Family Honor - Robert B Parker (19 page)

"No," she said.

"Did they ever?"

"Maybe her momma did once."

"Did they love each other?"

"Oh God, no."

"Did they ever?"

"I haven't been there forever."

"But not since vou've been there?"

"Did they fool around?"

"You mean sexually, with other people?"

"Yes."

"Miss Randall, I can't..."

"Sure you can. You care enough about the kid to tear up
over the fact that her parents don't love her. And, damn it, call me Sunny."
Again the long pause. My coffee, still half a cup, was cold. I waited.

"They both brought people home," she said. "If one of
them was away the other would bring in a guest."
"How about Millicent?"

"They didn't seem to care if she knew."

"Did they know?"

"About each other?"

"Urn hmm."

"I don't know. They weren't very careful. They didn't
seem to care if John or I knew."

"Know any of the people that they brought home?"

"No."

"Were they people who came often or did they go for variety?"

"Variety, I'm afraid."

"Both of them?"

"Yes."

"Kragan or the other man didn't happen to leave a business
card?"

"No."

"You notice the kind of car they drove? Or the license
number?"

"No. John might have noticed the car. I'm sure he wouldn't
have noticed the license number."

"How about the various one-night stands?" I said. "How
did they come?"

"I don't know. John might."

"Will you ask John these things?" I said. "And have him
call me?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"Because I don't know. It's sort of like panning for gold.
You get a bunch of dirt and then you sort through it, see if there's a
nugget."

"If Mrs. Patton finds out I spoke with you, John and I
will be fired."

"How about Mr. Patton?"

"I don't know. Mrs. Patton runs the house."

"Neither will ever hear it from me," I said.

Billie nodded. I put my hand out and patted her hands
where they lay folded in front of her on the table.

"We're going to save this kid, Billie."

Billie stared at the cold coffee in the bottom of her
cup and said nothing.
 

Millicent wore a pair of shorts that belonged to me, and
one of her new tee shirts. She was very slim. Her small body looked very
white, and somehow incomplete in the workout clothes. The club was nearly
empty in the middle of the day. Millicent stared around her at the exercise
equipment.

"Girls don't go to gyms," Millicent said.

"Why not?"

"I mean, who wants to lift weights and shit?"

"Great way to meet guys, though," Spike said.

He was barefoot, in full karate whites, with his black
belt tied around his waist to keep the jacket closed.

Millicent stared at him. She hadn't figured Spike out
yet. She wasn't alone in that.

"Besides, I don't know how to do it," Millicent said.

"Nobody does until they've learned," I said. "We'll show
you."

"You lift weights?"

"Not very heavy ones," I said.

Spike dropped down onto the chest press machine and began
to do repetitions with 225 pounds.

"Come on," I said. "First we'll do some push-ups like
I showed you.

She got down onto the floor awkwardly and did some half
pushups with me. No one paid any attention to us. When we got through
Spike was still doing repetitions on the chest press machine.

"How many of those are you doing, Spike?"

He held the weight at arm's length for a moment.

"I'm up to twenty-eight," he said. "Some pro football
player did forty-five, so I'm eventually going to do forty-six." He grinned
and lowered the bar. "But not today."

"Can I try how heavy that is?" Millicent said.

Spike showed her how to get under the bar.

"Okay," he said, "Breathe in, then while you exhale, push
up."

Millicent did as he told her with no result. "I can't,"
she said. "How come you can?"

"Fag power," Spike said.

"I thought you weren't supposed to call gay people fags."
Millicent said.

"Sticks and stones," Spike said.

Millicent relinquished her spot to him.

"You are gay, aren't you?"

"Gayer than laughter," Spike said.

He began to do another set of chest presses. Millicent
watched him.

"You seem like kind of a tough guy," she said.

"Hard to figure, isn't it?" Spike said.

I began to do some curls with ten-pound weights. "Well,
I mean, I never think of gay guys as tough."

Spike let the bar down and sat up on the bench to let
his breathing normalize.

"It's sort of hard to generalize about gay guys," Spike
said.

"Some fit the stereotype, some don't. I prefer to have
sex with men, and other than that I just kind of plow along and do what
I do and don't think too much about it."

Millicent looked at me.

"Are those weights heavy?"

"For me," I said. "You want to try?"

She didn't say anything but she took the dumbbells when
I handed them to her.

"Palms out," I said. "Hold them straight down in front
of your thighs. Now using your biceps curl them slowly up toward your shoulders."

She did it.

"Good, now let them down slowly and do it again. Don't
heave.

If you have to sway, it's too heavy. Concentrate on just
the biceps." She did another one.

"See how many you can do before you start to cheat."

"Cheat?"

"You know, arch your back, sway your shoulders. The body
is very clever about shifting the load."

She did three more.

"Good," I said.

"Okay, I can do that, so what?"

"In a while if you keep doing it you'll get stronger,
and your arms will firm up."

"I don't want to get big muscles."

"You won't. You don't have the right hormones."

"So what's the point?"

"Be stronger, look better, feel good."

Millicent shrugged. "Women don't have to be strong."

"Better than being weak," I said.

I went to the Gravitron and set it for my weight and did
some dips and some pull-ups.

"Want to try this?"

"Okay."

