Hush Money

“Christ,” I said, “almost sounds like a plan.”

“Do,” Hawk said, “don’t it.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Pearl the wonder dog was staying with me while Susan was at a two-day conference in Atlanta. We were lying in my bed watching the Braves game on cable when the phone rang.

A woman’s voice said, “Is Susan there?”

“No,” I said, “she’s not. Can I take a message?”

“Does she make a lot of noise when you fuck her?” the voice said.

“Mostly she yells ‘bravo,’” I said.

“I’ll bet she lays there like an old laundry bag,” the voice said.

“KC,” I said. “Stop being a pain in the ass.”

“There’s a letter for you,” she said, “in your mailbox downstairs.”

Then she hung up. I thought about not looking, but that would be childish, so I got up, put on my pants, stuck a gun in my back pocket, and went down to look in my mailbox. The letter was there. Hand delivered obviously, no stamp, and no address, only my name. I took it and went back upstairs. Pearl was still on the bed though she had raised her head and was looking annoyed. I got back into bed beside her and opened the letter. It was handwritten in blue ink by someone who had been taught that a person was judged on her penmanship.

I think about you and Susan all the time. Is it still romantic or does she just undress and lay on the bed? Do you take off her clothes for her, slowly, one garment at a time until she’s naked? Are you naked when you do it? Or do you undress after she’s undressed? Does she respond? Is she lively? Does she know a lot of tricks? Is she kinky? Or is she just the kind of prude who closes her eyes and lets you do what you want to her? She is so smart and sarcastic I have often wondered if she could ever be genuine enough to enjoy sex the way I do. The way we would, you and I. I would give you everything. Does Susan? I would ask nothing in return. Does Susan? You could still be with Susan. And have me on the side. And when you were with me, you might learn things that Susan can’t teach you.

The letter made me uncomfortable. A little girl talking dirty without using bad words. It always interested me that people had a lot more trouble writing a dirty word than they did saying it. It was also very uncomfortable to be the object of salacious fantasy. The idea that a good-looking woman would think such things about me was attractive. The reality was embarrassing. It also made me think about why KC had trouble with men. She thought that it was about sex, when what it was about was love. It made me sorry for her. I could try to explain but she wouldn’t understand it, and, worse, if she did understand it she wouldn’t believe it.

“KC is doomed,” I said to Pearl.

Pearl opened her eyes and looked at me without raising her head. I didn’t follow up the remark so she lost interest and closed her eyes again. On television Andres Galarraga hit a hanging curveball into the general area of Buckhead scoring Chipper Jones ahead of him, and the ball game was over. I clicked off the television and lay quietly beside Pearl thinking about KC. I wondered if in fact I would learn something by sleeping with her.

“You never know,” I said to Pearl.

Pearl had discerned already that I was not looking for an answer so she moved her ear slightly to let me know she was listening, but she didn’t open her eyes. I was hungry. I got up and went to the kitchen and made one and a half ham sandwiches on light rye with dark mustard. I brought it back into the bedroom with a bottle of Sam Adams White Ale, got back into bed, gave Pearl her half, and ate my sandwich, and drank my beer from the bottle.

“We’re going to have to do something about KC,” I said.

Pearl was engaged with her half sandwich.

“If only I knew what.”

Pearl had mustard on her muzzle, she wiped it on the spread as I spoke. I drank some beer and had another bite of sandwich.

“This may be,” I said to Pearl, “a job for Susan.”

Pearl stood up, turned around three times, and settled back down with a large sigh. Clearly it was enough chitchat for the night.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

It was time to pay some more attention to Lillian Temple. I called the Brandeis alumni office and got her current address from them. Alumni offices know your address when even the IRS can’t find you. I called the university English department to make sure she wasn’t teaching any night classes. Which she wasn’t. The secretary sounded a bit offended that I would think she might be.

At about six o’clock in the evening I got in my car and drove over to Cambridge. Susan wasn’t due back until the next morning, so I took Pearl with me. We parked outside Lillian’s apartment building on Kirkland Street and waited. I didn’t know what I was waiting for, but I often didn’t. I was trying to figure out a way to get information from a hostile witness.

Pearl and I watched the sights and sounds of Cambridge pass by the car. Pearl reacted only to other dogs, and then with hostility, otherwise she rested her head placidly on the backseat and stared.

“Cambridge was placed here,” I said, “across the river from Boston to provide comic relief.”

A woman came by with an ugly black dog wearing a bandanna. Pearl barked at her. Or maybe it was her owner. Across the street Lillian Temple came out of the door to her building and walked across the street behind the car. It was a cool night. I cracked the windows.

“I gotta go,” I said to Pearl, “you gotta stay. I’ll be back.”

I locked the car doors and followed Lillian down Kirkland Street toward Mass Ave. It was still light, but she