Perish Twice

by Robert B. Parker

  “Jesus Christ,” Spike said.

  “I know.”

  “Sunny, that’s really embarrassing,” Spike said.

  “I know.”

  Spike drank off the rest of his vodka and pointed at the bartender for a refill.

  “This is a really, really big favor,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “And there’s a really, really unpleasant-looking guy sitting alone at a table for four,” Spike said. “You know this guy’s name?”

  “No. Elizabeth didn’t want us to meet him until she got here.”

  “Hope it’s not him.”

  I looked at the man.

  “Oh God,” I said. “I hope not.”

  He was fiftyish, and overweight. He had on sunglasses and a bad toupee. He wore a dark double-breasted suit and a white dress shirt, with no tie. The collar of the shirt was folded out over the lapels of his jacket, and the top three buttons were open. He wore some sort of necklace but I was too far away to see clearly, and while I feared he’d be showing a lot of gray chest hair, I was too far away to see that either. He had a drink in front of him, and now and then he looked at his watch.

  Spike said, “Oh, Jesus,” and nodded toward the door.

  “Elizabeth,” I said.

  She was wearing sunglasses too. Her hair was freshly done. She had on three-inch slingback heels, and a mink coat, which she wore open over a tiny black dress that was just long enough to conceal her lingerie—if any.

  “If these two are in fact together,” Spike said, “somebody’s going to call the cops.”

  “Pray with me,” I said.

  Elizabeth spoke to the hostess, who led her to the table where the hideous man was seated. He rose when she arrived. She gave him her hand. He kissed it.

  “We’re fucked,” Spike said.

  Elizabeth smiled brightly and turned toward us at the bar and gestured for us to join them. Spike gulped his second vodka. I got off the bar stool and smiled at Elizabeth. While I was smiling, I murmured under my breath to Spike.

  “We certainly are,” I said.

  We walked over and joined them. The man’s name was Mort Kraken. He did in fact have gray chest hair, and the necklace was a thick gold chain with a large medallion on the end. I didn’t look closely enough to see what kind of a medallion it was.

  “So you two married?” he said.

  “No.”

  “I been married,” Mort said. “But then I found out you could get the milk for free, and you didn’t have to buy the cow.”

  Spike leaned back a little in his chair and glanced up at the ceiling.

  “Good thinking,” I said desperately.

  I put my hand on Spike’s thigh. If Spike started on him, it would be the worst evening of Mort’s life. The waitress approached.

  “So who’s drinking what?” Mort said. “First round’s on me.”

  Did this mean that at the end of the evening we’d be puzzling out the check as to who had paid for what round and which of us had ordered a salad? The thought of Spike’s reaction to that was chilling. I ordered a martini. Spike ordered Gray Goose on the rocks.

  Mort said, “Me and the lady will have a couple Champagne cocktails.”

  Elizabeth smiled. She had allowed her mink coat to fall over the back of her chair revealing that the little black dress was held up by two very thin spaghetti straps, maybe vermicelli straps, and covered her top half about as well as the skirt covered her bottom, which was to say barely.

  “That’s all I drink,” Mort said with a firm leveling gesture. He had a big pinkie ring. “Nothing else. Always Champagne cocktails.”

  I still had my hand on Spike’s thigh. I could feel him quiver slightly.

  “So tell me, Mort, what do you do for work?” Elizabeth said brightly.

  She was leaning toward him, her lips parted slightly. She was wearing a lot of eye makeup and her heavy eyelids seemed almost to be fluttering. I thought I might retch.

  “I’m rich,” he said, and leaned back in his chair and laughed very loudly. “That’s what I do for work, pretty lady, I’m rich.”

  “How’d you get rich?” Spike said.

  My breath came a little easier. He was trying to be civil.

  “Hey, he talks,” Mort said.

  Good Jesus! I squeezed Spike’s thigh. I could hear Spike breathe in.

  “Not often,” Spike said. “How’d you get rich?”

  Mort made a mezzo-mezzo gesture with his other hand. Another pinkie ring. Every revelation was appalling. I smiled at him warmly.

  “Little of this, little of that,” Mort said. “It’s just some kind of genetic thing, you know. Everything I do I make money.”

  “That’s really nice,” Elizabeth said.

  She was entirely taken with him; she gazed at him as if there were no one else in the room. I knew Elizabeth was far more snobby than I, and, therefore, experienced Mort to be considerably less than a cock roach. I had to admire her commitment to dating. The drinks arrived. Spike consumed half of his, and I noticed that Elizabeth inhaled a lot of her Champagne cocktail in one snort. Mort raised his glass.

  “Good times,” he said. “Where’d you get the name Spike?”

  “My mother’s maiden name,” Spike said.

  “You mean it’s your real name.”

  “Um hm.”

  “Goddamn. My real name’s Mortimer. Lotta people think Mort is short for Morton, but it’s not. It’s short for Mortimer.”

  “Really,” I said.

  The waitress distributed the menus. Mort didn’t even look at his.

