“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 highrise 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 cornpone 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.“
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, ”Yall 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.