Promised Land s-4

by Robert B. Parker

  ”Suze,“ I said. ”Do we have to complicate it?“

  ”You can’t say the traditional thing?“

  ”It’s not saying ‘I love you,’ it’s what comes after.“

  ”You mean love and marriage, they go together like a horse and carriage?“

  I shrugged. ”I don’t suppose they have to, I’ve seen a lot of marriages without love. I guess it could work the other way.“

  Susan said, ”Urn hum“ and looked at me steadily again.

  ”The way we’re going now seems nice,“ I said.

  ”No,“ she said. ”It is momentary and therefore finally pointless. It has no larger commitment, it involves no risk, and therefore no real relationship.“

  ”To have a real relationship you gotta suffer?“

  ”You have to risk it,“ she said. ”You have to know that if it gets homely and unpleasant you can’t just walk away.“

  ”And that means marriage? Lots of people walk away from marriage. For crissake, I got a lady client at this moment who has done just that.“

  ”After what, twenty-two years?“ Susan said.

  ”One point for your side,“ I said. ”She didn’t run off at the first sprinkle of rain, did she. But does that make the difference? Some J.P. reading from the Bible?“

  ”No,“ Susan said. ”But the ceremony is the visible symbol of the commitment. We ritualize our deepest meanings usually, and marriage is the way we’ve ritualized love. Or one of the ways.“

  ”Are you saying we should get married?“

  ”At the moment I’m saying I love you and I’m waiting for a response.“

  ”It’s not that simple, Suze.“

  ”And I believe I’ve gotten the response.“ She got up from the bar and walked out. I finished my beer, left a ten on the bar and walked back to my room. She wasn’t there. She also was not on the terrace or in the lobby or in the parking lot. I looked for her small blue Chevy Nova and didn’t see it. I went back to the room. Her suitcase was still on the rack, her clothes hanging in the closet. She wouldn’t go home without her clothes. Without me maybe, but not without her clothes. I sat down on the bed and looked at the red chair in the corner. The seat was one form of molded plastic, the legs four thin rounds of dark wood with little brass booties on the bottom. Elegant. I was much too damn big and tough to cry. Too old also. It wasn’t that goddamned simple.

  On the top of the bureau was a card that said, ”Enjoy our health club and sauna.“ I got undressed, dug a pair of white shorts and a gray T-shirt out of the bureau, put them on and laced up my white Adidas track shoes with the three black stripes, no socks. Susan always bitched at me about no socks when we played tennis, but I liked the look. Besides, it was a bother putting socks on.

  The health club was one level down, plaid-carpeted, several rooms, facilities for steam, sauna, rubdowns, and an exercise room with a Universal Trainer. A wiry middle-aged man in white slacks and a white T-shirt gave me a big smile when I came in.

  ”Looking for a nice workout, sir?“

  ”Yeah.“

  ”Well, we’ve got the equipment. You familiar with a Universal, sir?“

  ”Yeah.“

  ”It is, as you can see, a weightlifting machine that operates on pulleys and runs, thus allowing a full workout without the time-consuming inconvenience of changing plates on a barbell.“

  ”I know,“ I said.

  ”Let me give you an idea of how ours works. There are eight positions on the central unit here, the bench press, curls, over-the head press…“

  ”I know,“ I said.

  ”The weight numbering on the left is beginning weight, the markings on the right are overload weights resulting from the diminishment of fulcrum…“

  I got on the bench, shoved the pin into the slot marked 300, took a big breath and blew the weight up to arm’s length and let it back. I did it two more times. The trainer said, ”I guess you’ve done this before.“

  ”Yeah,“ I said.

  He went back toward the trainer’s room. ”You want anything, you let me know,“ he said.

  I moved to the lat machine, did 15 pull downs with 150, did 15 tricep presses with 90, moved to the curl bar, then to the bench again. I didn’t normally lift that heavy on the bench but I needed to bust a gut or something and 300-pound bench presses were just right for that. I did four sets of everything and the sweat was soaking through my shirt and running down the insides of my arms, so I had to keep wiping my hands to keep a grip on the weight bars. I finished up doing twenty-five dips, and when I stepped away my arms were trembling and my breath was coming in gasps. It was a slow day for the health club. I was the only one in there, and the trainer had come out after a while and watched.

