“And Mommy will give you money,” he said. “Maybe you can fuck her.” He checked me carefully, looking sideways at me as he said it, to see how shocked I’d be.
“Your father suggested the same thing,” I said. “Your mom into sex, is she?”
The kid said, “I dunno.”
“Or you figure I’m so irresistible that it’s inevitable.”
The kid shrugged. I figured I could take maybe two more shrugs before I stopped the car. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said.
“Then you shouldn’t have brought it up,” I said.
He was silent.
I turned off of Route 28 onto Route 128 South, toward Lexington.
“I also think it’s bad form to talk about your mother that way to a stranger.”
“Why?”
“It’s not done,” I said.
The kid shrugged and stared out the window. He had one shrug left.
“If my father had started to fight with you, what would you do?”
“I’d have subdued him.”
“How?”
“Depends how tough he is.”
“He used to be a football player and he still lifts weights at the health club.”
I shrugged. It was catching.
“Do you think you could beat him up?” he said.
“Oh, sure,” I said. “He’s a big strong guy, I guess, but I do this for a living. And I’m in better shape.”
“Big deal,” the kid said.
“I didn’t bring it up,” I said.
“I don’t care about muscles,” the kid said.
“Okay,” I said.
“I suppose you think you’re a big man, having muscles,” the kid said.
“I think they are useful to me in what I do,” I said.
“Well, I think they’re ugly.”
I took my hands off the wheel long enough to turn my palms up.
“How come you’re a detective?” he said.
“Like the man said, because I can’t sing or dance.”
“It’s an awful gross job to me,” he said.
I made the same palms-up gesture. We were passing the Burlington Mall. “What exit do I take?” I said.
“Four and two-twenty-five toward Bedford,” he said. “How come you want to do a gross job?”
“It lets me live life on my own terms,” I said. “You sure you mean toward Bedford?”
“Yes. I’ll show you,” he said. And he did. We turned off toward Bedford, turned right, and right again and over an overpass back toward Lexington. Emerson Road was not far off the highway, a community of similar homes with a lot of wood and glass and some stone and brick. It was contemporary, but it worked okay in Lexington. I parked in the driveway out front and we got out. It was late afternoon and the wind had picked up. We leaned into it as we walked to his back door.
He opened it and went in without knocking and without any announcement.
CHAPTER 5
I rang the doorbell a long blast and followed him in. It was a downstairs hall. There were two white hollow core doors on the left and a short stairway to the right. On the wall before the stairway was a big Mondrian print in a chrome frame. Four steps up was the living room. As I went up the stairs behind the kid his mother came to the head of the stairs.
The kid said, “Here’s a big treat, I’m home.”
Patty Giacomin said, “Oh, Paul, I didn’t expect you so soon.”
She was wearing a pink silk outfit-tapered pants with a loose-fitting top. The top hung outside the pants and was gathered at the waist by a gold belt.
I was standing two steps down behind Paul on the stairs. There was a moment of silence. Then Patty Giacomin said, “Well, come up, Mr. Spenser. Have a drink. Paul, let Mr. Spenser get by.”
I stepped into the living room. There were two glasses and a pitcher that looked like martini on the low glass coffee table in front of the couch. There was a fire in the fireplace. There was Boursin cheese on a small tray and a plate of crackers that looked like little shredded-wheat biscuits. And on his feet, politely, in front of the couch was the very embodiment of contemporary elegance. He was probably my height and slim as a weasel. He wore a subdued gray herringbone coat and vest with charcoal pants, a narrow pink tie, a pin collar, and black Gucci loafers. A pink-and-charcoal hankie spilled out of the breast pocket of his jacket His hair was cut short and off the ears and he had a close-cropped beard and a mustache. Whether to see or be seen I had no way to tell, but he was also sporting a pair of pink-tinted aviator glasses with very thin black rims. The pink tie was shiny.
Patty Giacomin said, “Paul, you know Stephen. Stephen, this is Mr. Spenser. Stephen Court”
Stephen put out his hand. It was manicured and tanned. St Thomas, no doubt His handshake was firm without being strong. “Good to see you,” he said.
He didn’t say anything to Paul and Paul didn’t look at him. Patty said, “Would you join us for a drink, Mr. Spenser?”
“Sure,” I said. “Have any beer?”
“Oh, dear, I’m not sure,” she said, “Paul, go look in the refrigerator and see if there’s any beer.”
Paul hadn’t taken his coat off. He went over to the TV set in the bookcase and turned it on, set no channel, and sat down in a black Naugahyde armchair. The set warmed up and a Brady Bunch rerun came on. It was loud.
Patty Giacomin said, “Paul, for God’s sake,” and lowered the volume. While she did that I went into the kitchen on my right and found a can of Schlitz in the refrigerator. There were two more with it, and not much else. I went back into the living room with my beer. Stephen was sitting again, sipping his martini, his legs arranged so as not to ruin the crease in his pants. Patty was standing with her martini in hand.
“Did you have much trouble finding Paul, Mr. Spenser?”
“No,” I said. “It was easy.”
“Did you have trouble with his father?”
“No.”
“Have some cheese and a cracker,” she said. I took some. Boursin on a Triscuit isn’t my favorite, but it had been a long time since breakfast I washed it down with the beer. There was silence except for a now softened Brady Bunch.
Stephen took a small sip of his martini, leaned back slightly, brushed a tiny fleck of something from his left lapel, and said, “Tell me, Mr. Spenser, what do you do?” I heard an overtone of disdain, but I’m probably too sensitive.
“I’m a disc jockey at Regine’s,” I said. “Haven’t I seen you there?”
Patty Giacomin spoke very quickly. “Mr. Spenser,” she said, “could I ask you a really large favor?”
I nodded.
“I, well, I know you’ve already done so much bringing Paul back, but, well, it’s just that it happened much sooner than I thought it would and Stephen and I have a dinner reservation… Could you take Paul out maybe to McDonald’s or someplace? I’ll pay of course.”
I looked at Paul. He was sitting, still with his coat on, staring at The Brady Bunch. Stephen said, “There’s a rather decent Chinese restaurant in town, Szechuan and Mandarin cooking.”
Patty Giacomin had taken her purse off the mantel and was rummaging in it “Yes,” she said. “The Yangtze River. Paul can show you. That’s a good idea. Paul always likes to eat there.” She took a twenty out of her purse and handed it to me. “Here,” she said. “That should be enough. It’s not very expensive.”
I didn’t take the twenty. I said to Paul, “You want to go?” and then I shrugged at the same time he did.
“What are you doing?” he said.
“Practicing my timing,” I said. “Your shrug is so expressive I’m trying to develop one just like it. You want to go get something to eat?”
He started to shrug, stopped, and said, “I don’t care.”
“Well, I do,” I said. “Come on. I’m starving.”
Patty Giacomin still held the twenty out. I shook my head.
“You asked for a favor,” I said. “You didn’t offer to hire me. My treat.”