PRAISE FOR ROBERT B. PARKER AND THE SPENSER NOVELS . . .
“A MASTER OF MURDEROUS IRONY.”
—Los Angeles Times
“ONE OF THE GREAT SERIES IN THE HISTORY OF THE AMERICAN DETECTIVE STORY.”
—The New York Times
NOW & THEN
Investigating a case of infidelity sounds simple—until it plunges Spenser and his beloved Susan into a politically charged murder plot that’s already left three people dead.
“This is vintage Parker, filled with banter and repartee, swagger and rule-skirting . . . a page-turner.”—The Boston Globe
HUNDRED-DOLLAR BABY
Deadly complications arise when Spenser crosses paths with a runaway girl he had helped years ago.
“Parker in top-notch form.”—The Seattle Times
SCHOOL DAYS
When a young boy is accused of a mass murder, only his grandmother is convinced of his innocence.
“Crackling prose and juicy repartee.”—Entertainment Weekly
COLD SERVICE
When his closest ally is attacked, Spenser redefines friendship in the name of vengeance.
“One hot mystery.”—The Washington Post
“DETECTIVEDOM’S MOST CHARMINGLY LITERATE LOUT.”
—People
“EVERYONE INTERESTED IN MYSTERY AND CONTEMPORARY WRITING IN GENERAL SHOULD READ AT LEAST ONE OF THE SPENSER NOVELS.”
—Library Journal
BAD BUSINESS
A suspicious wife and a cheating husband pose a few dangerous surprises for Spenser.
“A kinky whodunit . . . snappy . . . sexy.”—Entertainment Weekly
BACK STORY
Spenser teams with Jesse Stone to solve a murder three decades old—one that’s still cold as death.
“Good and scary. This [is] superior Parker.”—The Boston Globe
WIDOW’S WALK
Spenser must defend an accused murderess who’s so young, cold, rich, and beautiful, she has to be guilty.
“Delicious fun. Bottom line: A merry Widow.”—People
POTSHOT
Spenser is enlisted to clean up a small Arizona town.
“Outrageously entertaining . . . a hero who can still stand up for himself—and us.”—The New York Times Book Review
HUGGER MUGGER
Spenser hoofs it down south when someone makes death threats against a Thoroughbred racehorse.
“Brisk . . . crackling . . . finishes strong, just like a Thoroughbred.”—Entertainment Weekly
HUSH MONEY
Spenser helps a stalking victim—only to find himself the one being stalked . . .
“Spenser can still punch, sleuth, and wisecrack with the best of them.”—Publishers Weekly
SUDDEN MISCHIEF
A charity fund-raiser, accused of sexual harassment by four women, is wanted for a bigger offense: murder . . .
“Smooth as silk.”—Orlando Sentinel
SMALL VICES
Spenser must solve the murder of a wealthy college student—before the wrong man pays the price . . .
“His finest in years . . . one can’t-put-it-down story.”—San Francisco Chronicle
CHANCE
Spenser heads to Vegas to find the missing husband of a mob princess—but he’s not the only one looking . . .
“As brisk and clever as always.”—Los Angeles Times Book Review
THIN AIR
Spenser thought he could help a friend find his missing wife. Until he learned the nasty truth about Lisa St. Claire . . .
“Full of action, suspense, and thrills.”—Playboy
THE SPENSER NOVELS
Sixkill
Painted Ladies
The Professional
Rough Weather
Now & Then
Hundred-Dollar Baby
School Days
Cold Service
Bad Business
Back Story
Widow’s Walk
Potshot
Hugger Mugger
Hush Money
Sudden Mischief
Small Vices
Chance
Thin Air
Walking Shadow
Paper Doll
Double Deuce
Pastime
Stardust
Playmates
Crimson Joy
Pale Kings and Princes
Taming a Sea-Horse
A Catskill Eagle
Valediction
The Widening Gyre
Ceremony
A Savage Place
Early Autumn
Looking for Rachel Wallace
The Judas Goat
Promised Land
Mortal Stakes
God Save the Child
The Godwulf Manuscript
THE JESSE STONE NOVELS
Split Image
Night and Day
Stranger in Paradise
High Profile
Sea Change
Stone Cold
Death in Paradise
Trouble in Paradise
Night Passage
THE SUNNY RANDALL NOVELS
Spare Change
Blue Screen
Melancholy Baby
Shrink Rap
Perish Twice
Family Honor
THE VIRGIL COLE/EVERETT HITCH NOVELS
Blue-Eyed Devil
Brimstone
Resolution
Appaloosa
ALSO BY ROBERT B. PARKER
A Triple Shot of Spenser
Double Play
Gunman’s Rhapsody
All Our Yesterdays
A Year at the Races
(with Joan H. Parker)
Perchance to Dream
Poodle Springs
(with Raymond Chandler)
Love and Glory
Wilderness
Three Weeks in Spring
(with Joan H. Parker)
Training with Weights
(with John R. Marsh)
STARDUST
ROBERT B. PARKER
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of ficti
on. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
STARDUST
A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
G. P. Putnam’s Sons hardcover edition / June 1990
Berkley mass-market edition / May 1991
Berkley premium edition / December 2008
Copyright © 1990 by Robert B. Parker.
