Five Classic Spenser Mysteries

by Robert B. Parker

  It was before lunchtime still and traffic was light. In five minutes I was at my office and sliding into a handy tow zone to park. I bought a copy of the Globe at a cigar store and went up to my office to read it. The Sox had an off day today and opened at home against Cleveland tomorrow. Marty Rabb had beaten Oakland 2 to 0 yesterday on the coast, and the team had flown into Logan this morning early.

  I called Harold Erskine and got Bucky Maynard’s home address. It was what I thought it would be.

  “Why do you want to know?” Erskine asked.

  “Because it’s there,” I said.

  “I don’t want you screwing around with Maynard. That’s the surest way to have this whole thing blow wide open.”

  “Don’t worry, I am a model of circumspection.”

  “Yeah,” Erskine said, “sure. You find out anything yet?”

  “Nothing I can report on yet, I need to put some things together.”

  “Well, for crissake, what have you found out? Is Marty or isn’t he?”

  “It’s not that simple, Mr. Erskine. You’ll have to give me a little more time.”

  “How much more? You’re costing me a hundred a day. What do your expenses look like?”

  “High,” I said. “I been to Illinois and New York City and spent a hundred and nineteen bucks buying dinner for a witness.”

  “Jesus Galloping Christ, Spenser. I got a goddamned budget to work with, and I don’t want you appearing in it. How the Christ am I going to bury that kind of dough? Goddamn it, I want you to check with me before you go spending my money like that.”

  “I don’t work that way, Mr. Erskine, but I think I won’t run up much more expense money.” I needed to stay on this thing. I couldn’t afford to get fired and shut off from the Sox. Also I needed the money. My charger needed feed and my armor needed polish. “I’m closing in on the truth.”

  “Yeah, well, close in on it quick,” Erskine said, and hung up.

  The old phrasemaker, Closing In on the Truth. I should have been a poet. If I went back on the cops, I wouldn’t need to worry about charger feed and armor polish.

  Harbor Towers is new, a complex of high-rise apartments that looks out over Boston Bay. It represents a substantial monument to the renaissance of the waterfront, and the smell of new concrete still lingers in the lobbies. The central artery cuts them off from the rest of the city, penning them against the ocean, and they form a small peninsula of recent affluence where once the wharves rotted.

  I parked in the permanent shade under the artery, on Atlantic Ave, near Maynard’s apartment. It was hot enough for the asphalt to soften and the air conditioning in the lobby felt nice. I gave my name to the houseman, who called it up, then nodded at me. “Top floor, sir, number eight.” The elevator was lined with mirrors and I was trying to see how I looked in profile when we got to the top floor and the doors opened. I looked quickly ahead, but no one was there. It’s always embarrassing to get caught admiring yourself. Number 8 was opposite the elevator and Lester Floyd opened it on my first ring.

  He had on white denim shorts, white sandals, a white headband, and sunglasses with big white plastic frames and black lenses. His upper body was as smooth and shiny as a snake’s, tight-muscled and flexible. Instead of a belt, there was what looked like a black silk scarf passed through the belt loops and knotted over his left hip. He was chewing bubble gum. He held the door open and nodded his head toward the living room. I went in. He shut the door behind me. The living room looked to be thirty feet long, with the far wall a bank of glass that opened onto a balcony. Beyond the balcony, the Atlantic, blue and steady and more than my eye could fully register. Lester slid open one of the glass doors, went out, slid it shut behind him, settled down on a chaise made from filigreed white iron, rubbed some lotion on his chest, and chewed his gum at the sun. Mr. Warm.

  I sat in a big red leather chair. The room was full of pictures, mostly eight-by-ten framed glossy prints of Maynard and various celebrities. Ballplayers, politicians, a couple of movie types. I didn’t see any private eyes. Discriminatory bastard. Or maybe just discriminating. The sound of a portable radio drifted in faintly from Lester’s sun deck. The top forty. Music with the enchantment and soul of a penny gum machine. Ah when you and I were young, Sarah.

