Five Classic Spenser Mysteries (104 page)

I shook my head. “I need some information on some betting habits, though.”

“Uh-huh?”

“Guy named Lester Floyd. Ever hear of him?”

Seltzer shook his head. “How about Bucky Maynard?”

“The announcer?”

“Yeah. Floyd is his batman.”

“His what?”

“Batman, like in the British army, each officer had a batman, a personal servant.”

“You spend too much time reading, Spenser. You know more stuff that don’t make you money than anybody I know.”

“ ’Tis better to know than not to know,” I said.

“Aw bullshit, what is it you want to know about Maynard and what’s’isname?”

“Lester Floyd. I want to know if they bet on baseball and, if they do, what games they bet on. I want the dates. And I need an idea of how much they’re betting. Either one or both.”

Seltzer nodded. “Okay, I’ll let you know.”

Lennie Seltzer called me two days later at my office. “Neither Maynard nor Floyd does any betting at all I can find out about,” he said.

“Sonovabitch,” I said.

“Screw up a theory?”

“Yeah. How sure are you?”

“Pretty sure. Can’t be positive, but I been in business here a long time.”

“Goddamn,” I said.

“I hear that Maynard used to bet a lot, and he got into the hole with a guy and couldn’t pay up and the guy sold the paper to a shylock. Pretty good deal, the guy said. Shylock gave him seventy cents on the dollar.”

I said, “Aha.”

Seltzer said, “Huh?”

I said, “Never mind, just thinking out loud. What’s the shylock’s name?”

“Wally Hogg. Real name’s Walter Hogarth. Works for Frank Doerr.”

“Short, fat person, smokes cigars?”

“Yeah, know him?”

“I’ve seen him around,” I said. “Does he always work for Doerr, or does he free-lance?”

“I don’t know of him free-lancing. I also don’t know many guys like me ever made a profit talking about Frank Doerr.”

“Yeah, I know, Lennie. Okay, thanks.”

He hung up. I held the phone for a minute and looked up at the ceiling. Seventy cents on the dollar. That was a good rate. Doerr must have had some confidence in Maynard’s ability to pay. I looked at my watch: 11:45.1 was supposed to meet Brenda Loring in the Public Garden for a picnic lunch. Her treat. I put on my jacket, locked the office, and headed out.

She was already there when I arrived, sitting on the grass beside the swan boat pond with a big wicker basket beside her.

“A hamper?” I said. “A genuine wicker picnic hamper like in Abercrombie and Fitch?”

“I think you’re supposed to admire me first,” she said, “then the food basket. I’ve always been suspicious of your value system.”

“You look good enough to eat,” I said.

“I think I won’t pursue that line,” she said. She was wearing a pale blue linen suit and an enormous white straw hat. All the young executive
types looked at her as they strolled by with their lunches hidden in attaché cases. “Tell me about your travels.”

“I had a terrific blackberry pie in Illinois and a wonderful roast duck in New York.”

“Oh, I’m glad for you. Did you also encounter any clues?” She opened the hamper as she talked and took out a red-and-white-checked tablecloth and spread it between us. The day was warm and still, and the cloth lay quiet on the ground.

“Yeah. I found out a lot of things and all of them are bad. I think. It’s kind of complicated at the moment.”

She took dark blue glossy-finish paper plates out of the hamper and set them out on the cloth. “Tell me about it. Maybe it’ll help you sort out the complicated parts.”

I was looking into the hamper. “Is that wine in there?” I said. She took my nose and turned my head away.

“Be patient,” she said. “I went to a lot of trouble to arrange this and bring it out one item at a time and impress the hell out of you, and I’ll not have it spoiled.”

“Instinct,” I said. “Remember I’m a trained sleuth.”

“Tell me about your trip.” She put out two sets of what looked like real silver.

“Okay, Rabb’s got reason to be dumping a game or two.”

“Oh, that’s too bad.”

“Yeah. Mrs. Rabb isn’t who she’s supposed to be. She’s a kid from lower-middle America who smoked a little dope early and ran off with a local hotshot when she was eighteen. She went to New York, was a whore for a while, and went into acting. Her acting was done with her clothes off in films distributed by mail. She started out turning tricks in one-night cheap hotels. Then she graduated to a high-class call girl operation run, or at least fronted, by a very swish woman out of a fancy town house on the East Side. That’s when I think she met her husband.”