I set the Gravitron higher so that she'd feel very light.
She did the same things I had done. I didn't tell her that her setting
was lighter. We did some triceps exercises and some flys and some leg work
and then we sat side by side on a couple of exercise bikes and rode for
twenty minutes. When we got through she was winded. We drank some water,
and watched Spike do karate work on the heavy bag.

"You do this every day?"

"Many days," I said. "Sometimes I can't get the time,
then I don't."

"You do it because you're a detective," Millicent said.

"I'd do it anyway. I like to be in shape as much as I
can be."

"Why?"

"It's healthy. It makes me feel good. And. .." I paused,
trying to think about it.

"What?"

"And ... I'm not just my body. But it's part of what I
am. I want it to be a good body. I want my mind to be a good mind. I want
my emotions to be good emotions. I'm all there is of me, if you see what
I'm saying, I want to make the most of me."

"I don't think about stuff like that, Sunny. I don't even
know anybody who thinks about stuff like that."

I grinned at her.

"It's because they haven't had you around asking them
questions."

"Do we have to take a shower here?" Millicent said.

"No," I said. "We can take one at Spike's."

"I don't like getting undressed in front of people."

"A possible handicap in your former profession," I said.

"I didn't like it," she said. "I didn't think about it.
I never think about stuff."

Spike moved around the heavy bag, striking it with those
odd precise movements that karate people use. Then he moved to the light
one and made it rattle.

"Good for hand speed," he said to us.

He finished with a flourish, making the bag syncopate.

"Well, it's time you started thinking about stuff," I
said. "Want to try the bag?"

"The one Spike was just hitting? The big one?"

"Sure."

"Can I just hit it, any way I want?"

"Sure. Just like at Marguerite's office."

Millicent looked at me as if she wanted to ask what Marguerite
had said. But she didn't. Spike took off the speed gloves he was using
and handed them to her.

"They're sweaty," she said.

"Yeah, but you hit that thing without them and you'll
skin your knuckles."

She shrugged and put on the gloves and began to flail
at the bag.

She lasted about twenty seconds. Spike looked at me.

"There's a way to hit the bag," I said.

"You said I could hit it any way I want."

"You can. But now you can't decide. You hit it that way
because you have to. If you learn another way, then you can choose."

"Jesus, you never get off it, do you," Millicent said.

"Choice is good," Spike said.

I took the gloves from Millicent and began to hit the
bag.

"Shorter punches," Spike said to Millicent. "See? Keep
the arms in kind of close, so you get mostly body into it instead of all
arm. Loop one, Sunny."

I looped a punch the way Millicent had.

"See, all arm," Spike said. "You swing wide like that
and you get the weight of your arm. Maybe five pounds? Show her a good
one, Sunny."

I dug a left hook into the bag, exaggerating the shoulder
turn to make the point.

"But, you punch short," Spike said, "like that, and you
get all of you, more than 100 pounds, behind the punch."

He gave her the gloves back. She began to flail at the
bag. Spike shook his head and opened his mouth.

I said, "Let's get some water." Spike shrugged and went
with me to the water cooler.

"All you can do is show her the right way," I said. "Once
she knows, it's up to her."

Spike stared across the room at Millicent, flogging the
bag badly.

"She's just being stubborn," he said.

"So are you," I said.

"Yeah, but I'm right," he said.

"She knows that," I said. "What the hell do you think
she's being stubborn about?"

Spike grinned at me.

"Shooter, shrink, painter, and sex symbol." Spike said.
"You're a broad for all seasons, Sunny."

"Dog handler, too," I said.
 

Alone.

I parked in front, put Rosie on her leash, and got out
of the car. Rosie was excited. It was her home, too. She squatted a couple
of times to reestablish herself, and then she and I went in and up the
stairs.

My door was jimmied and ajar.

I switched Rosie's leash to my left hand and took my gun
out, and cocked it, and pushed the door open with my foot. Rosie sniffed
in ahead of me, her tail wagging furiously. I stayed close to the wall
and slid through behind her. The loft was chaos. There was no sound. I
saw no one. Rosie strained on the leash, sniff, sniff, sniffing. I squatted
with my gun still cocked, and my back to the wall just inside the door,
and unsnapped her leash. She dashed into the loft and raced around sniffing
everything. I knew her very well. If there had been anyone there she would
have acted differently. I relaxed a little and stood. My front door lock
was broken, but there was a slide bolt on the inside which still worked
and I used it. With my gun still out, and the hammer still back, I checked
behind the counter in the kitchen, and under the bed, and in the bathroom.
Rosie was right. There was no one there. I let the hammer down gently and
put the gun back in its holster and looked at the mess someone had made
of my loft. It was more than someone looking for something. It was vandalism.
Every drawer was emptied. My clothes were all over the floor. Olive oil
and molasses and flour and maybe ketchup and who knew what else had been
dumped on them. My answering machine was broken on the floor. My mail had
been opened and discarded. All my files were dumped and strewn. Most of
the paper had been torn up. The bed had been torn apart, and someone had
slashed the mattress open. My makeup had been emptied into the sink. I
walked to the studio section. My easel was broken, the painting of Chinatown
slashed. The three other canvases I had were torn and slashed. The paint
was squeezed from the tubes all over the floor.