”No, thank you,“ she said. So much for the operator down from Boston.
”Would you like to see me do a one-hand push-up?“ I said.
”Certainly not,“ she said. ”If you have nothing more, Mr. Spenser, I have a good deal of work to do.“
”Oh, sure, okay. Thanks very much for your trouble.“
She stood as I left the room. From the corridor I stuck my head back into the office and said, ”Not everyone can do a onehand push-up, you know?“
She seemed unimpressed and I left.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I TOOK A POLAROID camera with me when I visited Linda Rabb.
“I want to think about graphics, maybe a coffee table book,” I told her. “Maybe a big format.”
She was in blue jeans, barefoot, a ribbon in her hair, her makeup fresh. On a twenty-five-inch color console in the living room, Buck Maynard was calling the play by play. “Ah want to tell ya, Holly West could throw a lamb chop past a wolf pack, Doc. He gunned Amos Otis down by twenty feet.”
“Great arm, Buck,” Wilson said, “a real cannon back there.”
I snapped some pictures of Linda and the living room from different angles.
“Do you get nervous watching Marty pitch, Linda?” I lay on the floor to get an exotic angle, shooting up through the glass top of the coffee table.
“No, not so much anymore. He’s so good, you know-it’s more, I’m surprised when he loses. But I don’t worry.”
“Does he bring it home or leave it at the park?”
“When he loses? He leaves it there. Unless you’ve been watching the game, you don’t know if he won or lost when he comes in the door. He doesn’t talk about it at all. Little Marty barely knows what his father does.”
I placed the five color shots on the coffee table in front of Linda Rabb.
“Which one do you like best?” I said. “They’re only idea shots; if the publishers decide to go to the big picture format, we’ll use a pro.” I sounded like Arthur Author—it pays to listen to the Carson show.
She picked up the last one on the left and held it at an angle to the light.
“This is an interesting shot,” she said. It was the one I’d taken from floor level. It was interesting. Casey Crime Photographer.
“Yeah, that’s good,” I said. “I like that one too.” I took it from her and put it in an envelope. “How about the others?”
She looked at several more. “They’re okay, but the one I gave you first is my favorite.”
“Okay,” I said. “We agree.” I scooped the other four into a second envelope.
Bucky Maynard said, “We got us a real barn burner here, Doc. Both pitchers are hummin‘ it in there pretty good.”
“You’re absolutely right, Bucky. A couple of real fine arms out there tonight.”
I stood up. “Thank you, Linda. I’m sorry to have barged in on you like this.”
“That’s okay. I enjoyed it. The only thing is, I don’t know about pictures of me, or of the baby. Marty doesn’t like to have his family brought into things. I mean, we’re very private people. Marty may not want you to do pictures.”
“I can understand that, Linda. Don’t worry. There are lots of people on the team, and if we decide to go to visuals, we can use some of them if Marty objects.”
She shook my hand at the door. It was a bony hand and cold.
Outside, it was dark now, and the traffic was infrequent. I walked up Mass Ave toward the river, crossing before I got to Boylston Street to look at the Spanish melons in the window of a gourmet food shop. Mingled with the smell of automobiles and commerce were the thin, damp smell of the river and the memory of trees and soil that the city supplanted. At Marlborough I turned right and strolled down toward my apartment. The small trees and the flowering shrubs in front of the brick and brownstone buildings enhanced the river smell.
It was nine fifteen when I got in my apartment. I called the Essex County DA’s office on the chance that someone might be there late. Someone was, probably an assistant DA working up a loan proposal so he could open an office and go into private practice.
“Lieutenant Healy around?” I asked.
“Nope, he’s working out of ten-ten Commonwealth, temporary duty, probably be there a couple of months. Can I do anything for you?”
I said no and hung up.
I called state police headquarters at 1010 Commonwealth Ave in Boston. Healy wasn’t in. Call back in the morning. I hung up and turned on the TV. Boston had a two-run lead over Kansas City. I opened a bottle of Amstel beer, lay down on my couch, and watched the ball game. John Mayberry tied the game with a one-on home run in the top of the ninth, and I went through three more Amstels before Johnny Tabor scored from third on a Holly West sacrifice fly in the eleventh inning. While the news was on, I made a Westphalian ham sandwich on pumpernickel, ate it, and drank another bottle of Amstel. A man needs sustenance before bed. I might have an exciting dream. I didn’t.
