“I also think it’s bad form to talk about your mother that way to a stranger.”
“Why?”
“It’s not done,” I said.
The kid shrugged and stared out the window. He had one shrug left.
“If my father had started to fight with you, what would you do?”
“I’d have subdued him.”
“How?”
“Depends how tough he is.”
“He used to be a football player and he still lifts weights at the health club.”
I shrugged. It was catching.
“Do you think you could beat him up?” he said.
“Oh, sure,” I said. “He’s a big strong guy, I guess, but I do this for a living. And I’m in better shape.”
“Big deal,” the kid said.
“I didn’t bring it up,” I said.
“I don’t care about muscles,” the kid said.
“Okay,” I said.
“I suppose you think you’re a big man, having muscles,” the kid said.
“I think they are useful to me in what I do,” I said.
“Well, I think they’re ugly.”
I took my hands off the wheel long enough to turn my palms up.
“How come you’re a detective?” he said.
“Like the man said, because I can’t sing or dance.”
“It’s an awful gross job to me,” he said.
I made the same palms-up gesture. We were passing the Burlington Mall. “What exit do I take?” I said.
“Four and two-twenty-five toward Bedford,” he said. “How come you want to do a gross job?”
“It lets me live life on my own terms,” I said. “You sure you mean toward Bedford?”
“Yes. I’ll show you,” he said. And he did. We turned off toward Bedford, turned right, and right again and over an overpass back toward Lexington. Emerson Road was not far off the highway, a community of similar homes with a lot of wood and glass and some stone and brick. It was contemporary, but it worked okay in Lexington. I parked in the driveway out front and we got out. It was late afternoon and the wind had picked up. We leaned into it as we walked to his back door.
He opened it and went in without knocking and without any announcement.
CHAPTER 5
I rang the doorbell a long blast and followed him in. It was a downstairs hall. There were two white hollow core doors on the left and a short stairway to the right. On the wall before the stairway was a big Mondrian print in a chrome frame. Four steps up was the living room. As I went up the stairs behind the kid his mother came to the head of the stairs.
The kid said, “Here’s a big treat, I’m home.”
Patty Giacomin said, “Oh, Paul, I didn’t expect you so soon.”
She was wearing a pink silk outfit—tapered pants with a loose-fitting top. The top hung outside the pants and was gathered at the waist by a gold belt.
I was standing two steps down behind Paul on the stairs. There was a moment of silence. Then Patty Giacomin said, “Well, come up, Mr. Spenser. Have a drink. Paul, let Mr. Spenser get by.”
I stepped into the living room. There were two glasses and a pitcher that looked like martini on the low glass coffee table in front of the couch. There was a fire in the fireplace. There was Boursin cheese on a small tray and a plate of crackers that looked like little shredded-wheat biscuits. And on his feet, politely, in front of the couch was the very embodiment of contemporary elegance. He was probably my height and slim as a weasel. He wore a subdued gray herringbone coat and vest with charcoal pants, a narrow pink tie, a pin collar, and black Gucci loafers. A pink-and-charcoal hankie spilled out of the breast pocket of his jacket. His hair was cut short and off the ears and he had a close-cropped beard and a mustache. Whether to see or be seen I had no way to tell, but he was also sporting a pair of pink-tinted aviator glasses with very thin black rims. The pink tie was shiny.
Patty Giacomin said, “Paul, you know Stephen. Stephen, this is Mr. Spenser. Stephen Court.”
Stephen put out his hand. It was manicured and tanned. St. Thomas, no doubt. His handshake was firm without being strong. “Good to see you,” he said.
He didn’t say anything to Paul and Paul didn’t look at him. Patty said, “Would you join us for a drink, Mr. Spenser?”
“Sure,” I said. “Have any beer?”
“Oh, dear, I’m not sure,” she said, “Paul, go look in the refrigerator and see if there’s any beer.”
