Playmates
(Spenser 16)
By
Robert B. Parker
1
VINCE Haller invited me to lunch at the Clarendon Club on Commonwealth Avenue with the Chairman of the Board of Trustees of Taft University, Haller's alma mater.
'No sneakers,' Haller told me. 'No jeans, no open shirts with that idiotic gold chain you wear that's at least six years out of fashion.'
'Susan gave it to me,' I said.
'Sure,' Haller said and gave me a look I'd seen him give witnesses during cross examination. It was a look that said you are a bigger simp than Michael Jackson.
Which is why, on the last day of February, I was strolling up Commonwealth in my gray suit wearing a blue oxford shirt with a traditional roll in the collar, and a yellow silk tie that whispered power. My cordovan loafers gleamed with polish, and I had a brand new Browning 9mm on my belt just back of my right hip. The Browning was flat and the holster canted forward so that the gun snuggled into the hollow over my right kidney and didn't disturb the rakish drape of my suit. I was dressed to the nines, armed to the teeth, ready to lunch with the WASPs. If I hadn't been me, I'd have wished I were.
Haller was waiting for me in the entry hall. He was wearing a double breasted camel hair coat, and a winter vacation tan that seemed even darker around his gray hair and mustache. Haller said, 'Spenser,' in his big courtroom voice, and put out his hand. I took it. A retainer in a black suit took Haller's coat and hung it for him, and Haller and I went up the stairs toward the main dining room.
The Clarendon Club looked as it should. Twenty foot ceilings, curving marble staircase, dark oak paneling. It had been once the enclave of Bostonians of English descent, a redoubt outside of which the masses had huddled in appropriate exclusion. Now it was an ecumenical enclave, accepting anyone with money and pretending they were WASPs.
Baron Morton was waiting for us at a table. He stood when we approached. Haller introduced us and we shook hands and sat down. 'Drink to start, Mr. Spenser?' Morton said.
'Sure,' I said.
A white-coated waiter was instantly there. I ordered beer, Morton had Chivas-and-soda-tall-with-a-twist, Haller had a martini. The waiter scuttled off to get the drinks and I sat back to wait. I knew how this would go. Morton would fiddle around for a while, Haller would prompt him, and after a bit he'd tell me why we were having lunch.
'So you're a detective,' Morton said. Haller's eyes were sweeping the room, picking out former clients and prospective clients; much of his work was criminal, but Vince was always alert.
'Yes,' I said.
'How does one get into that line?'
'I was a cop and after a while I decided to go on my own,' I said.
'Spenser had a little trouble conforming,' Haller said. 'He's, as I told you, Baron, a bit of a free spirit.'
'Like a stormy kestrel,' I said. The waiter brought the drinks.
Morton took a dip into his and said, 'Stormy kestrel, by God!' He laughed and shook his head. 'What kind of living can someone make doing this, if I'm not being too nosy.'
'Varies,' I said. 'Averages out to sufficient.'
'Is there much danger?'
'Just enough,' I said.
Morton smiled. The waiter handed out menus.
We ordered lunch.
'So what do you need from Spenser?' Haller said.
Morton looked apologetic. 'I should be getting to the point, shouldn't I?'
I smiled politely.
'Just that I was so interested. I mean, you know, a private eye and all that.'
I flattened my upper lip over my front teeth and said, 'You ever stood out in the rain with your guts beat out?'
It sounded exactly like Hurnphrey Bogart. Morton looked at me blankly.
Haller said, 'Spenser thinks he does impressions.'
'Oh,' Morton said. 'Well, ah, I need some help on a fairly delicate matter.'
The waiter brought our lunch. Chicken pot pie for Morton. Scrod for Haller. Red flannel hash for me. I drank some Sam Adams.
'You're familiar with Taft University? ' Morton said.
'Yes.'
