the page and folded it neatly back. I could see the big diamond ring on his little finger and the diamond chips set in the massive silver cuff links. He smelled of cologne, and when he looked up at me and smiled, his white teeth were even, cap perfect in his small mouth.
I said, “Evening, Lennie.”
He said, “You know, Spenser, little things break your balls. You ever notice that? I mean I used to read the Record American, right? Nice little tabloid size, easy to handle. Then they buy up the Herald and go the big format and it’s like reading a freakin‘ road map. Now that busts my nuts, trying to fold this thing right. That kinda stuff bother you ever?”
“On slow days,” I said.
“Want a drink?”
“Yeah, I’ll have a brandy Alexander,” I said.
Seltzer laughed. “Hey, Frank.” He raised a finger at the bartender. “A shot and a beer, okay?”
The bartender brought them over, put the beer on a little paper coaster, and went back behind the bar. I drank the shot.
“Well,” I said, “if I had worms, I guess they’re taken care of.”
“Yeah, Frank don’t age that stuff all that long, does he?”
I sipped the beer. It was better than the whiskey.
“Lennie, I need to know something without letting it get around that I’m asking.” His skin was remarkable. Smooth and pale and unlined. The sun had rarely shone upon it. It made him look a lot younger than I knew he was.
“Yeah,” he said. “Sure, kid. I never saw any advantage talking about things for no good reason. What do you want to know?” He sipped some beer, holding the glass in the tips of his fingers with the little finger sticking out. When he put the glass down, he took the handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his mouth carefully.
“I want to know if you’ve heard anything about Marty Rabb.”
Seltzer was very careful putting the handkerchief back in his pocket. He got the three points arranged and stood half up in the booth to look across the bar into the mirror and make sure they were right.
“Like what?” he said.
“Like anything at all.”
“You mean, does he occasionally place a wager? That kind of thing?”
“That, or anything else.”
“Well, he never placed a bet with me,” Seltzer said, “but I heard something peculiar about him. The odds seem to shift a little when he pitches. I mean, there’s some funny money placed when he’s scheduled to go. Nothing big, nothing I’d even think about if somebody like you didn’t come around and ask about him.”
“You think he’s in the satchel?”
“Rabb? Hell, no, Spenser. Nothing that strong. There’s just a whisper, just a ruffle, that not everything is entirely jake. I wouldn’t hesitate taking money when Rabb’s pitching.
I don’t know anyone that would. It’s just…” He shrugged and spread his hands out palms up. “Want another drink?”
I shook my head. “The last one took the enamel off my front teeth,” I said.
“Aw, Spenser.” Seltzer shook his head. “You’re going soft. I remember twenty years ago you was fighting prelims in the Arena, you thought that stuff was imported from France.”
“In those days I don’t remember you dressing like George Brent either,” I said.
Seltzer nodded. “Yeah,” he said, “things change. Now instead of a newspaper, they give you a freaking road map.
You know?”
I left him refolding his paper and went to get something to eat. The bar whiskey was thrashing about in my stomach, and I thought maybe I could smother it with something.
CHAPTER FIVE
I HAD TWO CHEESEBURGERS and a chocolate shake at an antique brick McDonald’s on Huntington, just down from Symphony Hall. The food throttled the whiskey okay, but I was furtive coming out. If anyone saw me, I could never eat at LockeOber’s again. The guilty part was I liked the cheeseburgers.
It was a little after six and I had some time to kill.
There seemed to be more of it and harder to kill as I got older.
I strolled back down Mass Ave toward the river. The college kids were out on the esplanade in large numbers, and the air was colorful with Frisbees and sweet with the smell of grass. I sat on a bench near the Mass Ave Bridge and looked at the river and watched a boy and girl share a bottle of Ripple.
Sailboats veered and drifted on the river, and an occasional powerboat left a rolling wake upstream. Across the river MIT loomed like a concrete temple to the Great God Brown. A sixfoot black girl with red hot pants and platform sandals went by with a Lhasa apso on a short leash. I watched her out of sight around the bend westbound.
At seven fifteen I strolled back up Mass Ave toward Church Park. Church Park is a large, gray, cement urban development associated with the Christian Science church complex across the street. It replaced a large number of shabby brick buildings with a very long twelve-story cement one that had stores on the bottom floor and apartments above. The doorman made me wait while he called up.