  ”Hey,“ he said, ”you really work out, don’t you?“

  ”Yeah,“ I said. There was a heavy bag in one corner of the training room. ”You got gloves for that thing?“ I said.

  ”Got some speed gloves,“ the trainer said.

  ”Gimme,“ I said.

  He brought them out and I put them on and leaned against the wall, getting my breath under control and waiting for my arms to stop feeling rubbery. It didn’t used to take as long. In about five minutes, I was ready for the bag. I stood close to it, maybe six inches away, and punched it in combinations as hard as I could. Two lefts, a right. Left jab, left hook, right cross, left jab, left jab, step-back right uppercut. It’s hard to hit a heavy bag with an uppercut. It has no chin. I hit the bag for as long as I could, as hard as I could. Grunting with the effort. Staying up against it and trying to get all the power I could into the six-inch punches. If you’ve never done it you have no idea how tiring it is to punch something. Every couple of minutes I had to back away and lean on the wall and recover.

  The trainer said to me, ”You used to fight?“

  ”Yeah,“ I said.

  ”You can always tell,“ he said. ”Everybody comes in here slaps at the bag, or gives it a punch. They can’t resist it. But one guy in a hundred actually hits it and knows what he’s doing.“

  ”Yeah,“ I went back to the bag, driving my left fist into it, alternating jabs and hooks, trying to punch through it. The sweat rolled down my face and dripped from my arms and legs. My shirt was soaking and I was beginning to see black spots dancing like visions of sugar plums before my eyes.

  ”You want some salt,“ the trainer said. I shook my head. My gray T-shirt was soaked black with sweat. Sweat ran down my arms and legs. My hair was dripping wet. I stepped back from the bag and leaned on the wall. My breath was heaving in and out and my arms were numb and rubbery. I slid my back down the wall and sat on the floor, knees up, back against the wall, my forearms resting on my knees, my head hanging, and waited while the breath got under control and the spots went away. The speed gloves were slippery with sweat as I peeled them off. I got up and handed them to the trainer.

  ”Thanks,“ I said.

  ”Sure,“ he said. ”When you work out, man, you work out, don’t you?“

  ”Yeah,“ I said.

  I walked slowly out of the training room and up the stairs. Several people looked at me as I crossed the lobby toward my room. The floor of the lobby was done in rust-colored quarry tile, about 8” x 8“. In my room I turned up the air conditioner and took a shower, standing a long time under the hard needle spray. Susan’s make-up kit was still on the vanity. I toweled dry, put on a blue and white tank top, white slacks and black loafers. I looked at my gun lying on the bureau. ”Screw it.“ I headed clean and tired and unarmed down the corridor, back to the bar, and began to drink bourbon.

  Chapter 14

  I woke up at eight-fifteen the next morning feeling like a failed suicide. The other bed had not been slept in. At twenty to nine I got out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom, took two aspirin and another shower. At nine-fifteen I walked stiffly and slow down to the coffee shop and drank two large orange juices and three cups of black coffee. At ten of ten I walked less stiffly, but still slow, back to my room a
nd called my answering service. In desperate times, habit helps give form to our lives.

  Pam Shepard had called and would call again. ”She said it was urgent, Spenser.“

  ”Thank you, Lillian. When she calls again give her this number.“ I hung up and waited. Ten minutes later the phone rang.

  ”Spenser,“ I said.

  ”I need help,“ she said. ”I’ve got to talk with you.“

  ”Talk,“ I said.

