”Left us a note saying she was going to New York with a fellow we never met, never heard nothing more.“
”Didn’t you look for her?“
Mrs. Burlington nodded at Donaldson, ”Told T.P. here.
He looked. Couldn’t find her.“ A bony mongrel dog with short yellow fur and mismatched ears appeared behind Mr. Burlington. He growled at us, and Burlington turned and kicked him hard in the ribs. The dog yelped and disappeared.
”You ever hear from Tony Reece?“ It was like talking to a postoperative lobotomy case. And compared to the old man, she was animated.
She shook her head. ”Never seen him,“ she said. The old man squirted a long stream of tobacco juice at a cardboard box of sand behind the door. He missed.
And that was it. They didn’t know anything about anything, and they didn’t care. The old man never spoke while I was there and just nodded when Donaldson said good-bye.
In the car Donaldson said, ”Where to now?“
”Let’s just sit here a minute until I catch my breath.“
”They been poor all their life,“ Donaldson said. ”It tends to wear you out.“ I nodded.
”Okay, how about Tony Reece? He got any family here?“
”Nope. Folks are both dead.“ Donaldson started the engine and turned the car back toward the town hall. When we got there, he offered me his hand. ”If I was you, Spenser, I’d try New York next.“
”Fun City,“ I said.
CHAPTER NINE
WHEN BRENDA LORING GOT OUT of a brown and white Boston cab, I was brushing off an old man in an army shirt and a flowered tie who wanted me to give him a quarter.
”Did you autograph his bra, sweetie?“ she said.
”They were here,“ I said, ”but I warned them about your jealous passion and they fled at your approach.“
”Fled? That is quite fancy talk for a professional thug.“
”That’s another thing. Around here I’m supposed to be writing a book. My true identity must remain concealed. Reveal it to no one.“
”A writer?“
”Yeah. I’m supposed to be doing a book on the Red Sox and baseball.“
”Was that your agent you were talking with when I drove up?“
”No, a reader.“
She shook her head. Her blond hair was cut short and shaped around her head. Her eyes were green. Her makeup was expert. She was wearing a short green dress with a small floral print and long sleeves. She was darkly tanned, and a small gold locket gleamed on a thin chain against her chest where the neckline of the dress formed a V. Across Jersey Street a guy selling souvenirs was staring at her. I was staring at her too. I always did. She was ten pounds on the right side of plump. ”Voluptuous,“ I said.
”I beg your pardon.“
”That’s how we writers would describe you. Voluptuous with a saucy hint of deviltry lurking in the sparkling of the eyes and the impertinent cast of the mouth.“
”Spenser, I want a hot dog and some beer and peanuts and a ball game. Could you please, please, please, pretty please, please with sugar on it knock off the writer bullshit and escort me through the gate?“
I shook my head. ”Writers aren’t understood much,“ I said, and we went in.
I was showing off for Brenda and took her up to the broadcast booth to watch the game. My presence didn’t seem to be a spur to the Red Sox. They lost to Kansas City 5-2, with Freddie Patek driving in three runs on a bases- loaded fly ball that Alex Montoya played into a triple. Maynard ignored us, Wilson studied Brenda closely between innings, and Lester boned up on the National Enquirer through the whole afternoon. Thoughtful.
It was four ten when we got out onto Jersey Street again. Brenda said, ”Who was the cute thing in the cowboy suit?“
”Never mind about him,“ I said. ”I suppose you’re not going to settle for the two hot dogs I bought you.“
”For dinner? I’ll wait right here for the cowboy.“
”Where would you like to go? It’s early, but we could stop for a drink.“
We decided on a drink at the outdoor cafe by City Hall.
I had draft beer, and Brenda a stinger on the rocks, under the colorful umbrellas across from the open brick piazza. The area was new, reclaimed from the miasma of Scollay Square where Winnie Garrett the Flaming Redhead used to take it all off on the first show Monday before the city censor decreed the G-string. Pinball parlors, and tattoo shops, the Old Howard and the Casino, winos, whores, sailors, barrooms, and novelty shops: an adolescent vision of Sodom and Gomorrah, all gone now, giving way to fountains and arcades and a sweep of open plaza.
”You know, it never really was Sodom and Gomorrah anyway,“ I said.
”What wasn’t?“
