'Well, be a little careful,' she said. 'At least until we've had our drink.'
'And had a literate discussion,' I said.
'Literate and sexy,' she said.
'Yes.'
CHAPTER 48
It was nearly ten at night in Boston when I called Susan in San Francisco.
'How are you,' she said. Her voice still small with pain. 'Paul said you were out of town.'
'I'm good,' I said. 'How are you?'
'I'm . . . I'm not good,' she said. 'I'm in therapy.'
'That should help,' I said. 'In a while at least.'
'Yes,' she said. The pause seemed longer on the open phone line. 'I . . . how bad has it been about my friend?' she said.
'Worst thing that ever happened to me,' I said.
'How do you stand it?'
'Tough kid,' I said. 'Always been a tough kid.'
Again the silence stretching across the darkening land.
'He's gone,' Susan said.
It was like not drowning. I took a breath. Steady.
'He's gone back to his wife,' she said.
'He's got a wife?'
'Yes.' Susan's voice was tiny.
'Jesus Christ,' I said.
And then her voice wasn't small. 'I will not leave you,' she said.
'In a manner of speaking.'
I could hear the smile in her voice. 'In a manner of speaking.'
'He wanted to move in?' I said.
'He wanted to divorce his wife and marry me.'
'And you wouldn't.'
Again the strength. 'I will not leave you,' she said.
'Nor I you,' I said.
'Do you suppose you could get away for a little while?' Susan said.
'In two weeks I can get away for as long as I want to.'
'Would you come to San Francisco and visit me?'
'Yes.'
'In two weeks?'
'Yes.'
'It makes me feel less scared,' Susan said.
'Me too,' I said. 'It makes me want to sing `I Left My Heart in San Francisco.''
'It does?'
'Yeah,' I said. 'Want to hear me sing a couple choruses in perfect imitation of Tony Bennett?'
'No,' Susan said, 'not ever.' And she laughed. And I laughed. And the two of us sat alone and far, and laughed carefully together at the verge of different oceans.
CHAPTER 25
I left Sherry with the confession and picture, back in the envelope. I took the other envelope and drove down to Quincy to visit Mickey. This time when I went in the two sluggers were there along with Paultz.
I tossed the manila envelope on the desk. The squinty-eyed one was chewing a toothpick. Nobody spoke. Paultz picked up the envelope and looked at the contents. He read my notes of Winston's spilled beans. Then he put the picture and the notes back into the envelope and put the envelope on the table next to a dirty white coffee mug that said Canobie Lake Park on it in red letters.
'This is going to get you killed, pal,' Paultz said to me.
'Yeah, but only once,' I said.
