Five Classic Spenser Mysteries

by Robert B. Parker

  “I’ve read some,” I said.

  “I mean, can you sound like a writer? You look like the bouncer at a health club.”

  “I can keep from sounding as stupid as I look,” I said.

  “Yeah, okay, it sounds good to me. I see no problem. But you gotta be, for crissake, discreet. I mean dis-goddamn-creet. Right?”

  “I am, as we writers say, the very soul of discretion. I’ll need a press pass or whatever credentials you people issue. And it is probably smart if you take me down and introduce me around.”

  “Yeah, I’ll take care of that.” He looked at me and started working on his lip again. “This is between you and me,” he said. “No one else knows. Not the manager, not the owners, not the players, nobody.”

  “How about your lawyer?” I asked.

  “He is my own lawyer, not the club’s. He thinks I wanted you for personal business.”

  “Okay, when do I meet the team?”

  Erskine looked at his watch. “Too late today, half of them are showered and gone. How about tomorrow? We’ll go in before the game and I’ll introduce you around.”

  “I’ll show up here about noon tomorrow then.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “That’ll be good. You got a title for this book you’re supposed to be writing?”

  “I’m looking for sales appeal,” I said. “How about The Sensuous Baseball?”

  Erskine said he didn’t like that title. I went home to think of another one.

  2

  I got up early the next morning and jogged along the river. There were sparrows and grackles mixed in among the pigeons on the esplanade, and I saw two chickadees in the sandpit of one of the play areas. A couple of rowers were on the river, a girl in jeans tucked into high brown boots was walking two Welsh corgis, and there were some other joggers.

  Near the lagoon, past the concert shell, a bum in an old blue sharkskin suit was sleeping on a newspaper, and along Storrow Drive the commuter traffic was just beginning. I was still living at the bottom of Marlborough Street and the run up to the BU footbridge took about ten minutes. I crossed the footbridge over Storrow Drive and went in the side door of the BU gym. I knew a guy in the athletic department and they let me use the weight room. I spent forty-five minutes on the irons and another half hour on the heavy bag. By that time some coeds were passing by on their way to class and I finished up with a big flourish on the speed bag. They didn’t seem impressed.

  I jogged back downriver with the sun much warmer now and the dew gone from the grass and the commuter traffic in full cry. I was back in my apartment at five of nine, glistening with sweat, and reeking of good circulation, and throbbing with appetite.

  I squeezed some orange juice and drank it, plugged in the coffee, and went for a shower. At quarter past nine I was back in the kitchen again in my red and white terry-cloth robe that Susan Silverman had given me on my last birthday. It had short sleeves and a golf umbrella on the breast pocket and the label said JACK NICKLAUS. Every time I put it on I wanted to yell “Fore.”

  I drank my first cup of coffee while I made a mushroom omelet with sherry, and my second cup of coffee while I ate the omelet, along with a warm loaf of unleavened Arab bread, and read the morning Globe. When I finished, I put the dishes in the dishwasher, made the bed, and got dressed. Gray socks, gray slacks, black loafers, and an eggshell-colored stretch knit shirt with small red hexagons all over it. I clipped my holster on over the belt on my right hip. The blue steel revolver was nicely color-coordinated with the black holster and the gray slacks. It clashed badly when I wore brown. To cover the gun I wore a gray denim jacket with red stitching along the pockets and lapels. I checked myself in the mirror. Adorable. Lucky it wasn’t ladies’ day. I’d get molested at the park.

  The temperature was in the mid-eighties and the sun was bright when I got out onto Marl-borough Street. I walked a block over to Commonwealth and strolled up the mall toward Fenway Park. It was still too early for the crowd to start gathering, but the early signs of a game were there. The old guy that sells peanuts from a pushcart was pushing it along toward Kenmore Square, an old canvas over the peanuts. A middle-aged couple had parked a maroon Chevy by a hydrant near Kenmore Square and were setting up to sell balloons from the trunk. The trunk lid was up, an air tank leaned against the rear bumper, and the husband, wearing a blue and red tennis visor, was opening a large cardboard box in the trunk. Near the corner of Brookline Ave, outside the subway kiosk, a young man with shoulder-length blond hair was selling small pennants that said RED sox in red script against a blue background. I looked at my watch: 11:40. You couldn’t see the park from Kenmore Square, but the light standards loomed up over the buildings and you knew it was close. As I turned down Brookline Ave toward the park I felt the old feeling. My father and I used to go this early to watch the teams take infield.

