Spencer 06 - Looking for Rachel Wallace

by Robert B. Parker

  I went back to my Johnny Mercer lyrics. I was on the third verse of “Midnight Sun” when a room service waiter came off the elevator pushing a table. He stopped at Rachel’s door and knocked. He smiled at me as he waited. The door opened on the chain and a small vertical plane of Rachel Wallace’s face appeared.

  I said, “It’s okay, Rachel. I’m here.” The waiter smiled at me again, as if I’d said something clever. The door closed and in a moment re-opened. The waiter went in, and I came in behind him. Rachel was in a dark-brown full-length robe with white piping. She wore no makeup. Julie Wells wasn’t in the room. The bathroom door was closed, and I could hear the shower going. Both beds were a little rumpled but still made.

  The waiter opened up the table and began to lay out the supper. I leaned against the wall by the window and watched him. When he was through, Rachel Wallace signed the bill, added in a tip, and gave it back to him. He smiled—smiled at me—and went out.

  Rachel looked at the table. There were flowers in the center.

  “You can go for tonight, Spenser,” she said. “We’ll eat and go to bed. Be here at eight tomorrow.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Where we going first?”

  “We’re going out to Channel Four and do a talk show.”

  Julie Wells came out of the bathroom. She had a small towel wrapped around her head and a large one wrapped around her body. It covered her but not by much. She said, “Hi, Spenser,” and smiled at me. Everyone smiled at me. Lovable. A real pussycat.

  “Hello.” I didn’t belong there. There was something powerfully non-male in the room, and I felt its pressure. “Okay, Rachel. I’ll say good night. Don’t open the door. Don’t even open it to push that cart into the hall. I’ll be here at eight.”

  They both smiled. Neither of them said anything. I went to the door at a normal pace. I did not run. “Don’t forget the chain,” I said. “And the deadbolt from inside.”

  They both smiled at me and nodded. Julie Wells’s towel seemed to be shrinking. My mouth felt a little dry. “I’ll stay outside until I hear the bolt turn.”

  Smile. Nod.

  “Good night,” I said, and went out and closed the door. I heard the bolt slide and the chain go in. I went down in the elevator and out onto Arlington Street with my mouth still dry, feeling a bit unlovely.

  11

  I LEANED AGAINST the cinder-block wall of studio two at Channel Four and watch Rachel Wallace prepare to promote her book and her cause. Off camera a half-dozen technician types in jeans and beards and sneakers hustled about doing technical things.

  Rachel sat in a director’s chair at a low table. The interviewer was on the other side and on the table between them was a copy of Tyranny, standing upright and visible on a small display stand. Rachel sat calmly looking at the camera. The interviewer, a Styrofoam blonde with huge false eyelashes, was smoking a kingsized filter-tipped mentholated Salem cigarette as if they were about to tie her to a post and put on the blindfold. A technician pinned a small microphone to the lapel of Rachel’s gray flannel jacket and stepped out of the way. Another technician with a clipboard crouched beneath one of the cameras a foot and a half from the interviewer. He wore earphones.

  “Ten seconds, Shirley,” he said. The interviewer nodded and snuffed her cigarette out in an ashtray on the floor behind her chair. A man next to me shifted in his folding chair and said, “Jesus Christ, I’m nervous.” He was scheduled to talk about raising quail after Rachel had finished. The technician squatting under the front camera pointed at the interviewer.

  She smiled. “Hi,” she said to the camera. “I’m Shirley. And this is Contact. We have with us today feminist and lesbian activist Rachel Wallace. Rachel has written a new book, Tyranny, which takes the lid off of some of the ways government and business exploit women and especially gay women. We’ll be back to talk with Rachel about her book and these issues after this word.” A commercial for hair coloring came on the monitor overhead.

  The guy with the earphones crouching beneath the camera said, “Good, Shirl.” Shirl took another cigarette from a box on the table behind Rachel’s book and lit up. She was able to suck in almost half of it before the guy under the camera said, “Ten seconds.” She snuffed this one out, leaned forward slightly, and when the picture came on the monitor, it caught her profile looking seriously at Rachel.