Cover photograph: Gun copyright © by BrandX/SuperStock; Bullet Holes copyright © by fStop/SuperStock; Director’s Chair copyright © by Creatas/SuperStock.
Cover design by Judith Lagerman
All rights reserved.
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ISBN: 9781101546550
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If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
For Joan: No dream in vain
1
WHEN you walk across the Common from the Beacon Street side, coming up from Charles Street and angling toward Park Street, you are walking up one of those low urban hills that no one notices, unless they are running. At the top, with the State House at about ten o’clock and the Park Street Church straight ahead at twelve o’clock high, you look down toward the Park Street Station. Which is what Susan and I were doing on an early winter day, with maybe three inches of old snow on the ground, and the temperature about seventeen. Below us, at the corner of Park and Tremont, the big subway kiosk was surrounded by trailers and trucks and mysterious equipment. Thick cables ran into the subway entrance, maybe two hundred people bustled about in various kinds of arctic wear. There were big yellow trucks with Hertz-Penske lettered on the sides. There were long trailers with many small doors.
“It looks like Hertz-Penske is invading Park Street Under,” I said.
Susan nodded. Her nose was slightly red from the cold and her gloved hand was firm in mine.
“Show business,” she said. “Can you smell the greasepaint?”
“That’s my shaving lotion,” I said. “Besides, I don’t think they use greasepaint in television.”
“It’s just an expression,” Susan said. “Have you no feeling for the romance of the theater?”
“Sure,” I said. “Sure I do.”
We walked down the hill toward the film site. The snow was crisp, and dry as sand in the cold. The trees around the Common were black and angular with hard snow in the places where the big limbs branched out. The fountain, where in summer the bums reclined, glaring at the tourists, was still and icy, and people cutting across the Common for a late breakfast meeting at the Ritz or the Four Seasons were hunch-shouldered, high-collared, hurrying stiffly through the chill. I had on a black Navy watch cap and a leather jacket with the fleece lining zipped in, and my gun in a shoulder holster under my left arm, to keep the bullets warm.
Inside the kiosk the stairs ran down steeply to the station. An escalator ran parallel to the stairs and the hot industrial smell of the subway system rose to meet us as we went through the door. The camera and light cables ran down along the sides of the stairs and a couple of MBTA cops were there to steer the subway customers past them. The station was still fully functioning, and the filming worked around that fact. Mixed among the customers was a squadron of technicians, each a mismatched ode to Eddie Bauer in down parka and insulated moon boots.
“Used to have those in Korea,” I said to Susan. “Called them Mickey Mouse boots. They were a little less colorful, but just as ugly.”
At the foot of the stairs to the left of the turnstiles, a small area was brightly lit with the big movie lights that you always see in ads. A couple of high-backed black canvas chairs stood just outside the lighted circle. On the back in white script was written, Fifty Minutes. There were cameramen and lighting men and sound men with earphones. There were assistant directors to herd the civilians around the shooting area, and a first assistant with the script in a big leather holster. A guy wearing a hat that looked like a World War I aviator’s helmet, with the straps undone and the earpieces flapping, was setting up the shot; and there in the middle of the bright area wearing a tight red dress and a black mink coat thrown over her shoulders was Jill Joyce, America’s honey-bun.
Susan nudged me. I nodded.
