“Out,” she said, her voice soaring, “get the fuck out.”
I got a hand on Mister Bubbles’s arm and led him away. Pepe the pony came with him. He took no notice of Rosie, whose barking had settled into a low steady growl.
“She owe you any money?” I said.
“She got no business talking to me like that,” he said.
“I’m sure Pepe was shocked,” I said. “Have you been paid?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, pardner, then I think it’s time for you and Pepe to mosey on down the trail.”
He wanted to say something cutting, but it’s hard to be cutting when you’re standing around in a rental clown suit, and I think he realized that. He gave it up and took Pepe and headed for his truck.
When I put Rosie in the front seat of my car, and went back to the party, it was over. One of the mothers was explaining to Julie how Michael was just overtired, and everyone had really enjoyed it, and thanks for inviting us. Julie had disentangled Michael enough so that she could stand and say good-bye. He remained wrapped around her leg. There was a gathering of children, a strapping of car seats, a slamming of car doors and in a while it was just Michael and me and Julie. I went to Julie’s garage and got a trash barrel and brought it back and began to clean up the cake and ice cream and paper plates. Julie sat down on one of the folding chairs that tilted clumsily on the uneven lawn and began to cry.
“I don’t blame you,” I said.
The crying turned to sobbing.
“Don’t you hate parties?” I said to Michael.
He stared at me silently.
“I always did,” I said.
“I can’t do it,” Julie said. “I try so goddamned hard and I can’t do it.”
Michael was no longer crying. He was very silent, standing beside his mother.
“Nobody can,” I said. “It’s not your fault, it’s not Michael’s. It’s the way things work.”
“Other people can have a damn party,” Julie said.
“Not many,” I said. “And you might not want to trade the skills you’ve got for the skills that make good party givers.”
“I just wanted him to have a party like other kids.”
Michael was very silent.
“In your enthusiasm for blaming yourself,” I said, “you want to be careful that you don’t spill some blame onto anyone else.”
Julie raised her eyes and looked at me and then looked at Michael. She hugged him to her and talked and sobbed simultaneously.
“I love you, honey,” she gasped, with the tears bubbling through her voice. “Mommy loves you.”
I could see Michael’s face over her shoulder. He didn’t look as if he entirely believed her.
Chapter 13
I found her at 1:15 in the morning on Dalton Street behind the Prudential Center, handy to the big commercial hotels and the Hynes Auditorium. She stood near the curb just up from the motor entrance to the Sheraton, wearing white short shorts and heels and a sequined yellow tank top. Clever outfit. She smiled automatically when I pulled in to the curb. When I got out the smile went away, and she began once again to look up and down the street.
“Millicent Patton?” I said.
She stared at me and didn’t say anything.
“My name is Sunny Randall,” I said. “I’m a detective. Your parents asked me to bring you home.”
Without a word she turned and started running down Dalton Street toward Huntington. Not wearing fuck-me shoes, I caught her in about ten steps. I got in front of her and put my arms around her and pinned her arms and made her stop. She made no sound. But she struggled steadily against me.
“Millicent,” I said. “I will help you.”
She tried to kick me, but I was too tight against her and she didn’t really know anything about fighting.
“We’ll sit in my car,” I said, “and talk.”
“What the fuck is this,” someone said.
I let Millicent go and turned. Behind me was a tall black man wearing a six-button suit and a white shirt buttoned to the neck, no tie. He had a neat goatee and short hair. He was bony and strong-looking.
“Pharaoh Fox, I presume?”
“Who the fuck are you?” he said.
“My name is Randall,” I said. “I’m a detective.”
“Vice?”
“Private.”
“Goddamn,” Fox said, with laughter in his voice, “a private dick?”
I nodded.
“You can’t be no private dick,” Fox said. “Best you can do, be a private pussy.”
He loved his joke, and laughed a lot harder than it deserved. In his presence Millicent Patton was motionless, perfectly docile.
I said, “Millicent’s going with me, pimp boy.”
Fox stopped laughing. His face was thin. The nostrils flared and his skin had a bluish tinge to it above the beard. He looked, in fact, a little like a pharaoh. He put his right hand into his suit coat pocket.
“Get off my street, private pussy,” he said, “right now. Or I will cut you in fucking two.”
One of the advantages of being a woman in this deal is that no one takes you seriously, so they are careless. While his hand was still in his pocket I took my gun out. I thumbed back the hammer as the gun came out, and put the muzzle up under his nose, maybe half an inch from his upper lip.
“Tell Millicent that she should go with me.”
“Like hell,” Fox said.
I bumped the barrel of the gun against his upper lip.
“I’m not a patient woman,” I said. “And I haven’t shot my pimp quota this week. Tell her. Now.”
“You can’t just shoot me on the fucking street,” Pharaoh said.
“I’m a small blond cutie. You’re a big ugly pimp. You’ll be dead. I say you assaulted me. Who’s going to take your side?”
He didn’t move. He kept looking at me. There was nothing human behind his eyes. I didn’t move. I could see the muscles tighten in his shoulders and neck.
“Go for it,” I said. “Grab for the gun. Maybe I haven’t got the balls. Maybe I’ll hesitate.”
I smiled at him.
“Or maybe I won’t,” I said.
Still he held on, the hatred flickering in his eyes like heat lightning. But I knew his grip was slipping.
“Let’s find out, pimp boy.”
He let go.
“You can have her,” he said.
“Tell her,” I said.
“Go with her,” Pharaoh said to Millicent.
“Get in my car,” I said to Millicent. “Pimp boy, you turn around and walk straight down to Huntington.”
He backed away.
“What you say your name was, bitch?”
“Randall,” I said. “Sunny Randall.”
“Sunny Randall,” he said.
I was in full shooter’s stance, the gun in both hands holding steady on the middle of his body mass.
“Start walking,” I said.
He turned and began to walk slowly away. I figured he didn’t have a gun. He’d said he would cut me in two. Just the same I backed to the car. He was far enough away now that Wyatt Earp couldn’t have hit him with the two-inch .38. I put it back in its holster, slid into the car and started up. Pharaoh didn’t look back. As I drove past him he didn’t look sideways. Then we turned left at Huntington and I couldn’t see him anymore.
Chapter 14
Millicent was sitting as far into the corner of the passenger seat as she could get, trying to be as small as she could get, and as quiet as she could get.
“We’re all right now,” I said.
We drove through Copley Square onto Stuart Street and turned left onto Berkeley. There were a couple of cop cars parked outside the old Police Headquarters. No one was on the street. There was no traffic. The mercury street lamps made everything look a bit surrealistic.