“We’ll miss each other.”
“Yes.”
“I’m parked out on Mass Avenue.”
“I parked at Everett Station and took the subway in. We can go to your apartment and I’ll drive you to the airport in your car.”
“Okay,” I said. “But don’t be so bossy. You know how I hate a bossy broad.”
“Bossy?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you have a plan for our farewell celebration?”
“Yeah. ”Forget it.“
“Okay, boss.” She squeezed my arm and smiled. It was a stunner of a smile. There was something in it. Mischief was too weak a word. Evil too strong. But it was always there in the smile. Something that seemed to be saying, You know what would be fun to do? I held the door for her and as she slid into my car the jumpsuit stretched tight and smooth over her thigh. I went around and got in and started the car. “It strikes me,” I said, “that if you were wearing underwear beneath that jumpsuit it would show. It doesn’t show. ”
“That’s for me to know and you to find out, big fella.”
“Oh, good,” I said, “the celebration is back on.”
4
I found out about the underwear, and some other things. Most of the other things I already knew, but it was a pleasure to be reminded. Afterward we lay on, top of my bed, with the afternoon sun shining in. Her body, strong, and a little damp from mutual exertion, glistened where the sun touched it. “You are a strong and active person,” I said. “Regular exercise,” she said. “And a positive attitude.”
“I think you wrinkled my white linen suit.”
“It would have wrinkled on the airplane anyway.” We got dressed and walked up Boylston Street and across the Prudential Center to a restaurant called St. Botolph. It was one of the zillion California-theme restaurants that had appeared in the wake of urban renewal like dandelions on a new seeded lawn. Tucked back of the Colonnade Hotel, it was brick and had hanging plants and relative informality where one could actually get a good meat loaf. Among other things. I had the meat loaf and Susan had scallops Provençale. There wasn’t much to say. I told her about the job. “Bounty hunter,” she said. “Yeah, I guess so. Just like the movies.”
“Do you have a plan?” Her make-up was expert. Eye liner, eye shadow, color on the cheekbones, lipstick. She probably looked better at forty than she had at twenty. There were small lines at the corners of her eyes, and smile suggestions at the edges of her mouth that added to her face, gave it pattern and meaning. “Same old plan I always have. I’ll show up and mess around and see if I can get something stirring and see what happens. Maybe put an ad in the papers offering a big reward.”
“A group like that? Do you think a reward could get one of them to turn another in?” I shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe it would get them to make contact with me. One way or another. I have to have a contact. I need a Judas goat.”
“Might they try to kill you if they know you’re there?”
“Maybe. I plan to thwart them.”
“And then you’ll have your contact,” Susan said. “Yeah.” She shook her head. “This will not be a pleasant time for me.”
“I know… I won’t like it that much either.”
“Maybe part of you won’t. But you’re having a grand adventure too. Tom Swift, Bounty Hunter. Part of you will have a wonderful time.”
“That was truer before I knew you,” I said. “Even bounty hunting is less fun without you.”
“I think that’s true. I appreciate it. I know that you are what you are. But if I lose you it will be chronic. It will be something I’ll never completely get over.”
“I’ll come back,” I said. “I won’t die away from you.”
“Oh, Jesus,” she said, and her voice filled. She turned her head away. My throat was very tight and my eyes burned. “I know the feeling,” I said. “If I weren’t such a tough manly bastard, I might come very close to sniffling a little myself.” She turned back toward me. Her eyes were very shiny, but her face was smooth and she said, “Well, maybe you, cupcake, but not me. I’m going to do one excerpt from my famous Miss Kitty impression and then we are going to laugh and chatter brightly till flight time.” She put her hand on my forearm, and looked at me hard and leaned forward and said, “Be careful, Matt.”
