“Mr. Spenser, it’s five thirty. I was just about to put my own supper in the oven.”
“I’ll come out and get you if you wish,” I said. “If you’d rather I’ll buy you dinner.”
“No,” she said. I could almost hear her make up her mind. “I’ll come in. What is your address?”
“Do you know Where Marlborough Street is?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Okay, I’m in the last block before you get to the Public Garden.” I gave her the number. “It’s on the left-hand side.
How long will it take you?”
“Would seven thirty be all right?”
“Just right,” I said. “I’ll look for you then.”
She said good-bye and we hung up. “Ha!” I said out loud. I drank down the rest of my beer to celebrate. Still got the old sex appeal, kid, still got all the old moves. She couldn’t resist me. Or maybe she just liked pork tenderloin en croute.
I turned on the oven to preheat, took the pork out of the meatkeeper to warm up, and set about making the crust. I opened another Amstel. Better watch it, though; didn’t want to be drunk when she got here. It was, after all, business, or partly business. I made a very short crust and laid the tenderloin across it. I sprinkled in some thyme, some black pepper, and a dust of dill. I rolled the crust carefully around it and put it on a roasting pan. I brushed a little egg white on the top to glaze it and put it in a medium oven.
I peeled and sliced three green apples, some carrots, and some red onions. I added a lump of butter and put them to simmer in about an inch of cider in a tightly covered sauce pan. I made a Cumberland sauce for the pork. Then I went to get dressed. I decided against a gold lame smoking jacket and white silk scarf. Instead I put on a black polo shirt and white trousers with a modest flare. I put on my black loafers, still shined, and walked up Arlington Street two blocks to Boylston and bought two loaves of hot French i bread from a bake shop. Then I walked back to my apartment and put a bottle of red wine in the wine bucket, opened it to let it breathe, and packed it in ice. I knew that was bad—I was supposed to roll it on my palate at room temperature, but once a hick, always a hick, I guess. I liked it cold.
Chapter 9
At seven fifteen I took the pork out of the oven and put it on the counter to rest. I took the lid off the vegetables, turned up the heat, and boiled away the moisture while I shook the pan gently. It made them glaze slightly. I put them in a covered chafing dish over a low blue flame. I put the French bread into the still warm oven. I had stopped on the way back from Smithfield and bought a dozen native tomatoes at a farm stand. Each was the size of a softball. I sliced two of them about a half-inch thick and sprinkled them lightly with sugar and arranged them slightly overlapping on a bed of Boston lettuce on a platter and put them beside the roast to warm up. Tomatoes are much better at room temperature.
I had just finished washing my hands and face when the doorbell rang. Everything was ready. Ah, Spenser, what a touch. Everything was just right except that I couldn’t seem to find a missing child. Well, nobody’s perfect. I pushed the release button and opened my apartment door. I was wrong.
Susan Silverman was perfect.
It took nearly forty years of savoir faire to keep from saying “Golly.” She had on black pants and a knit yellow scoop-necked, short-sleeved sweater that gaped fractionally above the black pants, showing a fine and only occasional line of tan skin. The sleeves were short and had a scalloped frill, and her black and yellow platform shoes made her damned near my height. Her black and yellow earrings were cubed pendants. Her black hair glistened, her teeth were bright in her tan face when she smiled and put out her hand.
“Come in,” I said. Very smooth. I didn’t scuff my foot; I didn’t mumble. I stood right up straight when I said it. I don’t think I blushed.
“This is a very nice apartment,” she said as she stepped into the living room. I said thank you. She walked across and looked at the wood carving on the server “Isn’t this the statue of the Indian in front of the museum?”
“Yes.”
“It’s lovely. Where did you get it?”
This time I think I did blush. “Aw hell,” I Said.
“Did you do it?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, it’s very good.” She ran her hands over the wood.
“What kind of wood is it?”
“Hard pine,” I said.
“How did you get the wood so smooth?”
“I rubbed it down with powdered pumice and a little mineral oil.”
“It is very lovely,” she said. “Did you do all these wood carvings?” I nodded. She looked at me and shook her head.
“And you cook too?”
I nodded again.
“Amazing,” she said.
“Can I get you a drink?” I said.
“I’d love one.”
“Would you take a vodka gimlet?”
“That would be splendid,” she said. Splendid. In her mouth it sounded just right. Anyone else who said “splendid” would have sounded like the wrong end of a horse.
I put five parts of vodka and one part Rose’s lime juice in a pitcher, stirred it with ice, and strained some into two short glasses.
“Would you care to sit on a stool and drink it while I make last-minute motions in the kitchen?”
“I’ll do better than that, I’ll help set the table while I’m drinking my drink.”
“Okay.”
The kitchen area was separated from the living-dining area by a waist-high partition and some lathe-turned risers extending to the ceiling. As I poured oil and vinegar over the tomatoes, I watched her through the partition. She was probably between thirty-five and forty. Her body was strong, and as she bent over the table placing the silverware her thighs were firm and smooth and her back and waist graceful and resilient where the blouse gapped. She moved surely, and I bet myself she played good tennis.
I sliced half the pork en croute in quarter-inch slices and arranged them on the serving platter. I put the chafing dish of vegetables on the table, put the tomatoes and roast out also. Susan Silverman’s glass was empty, and I filled it. My head was feeling a little thick from five beers and a large gimlet. Some would say a thickness of head was my normal condition.
“Candles too hokey?” I said.
She laughed and said, “I think so.”
“Shall we finish our drinks before we eat?” I asked.
“If you wish.”
She sat at the end of the couch and leaned back slightly against the arm, took a grown-up sip of her gimlet, and looked at me over the glass as she did so.
“What ever happened to your nose, Mr. Spenser?”
“A very good heavyweight boxer hit it several times with his left fist.”
“Why didn’t you ask him not to do that?”
“It’s considered bad form. I was hoping for the referee.”
“You don’t seem to choose the easiest professions,” she said.
“I don’t know. The real pain, I think, would be nine to five at a desk processing insurance claims. I’d rather get my nose broken weekly.”
Her glass was empty. I filled it from the pitcher and freshened mine. Don’t want to get drunk on duty. Don’t want to make a damned fool of myself in front of Susan Silverman, either.
She smiled her thanks at me. “So, sticking your nose into things and getting it broken allows you to live life on your own terms, perhaps.”
“Jesus, I wish I’d said that,” I said. “Want to eat?”
“I think we’d better; I’m beginning to feel the gimlets.”
“In that case, my dear, let me get you another.” I raised my eyebrows and flicked an imaginary cigar.
“Oh, do the funny walk, Groucho,” she said.
“I haven’t got that down yet,” I said. I gestured toward the pitcher, and she shook her head. “No thank you, really.”
I held her chair as she sat down, sat down opposite her, and poured some wine in her glass.
“A self-effacing little domestic red,” I said, “with just a hint of presumption.”