  “Talk to them,” he said, nodding at Spike and me.

  “Me and the pretty lady are going to have Chateaubriand for two with all the trimmings.”

  “I’m sorry,” the waitress said. “We really don’t have anything like that.”

  “What the hell kind of joint did you drag me to,”

  Mort said to Elizabeth, then to the waitress, “How about beef Wellington.”

  “This is really Pacific Rim cuisine,” the waitress said. “I can ask in the kitchen if they could make some sort of beef dish for you.”

  Elizabeth would not look at me.

  “Naw, we’ll have whatever they’re having,” Mort said.

  He leaned back in his chair and draped one arm around the back of Elizabeth’s chair, and looked pleased with himself for having put one over on the waitress. We ordered.

  “So,” Mort said to me. “Did you two say you were married?”

  “Oh, no,” Elizabeth said, “they’re just friends.”

  “Sure,” Mort said and gave me a slow wink. “I’ve heard that story before.”

  “I’m gay,” Spike said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m gay.”

  Mort looked a little flustered for a moment as if something had actually penetrated the chain mail of his stupidity.

  “I didn’t know. I mean, Christ, you don’t look gay.”

  Spike smiled. It was not a pleasant smile, but I don’t think Mort knew that.

  “My shorts are lavender,” Spike said.

  “Spike,” I said. “Do you love me?”

  “Yes.”

  “I knew you did,” I said.

  Spike looked at me, and at Mort, and took a long deep breath. He nodded slowly to himself and let the breath out slowly through his nose and smiled slowly at me, and picked up his glass and took a long slow swallow of vodka. He looked thoughtfully at Elizabeth and Mort.

  “I hope they don’t breed,” he said.

  CHAPTER

  18

  I FOUND BONNIE Winslow in the phone book and went to her home and showed her my license. She invited me to have some tea w
ith her and her three cats, on the second floor of a two-family house with white aluminum siding, in Watertown.

  “Tell me a little about Lawrence Reeves,” I said.

  Bonnie was short and sharp-featured with long blond-streaked gray hair. She had on jeans and sandals and a big orange tee shirt not tucked in, on which was printed LOVE IS CONTAGIOUS.

  “Why do you ask?” Bonnie said.

  “Background check,” I said.

  “And who might your client be?” she said.

  No fool, Bonnie. I smiled ruefully.

  “I’m sorry, Bonnie. May I call you Bonnie?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m sorry, Bonnie, but the background check has to remain confidential.”

  “May I see your credentials again,” Bonnie said.

  “Certainly.”

  Bonnie looked at my license for a while but it didn’t tell her anything it hadn’t told her the first time.

  “Is there a problem talking about Mr. Reeves?” I said. “I can simply put you down as ‘declined to comment,’ if you wish.”

  “No, no, of course not,” Bonnie said. “I’m just not a person who starts gossiping about a friend the minute someone asks.”

  “I can see that,” I said.

  “What would you like to know?”

  “I need to just establish your relationship for the record,” I said. “Is he your boyfriend?”

  “Oh, Larry and I are just old friends.”

  “You spent the night with him last Tuesday,” I said.

  “Who told you that?”

  “Is that a part of the friendship?”

  Bonnie smiled.

  “Larry and I are both consenting adults. Occasionally when each of us is without a partner, we share an evening like that.”

  “I gather he has other partners.”

  “Oh Larry plays the field all right.” Bonnie smiled again. “I guess, if the truth be told, so do I.”

  “Isn’t that a little risky?” I said.

  “You mean infection? We’re very careful.”

  “Do you know any of Larry’s other partners?”

  “Some.”

  “Do you know Mary Lou Goddard?”

  “Oh, that snoot.”

  “Snoot?”

  “Yes, Larry told me about her. He went out with her a couple of times and then she got possessive.”

  “Possessive?”

  “You know, he could only go out with her. He couldn’t see me anymore or any of his other friends.”

  “How did Larry feel about that?” I said.

  “Larry likes to play the field.”

  “Was he angry with her?”

  “Larry? Don’t be silly. Larry has lots of girls.”

  “Was she angry with him?”

  “I guess so. Larry told me that he blew her off. Told her he had other fish to fry and that he didn’t have time for small-minded, narrow people like her.”

  “Larry likes to keep his options open,” I said without expression.

  “Exactly.”

  I had mastered her lingo.

  “You know any of his other friends?”

  “Female friends? Not really. There was one named Charlene something, and a girl named Sophie. He often met new friends at the bar.”

  “Casablanca?”

  “Sometimes, any of the bars around Harvard Square.”

  “Has Larry ever been married?” I said.

  “Oh yes. I think that’s why he’s so footloose and fancy-free now,” Bonnie said. “I guess little Harriet gave him a pretty hard time.”

  “You know her?”

  “I feel like I do, Larry talks about her so much, but I don’t. She must have been awful.”

  “They’re divorced.”

  “I guess.”

  “She keep her married name?”

  “Yes. It drove Larry crazy.”

