“But after someone does her in, you’ll swing into action. Then you’ll be able to spare a dozen men.”
“Take a walk,” Quirk said. The lines from his nose to the corners of his mouth were deep. “I don’t need to get lectured about police work. I’m still here—I didn’t quit.”
I stood up. “I apologize,” I said. “I feel very sour about things now. I’m blaming you.”
Quirk nodded. “I get anything on those numbers, you want to know?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
I left.
14
Susan and I were at the raw bar in the middle of Quincy Market eating oysters and drinking beer, and arguing. Sort of.
“So why didn’t you keep out of it?” Susan said. “Rachel had asked you to.”
“And stand there and let them drag her out?”
“Yes.” Susan slurped an oyster off the shell. They don’t offer forks at the raw bar. They just serve oysters or clams or shrimp, with beer in paper cups. There are bowls of oyster crackers and squeeze bottles of cocktail sauce. They named the place the Walrus and the Carpenter, but I like it anyway.
“I couldn’t do that,” I said. Under the vaulted ceiling of the market, people swirled up and down the main aisle. A bearded man wearing a ski cap and a green turtleneck sweater eyed Susan and whispered something to the man with him. The man with him looked at Susan and nodded.
They both smiled, and then they both caught me looking at them and looked away and moved on. I ordered another beer. Susan sipped a little of hers.
“Why couldn’t you do that?” Susan said.
“It violates something.”
“What?”
I shrugged. “My pride?”
Susan nodded. “Now we’re getting somewhere. And while we’re at it, if somebody wants to admire my figure, why not let them? I am pleased. Would it be better if they didn’t?”
“You mean those two clowns a minute ago?”
“Yes. And a man who admires my ass isn’t necessarily a clown.”
“I didn’t do anything,” I said.
“You glared at them.”
“Well, they scare easy.”
“Would you have liked it better if they’d told me to start wearing a girdle?”
I said, “Grrrrr.”
“Exactly. So what are you glaring at them for?”
“My pride?”
“Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“Didn’t we just have this conversation?”
She smiled and gestured at the bartender for another beer. “Yes, but we haven’t finished it.”
“So what should I have done when those two upwardly mobile assholes took hold of her?”
“Stood by, made sure they didn’t hurt her. Been available if she called for help. Held the door as they went out.”
“Jesus Christ,” I said.
“Or you could have locked arms with her and gone limp when they touched you and made it that much harder.”
“No,” I said. “I couldn’t do that. Maybe I could have stood by, or maybe if there were a next time I could. But I couldn’t lie down and let them drag me out.”
“No. You couldn’t. But you didn’t have to deprive Rachel of a chance for a triumph.”
“I didn’t think of it in just that way.”
“Of course you didn’t—just as you don’t perceive it that way when we’re at a party and someone makes a pass at me and you’re at his shoulder with the look.”
“Depriving you of the chance to deal with it successfully yourself.”
“Of course,” she said. There was a small streak of cocktail sauce at one corner of her mouth. I reached over and wiped it away with my thumb. “I don’t normally need you to protect me. I got along quite well without you for quite some years. I fended off the people I wanted to fend off, all by myself.”
“And if they don’t fend?”
“I call you. You’re not far. I’ve not seen you ten feet from me at a party since we met.”
I finished my beer. “Let’s walk up toward the Faneuil Hall end,” I said. It was nearly four thirty and the crowds were thin, for the market. “Maybe I’ll buy you a croissant.”
“I’m not bitching about me,” she said. She put her arm through mine. Her head came a little above my shoulder. Her hair had a faint flowery smell. “I understand you, and I kind of like your proprietary impulses. Also I love you, and it changes one’s perspective sometimes.”
“We could slip into that stairwell and make out,” I said.
“Later. You promised a lot of walking and eating and drinking and looking at people.”
“And after that?”
“Who knows?” Susan said. “Maybe ecstasy.”
“Let’s walk faster then.”
Quincy Market is old and lovingly restored. It is vast and made of granite blocks. Along each side of the long center aisle there were stalls selling yogurt with fruit topping, kielbasy on a roll with sauerkraut, lobster rolls, submarine sandwiches, French bread, country pate, Greek salad, sweet and sour chicken, baklava, cookies, bagels, oysters, cheese, fresh fruit on a stick, ice cream, cheesecake, barbecued chicken, pizza, doughnuts, cookies, galantine of duck, roast beef sandwiches with chutney on fresh-baked bread, bean sprouts, dried peaches, jumbo cashews and other nuts. There are also butchershops, cheese stores, a place that sells custom-ground coffee, fruit stands, and a place that sells Korean ginseng root. Outside on either side are arcades with more stalls and terrace cafes, and in restored brick buildings parallel were clothing stores and specialty shops and restaurants. It claims to be the number-one tourist attraction in Boston, and it should be. If you were with a girl in the market area, it would be hard not to hold hands with her. Jugglers and strolling musicians moved around the area. The market is never empty, and in prime time it is nearly unmanageable. We stopped and bought two skewers of fresh fruit and melon, and ate them as we walked.
“What you say makes sense, babe,” I said, “but it doesn’t feel right.”
“I know,” she said. “It probably never will for you. You were brought up with a fierce sense of family. But you haven’t got a family, and so you transfer that great sea of protective impulse to clients, and me.”
“Maybe not you, but usually clients need protection.”
“Yes. That’s probably why you’re in business. You need people who need protection. Otherwise what would you do with the impulse?”
I threw my empty skewer in a trash barrel. “Concentrate it all on you, chickie,” I said.
Susan said, “Oh, God.”
“I don’t think I’m going to change,” I said.
“Oh, I hope you don’t. I love you. And I understand you, and you should stay as sweet as you are. But you can see why Rachel Wallace might have reservations about you.”
“Yeah, except I’m so goddamned cute,” I said.
“You certainly are that,” Susan said. “Want to split a yogurt?”
15
It was three weeks before Christinas, and it was snowing big sporadic flakes outside my office window when I found out that they’d taken Rachel Wallace.
I was sitting with my feet up, drinking black coffee and eating a doughnut and waiting for a guy named Anthony Gonsalves to call me from Fall River when the phone rang. It wasn’t Gonsalves.
A voice said, “Spenser? John Ticknor from Hamilton Black. Could you get over here right now? It appears Rachel Wallace has been kidnaped.”
“Did you call the cops?” I said.
“Yes.”
“Okay, I’m on my way.”
I hung up, put my fleece-lined jacket on over my black turtleneck and shoulder holster, and went. My office that year was on the corner of Mass. Ave. and Boylston Street, on the second floor, in a small three-sided turret over a smokeshop. My car was parked by a sign that said No Parking Bus Stop. I got in and drove straight down Boylston. The snow was melting as it hit the street but collecting on the margins of the road and on the sidewalks and building ledges.