Spike was still rubbing Rosie’s stomach with his foot. Rosie was motionless in some sort of ecstatic trance. No one could stand to rub Rosie’s stomach for as long as she wanted them to.
“Pharaoh’s a bad sonovabitch,” Spike said.
“You don’t meet all that many pimps who aren’t,” I said.
Spike drank some coffee.
“I was you,” he said, “I’d get your ex to arrange a meeting with Tony Marcus, maybe Tony can do something for you.”
“Richie’s not in the family business.”
“He’s not out of it either,” Spike said. “Tony wants to get along with the Burkes.”
“Well, I don’t,” I said.
Spike shrugged. He took his foot off Rosie’s stomach and rested it on the floor. Rosie remained on her back, her flat-black watermelon-seed eyes staring up at Spike. Spike stared back down at her.
“I’m not rubbing your stomach again,” he said.
Rosie stared up some more, her feet in the air, one paw bent. Spike put his other foot onto her stomach and began to rub gently.
“You going to go looking for Pharaoh? Maybe I should tag along,” he said.
“To protect me?”
“More or less,” Spike said.
“I can protect myself.”
“It’s like safe sex,” Spike said. “Two protect better than one.”
I shook my head. “I’ll be fine,” I said. “Besides, there’s my savage black-and-white attack dog.”
Spike looked down at Rosie, whose eyes were now slitted, her tongue hanging out one side of her mouth.
“Should work,” Spike said. “You unleash her on Pharaoh and he’ll fall down laughing.”
Chapter 7
I spent the week with pimps and hookers and an occasional john who thought I might be available. I hung out in Kenmore Square after Red Sox games. I was down near the Prudential Center mingling with the convention tourists. I wandered through Park Square, and along Charles Street where it runs between the Common and the Public Garden. I cruised the Landsdowne Street clubs at closing time, although it didn’t look to me that anyone would have to pay for sex along Landsdowne Street. I strolled hopefully around the South End, but most of the action there was gay.
Time flies when you are having a really swell time. All of a sudden it was the Wednesday after Labor Day and I had no idea where Millicent Patton was. Tactical support might help after all, and I had a date with some that night.
Neither my ex-husband nor I was willing to give up on us entirely. We had dinner every Wednesday, which I looked forward to more than seemed reasonable. So did he. Neither one of us said so; we were very careful about giving mixed messages. But the conversation was always about us and always charged and exciting. At the end of the evening there was always the unasked and unanswered question of whether we might have sex again. Which both of us wanted and, so far, neither of us dared. The uncertainty of the relationship seemed to give it a greater charge than marriage had.
“Remember,” Richie was saying, “it’s my weekend for Rosie.”
“She’s got new jammies,” I said, “and she wants to know if she can bring her Lou Reed albums.”
Richie smiled. It was always nice when he smiled. He had a big jaw and a wide mouth and I liked the way the parenthetic lines deepened at each side of his mouth. He poured a little red wine into my glass and then into his.
“Whoever the hell Lou Reed is,” he said.
We were eating in Cambridge in a small Middle European restaurant named Salt. Richie had on a blue blazer and a starched white shirt with the collar open. He had good color, as if he spent a lot of time outdoors, and his neck was strong.
“Anything new in the saloon business?” I said.
“Same old thing, ever-increasing profits, wild success,” Richie said, turning the red wine glass on the table. His hands were clean and strong looking. I always hated delicate hands on a man.
“You started with a lot of seed money,” I said.
“Yep.”
The waitress came with some cherry soup for each of us. I sipped my wine while she put the plates down.
When she left I said, “That was bitchy. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he said.
“Whatever the seed money, if you are turning a profit you are doing a good job.”
“Yes.”
We ate some soup and drank a little wine. The restaurant was full. We were sitting close together at a table for two. The energy between us was almost tactile.
“You need any money?” Richie said.
“No.”
“It’s clean,” Richie said. “It comes from the saloon profits.”
“The seed money wasn’t clean.”
Richie shrugged. “Let’s not dance that dance again,” he said.
“No,” I said. “I don’t want to either. I’m okay money-wise. Thank you for asking.”
“Selling any paintings?”
“A couple. Not enough.”
“The sleuthette business is going okay?”
“Sleuthette?”
“You find something patronizing in that?” Richie said.
“Of course not,” I said. “Any woman loves diminutives.”
“Lucky for me,” he said.
“Yes,” I said. “I remember.”
We laughed. Any expression of feeling — laughter, anger, affection — threatened to surge out of control when we were together. Life without that pounding kinesis was unimaginable. So was life with it. The waitress reappeared.
“Are you finished with your soup?” she said.
We both were.
“Was everything all right?” she said.
“Wonderful,” Richie said. “We’re just saving room for the entrée.”
The waitress smiled and took our plates.
“Funny, isn’t it?” Richie said. “We both love to eat, but when we’re together we don’t seem to have any appetite.”
“These are not casual dinners,” I said.
“Oh,” Richie said, “you noticed.”
“I noticed.”
The waitress returned with pork loin for Richie and roast goose for me.
“You dating anyone these days?” I said.
“Yeah, several.”
“Anyone serious?”
“I’m only serious about you,” Richie said.
“That might not be the best idea in the world,” I said.
“It’s not an idea, Sunny. It’s a feeling.”
There was something thin-edged and sharp in Richie’s voice when he said it. It reminded me of how dangerous Richie could be. He’d never been dangerous to me, nor did I think he ever would be. But he was so nice-looking, so pleasant in his dark-haired Irish way that other people occasionally misjudged him.
“Feelings can change,” I said.
“Probably,” Richie said. “But these haven’t.”
“I know,” I said.
“Everyone I go out with knows the score. I tell anyone I’m dating, ‘If I can be with Sunny, I will be.”’
“I know I can’t imagine life without you,” I said. “But I don’t know how to live with you.”
Richie nodded slowly. It was familiar ground.
“It’s not just the family stuff, is it?”
“It doesn’t help,” I said. “My father’s a cop, yours is a mobster.”
“And still my father,” he said.
“Yes. And I’m a detective and you’re...” I shrugged.
“A saloon keeper.”
“You carry a gun,” I said.
“So do you.”
“It’s not just the family stuff, is it?” Richie said again.
“No,” I said. “Not entirely.”
I shook my head. We were quiet for a moment. Richie took in a big breath and let it out slowly through his nose.
“So,” he said. “How’s the goose?”