Brenda placed two big wine goblets in front of us and handed me a bottle of rosé and a corkscrew. “You mean, he was a—what should I call him—a customer?”

“Yeah, I think so. How can I talk and open the wine at the same time? You know my powers of concentration.”

“I’ve heard,” she said, “that you can’t walk and whistle at the same time. Just open the wine and then talk while I pour.”

I opened the wine and handed it to her. “Now,” I said, “where was I?”

“Oh, giant intellect,” she said, and poured some wine into my glass. “You were saying that Marty Rabb had met his wife when she was—as we sociologists would put it—screwing him professionally.”

“Words,” I said, “what a magic web you weave with them. Yeah, that’s what I think.”

“How do you know?” She poured herself a half glass of wine.

“Well, he’s covering up her past. He lied about how he met her and where they were married. I don’t know what he knows, but he knows something.”

Brenda brought out an unsliced loaf of bread and took off the transparent wrapping.

“Sourdough?” I said.

She nodded and put the loaf on one of the paper plates. “Is there more?” she said.

“Yeah. A print of the film she made was sold to Lester Floyd.” She looked puzzled. “Lester Floyd,” I said, “is Bucky Maynard’s gofer, and Bucky Maynard is, in case you forgot, the play by play man for the Sox.”

“What’s a gofer?”

“A lackey. Someone to go-for coffee and go-for cigarettes and go-for whatever he’s told.”

“And you think Maynard told him to go-for the film?”

“Yeah, maybe, anyway, say Bucky got a look at the film and recognized Mrs. Rabb. Is that smoked turkey?”

Brenda nodded and put a cranshaw melon out beside it, and four nectarines.

“Oh, I hope she doesn’t know,” she said.

“Yeah, but I think she does know. And I think Marty knows.”

“Some kind of blackmail?”

“Yeah. First I thought it was maybe Maynard or Lester of the costumes getting Rabb to shave a game here and there and cleaning up from the bookies. But they don’t seem to bet any these days, and I found out that Maynard owes money to a shylock.”

“Is that like a loan shark?”

“Just like a loan shark,” I said.

A large wedge of Monterey Jack cheese came out of the hamper, and a small crystal vase with a single red rose in it, which Brenda placed in the middle of the tablecloth.

“That hamper is like the clown car at the circus. I’m waiting for the sommelier to jump out with his gold key and ask if Monsieur is pleased with the wine.”

“Eat,” she said.

While I was breaking a chunk off the sourdough bread, Brenda said, “So what does the loan shark mean?”

I said, “Phnumph.”

She said, “Don’t talk with your mouth full. I’ll wait till you’ve eaten a little and gotten control of yourself.”

I drank some wine and said, “My compliments to the chef.”

She said, “The chef is Bert Heidemann at Bert’s Deli on Newbury Street. I’ll tell him you were pleased.”

“The shylock means that maybe Maynard can’t pay up and they’ve put the squeeze on him and he gave them Rabb.”

“What do you mean, gave them Rabb?”

“Well, say Maynard owes a lot of bread to the shylock and he can’t pay, and he can’t pay the vig, and—”

“The what?”

“The vig, vigorish, interest. A good shylock can keep you paying interest the rest of your life and never dent the principal … like a revolving charge.… Anyway, say Maynard can’t make the payments. Shylocks like Wally Hogg are quite scary. They threaten broken bones, or propane torches on the bottoms of
feet, or maybe cut off a finger each time you miss a payment.”

Brenda shivered and made a face.

“Yeah, I know, okay, say that’s the case and along comes this piece of luck. Mrs. Rabb in the skin flick. He tells the shylock he can control the games that Marty Rabb pitches, and Rabb, being probably the best pitcher now active, if he’s under control can make the shylock and his employers a good many tax-free muffins.”

“But would he go for it?” Brenda asked. “I mean it would be embarrassing, but the sexual revolution has been won. No one, surely, would stone her to death.”

“Maybe so if she were married to someone in a different line of work, but baseball is more conservative than the entire city of Buffalo. And Rabb is part of a whole ethic: Man protects the family, no matter what.”

“Even if he has to throw games? What about the jock ethic? You know winning isn’t everything, it’s the only thing. Wouldn’t that be a problem?”

“That’s not the real jock ethic, that’s the jock ethic that people who don’t know a hell of a lot about jocks believe. The real jock ethic’s a lot more complicated.”

“My, we’re a little touchy about the jock ethic, aren’t we?”

“I didn’t mean you,” I said.

