The trainer said to me, ”You used to fight?“
”Yeah,“ I said.
”You can always tell,“ he said. ”Everybody comes in here slaps at the bag, or gives it a punch. They can’t resist it. But one guy in a hundred actually hits it and knows what he’s doing.“
”Yeah,“ I went back to the bag, driving my left fist into it, alternating jabs and hooks, trying to punch through it. The sweat rolled down my face and dripped from my arms and legs. My shirt was soaking and I was beginning to see black spots dancing like visions of sugar plums before my eyes.
”You want some salt,“ the trainer said. I shook my head. My gray T-shirt was soaked black with sweat. Sweat ran down my arms and legs. My hair was dripping wet. I stepped back from the bag and leaned on the wall. My breath was heaving in and out and my arms were numb and rubbery. I slid my back down the wall and sat on the floor, knees up, back against the wall, my forearms resting on my knees, my head hanging, and waited while the breath got under control and the spots went away. The speed gloves were slippery with sweat as I peeled them off. I got up and handed them to the trainer.
”Thanks,“ I said.
”Sure,“ he said. ”When you work out, man, you work out, don’t you?“
”Yeah,“ I said.
I walked slowly out of the training room and up the stairs. Several people looked at me as I crossed the lobby toward my room. The floor of the lobby was done in rust-colored quarry tile, about 8” x 8“. In my room I turned up the air conditioner and took a shower, standing a long time under the hard needle spray. Susan’s make-up kit was still on the vanity. I toweled dry, put on a blue and white tank top, white slacks and black loafers. I looked at my gun lying on the bureau. ”Screw it.“ I headed clean and tired and unarmed down the corridor, back to the bar, and began to drink bourbon.
Chapter 14
I woke up at eight-fifteen the next morning feeling like a failed suicide. The other bed had not been slept in. At twenty to nine I got out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom, took two aspirin and another shower. At nine-fifteen I walked stiffly and slow down to the coffee shop and drank two large orange juices and three cups of black coffee. At ten of ten I walked less stiffly, but still slow, back to my room and called my answering service. In desperate times, habit helps give form to our lives.
Pam Shepard had called and would call again. ”She said it was urgent, Spenser.“
”Thank you, Lillian. When she calls again give her this number.“ I hung up and waited. Ten minutes later the phone rang.
”Spenser,“ I said.
”I need help,“ she said. ”I’ve got to talk with you.“
”Talk,“ I said.
”I don’t want to talk on the phone, I need to see you, and be with you when I talk. I’m scared. I don’t know who else to call.“
”Okay, I’ll come up to your place.“
”No, we’re not there anymore. Do you know where Plimoth Plantation is?“
”Yes.“
”I’ll meet you there. Walk down the main street of the village. I’ll see you.“
”Okay, I’ll leave now. See you there about noon?“
”Yes. I mustn’t be found. Don’t let anyone know you’re going to see me. Don’t let anyone follow you.“
”You want to give me a hint of what your problem is?“
”No,“ she said. ”Just meet me where we said.“
”I’ll be there.“
We hung up. It was ten-thirty. Shouldn’t take more than half an hour to drive to Plymouth. Susan’s clothes were still in the closet. She’d come back for them, and the make-up kit. She must have been incensed beyond reason to have left that. She’d probably checked into another motel. Maybe even another room in this one. I could wait an hour. Maybe she’d come back for her clothes. I got a piece of stationery and an envelope from the drawer of the desk, wrote a note, sealed it in the envelope and wrote Susan’s name on the outside. I got Susan’s cosmetic case from the bathroom and put it on the desk. I propped the note against it, and sat down in a chair near the bathroom door.
At eleven-thirteen someone knocked softly on my door. I got up and stepped into the bathroom, out of sight, behind the open bathroom door. Another knock. A wait. And then a key in the lock. Through the crack of the hinge end of the bathroom door I could see the motel room door open. Susan came in. Must have gotten the key at the desk. Probably said she’d lost hers. She walked out of sight toward the desk top where the note was. I heard her tear open the envelope. The note said. ”Lurking in the bathroom is a horse’s ass. It requires the kiss of a beautiful woman to turn him into a handsome prince again.“ I stepped out from behind the door, into the room. Susan put the note down, turned and saw me. With no change of expression she walked over and gave me a small kiss on the mouth. Then she stepped back and studied me closely. She shook her head. ”Didn’t work,“ she said. ”You’re still a horse’s ass.“
”It was the low-voltage kiss,“ I said. ”Transforming a horse’s ass into a handsome prince is a high-intensity task.“
”I’ll try once more,“ she said. And put both arms around me and kissed me hard on the mouth. The kiss held, and developed into much more and relaxed in post-climactic languor without a sound. Without even breaking the kiss. At close range I could see Susan’s eyes still closed.
I took my mouth from hers and said, ”You wanta go to Plimoth Plantation?“
