She sat at the end of the couch and leaned back slightly against the arm, took a grown-up sip of her gimlet, and looked at me over the glass as she did so.
“What ever happened to your nose, Mr. Spenser?”
“A very good heavyweight boxer hit it several times with his left fist.”
“Why didn’t you ask him not to do that?”
“It’s considered bad form. I was hoping for the referee.”
“You don’t seem to choose the easiest professions,” she said.
“I don’t know. The real pain, I think, would be nine to five at a desk processing insurance claims. I’d rather get my nose broken weekly.”
Her glass was empty. I filled it from the pitcher and freshened mine. Don’t want to get drunk on duty. Don’t want to make a damned fool of myself in front of Susan Silverman, either.
She smiled her thanks at me. “So, sticking your nose into things and getting it broken allows you to live life on your own terms, perhaps.”
“Jesus, I wish I’d said that,” I said. “Want to eat?”
“I think we’d better; I’m beginning to feel the gimlets.”
“In that case, my dear, let me get you another.” I raised my eyebrows and flicked an imaginary cigar.
“Oh, do the funny walk, Groucho,” she said.
“I haven’t got that down yet,” I said. I gestured toward the pitcher, and she shook her head. “No thank you, really.”
I held her chair as she sat down, sat down opposite her, and poured some wine in her glass.
“A self-effacing little domestic red,” I said, “with just a hint of presumption.”
She took a sip. “Oh, good,” she said, “it’s cold. I hate it at room temperature, don’t you?” I said, “Let’s elope.”
“Just like that,” she said. “Because I like cold wine?”
“Well, there are other factors,” I said.
“Let’s eat first,” she said.
We ate. Largely in silence. There are people with whom silence is not strained. Very few of them are women. But Susan Silverman was one. She didn’t make conversation.
Or if she was making conversation she was so good at it that I didn’t notice. She ate with pleasure and impeccable style.
Me too.
She accepted another slice of the roast and put sauce on it from the gravy boat.
“The sauce is super,” she said. “What is it?”
“Cumberland sauce,” I said. “It is also terrific with duck.”
She didn’t ask for the recipe. Style. I hate people who ask for recipes.
“Well, it is certainly terrific with pork.”
“Jesus Christ,” I said.
“What’s the matter?”
“You’re Jewish.”
“Yes?”
“You’re not Orthodox?”
“No.”
“Serving a pork roast on your first date with a Jewish lady is not always considered a slick move.”
She laughed. “I didn’t even think of that. You poor thing.
Of course it is not a slick move. But is this a date? I thought I was going to be questioned.”
“Yeah. That’s right. I’m just softening you up now. After dessert and brandy I break out the strappado.”
She held out her wineglass. “Well then, I’d better fortify myself as best I can.”
I poured her more wine.
“What about Kevin Bartlett? Where do you think he is?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. How could I? Haven’t you got any clues at all?”
“Oh yeah, we got clues. We got lots of clues. But they don’t lead us to anything. What they tell us is that we’re into something weird. It’s freak-land again.”
“Again?”
“That’s just nostalgia, I guess. Used to be when you got a kidnapping you assumed the motive to be greed and