  “Rachel,” she said, “do you think lesbians ought to be allowed to teach at a girls’ school?”

  “Quite the largest percentage,” Rachel said, “of child molestations are committed by heterosexual men. As I pointed out in my book, the incidence of child molestation by lesbians is so small as to be statistically meaningless.”

  “But what kind of role model would a lesbian provide?”

  “Whatever kind she was. We don’t ask other teachers about their sexual habits. We don’t prevent so-called frigid women from teaching children, or impotent men. Children do not, it seems to me, have much chance in public school to emulate the sexual habits of their teachers. And if the teacher’s sexual preference is so persuasive to his or her students, why aren’t gays made straight by exposure to heterosexual teachers?”

  “But might not the gay teacher subtly persuade his or her students toward a homosexual preference?”

  Rachel said, “I just answered that, Shirley.”

  Shirley smiled brilliantly. “In your book you allege frequent violations of civil rights in employment both by the government and the private sector. Many of the offenders are here in Massachusetts. Would you care to name some of them?”

  Rachel was beginning to look annoyed. “I named all of them in my book,” she said.

  “But,” Shirley said, “not all of our viewers have read it.”

  “Have you?” Rachel said.

  “I haven’t finished it yet,” Shirley said. “I’m sorry to say.” The guy crouching below the camera lens made a gesture with his hand, and Shirley said, “We’ll be right back with more interesting revelations from Rachel Wallace after this message.”

  I whispered to Linda Smith, who stood in neat tweeds beside me, “Shirley doesn’t listen to the answers.”

  “A lot of them don’t,” Linda said. “They’re busy looking ahead to the next question.”

  “And she hasn’t read the book.”

  Linda smiled and shook her head. “Almost none of them ever do. You can’t blame them. Sometimes you get several authors a week plus all the other stuff.”

  “The pressure must be fearful,” I said. “To spend your working life never knowing what you’re talking about.”

  “Lots of people do that,” Linda said. “I only hope Rachel doesn’t let her annoyance show. She’s a good interview, but she gets mad too easy.”

  “That’s because if she had been doing the interview, she’d have read the book first.”

  “Maybe,” Linda said, “but Shirley North has a lot of fans in the metropolitan area, and she can sell us some books. The bridge club types love her.”

  A commercial for pantyhose concluded with a model holding out the crotch to show the ventilated panel, then Shirley came back on.

  “In your book, Rachel, you characterize lesbianism as an alternative way of loving. Should everyone try it?”

  “Everyone should do what she wants to do,” Rachel said.

  “Obviously people to whom the idea is not attractive should stay straight. My argument is, and has been, that those who do find that alternative desirable should not be victimized for that preference. It does no one any harm at all.”

  “Is it against God’s law?”

  “It would be arrogant of me to tell you God’s law. I’ll leave that to the people who think they have God’s ear. All I can say is that I’ve had no sign that He disapproves.”

  “How about the argument that it is unnatural?”

  “Same answer. That really implies a law of nature that exists immutably. I’m not in a position to know about that. Sartre said that perhaps existence precedes esse
nce, and maybe we are in the process of making the laws of nature as we live.”

  “Yes, certainly. Do you advocate lesbian marriage?”

  “Shirley,” Rachel said. “I have documented corruption on several levels of local and state government, in several of the major corporations in the country, and you’ve asked me only about titillating things. In essence you’ve asked only about sex. That seems unbalanced to me.”

  Shirley’s smile glowed. Her splendiferous eyelashes fluttered. “Isn’t that an interesting thought, Rachel? I wish we could spend more time, but I know you have to rush.” She picked up Tyranny. “Get Rachel’s book, Tyranny, published by Hamilton Black. You’ll love it, as I did. Thanks a million, Rachel. Come back again.”

  Rachel muttered, “Thank you.”

  Shirley said, “Now this message.”

