'Or use big words?' I said.
Rita nodded. Her thick reddish hair lay on her shoulders, and her tailored black suit fit snugly. Her stockings were patterned with flowers. Everything was nicely proportioned, very trim.
'You're looking better than you did last time I saw you,' she said.
'Last time you saw me, I had just almost died,' I said.
'That accounts for it. You better now?'
'Considerably,' I said.
'Back with the sweetie?' Rita said.
'She prefers Susan,' I said.
Rita drank some of her Scotch. 'Sure,' she said. 'We never had our literate discussion.' I nodded. 'Literate and sexy discussion was what we had actually planned.'
'I would have loved it,' I said.
'But not now.'
'Not now,' I said.
Rita smiled. 'Story of my life,' she said. 'Only the jerks stay unattached.' She lit a cigarette with a butane lighter and dragged smoke in deeply and let it come out slowly.
'You're single 'cause you want to be,' I said.
'I'm single 'cause only the jerks aren't attached,' she said. 'The unattached jerk incidence in the Boston- Cambridge area is a nationally recognized phenomenon. And occasionally, when you meet a nonjerk, he's in love with someone else, and somebody is shooting him.'
'If it would have been easier for you I'd have been willing to skip the shooting,' I said.
Rita dipped into her Scotch again. 'Now you offer,' she said.
I ordered another ale; Rita agreed to another Scotch. The downstairs bar at the Parker House was oak-paneled and clubbylooking with a small bandstand at one end and big photos of old-time Boston celebs on the wall.
'You're happy in your work,' Rita said.
'Sure,' I said.
'And the woman you love,' she said.
'Certainly,' I said.
She shook her head. 'You insufferable bastard,' she said.
'That too,' I said.
A middle-sized man with reddish hair combed to one side stepped to the bar next to Rita. He wore gold-rimmed glasses.
'Rita,' he said, 'you get more lovely every day.'
'Christ, Fallon,' Rita said, 'you say that every time you see me.'
'Well, it's true,' Fallon said, and winked at me, 'every time I see you.'
Rita smiled tiredly. 'Spenser,' she said, 'Phil Fallon.'
We shook hands. Fallon was wearing a gray suit and a blue shirt with a red and gray rep striped tie and black wing-tipped shoes. He slid onto the barstool next to Rita. We were at the corner of the bar so that he was actually facing me when he sat.
The bartender came over.
'Beefeater martini,' Fallon said. 'Very dry. Stirred not shaken. Straight up with two olives, please.' He looked at me. 'Rita tells me you are looking into something out in Wheaton and wanted some input from me.'
'That's true,' I said.
'What do you want to know?'
'Tell me about the cocaine business in Wheaton.'
Fallon's martini came, and he tasted it. He made a face and gestured to the bartender. 'Too much vermouth,' he said. 'I want it capital D-R-Y.'
'Sorry, sir,' the bartender said and took it away.
'Wheaton,' he said. 'Interesting story. Little town in the middle of Massachusetts and there's probably more coke going through there than any place north of Miami.'
'But you can't catch them.'
Fallon shook his head. The bartender brought him a new martini. He sampled it. The bartender waited. In a minute they'd have the sommelier over. Fallon nodded. 'Better,' he said. He took another sip and set his glass down.
'No, in fact we can't catch them. We haven't got the manpower. What manpower we have is spread thin over the state. The agency's major effort is, of course, south Florida. Even there they are . . . I assume we're speaking here off the record?'