  I walked the two blocks down Brookline Ave, turned the corner at Jersey Street, and went up the stairs to Erskine’s office. He was in, reading what looked like a legal document, his chair tilted back and one foot on the open bottom drawer. I closed the door.

  “You think of a new title for that book yet, Spenser?” he said.

  An air conditioner set in one of the side windows was humming.

  “How about Valley of the Bat Boys?”

  “Goddamn it, Spenser, this isn’t funny. You gotta have some kind of answer if someone asks you.”

  “The Balls of Summer?”

  Erskine took a deep breath, let it out, shook his head, as if there were a horsefly on it, kicked the drawer shut, and stood up. “Never mind,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  As we went down the stairs, he handed me a press pass. “Keep it in your wallet,” he said. “It’ll let you in anywhere.”

  A blue-capped usher at Gate A said, “How’s it going, Harold?” as we went past him. Vendors were starting to set up. A man in a green twill work uniform was unloading cases of beer onto a dolly. We went into the locker room.

  My first reaction was disappointment. It looked like most other locker rooms. Open lockers with a shelf at the top, stools in front of them, nameplates above. To the right the training area with whirlpool, rubbing table, medical-looking cabinet with an assortment of tape and liniment behind the glass doors at the top. A man in a white T-shirt and white cotton pants was taping the left ankle of a burly black man who sat on the table in his shorts, smoking a cigar.

  The players were dressing. One of them, a squat red-haired kid, was yelling to someone out of sight behind the lockers.

  “Hey, Ray, can I be in the pen again today? There’s a broad out there gives me a beaver shot every time we’re home.”

  A voice from behind the lockers said, “Were you looking for her in Detroit last week when you dropped that foul?”

  “Ah come on, Ray, Bill Dickey used to drop them once in a while. I seen you drop one once when I was a little kid and you was my idol.”

  A tall, lean man came around the lockers with his hands in his back pockets. He was maybe forty-five, with black hair cut short and parted on the left. There were no sideburns, and you knew he went to a barber who did most of his work with the electric clippers. His face was dark-tanned, and a sprinkle of gray showed in his hair. He wore no sweat shirt under his uniform blouse, and the veins were prominent in his arms. Erskine gestured him toward us. “Ray,” he said, “I want you to meet Mr. Spenser. Spenser, Ray Farrell, the manager.” We shook hands. “Spenser’s a writer, doing a book on baseball, and I’ve arranged for him to be around the club for a while, interview some players, that sort of thing.”

  Farrell nodded. “What’s the name of the book, Spenser?” he said.

  “The Summer Season,” I said. Erskine looked relieved.

  “That’s nice.” Farrell turned toward the locker room. “Okay, listen up. This guy’s name is Spenser. He’s writing a book and he’ll be around talking with you and probably taking some notes. I want everyone to cooperate.” He turned back toward me. “Nice meeting you, Spenser
. You want me to have someone introduce you around?”

  “No, that’s okay, I’ll introduce myself as we go,” I said.

  “Okay, nice meeting you. Anything I can do, feel free.” He walked away.

  Erskine said, “Well, you’re on your own now. Keep in touch,” and left me.

  The black man on the training table yelled over to the redhead, “Hey, Billy, you better start watching your mouth about beaver. This guy’ll be writing you up in a book, and Sally will have your ass when she reads it.” His voice was high and squeaky.

  “Naw, she wouldn’t believe it anyway.” The redhead came over and put out his hand. “Billy Carter,” he said. “I catch when Fats has got a hangover.” He nodded at the black man who had climbed off the table and started toward us. He was short and very wide and the smooth tan coating of fat over his body didn’t conceal the thick elastic muscles underneath.

  I shook hands with Carter. “Collect all your bubble-gum cards,” I said. I turned toward the black man. “You’re West, aren’t you?”

  He nodded. “You seen me play?” he said.

  “No,” I said, “I remember you from a Brut commercial.”

  He laughed, a high giggle. “Never without, man, put it on between innings.” He did a small Flip Wilson impression and snapped his fingers.