  The guy squatting under the camera stood up and said, “Okay, next segment. Thanks a lot Mrs. Wallace. Shirley, you’re on the den set.” A technician took off Rachel’s lapel mike, and she got up and walked away. Shirley didn’t say goodbye. She was getting as much mentholated smoke into her as she could before the deodorant commercial ended.

  Linda Smith said, “Oh, Rachel, you were dynamite.”

  Rachel looked at me. I shrugged. Rachel said, “What’s that mean?”

  I said, “It means you did your best in a difficult situation.

  You can’t look good being interviewed by Shirley North.”

  Rachel nodded. Linda said, “Oh, no, I thought you were super.”

  Rachel said nothing as we walked out of the studio and down the long corridor past the news set, empty now and shabby, then along the corridor where people sat in small offices and typed, and out into the lobby and reception area. On the big monitor opposite the reception desk Shirley was leaning toward the man who raised quail.

  I frowned the way Shirley did and said in a high voice, “Tell me, do quails like to do it with anything but other quails?”

  Rachel gave a snort. Linda smiled. Outside we parted—Rachel and I in my car, Linda in hers.

  We wheeled along Soldiers’ Field Road with the Charles, quite small and winding this far up, on our left. I looked at Rachel. She was crying. Tears ran in silence down her cheeks. Her hands were folded in her lap. Her shoulders were a little hunched, and her body shook slightly. I looked back at the road. I couldn’t think of anything to say. She didn’t cry any harder and she didn’t stop. The only sound was the unsteady inhaling and exhaling as she cried. We went past Harvard Stadium.

  I said, “Feel like a freak?”

  She nodded.

  “Don’t let them do that to you,” I said.

  “A freak,” she said. Her voice was a little thick and a little unsteady, but if you didn’t see the tears, you wouldn’t be sure she was crying. “Or a monster. That’s how everyone seems to see us. Do you seduce little girls? Do you carry them off for strange lesbian rites? Do you use a dildo? God. God damn. Bastards.” Her shoulders began to shake harder.

  I put my right hand out toward her with the palm up. We passed the business school that way—me with my hand out, her with her body shaking. Then she put her left hand in my right. I held it hard.

  “Don’t let them do that to you,” I said.

  She squeezed back at me and we drove the rest of the way along the Charles like that—our hands quite rigidly clamped together, her body slowly quieting down. When I got to the Arlington Street exit, she let go of my hand and opened her purse. By the time we stopped in front of the Ritz, she had her face dry and a little makeup on and herself back in place.

  The doorman looked like I’d made a mess on his foot when I got out and nodded toward the Chevy. But he took it from me and said nothing. A job is a job. We went up in the elevator and walked to her room without saying a word. She opened the door. I stepped in first; she followed.

  “We have to go to First Mutual Insurance Company at one. I’m addressing a women’s group there. Could you pick me up about twelve thirty?” Her voice was quite calm now.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “I’d like to rest for a while,” she said, “so please excuse me.”

  “Sure,” I said. “I’ll be here at quarter to one.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “Lock the door behind me,” I said.

  She nodded. I went out and waited until I heard the bolt click behind me. Then I went to the elevator and down.

  12

  “I’M MEETING WITH a caucus of women employees at First Mutual Insurance,” Rachel said. “This is their lunch hour and they’ve asked me to eat with them. I know you have to be close by, but I would like it if you didn’t actually join us.” We were walking along Boylston Street.

  “Okay,” I said. “As I recall from your book, First Mutual is one of the baddies.”

  “I wouldn’t put it that way, but yes. They are discriminatory in their hiring and wage practices. There are almost no women in management. They have systematically refused to employ gay people and have fired any that they discovered in their employ.”

  “Didn’t you turn up discriminatory practices in their sales policy?”

  “Yes. They discourage sales to blacks.”

  “What’s the company slogan?”

  Rachel smiled. “We’re in the people business.”

  We went into the lobby of First Mutual and took an elevator to the twentieth floor. The cafeteria was at one end of the corridor. A young woman in camel’s-hair slacks and vest topped with a dark-brown blazer was waiting outside. When she saw Rachel she came forward and said, “Rachel Wallace?” She wore small gold-rimmed glasses and no makeup. Her hair was brown and sensible.