Jill Joyce said, “Harry, for crissake, how long are you going to fuck around with this shot?”
“Pretty soon, Jilly,” the guy with the earflaps said. “I want you to look just about perfect, Jilly.” Harry was looking through a lens he wore on a string around his neck and he spoke to Jill Joyce the way you speak to your puppy, in a kind of remote coddling tone that expects neither comprehension nor response. Jill Joyce waggled one of her hands toward a production assistant. He put a lighted cigarette in her hand. She took it without looking, dragged in a big lungful of smoke, and let it out in two streams through her nose.
Harry backed away a little, gazing through his lens, then he straightened and nodded. The first assistant director spoke into a bullhorn, “Quiet, please . . . rolling for picture.” A red-haired woman with a thick sheaf of script open on a clipboard stepped in and took Jill’s cigarette. Jill stared into the camera; her face got prettier. A little guy with a straggly beard and an orange down vest jumped into the shot with a clacker and clacked. Behind Jill the subway train that had been idling there patiently began to creep forward. “. . . and action,” Harry yelled. Jill looked off camera right and called out, “Rick? It’s all right, Rick, I’m here.” Her eyes scanned past the camera, looking for Rick. The train pulled on through behind her and moved on down the tunnel. The camera panned after it as it went and held on, its taillights disappearing, and Harry said, “Cut. It’s a keeper.”
Jill put her hand out again in the general direction of the script person and waggled it. The script woman handed her the lighted cigarette and she took another big drag, dropped it on the floor, shrugged deeper into her mink, and headed toward the escalator. A uniformed Boston cop named Ray Morrissey walked ahead of Jill and moved people out of her way.
“Wow,” I said. “Was that magic, or what?”
Susan grinned. “God save me, I could watch it all day.”
“Really?” I said.
“You think I’m deeply disturbed?” Susan said.
“Yes,” I said.
She nodded. “Yes,” she said. “I think you’re right.” Then she smiled her smile that made Jill Joyce look like a cow flap and nodded her head toward a group standing beyond the escalator.
“There’s Sandy,” she said.
Sandy was state-of-the-art Eddie Bauer. He ha
d on a full-length gold-colored down-lined jumpsuit, with black fur-topped thermal boots half zipped and a black knit ski cap with a large golden tassel. He was short and probably wiry but who could tell in the down jumpsuit. He had a goatee. With him was a hatless man with a lot of black curly hair, a strong nose, and dark skin. As we moved through the crowd toward them, the crew was packing up equipment, folding light stands, coiling cable, dismantling the cameras, packing up the sound gear. Everyone seemed to know what he was doing, which made this a unique enterprise in my experience.
Susan said, “Sandy.”
Sandy turned and smiled at her. His glance took me in too, but it didn’t harm the smile.
“Susan,” Sandy said. “And this has got to be Mr. Spenser.” Beyond Sandy and the guy with the black curly hair was a youngish guy with a round face and rimless glasses. He looked at both of us without expression.
Susan introduced me. “This is Sandy Salzman,” she said. “He’s the line producer.” Susan had been consulting on the show for less than a month now and already she spoke a language as arcane as the psychological tech talk of which I’d but recently cured her. We shook hands.
“This is Milo Nogarian,” Susan said, gesturing toward the guy with the curls, “the executive producer, and Marty Riggs, from Zenith.” We shook hands.
“Susan is the consultant we hired, Marty,” Sandy said. “And Mr. Spenser is a, ah, private security consultant, that maybe is going to give us a hand with Jill.”
Marty Riggs gazed at me with his gray expressionless eyes, enlarged a bit by the rimless glasses. He was wearing a tweed cap and a cable-stitched white wool sweater under a thick Donegal tweed jacket with a long scarf wrapped around his neck. The loose ends of the scarf reached to his knees. He gave me a small stiff nod. I smiled warmly.
“Susan actually is a psychotherapist, Marty,” Nogarian said. “Sees to it that we don’t get our complexes mixed up.” Susan smiled even more warmly than I had.
“I’m sure,” Marty said. “Milo, just remember what I said. I don’t want to have to go in to the network again and defend a piece of shit that you people have labeled script and sent over, capice?”
“Time, Marty,” Nogarian said, “you know what the time pressures are like.”
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