Family Honor - Robert B Parker (11 page)

"Hello," I said.

"Hello."

There was never anything casual when we saw each other.
No meeting was routine. There was a kind of charge between us that had
been there since we were in elementary school and became pals, without
any knowledge that my father was trying to put his father in jail. And
his uncle. I had never not been glad to see him, even in the depths of
it, when we couldn't stand each other and he was so possessive I thought
I'd fragment. Even then I was always aware that seeing him was special,
and I was always aware that it was the same for him.

Rosie was ecstatic. She jumped and wiggled and chased
her tail and Richie picked her up and held her in his right arm while he
rubbed her belly with his left. She managed to lap his face awkwardly while
this was going on.

Millicent," I said. "This is my ex-husband, Richie Burke.
Richie, my friend Millicent Patton."

She stayed at the far end. Richie put Rosie down and walked
the length of the loft and put his hand out. "Hello, Millicent."

She took his hand, limply. I'd have to speak to her about
that. I hate a limp handshake.

"How do you do," Millicent said with no hint of enthusiasm.
Richie walked back to the kitchen and sat at my counter.

"You called?" he said.

I put the gun back on top of the bureau.

"I did," I said. "I have to run out and talk with Millicent's
parents and I wondered if you could stay with her?"

"Sure."

"Julie's working, and Spike's working and I know you work,
but you're not on a time clock and ... I'm babbling."

"Sure," Richie said.

"I'm not telling anyone she's here," I said.

"And you don't want anyone to come take her away," Richie
said.

He spoke softly so that Millicent wouldn't overhear him.
She was as far away as she could get and still be in the loft, staring
out my east window at the Fort Point cityscape.

"That's right."

"Which you fear is a possibility."

"You noticed the gun," I said.

"Yeah. I'm very alert." I told him about the Irish guys.

"That's it," Richie said. "All you know is two Irish guys?"

"That's all Tony said."

"Tony thinks all non-Africans are Irish," Richie said.
"Doesn't mean it's anyone we know."

When Richie said we, it always meant his family.

"I know."

"I'll ask around, however," he said. I nodded.

"Millicent," I said loudly enough for her to hear. "I'm
going to talk with your parents."

"He going to stay here?" Millicent said. "Yes. I'll be
an hour or two."

"And you don't think I can take care of myself?"

"He's here for Rosie," I said. "Anything I should tell
your parents?"

"No."

I took my gun off the bureau and put it on. Richie walked
to the door with me.

"You have a gun?" I said.

He smiled at me.

"Of course you do," I said and went out.

Behind me I heard the dead bolt slide into place on the
inside.
 

"You've found her then?" Patton said.

"Yes. She's well and safe."

"Where is she?"

"I can't tell you that."

"You what?" Betty Patton's voice was like chilled steel.

"I can't tell you where she is," I said. "Why not," Betty
said.

"She doesn't want you to know."

"Ms. Randall, are we not employing you?"

"So far," I said.

"Don't be ridiculous," Betty said. "Where is she?"

I shook my head.

"You cannot sit here and tell me you are going to substitute
the judgment of a fifteen-year-old runaway for that of her parents," Betty
said.

"Actually, I'm substituting my judgment," I said.

"You have no right."

"You hired me," I said. "You didn't purchase me."

"And we can fire you," Betty said. Her voice remained
quiet and very cold.

"Something happened," I said. "That made her run away."

"What?"

"I don't know."

"Then how do you know something happened."

It was as if Brock had disappeared. It was me and Betty
Patton. "Woman's intuition."

"I have resources," Betty said. "Give me back my daughter
or face serious consequences."

"You wouldn't have a thought, either of you, as to what
might have been the, ah, precipitating event in your daughter's departure?"

"There was no event. Millicent is spoiled and childish.
But she is quite capable of manipulating any adult gullible enough to believe
her."

"Do you have anyone but me looking for her?"

"Perhaps we should."

"But you don't?"

"Of course not."

"She's afraid of something," I said.

"What?"

"I don't know."

Betty's ugly little laugh was derisive. "She's a neurotic
child," Betty said.

"Has she been getting therapy?" I said.

"Doesn't every teenaged brat that can't cut it get therapy?"
Brock said.

When he spoke it felt like an intrusion, something foreign
to the angry exclusivity that connected me to Betty.

"Shut up, Brock," Betty said.

"Isn't that sweet," Brock said. "'Shut up,' she explained."

"Who's her therapist?" I said.

"That is no concern of yours," Betty said. I nodded.

"Did you or your husband have a fight with Millicent before
she left?"

"Ms. Randall," Betty said. "I am not some Irish scrub
woman, I do not fight with my daughter."

"She's very angry with you," I said.

"Millicent doesn't know what she's angry about," Betty
said. "She is a petulant adolescent. Had you ever raised one you might
be less inclined to take her at face value."