  ”I don’t want to talk on the phone, I need to see you, and be with you when I talk. I’m scared. I don’t know who else to call.“

  ”Okay, I’ll come up to your place.“

  ”No, we’re not there anymore. Do you know where Plimoth Plantation is?“

  ”Yes.“

  ”I’ll meet you there. Walk down the main street of the village. I’ll see you.“

  ”Okay, I’ll leave now. See you there about noon?“

  ”Yes. I mustn’t be found. Don’t let anyone know you’re going to see me. Don’t let anyone follow you.“

  ”You want to give me a hint of what your problem is?“

  ”No,“ she said. ”Just meet me where we said.“

  ”I’ll be there.“

  We hung up. It was ten-thirty. Shouldn’t take more than half an hour to drive to Plymouth. Susan’s clothes were still in the closet. She’d come back for them, and the make-up kit. She must have been incensed beyond reason to have left that. She’d probably checked into another motel. Maybe even another room in this one. I could wait an hour. Maybe she’d come back for her clothes. I got a piece of stationery and an envelope from the drawer of the desk, wrote a note, sealed it in the envelope and wrote Susan’s name on the outside. I got Susan’s cosmetic case from the bathroom and put it on the desk. I propped the note against it, and sat down in a chair near the bathroom door.

  At eleven-thirteen someone knocked softly on my door. I got up and stepped into the bathroom, out of sight, behind the open bathroom door. Another knock. A wait. And then a key in the lock. Through the crack of the hinge end of the bathroom door I could see the motel room door open. Susan came in. Must have gotten the key at the desk. Probably said she’d lost hers. She walked out of sight toward the desk top where the note was. I heard her tear open the envelope. The note said. ”Lurking in the bathroom is a horse’s ass. It requires the kiss of a beautiful woman to turn him into a handsome prince again.“ I stepped out from behind the door, into the room. Susan put the note down, turned and saw me. With no change of expression she walked over and gave me a small kiss on the mouth. Then she stepped back and studied me closely. She shook her head. ”Didn’t work,“ she said. ”You’re still a horse’s ass.“

  ”It was the low-voltage kiss,“ I said. ”Transforming a horse’s ass into a handsome prince is a high-intensity task.“

  ”I’ll try once more,“ she said. And put both arms around me and kissed me hard on the mouth. The kiss held, and developed into much more and relaxed in post-climactic languor without a sound. Without even breaking the kiss. At close range I could see Susan’s eyes still closed.

  I took my mouth from hers and said, ”You wanta go to Plimoth Plantation?“

  Susan opened her eyes and looked at me. ”Anywhere at all,“ she said. ”You are still a horse’s ass, but you are my horse’s ass.“

  I said, ”I love you.“

  She closed her eyes again and pushed her face against the hollow of my neck and shoulder for a moment. Then she pulled her head back and opened her eyes and nodded her head. ”Okay, prince,“ she said. ”Let’s get to Plimoth.“

  Our clothes were in a scattered tangle on the floor and by the time we sorted them out and got them back on it was noon. ”We are late,“ I said.

  ”I hurried as fast as I could,“ Susan said. She was putting on her lipstick in the mirror, bending way over the dresser to do it.

  ”We were fast,“ I said. ”A half-hour from horse’s ass to handsome prince. I think that fulfills the legal definition of a quickie.“

  ”You’re the one in a hurry to go see Plimoth Plantation. Given the choice between sensual delight and historical restoration, I’d have predicted a different decision on your part.“

  ”I’ve got to see someone there, and it may help if you’re with me. Perhaps later we can reconsider the choice.“

  ”I’m ready,“ she said. And we went out of the room to my car. On the drive up Route 3 to Plymouth I told Susan what little I knew about why we were going.

  Susan said, ”Won’t she panic or something if I show up with you? She did say something about alone.“

  ”We won’t go in together,“ I said. ”When I find her, I’ll explain who you are and introduce you. You been to the Plantation before?“

  She nodded. ”Well, then, you can just walk down the central street a bit ahead of me and hang around till I holler.“

  ”Always the woman’s lot,“ she said.

  I grunted. A sign on my left said Plimoth Plantation Road and I turned in. The road wound up through a meadow toward a stand of pines. Behind the pines was a parking lot and at one edge of the parking lot was a ticket booth. I parked and Susan got out and walked ahead, bought a ticket and went through the entrance. When she was out of sight I got out and did the same thing. Beyond the ticket booth was a rustic building containing a gift shop, lunch room and information service. I went on past it and headed down the soft path between the high pines toward the Plantation itself. A few years back I had been reading Samuel Eliot Morison’s big book of American history, and got hooked and drove around the East going to Colonial restorations. Williamsburg is the most dazzling, and Sturbridge is grand, but Plimoth Plantation is always a small pleasure.