  Bucky Maynard came into the living room from a door in the far right-hand wall. He was wearing bright yellow pajamas under a maroon silk bathrobe with a big velvet belt. He needed a shave and his eyes were puffy. He hadn’t been awake long.

  “Y’all keep some early hours, Spenser. Ah didn’t get to bed till four A.M.”

  “Early to bed,” I said, “early to rise. I wanted to ask you what Lester was doing down in New York talking with Patricia Utley.”

  The collar of Maynard’s robe was turned up on one side. He smoothed it down carefully. “Ah can’t say ah know what you mean, Spenser. Ah can ask him.”

  “As us kids say out in the bleachers, don’t jive me, Bucko. Lester was down there on your business. I’ve talked with Utley. I’ve talked with Frank Doerr and Wally the bone breaker. I’ve seen a film called Suburban Fancy and I’ve talked with Linda Rabb. Actually I guess I asked the wrong question. I know what Lester was doing down there. What I want to know is what we do now that I know.”

  “Lester.” Maynard showed no change in expression. Lester left the radio playing and came into the living room and blew a pink bubble that nearly obscured his face.

  “Criminentlies, Lester,” I said. “That’s a really heavy bubble. I think you’re my bubble-blowing idol. Zowie.” Lester chewed the bubble back into his mouth without even a trace sticking to his lips. “Hours,” I said. “It must take hours of practice.”

  Lester looked at Maynard. “Spenser and ah are going to talk, and ah want you to be around and to listen, Lester.” Lester leaned against the edge of the sliding door and crossed his arms and looked at me. Maynard sat in one of the leather chairs and said, “Now what exactly is the point of your question, Spenser?”

  “I figure that we’ve got a mutual problem and maybe we could conspire to solve it. Conspire, Lester. That means get together.”

  “Get to the point, Spenser. Lester gonna get mad at you.”

  “You owe Frank Doerr money and you can’t pay, so you’re blackmailing Marty Rabb into going into the tank for you and you’re feeding the information to Doerr so he won’t hurt you.”

  “Frank Doerr gotta deal with me before he hurts anybody,” Lester said.

  “Yeah, that’s a big problem for him,” I said. “Flex at him next time he and the Hog come calling. See if he faints.”

  “I’m getting goddamned sick of you, you wise bastard.” Lester unfolded his arms and moved a step toward me.

  “Lester,” Maynard said, “we’re talking.” Lester refolded, stepped back, and leaned on the door again. Like reversing a film sequence.

  “Ah don’t know why you think all that stuff, Spenser. But say y’all was right. What business would that be of yours? You being a writer and all?”

  “You know and I know that I’m not a writer.”

  “Ah do? Ah don’t know any such thing. You told me you was a writer.” The compone accent had gotten thicker. I didn’t know if it was the real one coming through under duress or a fake one getting faker. Actually I couldn’t see that it mattered much.

  “Yeah, and you hollered to Doerr and he looked me up and we both know I’m a private cop.”

  “How about that?” Maynard raised both eyebrows. “A private detective. That still leaves the question, though, Spenser. What is your interest?”

  “I would like you to stop blackmailing the Rabbs.”

  “And if ah was blackmailing them, and ah stopped, what would ah get out of that?”

  “Well, I’d be grateful.”

  From his post by the sliding door, Lester said, “Shit,” drawing it out into a two-syllable word.

  “Anything besides that?” Maynard said.

  “I’ll help you with Frank Doerr.”<
br />
  Lester said, “Shit,” again. This time in three syllables.

  “Well, Spenser, that’s awful kind of you, but there’s some things wrong with it all. One, ah don’t much give a rat’s ass for your gratitude, you know? And number two, ah don’t figure, even if ah was having trouble with Frank Doerr, that you’d be the one ah’d ask to help me. And of course, number three, ah’m not blackmailing anybody. Am I, Lester?”

  Lester shook his head no.

  “So, ah guess you wasted some time coming up here. Interesting to know about you being a detective, though. Isn’t that interesting, Lester?”

