Five Classic Spenser Mysteries

by Robert B. Parker

  “All right, Denise, take a break while I talk to the man.”

  The model got up off the couch without any visible effort, like a snake leaving a rock, and slunk off through a door behind the velvet hangings on the far wall. Witherspoon walked over to me and put the camera down beside me on the desk.

  “What is it I can do for you, Chickie?” he said.

  “I’ve come for one last try, Race,” I said. “I’ve got to know. What is your name, really?”

  “Why do you doubt me?”

  I shook my head. “No one is named Race Witherspoon.”

  “Someone is named anything.”

  I took out my photo of Vic Harroway and handed it to Witherspoon.

  “I’d like to locate this guy, Race. Know him?”

  “Hmm, fine-looking figure of a man. What makes you think I might know him?”

  “I heard he was gay.”

  “Well, for crissake, Spenser. I don’t know every queer in the country. It’s one thing to come out of the damned closet. It’s quite another to run a gay data bank.”

  “You know him, Race?”

  “I’ve seen him about. What’s your interest? Want me to fix you up; maybe you could go dancing at Nutting’s on the Charles?”

  “Naw, he’d want to lead. I think I’ll just stay home and wash my hair and listen to my old Phil Brito albums. What do you know about Harroway?”

  “Not much, but I want to know the rap on him before I say anything. I owe you some stuff, but, you know, I don’t owe you everything I am.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “You don’t. Okay, there’s a missing boy, about fifteen. I saw him with Harroway. I want the kid back, and I would like to ask Harroway about a murder.”

  Witherspoon’s thick eyebrows raised evenly. “Heavy,” he said. “Very heavy. A fifteen-year-old kid, huh? Harroway was always a damned baby-raper, anyway.”

  “He’s got no record,” I said.

  “I know. I didn’t mean literally. He’s the kind of guy who likes young kids. If he were straight, he’d be queer for virgins, you know.”

  “He is gay, then?”

  “Oh hell, yes.”

  “Where’s he hang out?”

  “I see him at a gay bar over in Bay Village, The Odds’ End. Isn’t that precious? I don’t go there much. It attracts a kinkier crowd than I like.”

  “Know what he does for a living?”

  “No. I thought he lifted weights all the time. I know he was fired from a health club a year or so ago, and as far as I know he never got another job. He’s around with a lot of bread, though. Fancy restaurants, clothes, new car. That kind of thing.”

  “Think he might kill someone?”

  “He’s a mean bitch, you know. He’s a fag that doesn’t like fags. He likes to shove people around. One of those I’m-gay-but-I’m-no-fairy types.”

  “Anything else you know that could help? Friends, lovers, anything?”

  Witherspoon shook his head. “No, I don’t know him all that well, only seen him around. He’s not my type.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “Now, on the other hand,” Witherspoon said, “you are.

  “Not with someone who won’t give his real name,” I said.

  “Well, how about Denise then?”

  “Not till you feed her,” I said. “Your secretary, however, is another matter”

  Witherspoon gave me a big smile. “Sorry, old Spenser, she’s hot for Denise.”

  I said, “I think I’ll go look for Harroway before I find myself mating with a floor lamp,” and I left.

  19

  The Odds’ End was on a side street off Broadway in the Bay Village section of Boston. The neighborhood was restored red-brick three-story town houses with neat front steps and an occasional pane of stained glass in the windows. The bar itself had a big fake lantern with Schlitz written on it hanging over the entrance and the name The Odds’ End in nineteenth-century lettering across the big glass front.

  I got a crumpled-up white poplin rain hat with a red and white band out of the glove compartment and put it on. I put on my sunglasses and tipped the rain hat forward over my eyes. Harroway had seen me only once, and then briefly; I didn’t think he’d recognize me. I looked at myself in the rearview mirror and adjusted the hat down a little. Rakish. I turned up the collar on my tweed jacket. Irresistible. I got out of the car and went into The Odds’ End.

  It was dark inside, and it seemed darker with sunglasses. There was a bar along the left wall, tables in the middle, a jukebox, high-backed booths along the right wall, and an assortment of what looked like Aubrey Beardsley drawings framed above the booths and on either side of the jukebox.