  Rachel put out her hand. “Yes,” she said. “Are you Dorothy Collela?”

  “Yes, come on in. We’re all at a table in the corner.” She looked at me uncertainly.

  “My name is Spenser,” I said. “I just hang around Ms. Wallace. Don’t think about me for a moment.”

  “Will you be joining us?” Dorothy said.

  Rachel said, “No. Mr. Spenser is just going to stay by if I need anything.”

  Dorothy smiled a little blankly and led Rachel to a long table at one end of the cafeteria. There were eight other women gathered there. I leaned against the wall maybe twenty feet away where I could see Rachel and not hear them and not be in the flow of diners.

  There was a good deal of chair-scraping and jostling at the table when Rachel sat down. There were introductions and people standing and sitting, and then all but two of the women got up and went to the food line to get lunch. The luncheon special was Scrambled Hamburg Oriental, and I decided to pass on lunch.

  The cafeteria had a low ceiling with a lot of fluorescent panels in it. The walls were painted a brilliant yellow on three sides with a bank of windows looking out over Back Bay on the fourth side. The bright yellow paint was almost painful. Music filtered through the cafeteria noise. It sounded like Mantovani, but it always does.

  Working with a writer, you get into the glamour scene. After we left here, we’d probably go down to Filene’s basement and autograph corsets. Maybe Norman would be there, and Truman and Gore. Rachel took her tray and sat down. She had eschewed the Oriental hamburg. On her tray was a sandwich and a cup of tea.

  A girl not long out of the high-school corridors came past me wearing very expensive clothes, very snugly. She had on blue harlequin glasses with small jewels on them, and she smelled like a French sunset.

  She smiled at me and said, “Well, foxy, what are you looking at?”

  “A size-nine body in a size-seven dress,” I said.

  “You should see it without the dress,” she said.

  “I certainly should,” I said.

  She smiled and joined two other kids her age at a table. They whispered together and looked at me and laughed. The best-dressed people in the world are the single kids that just started working.

  Two men in business suits and one uniformed guard came into the ca
feteria and walked over to Rachel’s table. I slid along behind and listened in. It looked like my business. It was.

  “We invited her here,” Dorothy was saying.

  One of the business suits said, “You’re not authorized to do that.” He looked like Clark Kent. Three-piece suit with a small gray herringbone in it. Glasses, square face. His hair was short, his face was clean shaved. His shoes were shined. His tie was knotted small but asserted by a simple pin. He was on the way up.

  “Who are you?” Rachel said.

  “Timmons,” he said. “Director of employee relations.” He spoke very fast. “This is Mr. Boucher, our security coordinator.” Nobody introduced the uniformed guard; he wasn’t on the way up. Boucher was sort of plumpish and had a thick mustache. The guard didn’t have a gun, but the loop of a leather strap stuck out of his right hip pocket.

  “And why are you asking me to leave?” Rachel was saying.

  “Because you are in violation of company policy.”

  “How so?”

  “No soliciting is allowed on the premises,” Timmons said. I wondered if he was nervous or if he always spoke that fast. I drifted around behind Rachel’s chair and folded my arms and looked at Timmons.

  “And what exactly am I supposed to be soliciting?” Rachel said.

  Timmons didn’t like me standing there, and he didn’t quite know what to do about it. He looked at me and looked away quickly and then he looked at Boucher and back at me and then at Rachel. He started to speak to Rachel and stopped and looked at me again.

  “Who are you?” he said.

  “I’m the tooth fairy,” I said.

  “The what?”

  “The tooth fairy,” I said. “I loosen teeth.”

  Timmons’s mouth opened and shut. Boucher said, “We don’t need any smart answers, mister.”

  I said, “You wouldn’t understand any.” Rachel said, “Mr. Spenser is with me.”

  “Well,” Boucher said, “you’ll both have to leave or we’ll have you removed.”