Robert B. Parker’s Blood Feud

Twenty-Nine

Richie said we needed to talk. I asked him if it could wait until morning. He said, “You seemed to make time for Frank Belson.” I told him that I was just being a good citizen, and that right now I wanted to sleep more than talk.

“Used to be the other way around, as I recall,” Richie said.

I smiled and told him I’d see him at Melanie Joan’s at about nine. Of course the doorbell rang at nine sharp. I had been up since eight, had walked Rosie, done my makeup as if performing major surgery, spent way too much time on my hair, put on a new pair of skinny jeans and a white cotton sweater that Richie had given me. Vanity, thy name is Sunny Randall.

Rosie was gradually becoming more excited when Richie would suddenly appear.

“At least she didn’t pee on the floor the way she did last time,” I said.

“As women so often do in my presence,” he said.

I went into the kitchen, knowing how he liked his coffee, which was the same way I liked my coffee, and brought two mugs to the couch. Rosie sat between us.

“I’m really sorry about Buster,” I said.

“Was with us a long time,” Richie said. “Can’t remember a time in my life when he wasn’t with us.”

He looked as if he’d slept very little, but he was still put together in a Richie way: white shirt, black jeans, black penny loafers with a nice shine to them.

“Buster always said he’d take a bullet for my father,” Richie said. “Finally did.”

“You said we needed to talk,” I said.

“Actually, that was bullshit,” Richie said. “I sensed that you needed to talk.”

“Because you know me so well,” I said.

“More than you know,” he said. “Or will ever.”

He sat. I sat. As comfortable as we could both be with silence, the silence between us was sometimes a tactile thing. I took a deep breath and let it out and said, “I need to broach an uncomfortable subject about Desmond.”

“Broach away.”

“It’s about him and women,” I said.

“I assume you mean women other than my mother,” Richie said.

“Yes,” I said.

“You’re telling me that he was involved with women other than my mother,” Richie said.

“Yes,” I said again.

And Richie said, “Tell me something I don’t know.”

I came back from refilling our coffee cups and said, “You knew.”

“I did.”

“For how long?”

“For my whole fucking life,” he said.

His face had not changed expression. Nor had his tone. He was as self-contained and composed as ever, as if the subject were no more serious than where we ought to have lunch. It meant he was Richie. If there was sadness in him because of this, or anger, or regret, or some combination of those emotions, he did not show it.

He was Richie. It was part of what drew me to him, and so often pushed me away, the sense that he was holding back so much of himself, whether he actually was or not. Jesse Stone had often exhibited many of the same qualities. He was gone from my life, other than an occasional phone call. Richie was not, not now and perhaps not ever.

“What does that mean, your whole life?” I said.

“A slight exaggeration,” he said. “I was a kid when I found some letters. Back when people still wrote letters.”

“Your mother was still alive?” I said.

“She had died the previous summer,” he said. “But it was clear from the letters that what had been going on between my father and the woman who had written these letters had predated my mother’s death.” Richie paused and said, “Considerably.”

Rosie had rolled over on her back to let Richie rub her belly, which he did.

“Did your mother know?” I said.

Richie sighed now. “There was some indication in one of the letters that they’d been found out, past tense, and had been forced to briefly end their relationship.” He paused again and said, “Before it resumed.”

“While your mother was dying?” I said.

“Yes,” Richie said.

“So who was she?” I said.

“She didn’t sign her letters with a name,” Richie said. “Just the letter M.”

From across the room I could hear my cell phone buzzing. I ignored it. There was just Richie and me and the air between us. And perhaps the shared knowledge that when we had been man and wife, I had never cheated on him during our marriage and he had never cheated on me. Even though the other men in my life since had made me feel as if I were cheating, more than somewhat.

“Did you ask him about the letters?” I said.

“I did.”

“What happened?”

“He slapped me,” Richie said, “for the one and only time in my life.”

Now there was hurt on his face, as if it had just happened.

“Then he told me that he had confessed his sins to his priest but was under no obligation to do the same to his own son.”

“And that was it?”

“He demanded that I hand over the letters,” Richie said. “Which I did.”

“Because you were a good son.”

“Because I didn’t want him to hit me again,” Richie said. “And I wasn’t yet big enough or strong enough to hit him back.”

“That woman could be the key to this,” I said, and then told him what had happened to me in the alley, and what the man had said to me.

“Why have you waited this long to tell me?” Richie said.

“You had enough to deal with,” I said.

“Not any part of it more important than you,” he said.

“You would have wanted to do something about it,” I said, “only there was nothing to be done. Then somebody did Buster.”

We sat there. Rosie was still on her back.

“I thought it could have been any of his women,” I said. “But perhaps it was this woman.”

“We have no proof,” Richie said.

“Call it a hunch,” I said.

“You’ve always been big on those.”

“Haven’t I.”

“We need to know who M was.”

“Do you recall anything from what she wrote to him that might help?”

“She was Italian,” Richie said. “There was something in one of the letters about the hatred between Italians and Irish and how it was almost as deep as the blacks against the whites. So there was that. And how much she had herself come to hate living in what she called their world. And how tired she was of all the death and dying.”

“You remember a lot.”

“There was a time when I had them committed to memory,” he said. “She said she wanted them to get away, from his family and hers, and go somewhere and have a life of their own.”

“Maybe if we can find her, or find out who she was, we can stop the death and dying now,” I said.

“Only one way to find out,” Richie said.

“Ask him,” I said.

“He won’t hit me this time,” Richie said.