I turned off of Route 28 onto Route 128 South, toward Lexington.
“I also think it’s bad form to talk about your mother that way to a stranger.”
“Why?”
“It’s not done,” I said.
The kid shrugged and stared out the window. He had one shrug left.
“If my father had started to fight with you, what would you do?”
“I’d have subdued him.”
“How?”
“Depends how tough he is.”
“He used to be a football player and he still lifts weights at the health club.”
I shrugged. It was catching.
“Do you think you could beat him up?” he said.
“Oh, sure,” I said. “He’s a big strong guy, I guess, but I do this for a living. And I’m in better shape.”
“Big deal,” the kid said.
“I didn’t bring it up,” I said.
“I don’t care about muscles,” the kid said.
“Okay,” I said.
“I suppose you think you’re a big man, having muscles,” the kid said.
“I think they are useful to me in what I do,” I said.
“Well, I think they’re ugly.”
I took my hands off the wheel long enough to turn my palms up.
“How come you’re a detective?” he said.
“Like the man said, because I can’t sing or dance.”
“It’s an awful gross job to me,” he said.
I made the same palms-up gesture. We were passing the Burlington Mall. “What exit do I take?” I said.
“Four and two-twenty-five toward Bedford,” he said. “How come you want to do a gross job?”
“It lets me live life on my own terms,” I said. “You sure you mean toward Bedford?”
“Yes. I’ll show you,” he said. And he did. We turned off toward Bedford, turned right, and right again and over an overpass back toward Lexington. Emerson Road was not far off the highway, a community of similar homes with a lot of wood and glass and some stone and brick. It was contemporary, but it worked okay in Lexington. I parked in the driveway out front and we got out. It was late afternoon and the wind had picked up. We leaned into it as we walked to his back door.
He opened it and went in without knocking and without any announcement.
CHAPTER 5
I rang the doorbell a long blast and followed him in. It was a downstairs hall. There were two white hollow core doors on the left and a short stairway to the right. On the wall before the stairway was a big Mondrian print in a chrome frame. Four steps up was the living room. As I went up the stairs behind the kid his mother came to the head of the stairs.
The kid said, “Here’s a big treat, I’m home.”
Patty Giacomin said, “Oh, Paul, I didn’t expect you so soon.”
She was wearing a pink silk outfit-tapered pants with a loose-fitting top. The top hung outside the pants and was gathered at the waist by a gold belt.
I was standing two steps down behind Paul on the stairs. There was a moment of silence. Then Patty Giacomin said, “Well, come up, Mr. Spenser. Have a drink. Paul, let Mr. Spenser get by.”
I stepped into the living room. There were two glasses and a pitcher that looked like martini on the low glass coffee table in front of the couch. There was a fire in the fireplace. There was Boursin cheese on a small tray and a plate of crackers that looked like little shredded-wheat biscuits. And on his feet, politely, in front of the couch was the very embodiment of contemporary elegance. He was probably my height and slim as a weasel. He wore a subdued gray herringbone coat and vest with charcoal pants, a narrow pink tie, a pin collar, and black Gucci loafers. A pink-and-charcoal hankie spilled out of the breast pocket of his jacket His hair was cut short and off the ears and he had a close-cropped beard and a mustache. Whether to see or be seen I had no way to tell, but he was also sporting a pair of pink-tinted aviator glasses with very thin black rims. The pink tie was shiny.
Patty Giacomin said, “Paul, you know Stephen. Stephen, this is Mr. Spenser. Stephen Court”
Stephen put out his hand. It was manicured and tanned. St Thomas, no doubt His handshake was firm without being strong. “Good to see you,” he said.
He didn’t say anything to Paul and Paul didn’t look at him. Patty said, “Would you join us for a drink, Mr. Spenser?”
