Five Classic Spenser Mysteries

by Robert B. Parker

  “Why don’t you have shoulders like Mr. Spenser, Rog? I bet he looks great with his shirt off. Do you look great with your shirt off, Mr. Spenser?” Her unlit cigarette bobbed up and down in her mouth as she talked.

  “Yeah, but I usually wear one because my tommy gun tends to cut into my skin when I don’t.”

  She looked puzzled for a minute, but then Trask held a flaming Zippo lighter at her, and she got her cigarette going, took a big inhale and exhale through her nose without taking the cigarette out. She squeezed my upper arm with her right hand and said, “Oooooh.” I said, “Seen many Marlene Dietrich movies lately?”

  That puzzled look again. She stepped back and picked up her drink. “I have to wee wee,” she said. And made what I guess was a seductive move toward the bathroom. I finished my beer.

  “You spot anything, Sherlock Holmes?” Trask said.

  I shook my head.

  Trask looked pleased. “I didn’t think you would,” he said. “We’re not a big force, but we’re trained in modern techniques and we’re highly disciplined.”

  “I think the kid’s local, though,” I said. “Or he went with someone.”

  “The hell you say.”

  “He wouldn’t set out for a long trip with a guinea pig in his hand and no food, no carry case, not even a spacious pocket. He might run in from a waiting car and grab the guinea pig and run out again. He’d go a short ride carrying the guinea pig, but not a long one. He’s a neat kid; everything is laid out in squares and angles. He wouldn’t be so unneat as to forget food and lodging for the guinea pig.”

  “Hey, that’s right,” Bartlett said. “He would never have done that; Kevin wasn’t like that; he’d never have gone off like that unless he was going like you say, Spenser He’d never do that.”

  Somewhere off the kitchen a toilet flushed and a door opened and a minute later Marge Bartlett reappeared.

  “Spenser thinks Kevin’s around here somewhere,” Bartlett said to her. “That he wouldn’t have gone far without taking stuff for the guinea pig and some clothes and things.”

  She drained the rest of her drink and gestured the glass indiscriminately at the room. Trask jumped up. “I’ll get it, Marge. Sit still, Rog, I got it.”

  “How does that sound to you, Mrs. Bartlett?” I asked. “Is Kevin the kind of kid to go off that way without preparation?”

  “Marge,” she said. “Call me Marge.”

  Trask gave her a fresh drink and helped himself to another beer from the refrigerator.

  Bartlett said, “Jeez, I better slice up some more limes; gin and tonic without limes is like a kiss without a squeeze, right? I mean without a goddamned lime it’s like a kiss without a squeeze.”

  Marge Bartlett popped another cigarette into her mouth. It had floral designs on it. Trask leaned over with his Zippo and lit it. The Zippo had a Marine Corps world and anchor emblem on it. I bet he hadn’t had the stomach thirty years ago at Parris Island.

  “Is he, Marge?” I asked.

  “Is he what?” she said.

  “Is he the kind of kid that would go off without making any provisions for anything? His room doesn’t look like the room of that kind of person.”

  “That’s right. He’s just like his damned father. So careful, so neat. Everything has to be the same. Not like me at all; I’m spontaneous. ‘Spontaneous Me.’ Ever read that poem? By Whittier?”

  “Whitman,” I said.

  “Yes, excuse me, Whitman, of course. Anyway, I’m spontaneous, spur-of-the-moment, zip-zap, go anywhere, do anything. Most creative people are like that, I guess, but not Kevin; a stick-in-the-mud just like old Roger Stick-in-the-mud. Supper’s got to be at six, plain food, roast beef, baked beans. I’d cook if they’d eat something creative, Julia Child, that kind of thing, but it’s got to be the same old stew, steak, hamburg. The hell with them; let them cook it themselves. Now if they would eat veal steak in wine with cherries …”

  “My ass,” Bartlett said. “You’re not creative, you’re lazy. You haven’t cooked a goddamned meal around here in five years. Veal with my ass.”

  “Hey, Rog,” Trask said. “Now there’s no way to talk. Marge has put out a wonderful feed at parties and stuff.”