  “Where does she live?” I said.

  “I don’t know, around here somewhere, Larry mentions running into her now and then. He hates that.”

  I finished my tea. The cats ignored me. They probably smelled Rosie on me and didn’t like it. About which I was pleased. Bonnie told me a few stories about her love life, which made me think I might have to reconsider mine. And spoke so glowingly about Larry that I wanted to ask for his card. If I couldn’t use it, I could pass it on to my sister.

  CHAPTER

  19

  IT WAS JULIE’S turn to come to me, so we met for lunch in the dining room of the Boston Harbor Hotel. Julie was having some white wine while she heard about my dinner with Elizabeth. I had some cranberry juice with club soda and a slice of orange.

  “Elizabeth thinks people are beneath contempt if they went to a state university. Why would she date Mort, who is hideous beyond the power of language?”

  “How about beauty is in the eye of the beholder?” Julie said.

  “Anyone who beheld him would find him hideous,” I said. “I was in mortal fear that Spike was going to reach over and twist his head off.”

  “Maybe his failures are his charm,” Julie said.

  She drank some wine.

  “Oh boy, is that a shrinky remark,” I said, “or what?”

  “Maybe he embodies her condition. Maybe she feels so lousy about herself that he’s what she can relate to.”

  The waitress came and took our order. Julie had a second glass of wine. It was late for lunch, nearly two. We had a table by the window in the half-empty dining room. Beyond the glass the harbor looked so energetically blue-collar. The boats moved about briskly bouncing on the chop kicked up by an onshore wind. The pilings of some of the piers were rotting and the water near them was iridescent with oil slick. An occasional piece of buoyant litter moved in the tidal eddies around the pilings.

  “You didn’t used to drink at lunch,” I said.

  “Well now I do.”

  I nodded and sipped my cranberry spritzer.

  “You have a problem with that?” Julie said.

  “Do you?”

  “If I do,” Julie said, “I’ll let you know.”

  “Sure,” I said. “You seen Robert since the other night?”

  “Oh Robert’s nothing. He’s just fun.”

  I nodded again and sipped my cranberry spritzer some more. One of the big, slick-looking, mostly glass Boston Harbor tour boats slid out past us, leaving a big smooth wake. A couple of seagulls bobbed on the wake.

  “Did you go home with him the other night?”

  Julie stared at me. She turned her wineglass by the stem slowly.

  “At least you didn’t start with It’s none of my business but…,” Julie said. “I hate when people do that.”

  “Me too,” I said.

  She turned her wineglass some more. The waitress brought us our salads and departed.

  “Don’t ask me things like that,” Julie said.

  I nodded.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” I said.

  “Take it any way you wish.”

  “I wish for your happiness, Jule. You’ve been the sister I never had for nearly all our lives.”

  Julie reached across the table and patted my hand.

  “I know, Sunny. I know.”

  “And being a trained detective,” I said, “I have observed signs that you are not happy.”

  “Well good for you, Nancy Drew.”

  “Is it Michael?”

  “Would you accept none of your business?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think you would,” Julie said. “How about, I don’t want to talk about it?”

  “No.”

  Julie drank the rest of h
er wine and looked around for the waitress. We were quiet while the waitress resupplied her. Our salads remained before us, unmolested.

  “I love Michael,” Julie said.

  I nodded.

  “But we probably got married too soon.”

  I nodded.

  “I never had a life of my own. I moved from my father’s house to my husband’s house.”

  “And?”

  “And we had the kids and I have never made an adult decision based solely on what was best for me.”

  “And you’ve decided it’s time,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “And your first two decisions are to drink more than you used to and sleep with a guy you met at a bar.”

  “God, Sunny, don’t lecture me.”

  “I’m merely observing. Am I right or wrong?”

  “Well, if you insist on putting it that way…”

  Julie’s face had reddened a little.

  “Put it any way you’d like,” I said. “I’m only trying to track your decisions.”

  “Goddamn it, it’s a start,” Julie said.

  “What’s your next step,” I said.

  “You make this sound like some kind of fucking marketing strategy, Sunny. I don’t know my next step. I’m trying to breathe. I’m trying to get some space around myself so I can see who I am.”

  “I understand,” I said, “I sympathize. I’m on your side. But maybe the way you’re doing things isn’t the best way.”

  “What the fuck do you know about it,” Julie said.

  Her eyes were starting to tear.

  “Been there,” I said softly, “done that.”

  Julie started to cry though it was a restrained crying. Not a lot of loud boo-hoo. Just a little trouble with her breathing and some tears on her cheeks.

  “Oh God, Sunny, of course you have. I’m sorry.”

  “You do it the way you have to,” I said. “If I can help, I will. Just remember that right now, you’re crazy, so don’t make irrevocable decisions. If you feel like you want to, call a wise and stable private detective and discuss it with her.”

  She nodded her head. I put my hand out across the table. She took it and held on.

  “And you might see a shrink,” I said.

  She nodded again and smiled a little.