Mortal Stakes

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

IT WAS A CLASSIC summer morning when I dropped Brenda Loring off at her Charles River Park apartment. The river was a vigorous and optimistic blue, and the MDC cop at Leverett Circle was whistling “Buttons and Bows” as he directed traffic. Across the river Cambridge looked clean and bright in sharp relief against the sky. I went around Leverett Circle and headed back westbound on Storrow Drive. The last hurrah of the rush-hour traffic was still to be heard, and it took me twenty minutes to get to Church Park. I parked at a hydrant and took the elevator to the sixth floor. I’d called before I left that morning, so Linda Rabb was expecting me. Marty wasn’t home; he was with the club in Oakland.

“Coffee, Mr. Spenser?” she said when I came in.

“Yeah, I’d love some,” I said. It was already perked and on the coffee table with a plate of assorted muffins: corn, cranberry, and blueberry; all among my favorites. She was wearing pale blue jeans and a blue-and-pink-striped man-tailored shirt, open at the neck with a pink scarf knotted at the throat.

On her feet were cork-soled blue suede slip-on shoes. The engagement ring on her right hand had a heart-shaped diamond in it big enough to make her arm weary. The wedding ring on her left was a wide gold band, unadorned. A small boy who looked like his father hung around the coffee table, eyeing the muffins but hesitant about snatching one from so close to me.

I picked up the plate and offered him one, and he retreated quickly back behind his mother’s leg.

“Marty’s shy, Mr. Spenser,” she said. And to the boy: “Do you want cranberry or blueberry, Marty?” The boy turned his head toward her leg and mumbled something I couldn’t hear. He looked about three. Linda Rabb picked up a blueberry muffin and gave it to him. “Why don’t you get your crayons,” she said, “and bring them in here and draw here on the floor while I talk with Mr. Spenser?” The kid mumbled something again that I couldn’t hear. Linda Rabb took a deep breath and said, “Okay, Marty, come on, I’ll go with you to get them.” And to me: “Excuse me, Mr. Spenser.”

They went out, the kid hanging onto Linda Rabb’s pants leg as they went. No wonder so many housewives ended up drinking Boone’s Farm in the morning. They were back in maybe two minutes with a lined yellow legal-sized pad of paper and a box of crayons. The kid got down on the floor by his mother’s chair and began to draw stick-figured people in various colors, with orange predominant.

“Now, what can I do for you, Mr. Spenser?” she asked.

I hadn’t counted on the kid. “Well, it’s kind of complicated, Mrs. Rabb, maybe I ought to come back when the boy isn’t…” I left it hanging. I didn’t know how much the kid would understand, and I didn’t want him to think I didn’t want him around.

“Oh, that’s all right, Mr. Spenser, Marty’s fine. He doesn’t mind what we talk about.”

“Well, I don’t know, this is kind of ticklish.”

“For heaven’s sake, Mr. Spenser, say what’s on your mind. Believe me, it is all right.”

I drank some coffee. “Okay, I’ll tell you two things; then you decide whether we should go on. First, I’m not a writer, I’m a private detective. Second, I’ve seen a film called Suburban Fancy.”

She put her hand down on the boy’s head; otherwise she didn’t move. But her face got white and crowded.

“Who hired you?” she said.

“Erskine, but that doesn’t matter. I won’t hurt you.”

“Why?” she said.

“Why did Erskine hire me? He wanted to find out if your husband was involved in fixing baseball games.”

“O my God Jesus,” she said, and the kid looked up at her. She smiled. “Oh, isn’t that a nice family you’re drawing.

There’s the momma and the daddy and the baby.”

“Would it be better if I came back?” I said.

“There’s nothing to come back for,” Linda Rabb said. “I don’t know anything about it. There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Mrs. Rabb, you know there is,” I said. “You’re panicky now and you don’t know what to say, so you just say no, and hope if you keep saying it, it’ll be true. But there’s a lot to talk about.”

“No.”

“Yeah, there is. I can’t help you if I don’t know.”

“Erskine didn’t hire you to help us.”

“I’m not sure if he did or not. I can always give him his money back.”

“There’s nothing to help. We don’t need any help.”

“Yeah, you do.”

The kid tugged at his mother’s pants leg again and held up his drawing. “That’s lovely, Marty,” she said. “Is that a doggie?” The kid turned and held the picture so I could see it.

I said, “I like that very much. Do you want to tell me about it?”

The kid shook his head. “No,” I said, “I don’t blame you. I don’t like to talk about my work all that much either.”

“Marty,” Linda Rabb said, “draw a house for the doggie.” The boy bent back to the task. I noticed that he stuck his tongue out as he worked.

“Even if we did need help, what could you do?” Linda Rabb said.

“Depends on what exactly is going on. But this is my kind of work. I’m pretty sure to be better at it than you are.”

My coffee cup was empty, and Linda Rabb got up and refilled it. I took a corn muffin, my third. I hoped she didn’t notice.

“I’ve got to talk with Marty,” she said.

I bit off one side of my corn muffin. Probably should have broken it first. Susan Silverman was always telling me about taking small bites and such. Linda Rabb didn’t notice.

She was looking at her watch. “Little Marty goes to nursery school for a couple of hours in the afternoon.” She looked at the telephone and then at the kid and then at her watch again. Then she looked at me. “Why don’t you come back a little after one?”

“Okay.”

I got up and went to the door. Linda Rabb came with me. The kid came right behind her, close to her leg but no longer hanging on. As I left, I pointed my finger at him, from the hip, and brought my thumb down like the hammer of a pistol. He looked at me silently and made no response. On the other hand, he didn’t run and hide. Always had a way with kids. The Dr. Spock of the gumshoes.

Outside on Mass Ave, I looked at my watch: 11:35. An hour and a half to kill. I went around the corner to the Y on Huntington Ave where I am a member and got in a full workout on the Universal, including an extra set of bench presses and two extra sets of wrist rolls. By the time I got showered and dressed my pulse rate was back down under 100 and my breathing was almost under control. At 1:15 I was back at Linda Rabb’s door. She answered the first ring.

“Marty’s at school, Mr. Spenser. We can talk openly,” she said.