Susan Silverman said, “Do you have a program for overconfidence?”
He frowned. “No. But you know, there might be a market there. You got a pretty good head for business for a lady. By God, I never thought of that.” He moved off.
Marge Bartlett said something to one of the businessy types and stood up. He gave her a slap on the rear end, and all three men on the couch laughed. Marge Bartlett moved away and headed for the kitchen. I moved along after her.
Susan said, “I’ll be along. I think I’ll sample the buffet before those two guys finish it.”
As I passed the dining room, I noticed the coach and his buddy still at the buffet. A colony of beer cans had sprung up on the highboy beside them. In the kitchen Roger Bartlett was mixing drinks at the counter from half- gallons of booze. A plastic trash can was filled with chopped ice and beer cans, and a whole ham garnished with fruit was being readied for the buffet table. I wondered if the two gourmets in the corner had already polished off the first one.
It would be fun to join them and comment on the broads and make wisecracks about the other guests and eat and drink till it became self-destructive and have your wife drive home. That would be more fun than finding a guy with his neck snapped, or going one-on-one with a weight lifter. Or following Marge Bartlett around all evening. I looked around for Mr. Confidence. I needed a booster shot.
Bartlett poured a glass near full of scotch, added an ice cube and a teardrop’s worth of water, and gave it to his wife.
She took a big drink and said, “Whoooo, that’s strong. You want me to get drunk so you can take advantage of me.”
“Dear, by the time I get to the bedroom tonight, you’ll be snoring like a hog.”
“Roger!” she said and turned away. She saw me standing in the doorway and came over.
“My God, Spenser, you’re a big handsome brute,” she said and leaned against me with her right arm around me.
I said, “You’re really into words, aren’t you?”
“He’s my bodyguard,” Marge Bartlett said to a woman with bags under her eyes and a pouty mouth. “Don’t you think I ought to keep my body very close to him so he can guard it?” She made snuggling motions at me. Pressed against me, she felt tightly cased and ready to burst, like a knockwurst.
The woman with the baggy eyes said, “Someone should guard your body, sweetie, that’s for sure.” I said, “You’re leaning on my gun arm.”
She put her mouth up close to my ear and said, “I could lean on something else, if you were nice.”
“It wouldn’t carry the weight,” I said.
“You’re awful,” she said and stepped away from me.
I said, “All us big handsome brutes are like that.”
Baggy-eyes snickered, and Marge Bartlett spotted Mr. Confidence across the kitchen and went after him.
“Are you really a bodyguard?” Baggy-eyes said.
“Yep.”
“Do you have a gun?”
“No,” I said. “I have this mysterious power I acquired in the Orient to cloud men’s minds so they cannot see me.”
Susan appeared with an assorted platter from the buffet table and offered me some. “I have two forks,” she said.
Baggy-eyes moved off. Marge Bartlett and Mr. Confidence Were in close proximity across the kitchen. I wondered if she had called him a big handsome brute.
“Having a nice time?” Susan asked.
“It’s better than getting bitten by a great white shark,” I said.
“Oh, it’s not that bad. In fact, you kind of like it. I’ve been watching you. You look at everything; you listen to everybody. I bet you know what everyone in the kitchen is talking about and what they look like. They fascinate you.”
“Yeah,” I said, “I’m into people.”
“Oh, you’re such a big tough guy, and you think you’re funny, but I’ll bet if that fool with the confidence courses got in trouble, you’d get him out of it.”
“A catcher in the rye,” I said.
“You’re being smart, I know, but that’s right. That’s exactly what you are. You are exactly that sentimental.”
The wall phone in the kitchen rang. A thin woman said, “Oh, Christ, that’s my kid, I’ll bet anything.” And a tall white-haired man with a red face and a green polka-dot bow tie answered. “Duffy’s Tavern, Archie the manager speaking.”
He listened and then he said, “Anybody here named Spenser?” The thin woman said, “Whew.” I took the phone and said hello.
“Mr. Spenser? This is Mary Riordan at the State Police.
Lieutenant Healy asked me to call you and tell you that Earl Maguire died of a broken neck apparently the result of being struck on the side of the face with a solid blunt object.”