  “Yeah, catered from the goddamned deli for half my freaking profits for the month.”

  “Oh, you sonova bitch,” Marge said. “That’s all you think about is your money. If you think I can take acting lessons and modern dance and sculpting all day long and try to keep myself young and interesting for you and the children and then come home and prepare a party that you’ll be proud of …”

  “Balls,” Bartlett said, his face very red now. “You don’t give a rat’s ass about me or anybody else.”

  “Hold on now,” Trask said. “Goddamn it, just hold on.”

  I got off my barstool and took another can of beer out of the refrigerator You don’t see red refrigerators much. I went to the back door and opened it and went out. The retriever still lay there on the back steps with his tongue out, and I sat down beside him and opened the beer. The door behind me was on a pneumatic closer, and as it shut I heard Marge Bartlett say “shit” in a very loud voice.

  I drank a small swallow of the beer and scratched the dog’s ear. His tail thumped on the porch. The sound of the lawn mower stopped, and a minute later a young girl came out of the barn and walked toward the house. She didn’t look at me sitting on the back steps but detoured toward the front of the house, and a minute later I heard the front door open and close.

  I drank some more beer. In the middle of the front lawn, past the hydrangea, was a huge flowering crab. It was too late for blossoms, but the leaves were still reddish fading into green, and there were small green crab apples beginning to form. Some robins and some sparrows and a Baltimore oriole swarmed in and out of the branches with considerable chatter. After the green fruit, I supposed. I hadn’t seen a Baltimore oriole since I was a kid.

  I heard the front door open and close again, and the girl came around the corner of the house wearing a bikini bathing suit and carrying a towel. She must have been thirteen or fourteen and was just beginning to get a figure. I was very careful not to lech at her. There has to be a line you won’t cross, and my lower limit is arbitrarily set at sixteen. As she walked by she looked at the ground and said nothing. I watched her as she went around the corner of the house toward the pool. The retriever got up as she passed and followed her. They were out of sight, and then I heard two splashes in the pool. And the sound of swimming. My beer was gone. I looked at my watch; nearly four thirty. I put the beer can on the railing of the porch, walked across the driveway, got in my car, and drove back to Boston.

  3

  At eight the next morning I was out jogging along the Charles. From the concert shell on the Esplanade to the BU Bridge was two miles, and I always tried to make the round trip in about forty minutes. It was never fun, but this morning was tougher than usual because it was raining like hell. Usually there were other joggers, but this morning I was alone. I had on sweat pants and a hooded nylon shell, but the rain soaked my sneakers and needled at my face as I ran. Walking back up Arlington Street to my apartment on Marlborough, I could feel the sweat collect in the small of my back, trapped there by the waterproof parka.

  Before I’d left I’d put the coffee on, and it was ready when I came back. But I didn’t drink it yet. First a shower. A long time under the shower, a lot of soap, a lot of shampoo. I shaved very carefully, standing in the shower—I’d put a mirror in the stall just so I could do that—and rinsed off thoroughly. I put on a pair of light gray slacks and black over-the-ankle boots and went to the kitchen.

  I sliced two green tomatoes, sprinkled them with black pepper and rosemary, shook them in flour, and put them in about a half-inch of olive oil to fry. I put a small porterhouse steak under the broiler and got a loaf of unleavened Syrian bread out of the refrigerator. While the steak and tomatoes cooked, I drank my first cup of coffee, cream, two sugars and ate a bow
l of blackberries I’d bought at a farm stand coming back from the Cape with a girl I knew. When it was ready, I ate my breakfast, put the dishes in the washer; washed my hands and face, clipped my gun on over my right hip pocket, put on a washed blue denim shirt with short sleeves, and let it hang outside to cover the gun. I was ready, exercised, washed, fed, and armed—alert for the slightest sign of a dragon. I had a white trench coat given me once by a friend. She said it made me look taller. I put it on now and headed for my car.

  The rain was hard as I pulled out onto Storrow Drive and headed for Smithfield. The wipers were only barely able to stay ahead of it, and some of the storm culverts were flooded and backing up in the underpasses.