Paul hadn’t taken his coat off. He went over to the TV set in the bookcase and turned it on, set no channel, and sat down in a black Naugahyde armchair. The set warmed up and a Brady Bunch rerun came on. It was loud.
Patty Giacomin said, “Paul, for God’s sake,” and lowered the volume. While she did that I went into the kitchen on my right and found a can of Schlitz in the refrigerator. There were two more with it, and not much else. I went back into the living room with my beer. Stephen was sitting again, sipping his martini, his legs arranged so as not to ruin the crease in his pants. Patty was standing with her martini in hand.
“Did you have much trouble finding Paul, Mr. Spenser?”
“No,” I said. “It was easy.”
“Did you have trouble with his father?”
“No.”
“Have some cheese and a cracker,” she said. I took some. Boursin on a Triscuit isn’t my favorite, but it had been a long time since breakfast. I washed it down with the beer. There was silence except for a now softened Brady Bunch.
Stephen took a small sip of his martini, leaned back slightly, brushed a tiny fleck of something from his left lapel, and said, “Tell me, Mr. Spenser, what do you do?” I heard an overtone of disdain, but I’m probably too sensitive.
“I’m a disc jockey at Régine’s,” I said. “Haven’t I seen you there?”
Patty Giacomin spoke very quickly. “Mr. Spenser,” she said, “could I ask you a really large favor?”
I nodded.
“I, well, I know you’ve already done so much bringing Paul back, but, well, it’s just that it happened much sooner than I thought it would and Stephen and I have a dinner reservation.… Could you take Paul out maybe to McDonald’s or someplace? I’ll pay of course.”
I looked at Paul. He was sitting, still with his coat on, staring at The Brady Bunch. Stephen said, “There’s a rather decent Chinese restaurant in town, Szechuan and Mandarin cooking.”
Patty Giacomin had taken her purse off the mantel and was rummaging in it. “Yes,” she said. “The Yangtze River. Paul can show you. That’s a good idea. Paul always likes to eat there.” She took a twenty out of her purse and handed it to me. “Here,” she said. “That should be enough. It’s not very expensive.”
I didn’t take the twenty. I said to Paul, “You want to go?” and then I shrugged at the same time he did.
“What are you doing?” he said.
“Practicing my timing,” I said. “Your shrug is so expressive I’m trying to develop one just like it. You want to go get something to eat?”
He started to shrug, stopped, and said, “I don’t care.”
“Well, I do,” I said. “Come on. I’m starving.”
Patty Giacomin still held the twenty out. I shook my head.
“You asked for a favor,” I said. “You didn’t offer to hire me. My treat.”
“Oh, Spenser,” she said, “don’t be silly.”
“Come on, kid,” I said to Paul. “Let’s go. I’ll dazzle you with my knowledge of Oriental lore.”
The kid shifted slightly. “Come on,” I said. “I’m hungry as hell.”
He got up. “What’s the latest you’ll be home,” he said to his mother.
“I’ll be home before twelve,” she said.
Stephen said, “Good meeting you, Spenser. Good seeing you, Paul.”
“Likewise I’m sure,” I said. We went out.
When we were in the car again Paul said, “Why’d you do it?”
“What, agree to take you to dinner?
”
“Yes.”
“I felt bad for you,” I said.
“How come?”
“Because you came home after being missing and no one seemed glad.”
“I don’t care.”
“That’s probably wise,” I said. “If you can pull it off.” I turned out of Emerson Road. “Which way?” I said.
“Left,” he said.
“I don’t think I could pull it off,” I said.
“What?”
“Not caring,” I said. “I think if I got sent off to eat with a stranger my first night home I’d be down about it.”
“Well, I’m not,” he said.
“Good,” I said. “You want to eat in this Chinese place?”
“I don’t care,” he said.
We came to a cross street. “Which way?” I said.
“Left,” he said.
“That the way to the Chinese restaurant?” I said.
