She nodded thoughtfully and sipped a little more of her tea.
"You're very charming," she said. "But you don't actually say very much."
"I haven't much to say."
"I don't believe that," Penny said.
"And detectives get further listening than they do talking."
"Are you being a detective now?"
"I'm always being a detective," I said.
"Really? Is that how you define yourself?"
"No. I define myself as Susan Silverman's main squeeze. Detective is what I do."
"Are you married to her?"
"Not quite."
"Tell me about her."
"Smart, a little self-centered, intense, quick, very tough, very funny, dreadful cook, and beautiful."
"What does she do?"
"Shrink."
"Wow."
"Wow?"
"Well, I mean, it's so high-powered."
"Me too," I said.
Penny smiled.
"Have you two been together for a long time?" she said.
"Yes."
"But you've never married."
"No."
"Is there a reason?"
"It's never seemed a good idea at the times we've thought about it."
"Well, I'd love to meet her."
"Yes," I said. "You would."
When the sprinklers stopped, Penny and I took a stroll with Dutch around the grounds, the tennis courts, and the riding stables. The unexplained outbuildings turned out to be a small gymnasium with weight-lifting equipment and two locker rooms. Then I went back to my hotel to think long thoughts. As is usual when I'm thinking long thoughts, I lay on the bed with my eyes closed. Susan says I often snore when thinking long thoughts.
FOUR
JAPANESE LANTERNS IN many colors were strung over the dark lawn, defining a patch of light and movement behind the Clive mansion. A number of guests dressed in elegant informality clustered together inside the circling lanterns near a bar set up on a table with a white tablecloth, where a black man in a white coat made drinks upon request. I was there wearing a summer-weight blue blazer to hide my gun, and sipping some beer and eating an occasional mushroom turnover offered me by a black woman with cornrows, wearing a frilly white apron. If you went outside the lanterns into the surrounding darkness and waited until your eyes adjusted, you could look up and see stars in the velvety night. Walter Clive was there in a straw-colored jacket and a navy-blue shirt. He still had on his aviator sunglasses, probably protection from the glare of the lanterns. A woman in a soft-green linen dress came out of the house and into the circle of light. She had silvery blond hair, and very worthwhile cleavage, and good hips and long legs. She was standing with a graceful-looking younger man with hair as blond as hers.
"Dolly," Clive said. "Over here."
She turned toward his voice and smiled and walked toward us. She had the kind of walk that helped me to think about the soft sound of the linen dress whispering across her thighs. When she got to where we were she kissed Clive, and put her hand out to me.
"Dolly, this is Spenser, the man we've hired."
"How lovely to meet you," she said.
Her grip was firm. She smelled gently of French perfume. At least in the light of the Japanese lanterns, her eyes were violet.
"How do you do?" I said.
"Have you met Hugger yet?"
"No, is he here?"
"Oh, aren't you funny," she said.
There was intimacy in the way Dolly stood and talked, which seemed to suggest that we really ought to be in bed together, and until then we were just marking time.
"Yes, I am," I said. "Do you have any theories on the horse assaults?"
"Oh Lord no," she said. "That's not my business."
"What is your business?" I said.
She nodded at Clive, who was talking with a group of guests.
"Keeping him happy," she said.
"Which you do well."
She didn't appear to do anything, but I could feel the energy between us again.
"Which I do very well," she said.
Penny came by and took my arm.
"Sorry, Dolly, the big boss has ordered me to introduce him around."
"It's best to follow orders," Dolly said, and drifted away toward Clive.
"Wife?" I said.
"Girlfriend."
"Where's your mother?"
"Left years ago. She lives in San Francisco with a guitarist."
"You get along?" I said.
"With Dolly? Oh sure. She keeps Daddy happy and when Daddy's happy, everybody's happy."
"Who's the younger blond guy she's with?"
"That's her son," Penny said. "Jason."
"She's older than she looks," I said.
Penny smiled brilliantly.
"We all are," she said.
With her arm through mine she steered me through the guests. We stopped in front of a woman whose idea of easy informality appeared to be gold sling-back shoes with glass heels and a gauzy white dress. She was good-looking. Every woman at the party was good-looking. They all looked as if they had just stepped from the shower and doused themselves with lilac water and taken plenty of time getting ready for the party.
"This is my big sister," she said. "Stonie. Stonie, this is Mr. Spenser, whom Daddy has hired to protect Hugger."
"Well," Stonie said, "you certainly have the build for it."
"You have a nice build too," I said.
"Why, aren't you just lovely to notice."
The man with her turned away from his conversation and put out a hand.
"Cord Wyatt," he said. "I'm the lucky husband of this lady."
He was taller than I am and slim, with the kind of loose build I associated with polo players. Since I had never seen a polo match, my association may not have been accurate. He had the tan and the perfect smile, and so did his wife. Everybody had it. If I were a skin cancer specialist, I'd move right down here.
"And this is my middle sister, SueSue."
It was getting monotonous. Blond hair, tan skin, white teeth. SueSue's dress was flowered.
"Wow," SueSue said.
"Wow?" I said.
"No one told me you were a hunk," SueSue said.