  A thin black man in pointed patent leather shoes and a green corduroy dungaree suit was nursing a brandy glass at the near end of the bar. His hair was patterned in dozens of small braids tight against his scalp. He looked at me as I came in, then went back to his brandy. On the bar in front of him was an open package of Eve cigarettes.

  I sat at the far end of the bar, and the bartender moved down toward me. He was middle-sized and square with curly black hair cut close and a long strong nose. There were acne scars on his cheeks. He had on a blue oxford button-down shirt with the collar open and the cuffs rolled back. His hands were square and strong-looking. The nails were clean.

  “Yes, sir,” he said, looking at a point about two inches left of my face.

  “Got draft beer?” I said.

  “Miller’s and Lowenbrau.”

  “Miller’s is okay.”

  He put a cardboard coaster on the bar in front of me and a half-pint schooner on the coaster.

  “I might be here awhile,” I said. “Want to run a tab on me?”

  “On the house,” he said.

  I widened my eyes and raised my eyebrows.

  “I haven’t seen you before, and I know most of the guys from Station Four. You from Vice?”

  “Oh,” I said, “that’s why it’s free.”

  “Sure, I spotted you the minute you walked in,” he said.

  Spenser, man of a thousand faces, master of disguise. “I’m not a cop,” I said. “I just came in to kill a rainy afternoon. Honest.”

  The bartender put a tray of crackers and a crock of orange cheese in front of me.

  “Yeah, sure, whatever you say, man,” he said. “I’ll run a tab on you if you want.”

  “Please,” I said. “Actually, I’m kind of flattered that you thought I was a cop. Do I look tough to you?”

  “Sure,” he said, “tough,” and moved down the bar to wait on a new customer. Maybe I should have worn my jade earrings.

  The new customer probably wasn’t a cop. He did have earrings. But they weren’t jade. They were big gold rings. He was a middle-aged white man with gray hair pulled up into a topknot. He had on a red and gold figured dashiki that was too big for him and woven leather sandals. His fingernails were an inch beyond the ends of his fingers. He had come in at a sort of shuffling quickstep, his head still, his eyes looking left and right, like a kid about to soap a window. He was at the bar about halfway between the black guy at one end and me at the other.

  “I’ll have a glass of port, Tom,” he said to the bartender in a soft raspy mumble.

  “Got the bread, Ahmed?”

  Ahmed reached inside the dashiki and came out with a handful of silver. It clattered loudly on the bar.

  The bartender put a pony of wine on the bar in front of him and slid ninety cents out of the small pile of change. Ahmed chugalugged it and put the glass down on the bar. Tom filled it again, took the rest of the change, and moved away. Ahmed nursed the second one. He looked from me to the black guy in the green corduroy. Then he moved down near me.

  “Hi,” he whispered. He sounded like Rod McKuen doing the Godfather.

  “Where’d you leave your spear?” I said.

  “My spear?”

  Close up Ahmed smelled stale, and the long fingernails were dirty.

&nbs
p; “My, you’re a big one,” he said. “What’s your name?”

  “Bulldog Turner,” I said.

  “Hey, that’s kind of a cute name, Bulldog.” He squeezed my left bicep. “I bet you’re awfully strong.”

  The bartender stood polishing shot glasses, watching us with no expression of any kind.

  “But oh so gentle,” I said.

  “You gotta quarter for the jukebox?” He was rubbing his flat hand up and down the back of my arm. Close up there was a gray stubble of beard showing, maybe two days’ worth. I gave him a quarter. “I’ll be right back,” he said and scuttled across to the jukebox. He played an old Platters record, “My Prayer,” and hurried back to his stool beside me. He never straightened fully up. There was a hunched quality to him, like a dog that’s just wet on the rug. He drank the rest of his wine.

  “Wanna buy me a drink?” he asked. His breath was sour.

  “Ahmed,” I said, “I’ll buy you two drinks if you’ll take them down the other end of the bar. I think you’re a fantastic looker, but I’m spoken for.”

  Ahmed hissed at me, “Mother sucker,” and scooted down the bar.

