“Christ,” Z said. “A test run?”
“Yeah.”
“What if I’d tanked,” Z said.
“I figured they’d hire some local stiffs,” I said. “And just on size, strength, and enthusiasm, you could distract them while I did my stomp.”
Z looked at me for a while, then picked up his bourbon and drank some. He put the glass down on the glistening mahogany bar and looked at it. I looked at it, too. It looked so good, the amber liquid, the translucent ice, the squat, clear glass.
“I don’t want to give this up,” Z said.
“Maybe you don’t need to,” I said.
“I drink a lot,” Z said.
“Maybe you cut back,” I said.
“Everybody says that won’t work.”
“Everybody is generally wrong,” I said. “Not everybody has to go all or nothing.”
“You know that?” Z said.
“I did it,” I said.
“You cut back?”
“I went from too much to not too much.”
“You ever get drunk?” he said.
“Now and then,” I said. “Not often.”
“What if I quit for a little while?” he said.
“You think you’re an alcoholic?” I said.
“I don’t think so,” Z said. “How do you know?”
“Something about you controlling the drinking or the drinking controlling you,” I said.
“So if I could quit?” Z said. “For a while.”
“Worth trying,” I said.
“Maybe I’d know,” Z said.
“Maybe.”
“So what if I lay off for a month and go back and after my first drink I’m right back into the booze?”
“Then you’ll know more about yourself than you do now.”
“And I’d have to quit for good,” Z said.
“Maybe.”
“Be like a test run,” Z said.
“Uh-huh.”
“Like today,” Z said.
“Uh-huh.”
“No way to know if you don’t try it out,” Z said.
“Sort of like the scientific method,” I said.
“What’s that,” Z said.
“Form a hypothesis and test it,” I said.
“A hypothesis.”
“Yep.”
Z picked up his bourbon and drank the rest of it. I looked at the colorful pattern of the booze bottles stacked behind the bar. I listened to the soft human sound of the half-full bar. I thought about the evenings alone, perhaps with Pearl asleep on the couch, when I would have a couple of drinks before supper and think about me and Susan and all that had happened and all that we had done. No matter how many moments I had like that, they were all intensely moving for me.
“I don’t want to start today,” Z said.
“You’re not doing it for me,” I said.
“Meaning?”
“You don’t drink because I’m watching,” I said. “Doesn’t really count much.”
“So you’re saying I shouldn’t start not drinking while you’re watching.”
“Start when you’re alone,” I said. “And remember, it may be temporary.”
“A hypothesis,” he said.
“That you’re testing,” I said.
“Like today,” Z said again.
“Which worked out quite well,” I said.
“I’ll drink to that,” he said.
“Me too,” I said.
I signaled the bartender.
41
A young man who needed a haircut came into my office wearing a seersucker suit, a white shirt, a blue tie, and a woven straw snap-brim hat.
“Spenser,” he said.
“I am he,” I said.
“My name is Corky Corrigan,” he said. “From the law offices of Morris Hardy.”
He took a card from his shirt pocket and laid it on my desk.
“Wow,” I said. “I’ve seen Morris’s ads on television. He looks implacable.”
“Right,” Corrigan said. “We represent Thomas and Beatrice Lopata.”
“You and Morris,” I said.
“Yes,” Corky said.
“Have you ever met Morris Hardy?” I said.
“Certainly,” Corky said. “He spoke at one of our associate meetings.”
“You work for Morris?” I said.
“We are associated,” he said.
“And you do the case,” I said. “And Morris looks implacable and takes a third of the fee.”
Corky gave a little head shake, as if there was a bug on his nose.
“We are bringing a wrongful-death suit,” he said, “against Jeremy Franklin Nelson in the death of Dawn Ellen Lopata.”
“Good for you,” I said.
“I know you’ve been investigating the case,” he said. “And as we assemble our witness list, I thought it might be wise to see what you’ve learned.”
“I’ve learned that I don’t know what happened,” I said.
“But you must have a slant on things,” Corky said.
He had a little notebook resting on his thigh, and had his Bic pen poised to transcribe things.
“My slant is pretty much a combination of subjective impressions and hearsay,” I said.
Corky nodded.
“Useful background,” he said.
“It is,” I said.
“So go ahead,” Corky said with a smile. “Don’t worry about hearsay, leave the legal stuff to me, just relax and tell me what you’ve found and what you suspect.”
“Where’d you go to law school, Corky?” I said.
“Bradford School of Law,” he said.
“In Haverhill,” I said.
He nodded.
“And you graduated?”
“Three years ago.”
“And passed the bar?”
“Last year,” he said.
I nodded.
“Mum’s the word,” I said.
“Excuse me?” Corky said.
“I don’t want to tell you what I’ve found and what I suspect,” I said.
Corky seemed startled.
“Why not?” he said.
“Don’t see anything in there for me,” I said.
“Don’t you care about justice?”
“I do,” I said. “Also truth, and the American way. But I am not so sure about civil litigation.”
“Are you asking to be paid?” Corky said.
“No.”
“Then I don’t understand,” Corky said.
“I’m sure you don’t,” I said. “I am still working on the case, and I don’t want you, or even the implacable Morris, stepping on leads and tripping over suspects while I’m trying to work.”
“Who is your client?” Corky asked.
“Nope,” I said.
“Well, who do you recommend I talk with?” he said.
“Captain Martin Quirk,” I said. “Boston Police Department. He’s in charge of the case.”
Corky wrote it down.
“Do you think he’ll cooperate?” Corky said.
“Serve and protect,” I said. “But it would be good not to annoy him.”
“Do I annoy you?” Corky said.
“Let me count the ways,” I said.
42
I was drinking beer from the bottle, and Susan had a plastic glass of pinot grigio. We were sitting on the deck of the Institute of Contemporary Art in South Boston. Generally I found the art at the Institute somewhat too contemporary for me. I was more a Hudson River School guy. But the view of the Boston waterfront along the curve of the harbor was peerless. And in nice weather, we both liked to sit there and look at it.
“Wouldn’t it be wiser for the Lopatas to wait?” Susan said. “I should think it would make their case stronger if he were convicted in criminal court.”
“One would think,” I said.
A big glassy excursion boat full of people drunk in the mid-afternoon cruised past us, heading for a tour of the harbor and islands.
“And maybe they wouldn’t need to sue,” Susan said.
“If they were after revenge,” I said.
Susan sipped a small amount of white wine.
“Yes,” Susan said. “If the criminal trial seemed to be a miscarriage of justice, then you could bring civil suit, try for some justice.”