“A man’s gotta do what he’s gotta do, Kitty,” I said. “Let’s have a beer.” We were chatty and bright for the rest of the meal and the ride to the airport. Susan dropped me off at the International Terminal. I got out, unlocked the trunk, took out my luggage, put the .357 in the trunk, locked it and leaned into the car. “I won’t go in with you,” she said. “Sitting and waiting in airports is too dismal. Send me a postcard. I’ll be here when you come back.” I kissed her goodbye and hauled my luggage into the terminal. The tickets were at the Pan Am desk as promised. I picked them up, checked my luggage through and went up to wait at the loading gate. It was a slow night at the International Terminal. I cleared the security check, found a seat near the boarding ramp and got out my book. I was working on a scholarly book that year. Regeneration Through Violence, by a guy named Richard Slotkin. A friend of Susan’s had lent it to me to read because he wanted what he called “an untutored reaction from someone in the field.” He was an English teacher at Tufts and could be excused that kind of talk. More or less. I liked the book but I couldn’t concentrate. Sitting alone at night in an airport is a lonely feeling. And waiting to fly away to another country, by yourself, on a nearly empty plane was very lonely. I half decided to turn around and call Susan and say come get me. I minded being alone more as I got older. Or was it just Susan. Either way. Ten years ago this would have been a great adventure. Now I wanted to run. At eight-thirty we boarded. At eight-fifty we took off. By nine-fifteen I had my first beer from the stewardess and a bag of Smokehouse Almonds. I began to feel better. Tomorrow perhaps I could have dinner in Simpson’s and maybe for lunch I could find a nice Indian restaurant. By ten I had drunk three beers and eaten perhaps half a pound of almonds. The flight was not crowded and the stewardess was attentive. Probably drawn by the elegance of my three-piece linen suit. Even wrinkled. I read my book and ignored the movie and listened to the oldies but goodies channel on the headphones and had a few more beers, and my mood brightened some more. After midnight I stretched out across several seats and took a nap. When I woke up the stewardesses were serving coffee and rolls and the sun was shining in the windows. We landed at Heathrow Airport outside of London at ten-fifty-five London time and I stumbled off the plane, stiff from sleeping on the seats. The coffee and rolls were sloshing around with the beer and Smokehouse Almonds. For simple hodgepodge confusion and complicated extent, Heathrow Airport’s name leads all the rest. I followed arrows and took Bus A and followed more arrows and finally found myself in the line at the passport window. The clerk looked at my passport, smiled and said, “Nice to see you, Mr. Spenser. Would you please step over to the security office, there.”
“They’ve reported me. I’m to be arrested for excessive beer consumption on an international flight.” The clerk smiled and nodded toward the security office. “Right over there, please, sir.” I took my passport and went to the office. Inside was a security officer in uniform and a tall thin man, with long teeth, smoking a cigarette and wearing a dark green shirt with a brown tie. “My name is Spenser,” I said. “People at the passport desk sent me over.” The tall thin guy said, “Welcome to England, Spenser. I’m Michael Flanders.” We shook hands. “Do you have baggage checks?” I did. “Let me have them, will you. I’ll have your baggage taken care of.” He gave the checks to the security man, and steered me out of the office with his hand on my elbow. We came out a different door and I realized we’d cleared customs. Flanders reached inside his tweed jacket and brought out an envelope with my name on it. “Here,” he said. “I was able to arrange this with the authorities this morning.” I opened the envelope. It was a gun permit. “Not bad,” I said. We came out of the terminal building underneath one of the walkways that connects the second floors of everything at Heathrow. A black London cab was there and a porter was loading my luggage in while the security man watched. “Not bad,” I said. Flanders smiled. “Nothing, really. Mr. Dixon’s name has considerable sway here as it does in so many places.” He gestured me into the cab, the driver came around and said something I didn’t understand and we started off. Flanders said to the cabbie, “Mayfair Hotel, if you would.” And leaned back and lit another cigarette. His fingers were long and bony and stained with nicotine. “We’re putting you up in the Mayfair,” he said to me. “It’s a first-rate hotel and nicely located. I hope it will be satisfactory.”