Family Honor

by Robert B. Parker

  Rosie had found the long rhomboid of sunshine that slanted in through the skylight, and was lying in it on her back, with her short legs sticking straight up and her tongue lolling out of the side of her mouth.

  “I’m going to have to tell your parents I found you,” I said.

  “You told me you wouldn’t.”

  “No. I told you you didn’t have to go home.”

  “You tell them and they’ll make me come home,” she said.

  “I won’t tell them where you are, but they have the right to know you’re alive and well.”

  “They’ll make you tell,” Millicent said.

  “No,” I said.

  “You work for them.”

  “I work for myself.”

  “But they’re paying you.”

  “That’s their problem.”

  “You won’t tell them where I am?”

  “No.”

  “Ever?”

  “I don’t know about ever,” I said. “But I won’t tell them until you and I have decided it’s in your best interest.”

  “Even if they won’t pay you anymore?”

  “Even then.”

  The doorbell rang. Rosie was instantly on her feet in full yap. As I walked to the door I took my gun off the bureau and held it at my side. I looked through the peephole. It was Richie. When he came in Millicent was as far at the other end of the loft as she could get.

  If Richie saw the gun, which he did because he saw everything, he didn’t comment.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Hello.”

  There was never anything casual when we saw each other. No greeting was routine. There was a kind of charge between us that had been there since we were in elementary school and became pals, without any knowledge that my father was trying to put his father in jail. And his uncle. I had never not been glad to see him, even in the depths of it, when we couldn’t stand each other and he was so possessive I thought I’d fragment. Even then I was always aware that seeing him was special, and I was always aware that it was the same for him.

  Rosie was ecstatic. She jumped and wiggled and chased her tail until Richie picked her up and held her in his right arm while he rubbed her belly with his left. She managed to lap his face awkwardly while this was going on.

  “Millicent,” I said. “This is my ex-husband, Richie Burke. Richie, this is my friend Millicent Patton.”

  She stayed at the far end. Richie put Rosie down and walked the length of the loft and put his hand out.

  “Hello, Millicent.”

  She took his hand, limply. I’d have to speak to her about that. I hate a limp handshake.

  “How do you do,” Millicent said with no hint of enthusiasm.

  Richie walked back to the kitchen and sat at my counter.

  “You called?” he said.

  I put the gun back on top of the bureau.

  “I did,” I said. “I have to run out and talk with Millicent’s parents and I wondered if you could stay with her?”

  “Sure.”

  “Julie’s working, and Spike’s working and I know you work, but you’re not on a time clock and . . . I’m babbling.”

  “Sure,” Richie said.

  “I’m not telling anyone she’s here,” I said.

  “And you don’t want anyone to come take her away,” Richie said.

  He spoke softly so that Millicent wouldn’t overhear him. She was as far away as she could get and still be in the loft, staring out my east window at the Fort Point cityscape.

  “That’s right.”

  “Which you fear is a possibility.”

  “You noticed the gun,” I said.

  “Yeah. I’m very alert.”

  I told him about the Irish guys.

  “That’s it,” Richie said. “All you know is two Irish guys?”

  “That’s all Tony said.”

  “Tony thinks all non-Africans are Irish,” Richie said. “Doesn’t mean it’s anyone we know.”

  When Richie said we, it always meant his family.

  “I know.”

  “I’ll ask around, however,” he said.

  I nodded.

  “Millicent,” I said loudly enough for her to hear. “I’m going to talk with your parents.”

  “He going to stay here?” Millicent said.

  “Yes. I’ll be an hour or two.”

  “And you don’t think I can take care of myself?”

  “He’s here for Rosie,” I said. “Anything I should tell your parents?”

  “No.”

  I took my gun off the bureau and put it on. Richie walked to the door with me.

  “You have a gun?” I said.

  He smiled at me.

  “Of course you do,” I said and went out.

  Behind me I heard the dead bolt slide into place on the inside.

  CHAPTER 19

  The fire in the fireplace looked exactly the same. It would always look exactly the same. It was a gas fire. I was looking good. Double-breasted blue pinstripe suit, white shirt open at the throat. Black ankle boots. Tiny silver hoop earrings. Brock Patton was behind his desk, in his big high-backed, red leather swivel chair, where he seemed to feel most comfortable. Betty Patton sat in a caramel-colored leather wing chair to his left.

  “You’ve found her then?” Patton said.

  “Yes. She’s well and safe.”

  “Where is she?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “You what?” Betty Patton’s voice was like chilled steel.

  “I can’t tell you where she is,” I said.

  “Why not,” Betty said.

  “She doesn’t want you to know.”

  “Ms. Randall, are we not employing you?”

  “So far,” I said.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Betty said. “Where is she?”

  I shook my head.

  “You cannot sit here and tell me you are going to substitute the judgment of a fifteen-year-old runaway for that of her parents,” Betty said.