"Sadly," I said, "no one has told me that either."
"Well, you surely are," she said.
"He doesn't look like so much to me," a man said.
"My husband, Pud," SueSue said.
I put my hand out. Pud didn't take it. He appeared to be drunk. As I thought of it, maybe SueSue was drunk too. Which was too bad-it took a little something away from the "hunk" designation.
"Pud," I said, and took my hand back.
Pud looked like he might weigh 250, but it was weight that had collected on a frame designed to support maybe 210. He had the look of a college football player ten years out of shape. He was probably stud duck at the Rotary Club cookouts. I could have taken him while whistling the Michigan fight song and balancing a seal on my nose.
Pud said, "So, how you doing, Hunk?"
"Fine, thank you, Pud."
I maybe put a little more edge into "Pud" than I had to, but on the whole I was being the soul of civility.
"My wife thinks you're a hunk," he said.
His tongue was having a little trouble, and "you're" came out as a compromise with "you are."
"A common misperception," I said. "You must have the same problem, Pud."
He frowned at me. Even sober, I suspected, his strong suit would not be thinking.
"You got yourself a problem," he said, "with my name?"
"Oh, Pud," SueSue said. "Nobody gives a damn about your silly old name."
Penny was quiet; she seemed sort of interested.
"The hunk don't like my name," he said, and stared at me. The stare would have been scarier if he could focus.
"It's quite a lovely name," I said. "Is it short for something?"
"His father's name was Poole," SueSue said. "Poo
le Potter. He called his son Puddle."
"I see," I said.
"I don't think I like you talking to my wife, Hunk."
"Of course you don't," I said.
"So buzz off."
He put his hand on my chest and gave me a little shove. It was too little. I didn't move.
"Pud," I said. "Please don't make a mistake here."
"Mistake? What mistake? I'm telling you to buzz off."
"You're drunk," I said, "and I'm even-tempered. But don't put your hands on me again."
He had a low-ball glass in his right hand that appeared to contain bourbon. He took a bracing pull on it.
"I ought to knock you on your keister."
"Sure," I said, "but you can't and you're just going to look like a goddamned fool. Why don't I apologize and you accept and we'll go our separate ways?"
"You think I can't?"
Neither Penny nor SueSue made any move to intervene. There was something a little unpleasant flickering in SueSue's eyes as she watched.
"Pud, I've been doing this for a living since before you started pickling your liver. It's not a good match for you."
He stared at me. Some part of him got it. Some part of him knew he'd gotten in where he didn't belong. But he was too drunk to back down. He looked at SueSue. The unpleasant glint was still in her eyes. She smiled an unpleasant smile.
"Don't you let him push you around, Pud Potter," she said.
He frowned as if he were trying to concentrate, and put his drink on a table next to him. It came the way I knew it would, a long slow looping right punch that I could have slipped while writing my memoirs. I blocked it on my left forearm. He threw a left of the same directness and velocity. I slipped the left, put my hand behind his shoulder, and used the slow force of the punch to continue him around. When he was turned, I put my foot against his butt and shoved. He stumbled forward and fell on the lawn, and got up with deep grass stains on the knees of his white slacks.
Walter Clive detached himself from the group he was entertaining and walked over. Dolly came with him.
"What seems to be the problem?" he said.
"Pud is drunk," Penny said.
Clive nodded. "And being Pud," he said.
"Yes."
Pud was standing, looking a little disoriented, ready to charge.
"SueSue," Clive said. "Take Pud home."
He turned to me.
"I apologize for my son-in-law. He's a little too fond sometimes of that sippin' whiskey."
"No harm," I said.
Clive never looked to see if Pud was leaving. Which he was, led by SueSue away from the bright circle of Japanese lanterns. Dolly smiled at me warmly. The smile made me think of perfumed silk. I was pretty sure I knew what she did to make Clive happy.
"Penny," Clive said, "introduce Mr. Spenser to our trainer."
"Sure thing, boss," Penny said, and put her arm through mine again and led me toward another part of the terrace. Clive went back to his guests with Dolly beside him.
"You handled him like he was a little boy," Penny said. She hugged my arm against her.
"It's what I do," I said. "As in most things, there's a pretty big difference between amateurs and professionals."
"I'll say."
"Sorry that had to happen," I said.
"Oh, not me," Penny said. "I'm thrilled. I think Pud needs to be kicked in the ass every evening."
"In your experience, am I going to have to do it again?"
"I don't know. He may not even remember it in the morning."
"Perhaps SueSue will remind him."
"You don't miss much," she said. "Do you?"
"Just doing my job, ma'am," I said.
"Most of the people Pud picks on are afraid of him."
"Given his fistic skills," I said, "he would be wise to ascertain that in advance."
She smiled and gave my arm an extra squeeze and guided me through the cocktail crowd.
