Five Classic Spenser Mysteries

by Robert B. Parker

  “One who puts it in for you,” I murmured to Susan.

  “I know,” she said. “It’s a very old joke.”

  “One that puts it in for you,” the business type answered his own question, and both men laughed very loudly.

  Marge Bartlett looked puzzled, a look I’d seen before. She took a slug from her glass.

  Roger Bartlett had gone to bed. The good-looking guy who ran confidence courses seemed to be running one in the oversized chair in the corner with a woman I hadn’t seen before. There was a flash of bare thigh and lingerie as they moved about.

  “Maybe I will take that guy’s confidence seminar,” I said to Susan.

  She looked and glanced away quickly. “Jesus,” she said, “I think I’m shocked.”

  “I guess you don’t want to make reservations for the chair later on then?”

  She shook her head. “That poor kid,” she said. “No wonder he’s gone.”

  “Kevin?”

  She nodded.

  “You think he ran away?”

  “Wouldn’t you,” she said, “if you lived here?”

  “I’ve been thinking about it,” I said.

  17

  Marge Bartlett got to bed about four. I helped her up the stairs, and she stumbled into her bedroom in a kind of stupefied silence. The lights were on. Roger Bartlett was sleeping on his back with his mouth open. On the bureau a small color TV set flickered silently, the screen empty, a small barren buzz coming from it. Marge Bartlett moved painfully toward her twin bed. I closed the door, went to the guest room, undressed, and flopped on the bed. If I lived here, I might run away. The room was warm, and some of the smoke from downstairs had drifted up. But if the kid ran away, why the merry prankster kidnap gig? Why all that childish crap with the coffin? Maybe that was it. Childish. It was the kind of thing a kid would do. Why? “The little sonova bitch hates us,” Marge Bartlett had said. But Maguire, that wasn’t the kind of thing a kid would do. Or could do. Somebody had hit Maguire very hard. Where would the kid go if he ran away? Harroway’s place? He had something for Harroway, obviously. Harroway could hit somebody very hard. I fell asleep.

  When I woke up it was ten o’clock. No one else was up. I stood for a long time under the shower before I got dressed. Downstairs looked like the rape of Nanking. Everywhere there was the smell of stale cigarettes and booze and degenerating shrimp salad. Punkin appeared very pleased to see me and capered around my legs as I let him out the back door. The Smithfield police cruiser was parked in the driveway again. Ever vigilant. I found an electric percolator and made coffee. I brought a cup out to the cop in the driveway.

  I hadn’t seen him before. He had freckles and looked about twenty-one. He was glad to get the coffee.

  “You going to be here all day?” I asked.

  “I’m on till three this afternoon, then someone else comes on.”

  “Okay. I’m going to be gone for a while, so stay close. If they’re looking for me, tell them I’m working. Don’t let her go out alone, either.”

  “If I have to take a leak, is it okay if I close the door?”

  “Why don’t you wait till you’re off duty,” I said.

  “Why don’t you go screw an onion,” he said.

  There seemed little to say to that, so I moved off. The morning was glorious, or maybe it just seemed so in contrast to the situation indoors. The sky was a high bright blue with no clouds. The sun was bright, and the leaves had begun to turn. Some of the sugar maples scattered along Lowell Street were bright red already. There weren’t many cars out. Church or hangover, I thought. I found the turn for Harroway’s house, drove about a hundred yards beyond it, and pulled off on the side of the road.

  If my mental map was right, I could cut across the woods and get a look at the house and grounds from a hill to the right of the road we’d driven in. It had been awhile since I took a walk in the woods, and the sense of it, alone and permanent, was strong as I moved through the fallen leaves as quietly as I could. I was dressed for stalking: Adidas sneakers, Levi’s jeans, a black turtleneck sweater, blue nylon warm-up jacket, thirty-eight caliber Smith and Wesson. Kit Carson.

  A swarm of starlings rose before me and swooped off to another part of the woods. Two sparrows chased a blue jay from a tree. High up a 747 heaved up toward California, drowning out the protests of the jay. There was low growth of white pine beneath the higher elms and maples, and thick tangles of thorny vines growing over a carpet of leaf mold that must have been two feet thick.