“Maybe you haven’t outgrown the jock ethic yourself.”

“Maybe it’s not something to outgrow,” I said. “Anyway, some other time I’ll give my widely acclaimed lecture on the real jock ethic. The thing is that unless I misjudged Rabb a lot, he’s in an awful bind. Because his ethic is violated whichever way he turns. He feels commitment to play the game as best he can and to protect his wife and family as best he can. Both those commitments are probably absolute, and the point when they conflict must be sharp.”

Brenda sipped some wine and looked at me without saying anything.

“A quarter for your thoughts if you accept Diners Club?”

She smiled. “You sound sort of caught up in all this. Maybe you’re talking some about yourself too. I think maybe you are.”

I leered at her. “Want me to tell you about the movie Mrs. Rabb was in and what they did?”

“You think I need pointers?” Brenda said.

“When we stop learning, we stop growing,” I said.

“And you got us off that subject nicely, didn’t you?”

I had once again qualified for membership in the clean plate club by then, and we had begun a second bottle of wine. “You have to get back to work?” I said.

“No, I took the afternoon off. I had the feeling lunch would stretch out.”

“That’s good,” I said, and filled my wineglass again.

It was a classic summer morning when I dropped Brenda Loring off at her Charles River Park apartment. The river was a vigorous and optimistic blue, and the MDC cop at Leverett Circle was whistling “Buttons and Bows” as he directed traffic. Across the river Cambridge looked clean and bright in sharp relief against the sky. I went around Leverett Circle and headed back westbound on Storrow Drive. The last hurrah of the rush-hour traffic was still to be heard, and it took me twenty minutes to get to Church Park. I parked at a hydrant and took the elevator to the sixth floor. I’d called before I left that morning, so Linda Rabb was expecting me. Marty wasn’t home; he was with the club in Oakland.

“Coffee, Mr. Spenser?” she said when I came in.

“Yeah, I’d love some,” I said. It was already perked and on the coffee table with a plate of
assorted muffins: corn, cranberry, and blueberry; all among my favorites. She was wearing pale blue jeans and a blue-and-pink-striped man-tailored shirt, open at the neck with a pink scarf knotted at the throat. On her feet were cork-soled blue suede slip-on shoes. The engagement ring on her right hand had a heart-shaped diamond in it big enough to make her arm weary. The wedding ring on her left was a wide gold band, unadorned. A small boy who looked like his father hung around the coffee table, eyeing the muffins but hesitant about snatching one from so close to me. I picked up the plate and offered him one, and he retreated quickly back behind his mother’s leg.

“Marty’s shy, Mr. Spenser,” she said. And to the boy: “Do you want cranberry or blueberry, Marty?” The boy turned his head toward her leg and mumbled something I couldn’t hear. He looked about three. Linda Rabb picked up a blueberry muffin and gave it to him. “Why don’t you get your crayons,” she said, “and bring them in here and draw here on the floor while I talk with Mr. Spenser?” The kid mumbled something again that I couldn’t hear. Linda Rabb took a deep breath and said, “Okay, Marty, come on, I’ll go with you to get them.” And to me: “Excuse me, Mr. Spenser.”

They went out, the kid hanging onto Linda Rabb’s pants leg as they went. No wonder so many housewives ended up drinking Boone’s Farm in the morning. They were back in maybe two minutes with a lined yellow legal-sized pad of paper and a box of crayons. The kid got down on the floor by his mother’s chair and began to draw stick-figured people in various colors, with orange predominant.

“Now, what can I do for you, Mr. Spenser?” she asked.

I hadn’t counted on the kid. “Well, it’s kind of complicated, Mrs. Rabb, maybe I ought to come back when the boy isn’t …” I left it hanging. I didn’t know how much the kid would understand, and I didn’t want him to think I didn’t want him around.

“Oh, that’s all right, Mr. Spenser, Marty’s fine. He doesn’t mind what we talk about.”

“Well, I don’t know, this is kind of ticklish.”

“For heaven’s sake, Mr. Spenser, say what’s on your mind. Believe me, it is all right.”

I drank some coffee. “Okay, I’ll tell you two things; then you decide whether we should go on. First, I’m not a writer, I’m a private detective. Second, I’ve seen a film called
Suburban Fancy
.”

She put her hand down on the boy’s head; otherwise she didn’t move. But her face got white and crowded.

“Who hired you?” she said.

“Erskine, but that doesn’t matter. I won’t hurt you.”