Lennie drank some beer, poured out the rest of the bottle, and stared at the foam as it settled.
"Compulsive," I said.
"Sure," Lennie said.
"He been losing a lot lately?"
"Don't know. He married Julius Ventura's daughter I wouldn't let him bet with me anymore."
"Julius say anything?"
"No, but I been doing fine these years without pissing Julius Ventura off. I didn't see no reason to start."
"So you don't know firsthand, you hear anything?"
"People don't talk about Julius Ventura's son-in-law, Spenser.
He's in hock to them they stay low about it, you know."
The bartender brought Lennie a new bottle of Budweiser.
"How many beers you drink a day?" I said.
"Maybe sixteen," Lennie said.
"Why you asking about Anthony."
"He's missing."
Lennie nodded.
"Julius hired me to find him," I said.
"You're shitting me."
"Nope."
I drank some beer.
"He fool around with women?" I said.
"Julius Ventura hired you to find his son-in-law?"
"Me and Hawk," I said.
"What kind of beer is this?"
Lenny shrugged and called to the bartender over his shoulder.
"Jackie, what kinda draught beer you serving us?"
"New Amsterdam Black and Tan," Jackie said.
"New Amsterdam Black and Tan," Lennie said.
"Thanks," I said.
"His answer was much too hard for me."
"Why the fuck is Julius hiring you and Hawk, for cris sake "Julius's a first-class guy," I said.
"You know he ain't," Lennie said. He lowered his voice when he said it.
"What's going on?"
I shrugged.
"Anthony fool around with women?" I said.
"I don't know," Lennie said.
"Can you find out?"
"No."
"I like a man knows his limitations," I said.
"I know gambling," Lennie said.
"I don't know shit about fooling around."
"Your wife will be pleased to hear that."
"She's the reason I don't know."
I finished my New Amsterdam Black & Tan. I wanted another one, but I was used to that. I always wanted another one. Lennie picked up his portable phone and dialed a number.
"It's Lennie," he said into the phone.
"Gimme what you got."
I got up from the booth, shot Lennie once by dropping my thumb on my forefinger, and left the bar, and headed down Newbury Street.
CHAPTER 5
It was a grand Wednesday afternoon on Newbury Street. The sky was blue, the temperature was in the low seventies, and people trying to look like Eurotrash were sitting outside having various kinds of fancy coffee and looking at each other. A college-aged woman in tight jeans, high boots, and a red St. Lawrence Hockey jacket walked by with a black Lab on a leash. The Lab wore a red bandana around his neck. Most black Labs you saw in the Back Bay had red bandanas around their neck, but not every one was color-coordinated with its owner. I walked down from Mass Ave. toward my office, past boutiques, designer shops, handmade jewelry stores, sidewalk cafes, tiny chic restaurants, pet stores that sold iguanas, places that sold frozen yogurt, Hermes scarfs, hand hammered silver, decorative furniture, muffins, scones, wine, cheese, pate. Behind me across the street in front of a sign that advertised boysenberry sorbet was a big guy in a watch cap who had as much business on Newbury Street as I did. I had seen him outside my office earlier this morning, and he had been behind me when I went to talk with Lennie. Now he was looking in the window of the ice cream store, his hands deep in his jacket pockets while he studied the options to boysenberry sorbet, paying no attention to me. And being blatant about it.
I walked on to Dartmouth Street and turned right toward Copley Square. Across from the public library, I turned right onto Boylston Street and went past H. H. Richardson's other church back toward Mass Ave. By the time I reached Exeter Street, the guy in the Patriots football jacket was turning up Boylston. I stopped outside Morion's Steak House and leaned on the doorway. He walked on past me and crossed Exeter Street and leaned idly against the streetlight post, musing on the new addition to the library. Probably agreed with me that the new addition was ugly. I walked across Exeter Street, and stood beside him on the corner, looking at the new part of the library.
"Looks like corporate headquarters for an oil refinery," I said.
"Don't you think?"
"You talking to me?" he said.
"Doesn't it just leave a sour taste in your mouth when an architectural treasure is esthetically debased?" I said.
"Sure, pal. I'll be talking to you."
"That why you're following me around?" I said. "
"Cause you want to talk to me?"
"Following you? What the fuck are you talking about?"
He started to walk away. I walked along beside him. At Fair field, he turned right and I turned right with him. He stopped. I stopped.
"Buzz off," he said.
I smiled at him. He walked again, across Newbury down to Commonwealth. I walked with him. He stopped.
"Keep it up, pal," he said, "and I'm going to knock you on your ass."
"Probably not," I said.
"I warned you," he said.
We crossed the inbound side of Commonwealth and turned right on the mall toward The Public Gardens. He was stepping out smartly.
"Don't you think this is a great stretch of city?" I said.
He kept walking.
"I don't know if I've seen another stretch of urban space like it," I said.
"The brick and brownstone townhouses, the wide pedestrian mall in the center, all the statues, the trees, the flowering shrubs. You know any other places like it?"
Apparently he didn't.
"And you can see the full length of it, from Charles Street to Kenmore Square, because it's dead flat, you know?"
Apparently he knew.
At Clarendon Street he stopped under the arching trees, near a bench. I stopped too. A gray-haired woman in a black and white checked pant suit passed us walking a honey-colored spaniel on a red leash.
When she had passed the big guy said, "You don't know who you're fucking with, pal. Now you either get lost or I knock you on your ass."
"Who am I fucking with?" I said.
The big guy led with his right, which is effective only with amateurs. I pulled my head out of the way and smiled. He followed up with a meandering left hook which I avoided also.
"You loop your punches," I said.
He lunged at me and I stepped sideways and played him past me with my hands.
"You're going to hurt yourself," I said.
He stood staring at me, breathing hard. Then he lowered his head and charged at me. I slipped the charge again and drove my right fist into his left kidney as he went by. He grunted and fell face forward. I stepped away from him.
"See," I said.
"Short punches. The one I hit you with didn't travel a foot, but I turned into it when I threw it and got a lot behind it."
He got to his hands and knees, and then to his feet. He stood crookedly, as if his left kidney were hurting, which it surely was, and stared at me.
"We going to walk some more?" I said.
He unzipped his jacket with his right hand and reached inside.
By the time he got his hand on his gun, mine was out and pointing at him.
"Silly to walk around with your gun zipped up inside," I said.
"I know you didn't expect you'd need it, but once I got annoying, you should have at least un zippered just in case."
He didn't know what to do. He stood staring at my gun, holding his gun half out from under his coat.
"Did the folks who told you to follow me also tell you it would be okay to shoot me in the middle of Comm Ave. at ten-thirty in the morning?"
He let the gun slide back into its place and took his hand away from his coat.
"No."
"Good," I said.