Family Honor - Robert B Parker (5 page)

"What can I get you?" Spike said.

"You just insult these ladies?" the man said.

"Yes," Spike said. "The special today is a chicken burrito
with salsa fresca and black beans, for eight ninety-five."

The red-faced man stared up at Spike. Spike smiled down
at him. "Would you like a moment to decide?" he said.

"I don't think so," the red-faced man said, and he got
up with the two women and walked out.

Spike went to the service station, poured himself a cup
of coffee, and came and sat at the table with me. We were alone in the
restaurant.

"That was my agent on the phone," Spike said. "He thinks
he can get me something with the road company of Cabaret."

"He better," I said. "You're going to be fired here pretty
soon."

"They can't fire me," Spike said. "I'm one of the owners."

"That's right," I said. "It's so hard to imagine, I keep
forgetting.

"Entreprenuership, babe. You need something?"

"I'm looking for a fifteen-year-old runaway girl," I said.
"Any thoughts?"

"She got a boyfriend?"

"Not that I know of."

"Girlfriend?"

"Not that I know of."

"Cops find her body?"

"Try the shelters?"

"This afternoon."

"And they don't have her."

"They did. She left."

"Well, if they don't have her, and she's still around
here, I'd say she's probably hooking."

Rosie rolled over on her back beside Spike's chair. "She
wants her belly rubbed," I said.

"Me, too," Spike said.

"But not by me," I said.

Spike gently rubbed Rosie's belly with the ball of his
foot. "No, but your ex-husband's studly-looking."

"I'll tell him you think so," I said. "If she's hooking,
I suppose she's with Tony Marcus?" Spike smiled at me.

"Sunny," he said. "Every whore in the city is with Tony
Marcus."

"But Tony wouldn't know her."

"Does the president of GM know the guy that installs floor
mats?"

"So what pimp might she be with, if she's hooking? Who
specializes in runaways?"

"She white?"

"Yes."

"Maybe Pharaoh Fox," Spike said.

"Does he still work St. James Ave. and Arlington?"

"Not so much anymore. Mostly it's male prostitutes there.
Pharaoh moves the girls around every night: convention, ball game, wherever
the johns are, Pharaoh drives them up in a van and lets them out right
when the crowd breaks."

Spike was still rubbing Rosie's stomach with his foot.
Rosie was motionless in some sort of ecstatic trance. No one could stand
to rub Rosie's stomach for as long as she wanted them to.

"Pharaoh's a bad sonova bitch," Spike said.

"You don't meet all that many pimps who aren't," I said.

Spike drank some coffee.

"I was you," he said, "I'd get your ex to arrange a meeting
with Tony Marcus, maybe Tony can do something for you."

"Richie's not in the family business."

"He's not out of it either," Spike said. "Tony wants to
get along with the Burkes."

"Well, I don't," I said.

Spike shrugged. He took his foot off Rosie's stomach and
rested it on the floor. Rosie remained on her back, her flat-black watermelon-seed
eyes staring up at Spike. Spike stared back down at her. "I'm not rubbing
your stomach again," he said.

Rosie stared up some more, her feet in the air, one paw
bent. Spike put his other foot onto her stomach and began to rub gently.

"You going to go looking for Pharaoh? Maybe I should tag
along," he said.

"To protect me?"

"More or less," Spike said.

"I can protect myself."

"It's like safe sex," Spike said. "Two protect better
than one."

I shook my head. "I'll be fine," I said. "Besides, there's
my savage black-and-white attack dog."

Spike looked down at Rosie, whose eyes were now slitted,
her tongue hanging out one side of her mouth.

"Should work," Spike said. "You unleash her on Pharaoh
and he'll fall down laughing."
 

Time flies when you are having a really swell time. All
of a sudden it was the Wednesday after Labor Day and I had no idea where
Millicent Patton was. Tactical support might help after all, and I had
a date with some that night.

Neither my ex-husband nor I was willing to give up on
us entirely. We had dinner every Wednesday, which I looked forward to more
than seemed reasonable. So did he. Neither one of us said so; we were very
careful about giving mixed messages. But the conversation was always about
us and always charged and exciting. At the end of the evening there was
always the unasked and unanswered question of whether we might have sex
again. Which both of us wanted and, so far, neither of us dared. The uncertainty
of the relationship seemed to give it a greater charge than marriage had.

"Remember," Richie was saying, "It's my weekend for Rosie."

"She's got new jammies," I said, "and she wants to know
if she can bring her Lou Reed albums."

Richie smiled. It was always nice when he smiled. He had
a big jaw and a wide mouth and I liked the way the parenthetic lines deepened
at each side of his mouth. He poured a little red wine into my glass and
then into his.

"Whoever the hell Lou Reed is," he said.

We were eating in Cambridge in a small Middle European
restaurant named Salt. Richie had on a blue blazer and a starched white
shirt with the collar open. He had good color, as if he spent a lot of
time outdoors, and his neck was strong.

"Anything new in the saloon business?" I said.