  From down the line of lockers a voice said, “Hey, Holly, everybody in the league says you smell like a fairy.”

  “Not to my face,” West squeaked.

  Most of the players were dressed and heading out to the field. A short, thin man in a pale blue seersucker suit and dark horn-rimmed glasses came into the locker room. He spotted me and came over. “Spenser?” he said. I nodded. “Jack Little,” he said. “I do PR for the Sox. Hal Erskine told me I’d find you here.”

  I said, “Glad to meet you.”

  He said, “Anything I can do to help, I’d be delighted. That’s my job.”

  “Do you have biog sheets on the players?” I said.

  “You bet. I’ve got a press book on every player. Stop by my office and I’ll have my gal give you the whole packet.”

  “How old is your gal?” I said.

  “Millie? Oh, Christ, I don’t know. She’s been with the club a long time. I don’t ask a lady her age, Spenser. Get in trouble that way. Am I right?”

  “Right,” I said. “You’re right.”

  “C’mon,” he said, “I’ll take you out to the dugout, point out some of the players, get you what you might call acclimated, okay?”

  I nodded. “Acclimated,” I said.

  3

  I sat in the dugout and watched the players take batting practice. Little sat beside me and chain-smoked Chesterfield Kings.

  “That’s Montoya,” he said. “Alex Montoya was the player of the year at Pawtucket in ’sixty-eight. Hit two ninety-three last year, twenty-five homers.”

  I nodded. Marty Rabb was shagging in the outfield. Catching fly balls vest-pocket style like Willie Mays and lobbing the ball back to the infield underhanded.

  “That’s Johnny Tabor. He switch-hits. Look at the size of him, huh? Doesn’t look like he could get the bat around. Am I right or wrong?”

  “Thin,” I said. “Doesn’t look like he could get the bat around.”

  “Well, you know. We pay him for his glove. Strong up the middle, that’s what Ray’s always said. And Tabor’s got the leather. Right?”

  “Right.”

  The crowd was beginning to fill the stands and the noise level rose. The Yankees came out and took infield in their gray road uniforms. Most of them were kids. Long hair under the caps, bubble gum. Much younger than I was. Whatever happened to Johnny Lindell?

  Rabb came into the dugout, wearing his warm-up jacket.

  “That’s Marty Rabb, with the clipboard,” Little said. “He pitched yesterday, so today he charts the pitches.”

  I nodded. “He’s a great one,” Little said. “Nicest kid you ever want to see. No temperament, you know, no ego. Loves the game. I mean a lot of these kids nowadays are in it for the big buck, you know, but Marty. Nicest kid you ever want to meet. Loves the game.”

  A man with several chins came out of the alleyway to the clubhouse and stood on the top step of the dugout, looking over the diamond. His fading blond hair was long and very contemporary. It showed the touch of a ten-dollar barber. He was fat, with a sharp, beaked nose jutting from the red dumpling face. A red-checked shirt, the top two buttons open, hung over the mass of his stomach like the flag of his appetite. His slacks were textured navy blue with a wide flare, and he had on shiny white shoes with brass buckles on them.

  “Who’s that?” I asked Little.

  “Don’t you know him? Hell, that’s Bucky Maynard. Only the best play by play in the business, that’s all. Don’t let him know you didn’t recognize him. Man, he’ll crucify you.”

  “I gather he doesn’t work out a lot with the team,” I said. Maynard took out a pale green cigar and lit it carefully, turning it as he puffed to get it burning evenly.

  “Jesus, don’t comment on his weight either,” Little said. “He’ll eat you alive.”

  “Is it okay if I clear my throat while he’s in the park?”

  “You can kid around, but if Bucky Maynard doesn’t like you, you got a lot of trouble. I mean, he can destroy you on the air. And he will.”

  “I thought he worked for the club,” I said.

  “He does. But he’s so popular that we couldn’t get rid of him if we wanted. God knows there have been times.” Little stopped. His eyes shifted up and down the dugout. I wondered if he was worried about a bug. “Don’t get me wrong, now. Buck’s a great guy; he’s just got a lot of pride, and it don’t help to get on the wrong side of him. Course it don’t pay to get on the wrong side of anybody. Am I right or wrong?”

  “Right as rain,” I said. Little liked the phrase. I bet he’d use it within the day. I’m really into language.