“Yes.”
“Good, we’ll eat there.”
We drove through Lexington, along dark streets that were mostly empty. It was a cold night. People were staying in. Lexington looks like you think it would. A lot of white colonial houses, many of them original. A lot of green shutters. A lot of bull’s-eye glass and small, paned windows. We came into the center of town, the green on the right. The statue of the Minuteman motionless in the cold. No one was taking a picture of it.
“It’s over there,” Paul said, “around that square.”
In the restaurant Paul said, “How come you wouldn’t let her pay for it?”
“It didn’t seem the right thing to do,” I said.
“Why not? Why should you pay? She’s got plenty of money.”
“If we order careful,” I said, “I can afford this.”
The waiter came. I ordered a Beck’s beer for me and a Coke for Paul. We looked at the menu.
“What can I have?” Paul said.
“Anything you want,” I said. “I’m very successful.”
We looked at the menu some more. The waiter brought the beer and the Coke. He stood with his pencil and paper poised. “You order?” he said.
“No,” I said. “We’re not ready.”
“Okay,” he said, and went away.
Paul said, “I don’t know what to have.”
I said, “What do you like?”
He said, “I don’t know.”
I nodded. “Yeah,” I said, “somehow I had a sense you might say that.”
He stared at the menu.
I said, “How about I order for both of us?”
“What if you order something I don’t like?”
“Don’t eat it.”
“But I’m hungry.”
“Then decide what you want.”
He stared at the menu some more. The waiter wandered back. “You order?” he said.
I said, “Yes. We’ll have two orders of Peking ravioli, the duck with plum sauce, the moo shu pork, and two bowls of white rice. And I’ll have another beer and he’ll have another Coke.”
The waiter said, “Okay.” He picked up the menus and went away.
Paul said, “I don’t know if I’ll like that stuff.”
“We’ll find out soon,” I said.
“You gonna send my mother a bill?”
“For the meal?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“I still don’t see why you want to pay for my dinner.”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “It has to do with propriety.”
The waiter came and plunked the ravioli on the table and two bottles of spiced oil.
“What’s propriety?” Paul said.
“Appropriateness. Doing things right.”
He looked at me without any expression.
“You want some raviolis?” I said.
“Just one,” he said, “to try. They look gross.”
“I thought you liked to eat here.”
“My mother just said that. I never been here.”
“Put some of the oil on it,” I said. “Not much. It’s sort of hot.”
He cut his ravioli in two and ate half. He didn’t say anything but he ate the other half. The waiter brought the rest of the food. We each ate four of the raviolis.
“You put the moo shu in one of these little pancakes, see, like this. Then you roll it up, like this. And you eat it.”
“The pancake doesn’t look like it’s cooked,” Paul said.
I ate some moo shu pork. He took a pancake and did as I’d showed him.
I said, “You want another Coke?”
He shook his head. I ordered another beer.
“You drink a lot?”
“No,” I said. “Not as much as I’d like.”
He speared a piece of duck with his fork and was trying to cut it on his plate.
“That’s finger food,” I said. “You don’t have to use your knife and fork.”
He kept on with the knife and fork. He didn’t say anything. I didn’t say anything. We finished eating at seven fifteen. We arrived back at his house at seven thirty. I parked and got out of the car with him.
“I’m not afraid to go in alone,” he said.
“Me either,” I said. “But it’s never any fun going into an empty house. I’ll walk in with you.”
“You don’t need to,” he said. “I’m alone a lot.”
“Me too,” I said.
We walked to the house together.
CHAPTER 6
It was Friday night, and Susan Silverman and I were at the Garden watching the Celtics and the Phoenix Suns play basketball. I was eating peanuts and drinking beer and explaining to Susan the fine points of going back door. I was having quite a good time. She was bored.
“You owe me for this,” she said. She had barely sipped at a paper cup of beer in one hand. There was a lipstick half moon on the rim.