  “Actually, I’m substituting my judgment,” I said.

  “You have no right.”

  “You hired me,” I said. “You didn’t purchase me.”

  “And we can fire you,” Betty said. Her voice remained quiet and very cold.

  “Something happened,” I said. “That made her run away.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then how do you know something happened.”

  It was as if Brock had disappeared. It was me and Betty Patton.

  “Woman’s intuition.”

  “I have resources,” Betty said. “Give me back my daughter or face serious consequences.”

  “You wouldn’t have a thought, either of you, as to what might have been the, ah, precipitating event in your daughter’s departure?”

  “There was no event. Millicent is spoiled and childish. But she is quite capable of manipulating any adult gullible enough to believe her.”

  “Do you have anyone but me looking for her?”

  “Perhaps we should.”

  “But you don’t?”

  “Of course not.”

  “She’s afraid of something,” I said.

  “What?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Betty’s ugly little laugh was derisive. “She’s a neurotic child,” Betty said.

  “Has she been getting therapy?” I said.

  “Doesn’t every teenaged brat that can’t cut it get therapy?” Brock said.

  When he spoke it felt like an intrusion, something foreign to the angry exclusivity that connected me to Betty.

 
“Shut up, Brock,” Betty said.

  “Isn’t that sweet,” Brock said. “‘Shut up,’ she explained.”

  “Who’s her therapist?” I said.

  “That is no concern of yours,” Betty said.

  I nodded.

  “Did you or your husband have a fight with Millicent before she left?”

  “Ms. Randall,” Betty said. “I am not some Irish scrub woman, I do not fight with my daughter.”

  “She’s very angry with you,” I said.

  “Millicent doesn’t know what she’s angry about,” Betty said. “She is a petulant adolescent. Had you ever raised one you might be less inclined to take her at face value.”

  Actually I thought it was Betty that was taking Millicent at face value.

  “Perhaps,” I said.

  “Do you have a license to do what you do?” Betty asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, if my daughter is not back here promptly you will lose it.”

  “Oh, oh!” I said.

  “And that will be the least unpleasant thing you’ll face.”

  “If you’re going to threaten me,” I said, “you need to be specific.”

  Betty shook her head. I looked at Brock.

  “And you?”

  Brock tossed his hands in the air.

  “I have long ago given up trying to work things out with women.”

  I sat for a moment.

  “Okay,” I said. “Your daughter is well and safe. And, despite the paralyzing impact of your threat, I will make every attempt to keep her that way.”

  I stood. Neither of them moved.

  “I have warned you, Ms. Randall,” Betty said, “don’t take what I’ve said lightly.”

  “Hard not to,” I said, and turned and marched out. I love a good exit line.

  CHAPTER 20

  Rosie and Millicent were with Richie. I didn’t know where. And I was sitting at a table for four with Spike, watching the new cabaret act he had put together for the restaurant.

  “It’s funny,” I said to Spike. “I can’t live with Richie, but I trust him even with Rosie.”

  Spike was watching the show too intently to do anything more than nod. I didn’t mind: the remark had been as much to me as it had been to him, anyway. While I was thinking about my remark, and Spike was thinking about his cabaret, Don Bradley came in and sat at the table with us. The cabaret singers started a medley of World War II songs.

  “Hi, Sunny,” he said. “I been trying to reach you.”

  “I know.”

  “. . . praise the Lord and pass the ammunition . . .”

  “I guess I got a little buzzed at the end of it, I don’t remember the way we parted, exactly.”

  “I do.”

  “I didn’t get out of hand, I hope,” he grinned at me. “Sometimes I get a little wild.”

  “Don, please,” I said. “I’m afraid we’re not really meant for each other. Let’s let it go.”

  “Damn it, Sunny, I thought we were having a good time.”

  Don raised his voice a little. It was enough to break Spike’s concentration on the cabaret. Which I knew Spike didn’t like. He looked at Don.

  “Don,” I said. “You spent the evening talking about yourself until you got so drunk I had to half carry you into your home, at which time you tried to force yourself on me.”

  “That’s not how it seemed to me, Sunny.”

  Spike had half turned now, and leaned his elbow on the table and his chin on his elbow and had his face very close to Don’s, listening intently. When I spoke Spike’s eyes shifted to me, but his face stayed close to Don’s.

  “I don’t wish to argue it,” I said. “I’d simply prefer not to go out with you.”

  “I’m not taking no for an answer,” Don said.

  Spike’s closeness was beginning to make him uncomfortable. He looked at Spike.

  “. . . with anyone else but me, anyone else but me . . .”

  “Excuse me?” he said.

  “Certainly,” Spike said.

  “I mean, excuse me, why are you interfering with our conversation?”

  “I do that, sometimes,” Spike said.