Actually I thought it was Betty that was taking Millicent
at face value.

"Perhaps," I said.

"Do you have a license to do what you do?" Betty asked.
"Yes."

"Well, if my daughter is not back here promptly you will
lose it."

"Oh, oh!" I said.

"And that will be the least unpleasant thing you'll face."

"If you're going to threaten me," I said, "you need to
be specific."

Betty shook her head. I looked at Brock. "And you?"

Brock tossed his hands in the air.

"I have long ago given up trying to work things out with
women.

I sat for a moment.

"Okay," I said. "Your daughter is well and safe. And,
despite the paralyzing impact of your threat, I will make every attempt
to keep her that way."

I stood. Neither of them moved.

"I have warned you, Ms. Randall," Betty said, "don't take
what I've said lightly."

"Hard not to," I said, and turned and marched out. I love
a good exit line.
 

"It's funny," I said to Spike. "I can't live with Richie,
but I trust him even with Rosie."

Spike was watching the show too intently to do anything
more than nod. I didn't mind: the remark had been as much to me as it had
been to him, anyway. While I was thinking about my remark, and Spike was
thinking about his cabaret, Don Bradley came in and sat at the table with
us. The cabaret singers started a medley of World War II songs.

"Hi, Sunny," he said. "I been trying to reach you."

"I know."

". . . praise the Lord and pass the ammunition ..."

"I guess I got a little buzzed at the end of it, I don't
remember the way we parted, exactly."

"I do."

"I didn't get out of hand, I hope," he grinned at me.
"Sometimes I get a little wild."

"Don, please," I said. "I'm afraid we're not really meant
for each other. Let's let it go."

"Damn it, Sunny, I thought we were having a good time."

Don raised his voice a little. It was enough to break
Spike's concentration on the cabaret. Which I knew Spike didn't like. He
looked at Don.

"Don," I said. "You spent the evening talking about yourself
until you got so drunk I had to half carry you into your home, at which
time you tried to force yourself on me."

"That's not how it seemed to me, Sunny."

Spike had half turned now, and leaned his elbow on the
table and his chin on his elbow and had his face very close to Don's, listening
intently. When I spoke Spike's eyes shifted to me, but his face stayed
close to Don's.

"I don't wish to argue it," I said. "I'd simply prefer
not to go out with you."

"I'm not taking no for an answer," Don said.

Spike's closeness was beginning to make him uncomfortable.
He looked at Spike.

"... with anyone else but me, anyone else but me ..."

"Excuse me?" he said.

"Certainly," Spike said.

"I mean, excuse me, why are you interfering with our conversation"

"I do that, sometimes," Spike said. "Well, I don't like
it," Don said.

There was an edge to his voice. He was a not a man to
be crossed. "Gay bashing," Spike said.

"What?"

"I'm a charming gay man, and you have turned on me for
no discernible reason. I say it's gay bashing."

"I didn't even know you were gay."

"For crissake," Spike said. "What am I supposed to do,
sit in your lap?"

"Of course not."

"This is blatant homophobia," Spike said. "Sunny?"

I smiled and didn't answer.

". .. a hubba hubba hubba, hello, Jack ..."

"See," Spike said.

Don said. "Why don't you just butt out."

"Sunny has made it clear that she doesn't like you and
doesn't want to go out with you," Spike said. "I felt it was important
that you know I feel the same way."

"What?"

"Stay away from Sunny," Spike said.

And then Spike did what he does. I don't know how he does
it. Something happens behind his eyes, and whatever it is shows through,
and quite suddenly there's nothing playful about Spike. Don saw it and
it scared him.

"You're threatening me," he said finally.

"You bet," Spike said. "Think how embarrassing it'll be,
to tell the guys at the health club that you got your clock cleaned by
a ho-mo-sex-ual."

Don didn't move. Better men than Don had been frightened
by Spike. But he didn't want to back down in front of me.

". . . remember Pearl Harbor, as we march against the
foe ..."

"Don," I said. "There's nothing between you and me."

"I'm not scared of him," Don said.

"You should be," I said. "Walk away from this. There's
nothing here for you."

Don sat for another moment. Then he stood up.

"All right, but only because you asked me, Sunny."

"Sure," I said. "I understand. Sorry it didn't work out."
Don nodded and said, "Good-bye, Sunny."

"Good-bye, Don."

To salvage his self-regard he gave Spike a hard look.
Spike smiled at him. Don turned away and walked stiffly out of the restaurant.
"I could have chased him away myself," I said to Spike.

"Sure," Spike said, "but it's like the old joke, praise
God you didn't have to."
 

"You like to cook?" I said to Millicent.

"No."

"Do you know how?"

"No."

"Would you like to learn?"