  The land rose slowly but steadily enough so that I began to feel it in the tops of my thighs as I reached the crest. The hill down was considerably steeper, and the house was below in a kind of punch-bowl valley, a shabby building in a cleared patch of gravel and weeds among the encroaching trees.

  The engine noise had been a generator. I could see it from here. There were five-gallon gasoline cans clustered around it, but it was silent at the moment. Conserving energy? Out of gas? A late model two-toned pink and gray Dodge Charger was parked, sleek and incongruous, behind the house. I looked at my watch. Twelve minutes past ten in the morning. Probably sleeping late out here on nature’s bosom. I sat down and leaned against the base of a maple tree and watched. In the next two hours six more planes flew over. Then about twelve fifteen the young girl I’d seen before came out with a big cardboard box, jammed it into a rusty perforated barrel, and set it ablaze. She had on, as far as I could tell, exactly what she’d been wearing before. White too-big T-shirt, wide-flared jeans, no shoes. Maybe she had ten outfits all the same. She paused to light a cigarette from the blaze and then went back inside. At twelve thirty the mongrel bitch came out and nosed around near the burning trash till she found a scrap of bone that hadn’t made it to the incinerator. She rolled on it several times, then took it to the corner of the house and buried it.

  At one twenty-two Kevin Bartlett came out of the house with Vic Harroway. The boy’s arm was around Harroway’s waist and Harroway’s arm was around the boy’s shoulder. Like lovers. They walked to the Charger, separated. The boy got in the passenger’s side, Harroway got in the driver’s side, and they drove away. Just like that. They drove away, and I sat on my butt under the maple tree and watched them. We never sleep. We just sit and watch.

  I sat and watched for the rest of the day and into the night. They didn’t come back. I was beginning to hallucinate about cheeseburgers and cashew nuts by the time I gave up. It was after eleven when I headed back through the woods, stumbling more in the dark. Visions of pepper steaks danced in my head. When I got really hungry, I never thought about coq au vin or steak Diane. I wondered why that was, but I had trouble concentrating because I kept thinking about the American chop suey my mother used to make and how I felt after I had eaten it. It was a lot better than thinking how I’d found Kevin Bartlett and lost him in the space of say, fifteen seconds. By the time I got to my car, I had a long scratch across the back of one hand from the thorny vines, and one eye was tearing from a twig. That time of night is cold in September north of Boston, and I turned on the heater. I found a place to eat that advertised itself as a “pub.” I think I was the only person there to eat. I jammed in at a stool at the bar and ordered three hamburgers and a beer. The beer came in a big stein that must have held half a quart. I drank two before the hamburgers arrived with two slices of kosher dill pickle and a handful of potato chips on an oval platter. It was a little hard to distinguish the hamburg from the bun, but I didn’t mind; I was busy trying not to break into a sweat as I ate. The place was obviously a singles spot or pickup bar. The sound system was up full blast and featured high velocity hard rock music without interruption. All the booths and tables were filled, with people, mostly subthirty, standing together in between them and moving but barely on a very small dance floor. It was dim and very smoky. The décor was standard: dark panels, red carpet, psuedobarn. I was jostled often as I ate, once while drinking, and the beer dribbled down my chin and soaked through my stalking sweater. A ba
rtender in a red Ike jacket and a mod blond haircut put a bowl of peanuts in front of me and refilled my beer glass.

  I sipped at it now that the beast within had been pacified. At least I knew that Kevin’s stay with Harroway was voluntary. They liked each other. Maybe stronger. That was apparent from the hillside. Almost like lovers. His parents would be relieved at least that he was safe. But that didn’t do anything for explanation. Or maybe it did. Maybe it made the explanation worse. Maybe Kevin was in on all that stuff. Maybe he was in on the death threats. Maybe he was in on Maguire’s death. Good news and bad news, Mr. and Mrs. Bartlett, your kid’s not dead. He’s a murderer. Which is the good news you say? How the hell do I know? If I knew that kind of stuff, would I be sitting alone in a singles bar in a strange suburb at twelve thirty-five on a Sunday night? I’m a detective; I just find out things. I don’t solve things. Well no, I don’t know where your boy is right this minute, ma’am. Yes, sir, they drove away while I was up on the hill watching. I watched closely, though. Balls. The next guy that jostled me while I was drinking beer I was going to level. Trouble was the place was so crowded if I swung at someone, I’d hit three people. I got up and shoved my way out of the pub. I couldn’t stand the thought of going back to the Bartletts’. I drove on into Boston and went to bed in my own apartment. I took the phone off the hook, went right to sleep, and didn’t dream.