“They don’t sell champagne by the paper cup here,” I said.
“How about a Graves?”
“You want me to get beat up,” I said. “Go up and ask if they sell a saucy little white Bordeaux?”
“Why is everyone cheering?” she said.
“Westphai just stuffed the ball backward over his head, didn’t you see?”
“He’s not even on the Celtics.”
“No, but the fans appreciate the shot. Besides, he used to be.”
“This is very boring,” she said.
I offered my peanuts to her. She took two.
“Afterwards I’ll let you kiss me,” I said.
“I’m thinking better of the game,” she said.
Cowens hit an outside shot.
“How come most of the players are black?” Susan said.
“Black man’s game,” I said. “Hawk says it’s heritage. Says there were a lot of schoolyards in the jungle.”
She smiled and sipped at the beer. She made a face. “How can you drink so much of this stuff?” she said.
“Practice,” I said. “Years of practice.”
Walter Davis hit a jump shot.
“What were you saying before about that boy you found Wednesday? What’s his name?”
“Paul Giacomin,” I said.
“Yes,” Susan said. “You said you wanted to talk about him.”
“But not while I’m watching the ball game.”
“Can’t you watch and talk at the same time? If you can’t, go buy me something to read.”
I shelled a peanut. “I don’t know,” I said. “It’s just that I keep thinking about him. I feel bad for him.”
“There’s a surprise.”
“That I feel bad for him?”
“You’d feel bad for Wile E. Coyote,” Susan said.
Westphal hit a left-handed scoop shot. The Celtics were losing ground.
“The kid’s a mess,” I said. “He’s skinny. He seems to have no capacity to decide anything. His only firm conviction is that both his parents suck.”
“That’s not so unusual a conviction for a fi
fteen-year-old kid,” Susan said. She took another peanut.
“Yes, but in this case the kid may be right.”
“Now you don’t know that,” Susan said. “You haven’t had enough time with them to make any real judgment.”
The Suns had scored eight straight points. The Celtics called time out.
“Better than you,” I said. “I been with the kid. His clothes aren’t right and they don’t fit right. He doesn’t know what to do in a restaurant. No one’s ever taught him anything.”
“Well, how important is it to know how to behave in a restaurant?” Susan said.
“By itself it’s not important,” I said. “It’s just an instance, you know? I mean no one has taken any time with him. No one has told him anything, even easy stuff about dressing and eating out. He’s been neglected. No one’s told him how to act.”
The Celtics put the ball in play from midcourt. Phoenix stole it and scored. I shook my head. Maybe if Cousy came out of retirement.
Susan said, “I haven’t met this kid, but I have met a lot of kids. It is, after all, my line of work. You’d be surprised at how recalcitrant kids this age are about taking guidance from parents. They are working through the Oedipal phase, among other things, often they look and act as if they haven’t had any care, even when they have. It’s a way to rebel.”
The Celtics threw the ball away. The Suns scored.
I said, “Are you familiar with the term blowout?”
“Is it like a burnout?” she said.
“No, I mean the game. You are witnessing a blowout,” I said.
“Are the Celtics losing?”
“Yes.”
“Want to leave?”
“No. It’s not just who wins. I like to watch the way they play.”
She said, “Mmm.”
I got another bag of peanuts and another beer. With five minutes left the score was 114 to 90. I looked up at the rafters where the retired numbers hung.
“You should have seen it,” I said to Susan.
“What?” She brushed a peanut shell from her lap. She was wearing blue jeans from France tucked into the tops of black boots.
“Cousy and Sharman, and Heinsohn and Lostcutoff and Russell. Havlicek, Sanders, Ramsey, Sam Jones, and K. C. Jones, Paul Silas and Don Nelson. And the war they’d have with the Knicks with Al McGuire on Cousy. And Russell against Chamberlain. You should have seen Bill Russell.”
Five Classic Spenser Mysteries Page 26