  I motioned the bartender “Give him two drinks, on me,” I said.

  20

  It was five more draft beers and two passes later that Harroway showed. It was about four thirty now, and The Odds’ End had filled up. The jukebox was playing “Boogie-Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B,” and two guys were doing the Funky Chicken in a small open area in front of it.

  Harroway came in shrugging his shoulders to shake off the rain. He had an Aussie campaign hat on over his blond hair—probably didn’t want the color to run—and a rust-colored wraparound leather overcoat with black epaulets, a black belt, and black trim at the collar, cuffs, and along the skirt. Slick. He scanned the bar while he took off the coat. His eyes ran over me with no hesitation and kept going. He hung the coat and hat on a rack at one of the booths and sat down. His back to me. I noticed his white shirt was a see-through model. Be still my heart.

  The guy he sat down with was a fat Oriental-looking Italian man in a blue chesterfield overcoat with velvet lapels. He kept the coat buttoned up to the neck. The bartender came out from behind the bar and put two highball glasses down on their table and went back behind the bar. When he got back I paid my bill.

  Harroway talked with the fat man for fifteen minutes, finished his second drink, and stood up. He put on his leather coat and Aussie campaign hat, said something to the fat man, and went out into the rain, hunching his shoulders automatically as he opened the door.

  I went after him. When I reached the street, he was already turning the corner toward Park Square. I hurried along, crossed to the other side of the street, and hung back about a half block behind him. It was raining hard and soaked through my tweed jacket in less than two blocks. Tailing a guy alone is mostly luck, and if he’s being careful, it can’t be done. Harroway, however, didn’t seem worried about a tail. He never looked around. It was twenty past five on a Monday night, and the city was crowded with commuters. That made it easier. We crossed Park Square past the grateful statue of a freed slave. “Lawzy me, Marse Whitey, Ah’m pow’ful obliged fo’ ma freedom.” Balls.

  We crossed Boylston and headed past the big United Fund sign up across the Common. The trees still had most of their leaves, and it cut the rain a little but not enough. We went up hill to the round bandstand. Harroway stopped there and looked around. I kept going with my head down and passed him. He ignored me and stood against the bandstand with his hands in his pockets, his collar up.

  I went twenty yards further and stopped at a bench. I swayed a little, put one hand on the back of the bench, and stood half-bent-over as if I might be sick. Two old ladies with umbrellas went by. One of them said, “Sober up, sonny, and go home.” With my head hanging like this, I could look back and see him standing in the dark; he hadn’t moved. I eased myself onto the bench and lay down with my knees pulled up to my chest and my head resting on one arm. I could stare right at Harroway through the wet sunglasses. I hoped a cop didn’t come by and run me off. On a night like this I had the feeling the cops were checking for crime down at the Hayes-Bickford cafeteria and making sure no one tried sneaking in the Park Street subway without paying.

  It was cold and getting colder. The rain fell steadily on the exposed half of my face and got under my collar and ran down my neck. My gun was pressing into my hip, but since I was supposed to be passed out, I didn’t dare shift to adjust it. A guy adjusting a holster looks like a guy adjusting a holster. I lay still and let the rain soak through my clothes.

  Harroway shifted from one foot to the other, his hands jammed into the pockets of his leather coat, his campaign hat tilted forward over his face. Two sailors went by with a fat barelegged girl between them. One of the sailors said something I couldn’t hear and slapped the girl on the fanny. Both sailors laughed. The girl said, “Oh, piss on you,” and they went by. Ah, to be young and in love. Or even just upright and dry. A bum shuffled around the bandstand and spoke to Harroway. Harroway put one hand on the bum’s shoulder, turning him around. Placed his foot against the bum’s backside and shoved him sprawling into the mud. The bum picked himself up and shuffled away.