FIVE
IT WAS TEN minutes to six in the morning. I was at the rail with Hale Martin, the Three Fillies trainer, at the east end of the Three Fillies training track with the sun on my back, drinking a cup of coffee from the pot in the trainer's room. A big chestnut horse was being ridden around the soft track by a small girl in jeans and a lavender T-shirt that read THREE FILLIES on it. A whip was stuck into the top of her right boot. Under her funny-looking rider's cap, her hair was a long single braid down her back. The girl was an exercise rider named Mickey. The horse was Hugger Mugger. He was beautiful. There were four other horses being galloped in the morning. They were beautiful. As I went along I discovered that they were all beautiful, including the ones that couldn't outrun me in a mile and a furlong. Maybe beauty is skin-deep. "How much does he weigh?" I said.
"About twelve hundred pounds," Martin said.
I'd always imagined that trainers were old guys that looked like James Whitmore, and chewed plug tobacco. Martin was a young guy with even features and very bright blue eyes and the healthy color of a man who spent his life outdoors. He wore a white button-down shirt and pressed jeans, a silk tweed jacket, riding boots, and the kind of snug leather pullover chaps that horse people wore, I think, to indicate that they were horse people.
"And that hundred-pound kid controls him like he was a tricycle."
Martin smiled. "Girls and horses," he said.
"It's probably a sign of city-bred boorishness," I said. "But all the horses look pretty much alike."
"They ought to," Martin said. "They're all descended from one of three horses, most of them from a horse called the Darley Arabian."
"Close breeding," I said.
"Um-hmm."
We were alone at the rail except for the Security South guards in their gray uniforms, four of them, with handguns and walkie-talkies, watching Hugger Mugger as he pranced through his workout.
"Doesn't it make some of them kind of weird?"
"Oh yes," Martin said. "Weavers. Cribbers. Stay around until we breeze Jimbo. We can't breeze Jimbo with the other horses."
The stables and training track were surrounded by tall pine trees that didn't begin to branch until maybe thirty feet up the trunk. The horses' hooves made a soft chuff on the surface of the track. Otherwise it was very still. The exercise riders talked among themselves as they rode, but we weren't close enough to hear them. There was nothing else in sight but this ring in the trees where the horses circled timelessly, counterclockwise, with an evanescence of morning mist barely lingering about the infield.
"What's going on with that one?" I said.
"He tends to swallow his tongue," Martin said. "So we have to tie it down when he runs."
"How's he feel about that?" I said.
Martin grinned. "Horses don't say much."
"Nothing wrong with quiet," I said.
A trim man with short hair and high cheekbones came toward us from the stable area. He had on a tan golf jacket, and Dockers and deck shoes. A blue-and-gray-plaid shirt showed at the opening of the half-zipped jacket. He wore an earpiece like the Secret Service guys, and there was a small SS pin on the lapel of his jacket. When he got close enough I could see that he was wearing a gun under the golf jacket.
"Delroy," he said.
"Spenser," I said, trying to stand a little straighter.
"I heard you were coming aboard."
"Aye," I said.
Delroy looked at me suspiciously. Was I kidding him?
"I'd appreciate it if you'd check in with me when you're in the area."
"Sure. When did you come aboard?"
"Me?"
"Yeah, when did you start guarding the horses?"
"After Heroic Hope was shot."
"The second horse shot."
"That's right."
"So where were your guys when someone was pointing a gun at Hugger Mugger?"
"If somebody did," Delroy said.
"You figure the groom made it up?"
"Nobody could get to him through our security."
<
br /> "How about the other horse, Saddle Shoes?"
"He was shot at long range," Delroy said. "We can't be everywhere."
"'Course not," I said. "Why would the groom lie?"
"Most of them lie," Delroy said.
"Grooms?"
Delroy snorted. "They wouldn't tell a white man the truth if it would make them rich."
"What's the SS for on your collar?"
"Security South."
"Oh, it's not Schutzstaffel? "I said.
"Excuse me?"
"A little Nazi humor," I said.
"What do you mean?"
"The SS was Hitler's bodyguard," I said. "It's an abbreviation of Schutzstaffel."
"This pin stands for Security South," Delroy said.
"Yes."
Delroy looked at me for a moment. Martin was silent beside me, his eyes on the horses moving around the track.
"You're a big guy," Delroy said.
"I try," I said.
"Well, to be honest with you, size doesn't impress me."
"How disappointing," I said.
"We're professionals, every one of us, and quite frankly, we don't think we need some wizard brought in here from Boston to tell us how to do our job."
"Well, it's certainly a nice professional-looking earpiece," I said. "Can you listen to Dr. Laura on it?"
"I command a twelve-man detail here," Delroy said. "I need in-touch capability."
"Military Police?" I said.
"I joined SS five years ago. Before that I was with the Bureau and before that I was an officer in the Marine Corps."
"The Corps and the Bureau," I said. "Jeepers."
"What are your credentials?"
"I got fired from the cops," I said.
Delroy snorted. Martin kept watching the horses.
"How the hell did you weasel onto Walt Clive's payroll?" Delroy said.
"Maybe size impresses him," I said.
"Well, let's put it on the table where we can all look at it," Delroy said. "We'll complete our mission here with you or without you. You do whatever you want to, or whatever Walt Clive wants you to do. But if you get in our way we'll roll right over you. You understand?"
"Most of it," I said. "Martin here can help me with the hard parts."
"Anything has to do with that horse," Delroy said, "you go through me."
He about-faced smartly and marched away.
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