"Same old thing, ever-increasing profits, wild success,"
Richie said, turning the red wine glass on the table. His hands were clean
and strong looking. I always hated delicate hands on a man.

"You started with a lot of seed money," I said.

"Yep."

The waitress came with some cherry soup for each of us.
I sipped my wine while she put the plates down.

When she left I said, "That was bitchy. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," he said.

"Whatever the seed money, if you are turning a profit
you are doing a good job."

"Yes."

We ate some soup and drank a little wine. The restaurant
was full. We were sitting close together at a table for two. The energy
between us was almost tactile.

"You need any money?" Richie said.

"No."

"It's clean," Richie said. "It comes from the saloon profits."

"The seed money wasn't clean."

Richie shrugged. "Let's not dance that dance again," he
said.

"No," I said. "I don't want to either. I'm okay money-wise.
Thank you for asking."

"Selling any paintings?"

"A couple. Not enough."

"The sleuthette business is going okay?"

"Sleuthette?"

"You find something patronizing in that?" Richie said.

"Of course not," I said. "Any woman loves diminutives."

"Lucky for me," he said.

"Yes," I said. "I remember."

We laughed. Any expression of feeling laughter, anger,
affection threatened to surge out of control when we were together. Life
without that pounding kinesis was unimaginable. So was life with it. The
waitress reappeared.

"Are you finished with your soup?" she said. We both were.
"Was everything all right?" she said.

"Wonderful," Richie said. "We're just saving room for
the entree."

The waitress smiled and took our plates.

"Funny, isn't it?" Richie said. "We both love to eat,
but when we're together we don't seem to have any appetite."

"These are not casual dinners," I said.

"Oh," Richie said, "you noticed."

"I noticed."

The waitress returned with pork loin for Richie and roast
goose for me.

"You dating anyone these days?" I said.

"Yeah, several."

"Anyone serious?"

"I'm only serious about you," Richie said.

"That might not be the best idea in the world," I said.

"It's not an idea, Sunny. It's a feeling."

There was something thin-edged and sharp in Richie's voice
when he said it. It reminded me of how dangerous Richie could be. He'd
never been dangerous to me, nor did I think he ever would be. But he was
so nice-looking, so pleasant in his dark-haired Irish way that other people
occasionally misjudged him.

"Feelings can change," I said.

"Probably," Richie said. "But these haven't."

"I know," I said.

"Everyone I go out with knows the score. I tell anyone
I'm dating, 'If I can be with Sunny, I will be'."

"I know I can't imagine life without you," I said. "But
I don't know how to live with you."

Richie nodded slowly. It was familiar ground.

"It's not just the family stuff, is it?"

"It doesn't help," I said. "My father's a cop, yours is
a mobster."

"And still my father," he said.

"Yes. And I'm a detective and you're. .." I shrugged.

"A saloon keeper."

"You carry a gun," I said.

"So do you."

"It's not just the family stuff, is it?" Richie said again.

"No," I said. "Not entirely."

I shook my head. We were quiet for a moment. Richie took
in a big breath and let it out slowly through his nose.

"So," he said. "How's the goose?"

I stared down at my plate while I came back from where
we'd been going.

"It looks good," I said.

Neither he nor I had taken a bite. Richie smiled. We both
ate. It was good. We were quiet for a time.

"You want something?" Richie said.

"Why do you ask?" I said.

"I know you. I've been looking at you for a long time.
You want something and you don't want to ask."

"God," I said. "You should be the detective."

"And betray my entire heritage?"

I smiled.

"So what do you need?" he said.

"The thing is," I said, "it makes me so damned hypocritical."

"You need something that I can do because my family's
in the rackets," Richie said.

"Yes.

"Maybe not hypocritical," he said. "Maybe just inconsistent."

"And a foolish consistency . . ." I said.

"Is the hobgoblin of little minds," Richie said.

"Exactly."

We were quiet again. Richie looked at me, waiting. I looked
at my dinner. I had only eaten a little of it. Too bad. It really was good.
Richie had barely touched his food either.

"Let's eat someplace awful next time," Richie said. "Then
if we don't eat, it won't be such a waste."

I smiled and drank a little wine. "I need a favor from
Tony Marcus," I said.

"Okay."

"I'm looking for a fifteen-year-old runaway girl and I
need to know if she's hooking."

"Chances are," Richie said.

"I need to know, and know where."

"What do you do when you know?"

"I go get her."

"What if she won't come?"

"I force her," I said. "There are better lives than hooking."

"Tony doesn't know every whore in Boston," Richie said.

"I know, but he knows every pimp."

"He knows people who know every pimp," Richie said.

"Same thing."

Richie was resting his chin on his fist. He nodded slowly.
"Her pimp may object."

"They do that," I said.

"Unless of course Tony spoke to him."

I nodded. We looked at each other. I knew there was the
usual conversation hum and the gentle sounds of service in the restaurant,
but he and I seemed to be surrounded by resonant soundlessness. I could
feel my breathing.