  I stopped at a white colonial liquor store in Smithfield Center and got directions to the high school. It was a little out from the center of town in a neighborhood of expensive homes with a football field behind it and some tennis courts beyond that. A sign said Visitors’ Parking, and I slid in between an orange Volvo and a blue Pinto station wagon. I turned the collar up on my trench coat, got out of the car, and sprinted for the front doorway.

  Inside was an open lobby with display cases on the walls containing graphics done by students. To the left was a glassed-in room with a sign on the door saying Administration and a smaller sign beneath saying Reception. I went in and spoke to a plump middle-aged lady with a tight permanent. I asked to see the principal.

  “He’s at conference this morning,” she said. “Perhaps the assistant principal, Mr. Moriarty, can help you.”

  I said that Mr. Moriarty would be fine. She asked my name and disappeared into another office. She returned in a moment and gestured me in.

  Mr. Moriarty was red-faced, swag-bellied, thick-necked Irish. He was wearing a dark blue sharkskin suit with natural shoulders and narrow lapels, a white shirt with button-down collar, and a thin black knit tie.

  Cordovan shoes, I thought, not wing tips; plain-toed cordovan shoes and white socks. I wished there were someone there to bet with. He stood up behind his desk as I came in and put out his hand.

  “I’m Mr. Moriarty, the assistant principal,” he said. We shook hands.

  His hair was brown and surprisingly long, cut square in a kind of Dutch-boy bob across the forehead, completely covering his ears, and waving over his shirt collar Modish. I gave him my card. He read it and raised his eyebrows.

  “Private investigator. Hey, I was an MP, you know. In Germany after the war, stationed in Stuttgart,” he said.

  I said, “I’m looking into the disappearance of one of your students, Kevin Bartlett. I was wondering if you could tell me anything about him that might help.”

  Moriarty frowned. “We’ve been through all that with Chief Trask,” he said. “I don’t know what I could add to what I told him.”

  “Let’s go over what you told him,” I said. “Sometimes a fresh slant can help.”

  “Does Chief Trask know you are here? I mean, I don’t want to get into some conflict of ethics on this. Chief Trask is, after all, the—um—well—the chief.”

  “He knows, and I won’t ask you to compromise your ethics. Just tell me about the kid.”

  “Well, he’s quite a bright student. Good family, father runs a successful contracting firm. Good family, been in town a long time, beautiful home up in Apple Knoll.”

  “I know,” I said. “I’ve been there, but I’m more interested in information about the kid. What kind of kid was he? Was he any kind of behavior problem? Did he have many friends? Who were they? What were they like? Was he using drugs? Did he drink? Did he have a girl friend? Was there a teacher he was close to? Why would he run off? That sort of thing. I’m glad he was from a good family, you understand; I’d just like to see about getting him back to it.”

  “Well, that’s a big order,” Moriarty said. “And I question whether or not I’m authorized to discuss these matters with you.”

  “Just ‘whether,’ ” I said.

  “I beg your pardon?” he said.

  “ ‘Whether’ implies ‘or not,’ ” I said.

  His professional manner slipped a little. “Listen,” he said, “I don’t need my grammar corrected by some damned gumshoe. And I don’t have to tell you anything at all. You think I’ve got all day to sit around and talk, you got another think coming.”

  “You’ve got a real way with the language,” I said. “But, never mind, I’m not here to fight with you. I’m looking for help. Was the kid ever in trouble?”

  “Well, sometimes he got a little insolent, especially with the women teachers. He has only been up here a year. This is just the start of his second year here, and we don’t have a lot of experience with him. You might want to talk with Mr. Lee down at the junior high.” He looked at his watch. “Or perhaps while you’re here you might want to talk with Mrs. Silverman of our guidance department. She might be able to tell you something.”

  Good going, Spenser. Insult the guy’s grammar so he sulks at you and won’t talk. Maybe I ought to watch my mouth as people keep telling me. Moriarty was up from his desk and walking me to the door. I glanced down. Right! Plain-toed cordovans. Not shined. White socks too. Perfect.

