Double Deuce

CHAPTER 22

“Did you let her eat that bone on the couch?” Susan said.

It was 9:30 at night. I was reading Calvin and Hobbes in the morning edition of the Globe.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Why didn’t you stop her?”

“I didn’t notice,” I said. “Besides, why shouldn’t she eat a bone on the couch?”

“Because she gets bone juice all over my cushions,” Susan said. “How could you not notice?”

Answering questions like that had never proven fruitful. So I smiled ruefully and gave my head a beguiling twist and started back to Calvin and Hobbes. Then I would move to Tank McNamara, and finish with Doonesbury. I had my evening all planned out.

“It is not funny,” Susan said.

“No,” I said, “that was a rueful smile.”

“I’m serious,” she said. “My stuff means a lot to me.”

“I thought it was our stuff,” I said.

“You know what I mean. I care about it. You don’t.”

“I know,” I said. “I know that a lot of you goes into design and decor. It is part of your art. And the results are in fact artful. It’s just that preventing the dog getting bone juice on your cushions was sort of on the back burner. I was feeling like I could read the paper and relax my vigilance for a bit.”

“You were reading the comics,” Susan said and walked out of the living room. I looked at Pearl, she did not seem abashed. She was vigorously getting bone juice on the rug.

CHAPTER 23

I was in my office evaluating the health hazard of a third cup of coffee, compounded by the possibility of a donut. Outside my window it was overcast with the hard look of rain toward the river. A good day for coffee and donuts.

My office door opened, and there, radiant in a white raincoat and matching hat with a lot of blue polka dot showing at her neck, was Marge Eagen herself, the host of the number-one-rated local show in the country. My heart beat faster.

“Hello,” I said.

“I wasn’t sure whether to knock or not,” Marge Eagen said. She smiled beautifully. “I thought you might have a receptionist.”

“I did,” I said, “but she returned to her first love, neurosurgery, a while back and I haven’t bothered to replace her.”

Marge Eagen laughed delightedly. “I heard you were funny,” she said.

“Lot of people say that.”

“May I sit down?”

“Of course,” I said.

I nodded at the chair. She sat and glanced around my office.

“Great location,” she said. I didn’t comment.

“Is it as fascinating as it seems,” Marge Eagen said, “being a private detective?”

“Better than working,” I said.

“Oh, I’m sure,” she said, “that you work pretty damned hard.”

“So what can I do for you?” I said.

“My, my,” she said. “So businesslike.”

She had unbuttoned her shiny white raincoat and let it fall off her shoulders over the back of the chair. She had on a dark blue dress with big white polka dots. When she crossed her legs, she showed me a lot of thigh. I remained calm.

“I really need to know what the problem is,” Marge Eagen said.

I nodded encouragingly.

“Just what is the issue with your black friend,” Marge said. “We’re out there trying to do a story that should help his people, and, frankly, he seems to have a real attitude.”

“Hawk?” I said. “An attitude?”

“Oh, come now, don’t be coy, Mr. Spenser. What is his problem?”

“Why not consult with him?” I said.

“Well, I don’t know where to find him, and in truth I’m more comfortable talking with you.”

“Is it because I’m so cuddlesome?” I said.

She smiled the smile that launched a thousand commercials.

“Well, that’s certainly part of it,” she said.

“And I’m not a surly nigger,” I said. “That’s probably appealing too.”

“There’s no need to be coarse,” Marge Eagen said. “The stations are really behind this. We believe in the project. We care.”

“Hawk probably thinks you are a self-important ninny who is looking for television ratings and using the problems of the ghetto to that end. Hawk probably thinks that your coverage will do no good, and will make people think it’s doing good, thus making things, if possible, worse.” Marge Eagen’s face got red.

“You arrogant fucking prick,” she said.

“Everyone says that,” I said.

She stood, and turned, angrily shrugging her coat back on.

“Of course maybe he just doesn’t like having his picture taken,” I said. “With Hawk you never know.”

She didn’t answer. Without looking back she stalked out my door and slammed it shut behind her.

No business like show business.