  I rounded the curve by the administration building and saw the blockhouse of dark wood and the stockade around the little town and beyond it the sea. The area was entirely surrounded by woods and if you were careful you could see no sign of the twentieth century. If you weren’t careful and looked too closely you could see Bert’s Restaurant and somebody else’s motel down along the shore. But for a moment I could go back, as I could every time I came, to the small cluster to zealous Christians in the wilderness of seventeenth-century America, and experience a sense of the desolation they must have felt, minute and remote and resolute in the vast woods.

  I saw Susan on top of the blockhouse, looking out at the village, her arms folded on the parapet, and I came back to business and walked up the hill, past the blockhouse and into the Plantation. There was one street, narrow and rutted, leading downhill toward the ocean. Thatched houses along each side, behind the herb gardens, some livestock and a number of people dressed in Colonial costume. Lots of children, lots of Kodak Instamatics. I walked down the hill, slowly, letting Pam Shepard have ample time to spot me and see that I wasn’t followed. I went the whole length of the street and started back up. As I passed Myles Standish’s house, Pam came out of the door wearing huge sunglasses and fell into step beside me.

  ”You’re alone.“

  ”No, I have a friend with me. A woman.“ It seemed important to say it was a woman.

  ”Why,“ she said. Her eyes were wide and dark.

  ”You are in trouble, and maybe she could help. She’s an A-l woman. And I had the impression you weren’t into men much lately.“

  ”Can I trust her?“

  ”Yes.“

  ”Can I trust you?“

  ”Yes.“

  ”I suppose you wouldn’t say so if I couldn’t anyway, would you?“ She was wearing a faded denim pants and jacket combo over a funky-looking multicolored T-shirt. She was exactly as immaculate and neat and fresh-from-the-shower-and-make-up-table as she had been the last time I saw her.

  ”No, I wouldn’t. Come on, I’ll introduce you to my friend, then we can go someplace and sit down and maybe have a drink or a snack or both and talk about whatever you’d like to talk about.“

  She looked all around her as if she might dart back into one of the thatched houses and hide in the lof
t. Then she took a deep breath and said, ”Okay, but I mustn’t be seen.“

  ”Seen by who?“

  ”By anyone, by anyone who would recognize me.“

  ”Okay, we’ll get Susan and we’ll go someplace obscure.“ I walked back up the street toward the gate to the blockhouse, Pam Shepard close by me as if trying to stay in my shadow. Near the top of the hill Susan Silverman met us. I nodded at her and she smiled.

  ”Pam Shepard,“ I said. ”Susan Silverman.“ Susan put out her hand and smiled.

  Pam Shepard said, ”Hello.“

  I said, ”Come on, we’ll head back to the car.“

  In the car Pam Shepard talked with Susan. ”Are you a detective too, Susan?“

  ”No, I’m a guidance counselor at Smithfield High School,“ Susan said.

  ”Oh, really? That must be very interesting.“

  ”Yes,“ Susan said, ”it is. It’s tiresome, sometimes, like most things, but I love it.“

  ”I never worked,“ Pam said. ”I always just stayed home with the kids.“

  ”But that must be interesting too,“ Susan said. ”And tiresome. I never had much chance to do that.“

  ”You’re not married?“

  ”Not now, I was divorced quite some time ago.“

  ”Children?“

  Susan shook her head, I pulled into the parking lot at Bert’s. ”You know anybody in this town,“ I said to Pam.

  ”No.“

  ”Okay, then this place ought to be fairly safe. It doesn’t look like a spot people would drive up from the Cape to go to.“

  Bert’s was a two-story building done in weathered shingles fronting on the ocean. Inside, the dining room was bright, pleasant, informal and not very full. We sat by the window and looked at the waves come in and go out. The waitress came. Susan didn’t want a drink. Pam Shepard had a stinger on the rocks. I ordered a draft beer. The waitress said they had none. ”I’ve learned,“ I said, ”to live with disappointment.“ The waitress said she could bring me a bottle of Heineken. I said it would do. The menu leaned heavily toward fried seafood. Not my favorite, but the worst meal I ever had was wonderful. At least they didn’t feature things like the John Alden Burger or Pilgrim Soup.