  “Mrs. Silverman’s office is third door down this corridor on the right. The door says Guidance on it, and you can’t miss it.”

  I said thank you and went where he pointed me. There were lockers along the right-hand wall and doors with frosted-glass windows in them on my left. On the third one was lettered Guidance. I went in. It was like the waiting room at a doctor’s office. Low table in the center, a rack for periodicals on one wall, a receptionist opposite, and three doors on the left wall like examining rooms. The periodical rack was filled with college catalogues, and the low table had literature about careers and health on it. The receptionist was a great improvement on Moriarty’s. She had red hair and a dark tan and a lot of good-sized bosom showing over and around a lime-green sleeveless blouse. I told her Mr. Moriarty had sent me down to talk with Mrs. Silverman.

  “She has a student with her now. Could you wait a moment please?”

  I picked up some of the career leaflets on the table. Nursing, Air Force, G.E. Apprentice Training; I wondered if they had one for Private Eye. I looked. They didn’t. The door to Mrs. Silverman’s office opened, and a thin boy with shoulder-length hair and acne came out.

  He mumbled, “Thank you, Mrs. Silverman,” and hustled out of the office.

  The secretary and her bosom got up and went into the office. In a moment they came out, and she said, “Mrs. Silverman will see you now.”

  I put down my copy of Opportunities in Civil Service and went in. Susan Silverman wasn’t beautiful, but there was a tangibility about her, a physical reality, that made the secretary with the lime-green bosom seem insubstantial. She had shoulder-length black hair and a thin dark Jewish face with prominent cheekbones. Tall, maybe five seven, with black eyes. It was hard to tell her age, but there was a sense about her of intelligent maturity which put her on my side of thirty.

  She said, “Come in, Mr. Spenser. I’m Susan Silverman,” and came around the desk to shake hands. She was wearing a black silk blouse with belled sleeves and white slacks. The blouse was open at the throat, and there was a thin silver chain around her neck. Her breasts were good, her thighs were terrific. When she shook hands with me, I felt something click down back of my solar plexus.

  I said hello without stammering and sat down.

  “Why don’t you take off your coat?” she said.

  “Well, it’s supposed to make me look taller,” I said.

  “Sitting down?”

  “No, I guess not,” I said and stood up and took it off. She took it from me and hung it on a rack beside hers. Hers was white too, and the two coats overlapped on the rack. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

  “I don’t think you need to look taller, Mr. Spenser,” she said. When she smiled the color of her face seemed to heighten. “How tall are you?”

  “Six one,” I said.
>
  “Really? That’s surprising. I must admit you don’t look that tall.”

  “Even with the raincoat?” I said.

  “Even with that,” she said. “You’re so wide. Do you work with weights?”

  “Yeah, some. How could you tell? Your husband lift?”

  “Ex-husband,” she said. “Yes, he played tackle for Harvard and stayed with the weights afterward.”

  Ex-husband! I felt the click again. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. She had red polish on her fingernails and a thin silver bracelet around her left wrist. Small coiled earrings matched the bracelet and necklace. Her eyes had a dusting of blue shadow, and her lipstick matched the nail polish. Her teeth were very even and white, slightly prominent. Her hair was shiny and done in what we called a pageboy when I was in high school. There was just the slightest suggestion of laugh lines around her mouth.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Spenser?” she asked, and I realized I’d been staring at her.

  “I’m trying to find Kevin Bartlett,” I said and handed her one of my cards. “Mr. Moriarty suggested you might be able to tell me something about him.”

  “Have you talked to Mr. Moriarty already?” she said.

  “In a manner of speaking. He seemed a little cautious.”

  “Yes, he is. Public school administrators are often cautious. What did he tell you about Kevin?”

  “That he came from a good family and lived in a nice house.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yeah. I think I offended him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he pouted and stamped his foot and sent me down here.”

  She laughed. Her laugh sounded like I’d always imagined the taste of mead. It was resonant.

  “You must have teased him,” she said.

  “Well, a little.”

  “Arthur does not respond well to teasing. But, about Kevin,” she said. “Do you want to ask me questions, or do you want me to hold forth on what I know and think?”