  Maynard came toward us, and Little stood up. “Hey, Buck, how’s it going?”

  Maynard looked at Little without speaking. Little swallowed and said, “Like to have you say hello to Mr. Spenser here, doing a book about the Sox.”

  Maynard nodded at me. “Spenser,” he said. His southern accent stretched out the last syllable and dropped the r.

  “Nice to meet you,” I said. I hoped he wasn’t offended.

  “He’ll be wanting to talk to you, Buck, I know. No book about the Sox would be worth much if Old Buck wasn’t in it. Am I right, Spenser, or am I right?”

  “Right,” I said. Little lit a new Chesterfield King from the butt of the old one.

  Maynard said, “Why don’t y’all come on up the booth later on and watch some of the game? Get a chance to see how a broadcast team works.”

  “Thanks,” I said, “I’d like to.”

  “Just remember you’re not going to get any predigested Pablum up there. In mah booth by God we call the game the way it is played. No press release bullshit; if a guy’s doggin’ it, by God we say he’s doggin’ it. You follow?”

  “I can follow that okay.”

  Maynard’s eyes narrowed as he looked at me. They were pale and small and flat, like two Neceo wafers. “You better believe it ’cause anyone who knows me knows it’s true. Isn’t that right, Jack?”

  Little answered before Maynard finished asking. “Absolutely, Buck, anybody knows that. Bucky tells it like it is, Spenser. That’s why the fans love him.”

  “C’mon up, Spenser, anytime. Jack’ll show you the way.” Maynard rolled the green cigar about in the center of his mouth, winked, and moved out onto the field toward the Yankee dugout.

  Billy Carter from the end of the dugout yelled, “Whale, ho,” and then stared out toward the right-field stands as Maynard whirled and looked into the dugout. Ray Farrell had come out of the dressing room and was posting the lineup at the far end of the dugout. He ignored Carter and Maynard. Maynard looked for maybe a minute into the dugout while Carter observed the right-field foul lin
e from under the brim of his cap, his feet cocked up against one of the dugout supports. He was whistling “Turkey in the Straw.” Maynard turned and continued toward the Yankee dugout.

  Little blew out his breath. “That goddamned Carter is going to get in real trouble someday. Always the wisecracks. Always the goddamned hot dog. He ain’t that good. I mean, he catches maybe thirty games a year. You’d think he’d be a little humble, but always the big mouth.” Little spilled some ashes onto his shirtfront and brushed them off vigorously.

  “I was thinking about some Moby Dick humor myself when Maynard was standing there blotting out the sun.”

  “You screw around with Bucky and you’ll never get your book written, I’ll tell you that straight out, Spenser. That’s no shit.” Little looked as if he was in pain, his small-featured face contorted with sincerity. Farrell went up the steps of the dugout and out toward home plate with his lineup card. The Yankee manager came out toward home plate from the other side, and, for the first time, I saw the umpires. Older than the players, and bulkier.

  “I think I’ll go up in the broadcast booth,” I said. “If Maynard turns on me and truths me to death, I want you to write my mom.”

  Little didn’t even want to talk about it. He brought me up to the press entry, along the catwalk, under the roof toward Maynardville.

  The broadcast booth was a warren of cable lash-up, television monitors, microphone cords, and one big color TV camera set up to point at a blank wall to the rear of the booth. For live commercials, I assumed. Give Bucky Maynard a chance to tell it like it is about somebody’s bottled beer. There were two men in the booth already. One I recognized. Doc Wilson, who used to play first base for the Minnesota Twins and now did color commentary for the Sox games. He was a tall, angular man, with rimless glasses and short, wavy brown hair. He was sitting at the broadcast table, running through the stat book and drinking black coffee from a paper cup. The other man was young, maybe twenty-two, middle height and willowy with Dutch boy blond hair and an Oakland A’s mustache. He had on a white safari hat with a wide leopard-skin band, pilot’s sunglasses, a white silk shirt open to the waist, like Herb Jeffries, and white jeans tucked into the top of rust-colored Frye boots. There was a brass-studded rust-colored woven leather belt around his waist and a copper bracelet on his right wrist. He was slouched in a red canvas director’s chair with his feet up on the broadcast counter, reading a copy of the National Star and chewing gum.