  The cold rain had collected in my left ear. The whole left side of my face was beginning to feel glazed over, as if the rain were freezing. If something didn’t happen pretty soon, I’d look like a gumshoe aspic. A lean man with a big black umbrella walked up past me from the direction of Tremont Street. He stopped beside Harroway. His right hand held the umbrella. In his left was a briefcase. I couldn’t see his face, or even the upper half of his body, because he had the umbrella canted toward me against the drive of the rain. His lower half was in dark trousers and raincoat. He wore rubbers. A clandestine meeting in the rain and you wear your rubbers: Romance is dead. Harroway took out an envelope from inside his coat. The Umbrella Man handed him the briefcase and moved off down the hill away from me in his rubbers toward Charles Street. Harroway came past me toward Tremont carrying the briefcase. I had a very quick choice to make. I was pretty sure I could pick Harroway up again at The Odds’ End or the ranch house. It looked as if Harroway had bought something covertly from the Umbrella Man. I wanted a look at him. I stumbled up off the bench and followed the black umbrella down the hill. I staggered legitimately now—my legs felt like two duckpins and my feet were numb. At the foot of the hill there was a lighted entry to the underground garage. The Umbrella Man stopped in front of it and closed the umbrella. It was Dr. Croft. He headed down the stairs to the garage. I didn’t have a car there and saw no point in going too.

  I turned back up the hill and ran as hard as I could back across the Common. I got to Tremont Street by the information booth with my chest heaving and sweat mixing with the rain on my face. No sign of Harroway. I turned right, down Tremont across Boylston. No sign of Harroway. I turned right on Stuart back toward The Odds’ End. I passed my car. There was a soaked parking ticket under the wiper on the passenger side. I went into The Odds’ End. No Harroway. I ordered a double cognac and sat at the bar to drink it. I think it saved my life. By the time I finished it, it was nearly midnight. Harroway hadn’t returned. I had another cognac. My head felt a little light. I paid and headed out of the place. If I was going to pass out, I wanted it to be someplace where there wouldn’t be mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Driving back to my apartment, I tried to sort out what I’d bumped into today, but I was too cold and too tired and too wet. Images of steam rising from my shower stall kept getting in the way.

  21

  At ten thirty the next day, showered, shaved, warmed, and dried, with nine hours’ sleep behind me and hot corn muffins nicely balancing cold vealwurst in my stomach, I headed back for Smithfield. I’d called my service before I left that morning and found that there were nine calls recorded from Marge Bartlett. I ignored them. I wanted Harroway and the kid. I didn’t think Marge Bartlett was in all that much danger. I wanted the kid. At five
after eleven I was parked along the side of the street just down from the corner of the road that led into Harroway’s sylvan retreat. I didn’t want to get left standing on a hill this time while they drove away. The road was the only way in or out. I’d settle in here. I watched for eight hours. Nobody went in. Nobody came out.

  At seven fifteen Harroway’s pink and gray Charger nosed out of the leafy road and turned right, away from me toward Smithfield. It was dusk, and I couldn’t see if Kevin was in the car, but Harroway’s big blond head was clear enough. I followed. We drove through Smithfield and straight up Lowell Street into Peabody to Route 1. On Route 1 we headed south back toward Smithfield. I drifted back a little on Route 1. Let two cars in between us so he wouldn’t spot me. He pulled into the parking lot of a big new motel with an illuminated sign outside: Yes! We Have Water Beds! I pulled in after him and drove on past behind the motel, parked near the kitchen entrance, and hustled back toward the lobby. It was dark out now and bright inside. Harroway was at the desk apparently registering. A girl was with him. She was young, high school age. Her hair was blond and cut short and square. She was wearing harlequin glasses with blue rims and a high-necked white blouse with a small black bow tie. Ah, Dorothy Collins, I thought, where are you now?

  The clerk pulled a key out of one of the mail boxes in back of the desk: first row, fifth from the left. He pointed down a corridor to the left of the desk, and the two of them went on down it, turned another left, and disappeared. I went in, got close enough to check the number on the box the key had come from—112—bought a newspaper at the cigar counter, and sat down behind it in a leather chair in the lobby. Now what? I could go knock on the door. “Hi, I’m Snooky Lamson. Is Dorothy Collins in there?” I was punchy from sitting and doing nothing for eight hours. Checking into a motel with a girl didn’t seem to fit Harroway’s reputation. At seven thirty in came the man who ran confidence courses.