  Lester nodded his head yes. From the radio on the sun deck the disk jockey was yelling about a “rock classic.”

  I said, “Y’all seem to be takin’ the short view.” Christ, now he had me doing it.

  “Why do you say so?”

  “Because you have only a short-term solution. How long will Marty Rabb pitch? Five more years. You think that when he’s through with baseball, Doerr will be through with you? Doerr will feed on you till you die.”

  “I can handle Doerr,” Lester said. He didn’t get too much variety into the conversation.

  “Lester,” I said, “you can’t handle Doerr. Handling Doerr is different from beating up some tourist in a bar or breaking bricks with your bare hand. Wally Hogg is a professional tough guy. You are an amateur. He would blow you away like a midsummer dandelion.”

  Lester said, “Shit.” You find a line that works for you, I suppose you ought to stick with it.

  Maynard said, “If these people are so tough, Spenser, what makes you think you can help?”

  “Because I’m a professional too, Bucko, and that means I know what I can do and also what I can’t do. It means I don’t walk around thinking I can go up against the likes of Frank Doerr, head-on, without getting my body creased. It means I know how to even things up a bit. It means I know what I’m doing and you two clowns don’t.”

  “You don’t look so frigging tough to me,” Lester said.

  “That’s the difference between you and me, Lester. Aside from our taste in music. I don’t worry about how things look. You do. I don’t have to prove whether I’m tough. You do. You’ll say something like that to Wally the Hog and he’ll shoot you three times or so in your nose, while you’re posing and blowing bubbles.”

  Lester had gone into the stance, legs bent, left fist forward, right drawn back, clenched palms up, a little like the old pictures of the great John L. “Why don’t you try me, you mother?”

  I stood up. “Lester, let me show you something,” I said. And brought my gun out and aimed it at his forehead. “This is a thirty-eight caliber Colt detective special. If I pull the trigger, your mastery of the martial arts will be of very little use to you.”

  Maynard said, “Now, Spenser …”

  Lester looked at the gun.

  “Now put that thing down, Spenser,” Maynard said. “Lester. Y’all just relax over there.”

  Lester said, “If you didn’t have that gun.”

  “But that’s the point, Les, baby, I do have the gun. Wally Hogg has a gun. You don’t have a gun. Professionals are the people with the guns who get them out first.”

  “Now relax, y’all, just relax,” Maynard said.

  “You won’t always have that gun, Spenser.”

  “See, boy, see what a baby you are,” I said. “You’re wrong again. I will always have the gun. You’d forget the gun, you wouldn’t have it where you could get at it, but I will always have it.”

  “Lester,” Maynard said again. This time loud. “Y’all just settle down. You hear me. Now you settle down. Ah don’t want no more of this.”

  Lester eased out of his attack stance and leaned back against the doorjamb, but he kept his eyes on me and one of the eyelids seemed to flicker as he stared. I put the gun away.

  I said to Maynard, “You keep him away from me or I will hurt him badly.”

  “Now, Spenser,” Maynard said. “Lester excites kind of prompt, but he’s not a fool. Right, Lester?”

  Lester didn’t speak. I noticed that there was a glisten of sweat on Maynard’s upper lip. “Suppose ah was interested in joining forces with you,” Maynard said. “What would be your plan? How would you keep Doerr from coming around and killing me?”

  “I’d tell him that right now we call off the scheme and end the blackmail and he’s out some bread, but no one’s incriminated. If he causes trouble, it’ll mean the cops, and then someone will be incriminated. And it’ll be him, because we’ve stashed evidence where the cops will find it if anything happens to you.”

  “What about the money I owe him, Ah mean hypothetically?”

  “You’ve paid that off long ago if Doerr got any bread down at all on Rabb’s pitching.”

  “But maybe Doerr will want more, and ah don’t have it.”

  “It’ll be my job to convince him not to want more.”

  “That’s it. That’s the part ah want to know,” Maynard said, and his face looked very moist. “How you going to convince him of anything?”