  18

  I woke up about twenty minutes of ten within the bright tangible silence of my bedroom. I was glad to be there. I got up and went to the kitchen. The cleaning woman had been there yesterday, and the place gleamed. I squeezed a big glass of orange juice and drank it while I put the coffee on to perk. Then I took a shower and shaved very carefully. When I was through, the coffee was ready, and I drank a cup while I made breakfast. I took two egg rolls from the freezer and put them in the oven, sliced two pieces of Williamsburg ham, a thick slice from a wedge of Swiss cheese, added a paper-thin slice of red onion, and arranged them on a plate with some tomato quarters. When the egg rolls were heated, I split them and put them on the plate too. I put out a saucer of sour cream, then I poured a new cup of coffee and sat down on a stool at the counter to eat, and read the Globe.

  It was eleven when I left the apartment, full of stomach and clear of eye. I drove over to the Harbor Health Club, the second floor of an old building on Atlantic Avenue. Until the new high-rise apartments had started going in along the waterfront, it had been the Harbor Gym, and once, when I’d thought I was a boxer, I’d trained there. I still went in sometimes to hit the speed bag and work on the heavy bag and maybe do some bench presses, but mostly I went to the Y. The Harbor Gym had become upwardly mobile. Now it had steam rooms and inhalant rooms and exercise devices which jiggled your body while you leaned on them and chrome plating on the barbells and carpeting in the weight room.

  I asked a receptionist in a toga where Henry Cimoli was, and she sent me to the Roman bath room. Henry was in there talking with two fat, hairy men who sat in a circular pool of hot water. Henry looked like an overdeveloped jockey. He was about five four in a snow-white T-shirt and maroon warm-up pants. The muscles in his arms bulged against the tight sleeve of the T-shirt, and his neck was thick and muscular with a prominent Adam’s apple. There was scar tissue around his eyes. His thick black hair was cut close to his head and brushed forward.

  “Spenser,” he said when he saw me, “want a free go on the irons?”

  “Not today, Henry. I want to talk.”

  “Sure.” He spoke to the fat men in the hot water, “Excuse me, I gotta talk with this guy.”

  We walked back toward the cubbyhole office beyond the weight room.

  “You still lifting?” Cimoli asked.

  “Yeah,” I said, “some. Too bad about how you’re letting yourself go.”

  “Hey, I gotta work at it all the time. Guy my height, man, you let it go and you look like a fat broad in about two weeks.”

  “Yeah, after I go you better go sit in the tub with those two guys, get a real workout.”

  Cimoli shrugged. “Aw, you gotta offer that shit. They come in and sit in the steam room and soak in the pool and go home and tell everybody how they’re getting in shape. But we got the real stuff too. You remember.”

  I nodded. “I’m looking for a guy, Henry.” I showed him the picture of Vic Harroway. He took it and looked at it. “One of those guys, huh?” He shook his head. “Assholes,” he said. I nodded again. Cimoli studied the picture. Then he broke into a big grin. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I know this bastard. That’s Vic Harroway. I’ll be goddamned, old Vicki Harroway, la de da.”

  “What do you mean, la de da?” I said.

  “He’s a fag. He’s building himself up for the boys down the beach, you know?”

  “Do you know that or do you just think it?”

  “Well, hell, I mean he never made no pass at me, but everybody knows about Vicki. I mean, all the lifters know Vic, you know? He’s queer as a square doughnut.”

  “He work out here?”

  “Naw, he used to be the pro at a health club in one of the big hotels, but I heard he got canned for fooling around. I ain’t heard of him in about a year or so.”

  “Any place he hangs out?”

  Cimoli shook his head and shrugged. “Beats me,” he said.

  “Friends? People who knew him?”

  “Christ, I don’t know. I barely knew the guy. I seen him in a couple contests I had to judge—it’s hokey, but it’s good PR for the club—and you hear talk, but I don’t know the guy myself. Why?”

  “He’s my weight-lifting idol. I want to find him so he can autograph this picture.”

