“Oh, Spenser,” she said, “don’t be silly.”
“Come on, kid,” I said to Paul. “Let’s go. I’ll dazzle you with my knowledge of Oriental lore.”
The kid shifted slightly. “Come on,” I said. “I’m hungry as hell.”
He got up. “What’s the latest you’ll be home,” he said to his mother.
“I’ll be home before twelve,” she said.
Stephen said, “Good meeting you, Spenser. Good seeing you, Paul.”
“Likewise I’m sure,” I said. We went out.
When we were in the car again Paul said, “Why’d you do it?”
“What, agree to take you to dinner?”
“Yes.”
“I felt bad for you,” I said.
“How come?”
“Because you came home after being missing and no one seemed glad.”
“I don’t care.”
“That’s probably wise,” I said. “If you can pull it off.” I turned out of Emerson Road. “Which way?” I said.
“Left,” he said.
“I don’t think I could pull it off,” I said.
“What?”
“Not caring,” I said. “I think if I got sent off to eat with a stranger my first night home I’d be down about it”
“Well, I’m not,” he said.
“Good,” I said. “You want to eat in this Chinese place?”
“I don’t care,” he said.
We came to a cross street “Which way?” I said.
“Left,” he said.
“That the way to the Chinese restaurant?” I said.
“Yes.”
“Good, we’ll eat there.”
We drove through Lexington, along dark streets that were mostly empty. It was a cold night People were staying in. Lexington looks like you think it would. A lot of white colonial houses, many of them original. A lot of green shutters. A lot of bull’s-eye glass and small, paned windows. We came into the center of town, the green on the right. The statue of the Minuteman motionless in the cold. No one was taking a picture of it.
“It’s over there,” Paul said, “around that square.”
In the restaurant Paul said, “How come you wouldn’t let her pay for it?”
“It didn’t seem the right thing to do,” I said.
“Why not? Why should you pay? She’s got plenty of money.”
“If we order careful,” I said, “I can afford this.”
The waiter came. I ordered a Beck’s beer for me and a Coke for Paul. We looked at the menu.
“What can I have?” Paul said.
“Anything you want,” I said. “I’m very successful.”
We looked at the menu some more. The waiter brought the beer and the Coke. He stood with his pencil and paper poised. “You order?” he said.
“No,” I said. “We’re not ready.”
“Okay,” he said, and went away.
Paul said, “I don’t know what to have.”
I said, “What do you like?”
He said, “I don’t know.”
I nodded. “Yeah,” I said, “somehow I had a sense you might say that.”
He stared at the menu.
I said, “How about I order for both of us?”
“What if you order something I don’t like?”
“Don’t eat it.”
“But I’m hungry.”
“Then decide what you want.”
He stared at the menu some more. The waiter wandered back. “You order?” he said.
I said, “Yes. We’ll have two orders of Peking ravioli, the duck with plum sauce, the moo shu pork, and two bowls of white rice. And I’ll have another beer and he’ll have another Coke.”
The waiter said, “Okay.” He picked up the menus and went away.
Paul said, “I don’t know if I’ll like that stuff.”
“We’ll find out soon,” I said.
“You gonna send my mother a bill?”
“For the meal?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“I still don’t see why you want to pay for my dinner.”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “It has to do with propriety.”
The waiter came and plunked the ravioli on the table and two bottles of spiced oil.
“What’s propriety?” Paul said.
“Appropriateness. Doing things right.”
He looked at me without any expression.
“You want some raviolis?” I said.
“Just one,” he said, “to try. They look gross.”
“I thought you liked to eat here.”
“My mother just said that. I never been here.”
“Put some of the oil on it,” I said. “Not much. It’s sort of hot.”
He cut his ravioli in two and ate half. He didn’t say anything but he ate the other half. The waiter brought the rest of the food. We each ate four of the raviolis.
“You put the moo shu in one of these little pancakes, see, like this. Then you roll it up, like this. And you eat it.”
“The pancake doesn’t look like it’s cooked,” Paul said.
I ate some moo shu pork. He took a pancake and did as I’d showed him.
I said, “You want another Coke?”
He shook his head. I ordered another beer.
“You drink a lot?”
“No,” I said. “Not as much as I’d like.”
He speared a piece of duck with his fork and was trying to cut it on his plate.
“That’s finger food,” I said. “You don’t have to use your knife and fork.”
He kept on with the knife and fork. He didn’t say anything. I didn’t say anything. We finished eating at seven fifteen. We arrived back at his house at seven thirty. I parked and got out of the car with him.
“I’m not afraid to go in alone,” he said.
“Me either,” I said. “But it’s never any fun going into an empty house. I’ll walk in with you.”
“You don’t need to,” he said. “I’m alone a lot.”
“Me too,” I said.
We walked to the house together.
CHAPTER 6
It was Friday night, and Susan Silverman and I were at the Garden watching the Celtics and the Phoenix Suns play basketball. I was eating peanuts and drinking beer and explaining to Susan the fine points of going back door. I was having quite a good time. She was bored.
“You owe me for this,” she said. She had barely sipped at a paper cup of beer in one hand. There was a lipstick half moon on the rim.
“They don’t sell champagne by the paper cup here,” I said.
“How about a Graves?”
“You want me to get beat up,” I said. “Go up and ask if they sell a saucy little white Bordeaux?”
“Why is everyone cheering?” she said.
“Westphal just stuffed the ball backward over his head, didn’t you see?”
“He’s not even on the Celtics.”
“No, but the fans appreciate the shot. Besides, he used to be.”
“This is very boring,” she said.
I offered my peanuts to her. She took two.
“Afterwards I’ll let you kiss me,” I said.
“I’m thinking better of the game,” she said.
Cowens hit an outside shot.
“How come most of the players are black?” Susan said.
“Black man’s game,” I said. “Hawk says it’s heritage. Says there were a lot of schoolyards in the jungle.”
She smiled and sipped at the beer. She made a face. “How can you drink so much of this stuff?” she said.
“Practice,” I said. “Years of practice.”
Walter Davis hit a jump shot.
“What were you saying before about that boy you found Wednesday? What’s his name?”
“Paul Giacomin,” I said.
“Yes,” Susan said. “You said you wanted to talk about him.”
“But not while I’m watching the ball game.”
“Can’t you watch and talk at the same time? If you can’t, go buy me something to read.”
I shelled a peanut. “I don’t know,” I said. “It’s just that I keep thinking about him. I feel bad for him.”
“There’s a surprise.”
“That I feel bad for him?”
“You’d feel bad for Wile E. Coyote,” Susan said.
Westphal hit a left-handed scoop shot. The Celtics were losing ground.
“The kid’s a mess,” I said. “He’s skinny. He seems to have no capacity to decide anything. His only firm conviction is that both his parents suck.”