  “I don’t know. Appeal to his business sense. Dropping the scheme is a lot less trouble than sticking to it. He can pick up dough a lot of other ways. You and Rabb aren’t the only goobers in the patch.”

  Maynard took a deep breath. The top forty played on outside on the deck. Lester glared at me from the doorjamb. Whitecaps continued to pattern the bay. Maynard shook his head. “Not good enough, Spenser. What you say may be so, but right now ah’m not getting hurt. And what you say makes getting hurt more likely.”

  “I can handle Doerr, Bucky.” Lester sounded almost plaintive from the doorjamb.

  “Maybe yes, maybe no, Lester. You couldn’t have handled Spenser here, if it had been for real. Ah’m saying right now, no. Ah’m not going to take the chance. Things have worked out so far.”

  “But it’s different now, Buck,” I said. “I’m in it now. And I’m going to poke around and aggravate the hornets. It’s not safe anymore to go along with the program.”

  “Maybe that’s true too.” Maynard said. “But ah got a choice between you and Frank Doerr, and right now ah’m betting on Frank Doerr. But ah’ll tell you this. If you come up with something better than you have, ah’m willing to listen.”

  He had me. Maybe if I were he, I’d go that way too.

  “Lester,” Maynard said, “show Mr. Spenser out.”

  I shook my head. “I’ll show myself out. I want Lester to stay there. Mad, like he is, he might slam the door on my foot.”

  Maynard nodded. There was a little drip of sweat at the tip of his beaky little canary nose. It was the last thing I saw as I backed out.

  22

  The Aquarium is near Harbor Towers, and I walked to it. Inside, it was nearly empty at midday, dark and cool and unconnected with the city outside. I went up the spiral walkway around it and watched the fish glide in silent pattern around and around the tank, swimming at different strata, sharks and groupers and turtles and fish I didn’t know in the clear water. They were oblivious of me and seemed oblivious of each other as they swam in a kind of implacable order around and around the tank. The spiral walk was open and the rest of the aquarium was spacious. Below the flat pool, bottom lit and cool green, silhouetted other, smaller fish, black and quick in the bright water.

  A small group of children, perhaps a second-grade class on a field trip, came in, shepherded by a plump little nun with horn-rimmed glasses. After a fast inspection of the fish, the children ignored them and began to enjoy the building and the space as if the real occasion for the visit was not the fish but the feel of the aquarium. The kids ran up and down the spiral and looked over the balcony and yelled at each other from above and below. The nun made no serious attempt to shush them, and the open space and the darkness seemed to absorb the noise. It was still nearly quiet.

  I stood and stared in through the six-inch-thick glass windows of the tank and watched the sharks, small, well fed, and with
out threat, as they glided in their endless circle. I had screwed up the situation. I knew that. I had made Frank Doerr mad and Doerr was a cuckoo. Maynard was right not to buy what I was selling. Doerr wouldn’t let Maynard off the hook and he wouldn’t bargain with me. Maybe he never would have, but his honor was at stake now and he’d die before he let me talk him into, or scare him into, doing anything.

  A small boy pushed in front of me to stare through the glass. His belt was too long, I noticed, and the surplus had been tucked through his belt loops halfway around his body. Another kid joined him and I found myself being moved away from the fish tank. Kids already know how to block out, I thought. I walked off the spiral and looked at the penguins on the first balcony. They were the false note in the place. There was no glass wall, no separation between us except six feet of space. The smell of fish and, I supposed, penguin was rank and uninsulated. I didn’t like it. The silent fish in the lucid water were fantasy. The smelly penguins were real.

  I went on back down the spiral and out into the bright hot day that met me with a clang as I came out of the aquarium. I could put Doerr and Maynard away by going to the cops. But that would humiliate Linda Rabb and probably get Marty Rabb barred from baseball. I could disarm Doerr and Maynard by getting Linda to make a public confession. But that would have the same results. The top was down on my car and the seats were hot and uncomfortable when I got in. I couldn’t shake Maynard loose from Doerr. Doerr was the key and I had handled him wrong. If I got near him again, he’d try to kill me. It made negotiations difficult.