  “Yeah, me too,” Cimoli said. “Well, look, if I hear anything I’ll give you a buzz, okay? Still in the same crummy dump?”

  “I have not relocated my office,” I said. “Better check the boys in the pool. Don’t want them exhausting themselves first time out.”

  “Yeah, I better. They tend to get short of wind just climbing in.”

  When I got back out on the street, the bright day had turned dark. The city and the sky were the same shade of gray, and they seemed to merge so that there was no horizon. Vicki Harroway? Goddamn.

  I drove back up onto the expressway, around Storrow Drive, off at Arlington Street, and parked in a tow zone by the Ritz a block from Boylston Street. The gray sky was spitting a little rain now, just enough to mist on my windows. Enough to make me turn the collar up on my sport coat as I headed up Newbury Street.

  Halfway up the block, past the Ritz, on the same side was a five-story brick building with a windowed, five-story, pentagonal bay and a canopied entry. The bay window on the third floor said Race’s Faces across it in black script outlined with gold.

  I took the open-mesh black iron elevator up. It let me out right in the waiting room. Gold burlap wallpaper, gold love seat, gold glass-topped coffee table, gold wall-to-wall carpet, and a blond receptionist with centerfold boobs, in a lime-green chiffon dress, sitting at a lime-green plastic desk. On the walls were black and white photographs of women with lots of fancy-focus blurring and light glinting on their hair. To the right of the receptionist was a lime-green door with a blacks-lettered gold-trimmed script sign that said Studio.

  The receptionist pointed her chest at me and said, “May I help you?”

  “Yes, you may,” I said, “but it would involve wrinkling your dress.”

  “Did you wish to make an appointment with Mr. Witherspoon, sir?”

  “Doesn’t he mind wrinkling his dress?”

  She said, “I beg your pardon.”

  I said, “Never mind. I would, in fact, like to see Mr. Witherspoon.”

  “Did you have an appointment?”

  “No, but if you’d tell him Spenser is here, I bet he’d see me.

  “What is it you wish to see him about?”

  “I’m posing for the centerfold in the December Jack and Jill and wondered if Race would be willing to handle the photography.”


  She picked up the phone and pressed the intercom button. “Mr. Witherspoon? I’m sorry to bother you, but there’s a man here who says his name is Spenser. He said something about posing for some pictures in Jack and Jill. I’m not familiar with it. Yes sir.” She hung up and said to me, “Mr. Witherspoon says to come in. He’s right through that door.”

  “Jack and Jill,” I said, “is a magazine that celebrates the heterosexual experience.” She looked at me without expression and said, “Why don’t you shove Jack and Jill magazine up your ass.”

  “Class will out,” I said and went into the Studio.

  It was white: floor, ceiling, walls, rugs, except one wall which was covered in uninterrupted black velvet. Opposite the door the room bellied out into the pentagonal bay I’d seen from the street. There were black velvet drapes gathered at each side of the windows. On a Victorian-looking black sofa a very thin girl reclined with her head propped on one elbow and a rose in her teeth. She was wearing a billowy diaphanous white gown, very red lipstick, and nail polish. Her black hair was very long and very straight. Surrounding her was a cluster of light poles and bounce lighting. Extension cords tangled around the floor near the sofa. Around her moved a graceful man with a Hasselblad camera.

  Race Witherspoon was six feet tall, slim, tanned, and entirely bald. I never did know whether he was naturally bald or if he shaved his head. His eyebrows were black and symmetrical, and a blue shadow of closely shaved beard darkened his jaw and cheeks. He had on tight black velvet pants that rode low on his hips and tucked into white leather cowboy boots. His shirt was white silk, open almost to his belt. The sleeves were belled. His tanned chest was as tight-skinned and hairless as his head, and a big silver medallion hung on a silver chain against his sternum. Susan had an outfit like it. But Race’s was more daring. He moved fluidly around the model with the Hasselblad, snapping pictures and cranking the film ahead.

  “I’ll be with you in a minute, old Spenser, my friend.” He spoke while he shot. He wore a large onyx ring on his right index finger, and a black silk kerchief was knotted around his throat. Outside the bright bath of the photography lights, the room was dim, and the misting rain that had begun while I walked up Newbury Street had become a hard rain that rattled on the windows. I sat on the edge of an ebony free-form structure which I took to be a desk.