  “Well, I don’t like it,” Don said.

  There was an edge to his voice. He was not a man to be crossed.

  “Gay bashing,” Spike said.

  “What?”

  “I’m a charming gay man, and you have turned on me for no discernible reason. I say it’s gay bashing.”

  “I didn’t even know you were gay.”

  “For crissake,” Spike said. “What am I supposed to do, sit in your lap?”

  “Of course not.”

  “This is blatant homophobia,” Spike said. “Sunny?”

  I smiled and didn’t answer.

  “. . . a hubba hubba hubba, hello, Jack . . .”

  “See,” Spike said.

  Don said. “Why don’t you just butt out.”

  “Sunny has made it clear that she doesn’t like you and doesn’t want to go out with you,” Spike said. “I felt it was important that you know I feel the same way.”

  “What?”

  “Stay away from Sunny,” Spike said.

  And then Spike did what he does. I don’t know how he does it. Something happens behind his eyes, and whatever it is shows through, and quite suddenly there’s nothing playful about Spike.

  Don saw it and it scared him.

  “You’re threatening me,” he said finally.

  “You bet,” Spike said. “Think how embarrassing it’ll be, to tell the guys at the health club that you got your clock cleaned by a ho-mo-sex-ual.”

  Don didn’t move. Better men than Don had been frightened by Spike. But he didn’t want to back down in front of me.

  “. . . remember Pearl Harbor, as we march against the foe . . .”

  “Don,” I said. “There’s nothing between you and me.”

  “I’m not scared of him,” Don said.

  “You should be,” I said. “Walk away from this. There’s nothing here for you.”

  Don sat for another moment. Then he stood up.

  “All right, but only because you asked me, Sunny.”

  “Sure,” I said. “I understand. Sorry it didn’t work out.”

  Don nodded and said, “Good-bye, Sunny.”

  “Good-bye, Don.”

  To salvage his self-regard he gave Spike a hard look. Spike smiled at him. Don turned away and walked stiffly out of the restaurant.

  “I could have chased him away myself,” I said to Spike.

  “Sure,” Spike said, “but it’s like the old joke, praise God you didn’t have to.”

  CHAPTER 21

  It was after six and I was starting supper for Millicent and me. She had slept much of the afternoon and now sat at the kitchen counter drinking a Coke and watching me. I had a cookbook open on the counter beside me. I had put a carving knife across it to keep the pages from flipping over. Rosie was between and around my ankles as I worked.

  “You like to cook?” I said to Millicent.

  “No.”

  “Do you know how?”

  “No.”

  “Would you like to learn?”

  “You a good cook?” Millicent said.

  “No. But I’m getting better. Actually I’m learning, too. I’d love somebody to learn with me.”

  “Who’s teaching you?”

  “I’ve been watching Martha Stewart,” I said.

  “Who?”

  “A woman on television,” I said.

  “What’s in the plastic bag?”

  “Pizza dough,” I said. “I buy it at a place in the North End and let
it warm a little and then roll it out.”

  “You’re making pizza?”

  “Yes, white, with vinegar peppers and caramelized onions.”

  “Whaddya mean, white?”

  “No tomato sauce.”

  “What’s that other stuff—whatchamacallit onions and peppers.”

  “Sweet and sour,” I said. “Here, roll out some of this pizza dough.”

  “I don’t know how to do that.”

  “Take this roller,” I said. “Put some flour on this board.”

  I showed her.

  “Put a little more flour on top of the dough.”

  I showed her again.

  “Roll it from the center out.”

  Millicent sighed a large sigh and took the rolling pin. She dabbed at the dough with it.

  “No, no,” I said. “Roll it.”

  I took the pin and showed her. The dough sat there inertly. When I rolled it in one direction it shrank up in another. I rolled more vigorously. The dough sat there more inertly. After five hard minutes I had a lump of pizza dough the same size and thickness with which I had started. I put the rolling pin down and stepped back and looked at the dough.

  “You ever make this before?” Millicent said.

  “Not exactly,” I said.

  “Maybe if you just squished it with your hands,” she said.

  I tried it. The dough was recalcitrant. I picked it up and dropped it into the trash compactor. Then I took the dish of sliced onions and chopped up peppers and scraped them into the trash.

  “If at first you don’t succeed,” I said, “have something else for supper.”

  Millicent made a little sound that might almost have been a snicker.

  “You don’t know how to cook for shit,” Millicent said.

  “I’m learning,” I said. “I’m learning.”

  She made the sound again.

  “You were pounding and shoving that sucker and it wasn’t doing a thing,” Millicent said.

  I laughed. She might have laughed. We might have been laughing together.

  “The perversity of inanimate objects,” I said.

  “Huh?”

  “It’s something my father always says.”

  “Oh. So what are we going to eat?”

  “What do you like?” I said.

  “I like peanut butter.”