“If I’m not what I’ve been trying to be, what am I?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you could find out if you no longer decided that what you ought to be was what your husband expected you to be.”
“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”
“You too, huh? Well, look, if he’s disappointed in you it doesn’t mean you’re wrong. It could mean he’s wrong.”
She shook her head. “Of course, I mean that’s no news flash. That’s every woman’s problem. I know that.”
“Don’t generalize on me. I don’t know if it’s every woman’s problem, or if it’s only a woman’s problem. What I do know is that it might be one of your problems. If so, it can be solved. It’s one thing to know something. It’s another to feel it, to act as if it were so, in short, to believe it.”
“And how does one learn to believe something?”
“One talks for a while with a good psychotherapist.”
“Oh God, a shrink?”
“There’s good ones and bad ones. Like private eyes. I can put you in touch with some good ones.”
“Former clients?”
“No, Suze knows a lot about that stuff. She’s a guidance person and takes it seriously.”
“Is that the answer, a damned shrink? Everything that happens some psychiatrist is in on it. Every time some kid gets an F the shrink’s got to have his two cents’ worth.”
“You ever try it?”
“No.”
“Harv?”
“No. He wanted me to, see if they could find out why I was frigid. But he didn’t want to go too. Said there was nothing wrong with him. Didn’t want some goddamned headshrinker prying around in his business trying to convince him he was sick.”
“Doesn’t have to be a psychiatrist, you know. Could be a good social worker. You ought to talk with Suze about it. But Harv’s got the wrong language again, just like frigid. Doesn’t help to talk about ’wrong‘ with a big W. You got a problem. They can help. Sometimes.”
“What about all these people they commit to asylums for no reason and how in murder cases they can’t agree on anything. One side gets a shrink to say he’s crazy and the other side gets one to say he’s sane.”
“Okay, psychiatry boasts as many turkeys as any other business, maybe more. But the kinds of things you’re talking about aren’t relevant. Those things come from asking psychiatrists to do what they aren’t equipped to do. Good ones know that, I think. Good ones know that what they can do is help people work out problems. I don’t think they are very good at curing schizophrenia or deciding whether someone is legally sane. That’s bullshit. But they might be quite useful in helping you get over defining yourself in your husband’s terms, or helping your husband get over defining himself in Cotton Mather’s terms.”
“Cotton Mather?”
“Yeah, you know, the old Puritan ethic.”
“Oh, that Cotton Mather. You do read the books, don’t you?”
“I got a lotta time,” I said. The timer buzzed and I twirled out a strand of spaghetti and tried it. “Al dente,” I said. “His brother Sam used to play for the Red Sox.” The spaghetti was done, I turned it into a colander, emptied the pan, shook the colander to drain the spaghetti, turned it back into the pan, added a little butter and some Parmesean cheese and tossed it.
“You made that up.”
“What?”
“About Al Dente’s brother.”
“Nope, truth. Sam Dente used to play with the Sox about thirty years ago. Infielder. Left-handed batter.” The spaghetti sauce was bubbling. I poured it into a big gravy boat and put two big heaps of spaghetti on two plates. I poured the salad dressing over the salad, tossed it and set everything on the kitchen counter. “Silverware in the drawer there,” I said. I got some Gallo Burgundy in a half-gallon bottle and two wine glasses out of the cupboard.
We sat at the counter and ate and drank. “Did you make the spaghetti sauce?” she said.
“Yeah. A secret recipe I got off the back of the tomato paste can.”
“And the salad dressing? Is there honey in it?”
“Yep. Got that from my mother.”
She shook her head. “Fighter, lover, gourmet cook? Amazing.”
“Nope. I’ll take the fighter, lover, but the gourmet cook is a sexist remark.”
“Why?”
“If you’d cooked this no one would say you were a gourmet cook. It’s because I’m a man. A man who cooks and is interested in it is called a gourmet. A woman is called a housewife. Now eat the goddamned spaghetti.” I said. She did. Me too.
Chapter 23
I slept on the couch. A triumph once more of virtue over tumescence. I was up and showered and away before Pam Shepard woke up. At 10:00 A.M. I was having coffee with King Powers’ man Macey in the Holiday Inn in Hyannis.
“Care for some fruit?” Macey said.
“No thanks. The coffee will do. When can you deliver the guns?”
“Tomorrow maybe, day after for sure.”
“What you got?”
“M2 carbines, in perfect condition, one hundred rounds apiece.”
“How many?”
“Four hundred and fifty.”
“Jesus Christ, that’s more than two bills apiece.”
Macey shrugged. “Ammo’s included, don’t forget.”
“Christ, you can pick ’em up in the gun shop for less than half that.”
“Four hundred and fifty of them? M2s?”
“There’s that,” I said. “But a hundred grand for four hundred and fifty pieces. I don’t think my people will like that.”
“You came to us, Spence. You asked us. Remember.”
I loved being called Spence. “And remember there’s thirty thousand out for your share.”
“Which you’re keeping.”
“Hey, Spence, it’s owed us. We wouldn’t be long in business if we didn’t demand financial responsibility from our clients. We didn’t go to Harvey either. He came to us. Just like you. You don’t like the deal, you’re free to make another one someplace else. Just see to it that Harvey comes up with the thirty thousand dollars he owes us. Which, incidentally, will increase as of Monday.”
“Oh yeah, you private-service firms seem to work on an escalated interest scale, don’t you.”
Macey smiled and shrugged and spread his hands. “What can I tell you, Spence? We have our methods and we attract clients. We must be doing something right.” He folded his arms. “You want the guns or don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Good, then we have a deal. When do you wish to take delivery? I can guarantee day after tomorrow.” He checked his calendar watch. “The twenty-seventh. Sooner is iffy.”
“The twenty-seventh is fine.”
“And where do you wish to take delivery?”
“Doesn’t matter. You got a spot?”
“Yes. Do you know the market terminal in Chelsea?”
“Yeah.”
“There, day after tomorrow at six A.M. There are a lot of trucks loading and unloading at that time. No one will pay us any mind. Your principals have a truck?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. We’ve got a deal. You going to be there with your people?”
“Yeah.”
“I won’t be. But you should have ready for the man in charge one hundred thousand dollars in cash. Go to the restaurant there in the market center. You know where it is.” I nodded. “Have a cup of coffee or whatever. You’ll be contacted.”
“No good,” I said.
“Why not?”
“King’s got to deliver them himself.”
“Why?”
“My people want to do business with the principals. They don’t like working through me. They might want to do more business and they want to deal direct.”
“Perhaps I can go.”
“No. It’s gotta be King. They want to be sure they don’t get burned. They figure doing business with the boss is like earnest money. If he does it himself they figure it’ll go right, there won’t be anything sour, like selling us ten crates of lead pipe. Or shooting us and taking the money and going away. They figure King wouldn’t want to be involved in that kind of goings-on himself. Too much risk. So, King delivers personally or it’s no deal.”