with a tin ceiling and wood paneling, which had darkened with age. The bottles arranged in front of the mirror behind the bar were a shimmer of color in the dim room.

  “What did Auntie tell you?” he said.

  “Daryl sort of reinvented her childhood,” I said.

  “Wish I could,” he said. “How’d she do it?”

  I told him.

  When I got through, Paul said, “Wow. She’s even more fucked up than I thought she was.”

  “My diagnosis,” I said.

  “She’s a good actress, though,” Paul said. “And I like her.”

  I nodded.

  “So, what’s the downside,” Paul said, “to you finding out who killed her mother.”

  “Besides me working my ass off for no money?”

  “Besides that.”

  “I can’t trust what she tells me,” I said.

  “Can you ever?”

  “Mostly no,” I said. “I also might find out a lot more than Daryl wants me to.”

  “You might,” Paul said.

  We both finished our whisky. The bartender brought two more. Paul didn’t touch his for the moment. He stared into it. The afternoon had moved on, and the after-work guys who got off at four were coming in.

  “When I first met you,” Paul said after a time, “if you had done what I wanted you to do, where would I be now?”

  “You got a lotta stuff in you,” I said. “You might have turned it around on your own.”

  “You think that was likely?”

  “No.”

  “Me either. This is going to fuck her up all her life,” Paul said, “if it doesn’t get cleaned up.”

  “Ah cursed spite that I’m the one to set it right,” I said.

  “Hamlet?” Paul said. “Sort of?”

  “I think so.”

  We each rolled a small swallow of whisky down our throats and let the warm illusion spread through us.

  “You want me to chase this down,” I said.

  “All the way to the end.”

  “It’s better to know than not know?”

  “Much,” Paul said.

  19

  The man came into my office without knocking. I was working at my desk and didn’t look up until I had finished snipping an “Arlo and Janis” from The Globe to post on Susan’s refrigerator door. When I did look up, the man had closed the door behind him and was pointing a gun at my head.

  “Arlo and Janis is one of my favorites,” I said.

  “You see the gun?” the man said.

  “I do,” I said. “Right there at the end of your arm.”

  “Boss wanted you to see the gun.”

  On the left-hand wall of my office was a leather couch. At either end was a brass floor lamp with a small brass shade over the lightbulb. The man glanced at it and casually put a bullet through the shade nearest me. The explosion filled the office and made my ears hurt. If the man’s ears hurt, he didn’t show it.

  “Boss wanted you to see me shoot,” he said.

  The bullet had torn the small brass shade apart, and it hung in twisted shards around the shattered lightbulb.

  “Don’t feel bad,” I said. “That’s the way I shot while I was learning.”

  The man let the gun hang by his right side. He was tall and languid, with longish blond hair, a deep tan, pale blue eyes, and a diamond stud in his left ear. He wore tan slacks, a double-breasted blue blazer, and a white shirt with a big collar that spilled out over his lapels. He had on light tan woven leather loafers and no socks. He smiled. It made his mouth thin and oddly turned the corners of his mouth down slightly. It was the kind of smile a shark would smile, if sharks smiled.

  “I asked around about you,” he said. “Everyone told me you were a funny guy.”

  I ducked my head modestly.

  “What I want to know is how funny you’ll be when you got a gut full of lead.”

  “A gut full of lead?” I said. “That’s pathetic. Nobody talks like that anymore. A gut full of lead?”

  “I don’t think you’re a funny guy,” the man said. “And my boss don’t think so. You need to stay away from the Emily Gordon case.”

  “You’re not with the government, are you?” I said.

  He paid no attention to me. The man really didn’t think I was funny. He didn’t think I was anything. The gun at his side was a 9mm Browning. I owned one just like it. He brought it up slowly and held it at arm’s length, pointing it at my forehead. The hammer was back from the previous shot. He wasn’t smiling, but there was still something shark-like in his face.

  “You unnerstand what I tole you,” he said.

  “I think so,” I said. “Who’s your boss?”

  He didn’t say anything. The black bottomless barrel of the gun stared unwaveringly at my forehead.

  “Okay,” I said. “Be that way.”

  “I could do it now,” he said.

  His breathing seemed shallow and fast.

  “You could, but you won’t.”

  I focused on his trigger finger. If it showed any sign of movement I would roll to my right behind my desk and go for my gun. Except I wouldn’t get behind my desk. He’d blow my head open while I was still in my chair. We both knew that. But I focused anyway. It was better than wondering if there was an afterlife.

  “Why won’t I?”

  “You’re supposed to scare me,” I said.

  “You scared?”

  “Sure,” I said. “But a lot of people know I’m working on Emily Gordon. You kill me and it will make the case hot again. Your boss knows that.”

  “Don’t mean I won’t kill you,” he said.

  His eyes seemed wider and a little unfocused.

  “No, it don’t,” I said. “But it means you won’t kill me now.”

  “You keep pushing on the Gordon thing,” the man said, “and we won’t have no reason to wait.”

  “Of course I might k
ill you,” I said.

  He licked his lips and there were faint smudges of color over his cheekbones.

  “Pal,” he said, “if there’s a next time, you’ll be dead before you see me.”

  “Does it hurt when they pierce your ears?” I said.

  He stared at me over the gun.

  “You know, when they put that cute diamond in your ear, was it painful?”

  He stared at me some more.

  Then he said, “Fuck you, pal,” and walked out, still holding the gun.

  20

  I sat with Hawk and Vinnie Morris on a bench in Quincy Market, where we could keep track of the young female tourists. We had coffee in big paper cups. Vinnie had a jelly donut.

  Hawk shook his head slowly.

  “Don’t know anybody sounds like your man,” he said. “Like the diamond earring, though. You sure he’s white?”

  “Whiter than Christmas,” I said. “Vinnie?”

  Vinnie leaned forward a little so he wouldn’t get jelly on his shirt.

  “Vinnie,” I said, “jelly donuts are the single uncoolest thing a man can eat.”

  “I like them,” Vinnie said.

  “Honkie soul food,” Hawk said.

  “You know anybody sounds like the guy I described?” I said to Vinnie.

  “Yeah.”

  “So why didn’t you say so?”

  “I’m eating my donut,” Vinnie said.

  I looked at Hawk. Hawk grinned.

  “Vinnie got a lotta focus,” Hawk said.

  Vinnie finished his donut and drank some coffee. There was no sense of hurry, but all his movements were very quick. And exact. He patted his mouth with a paper napkin.

  “Sounds to me like a guy named Harvey,” he said.

  “First name or last?”

  “Don’t know. He’s from Miami,” Vinnie said. “Comes up here sometimes, does gun work for Sonny Karnofsky.”

  “You know him?”

  “I met him.”

  “How?”

  Vinnie looked at me.

  “I mean ‘how?’ in general,” I said.

  “I’m still with Gino,” Vinnie said. “Him and Sonny was doing something. Harvey was walking behind Sonny.”

  “He any good?” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “Better than you?” Hawk said.

  “No,” Vinnie said.

  “As good as you?” I said.

  “No.”