Robert B. Parker’s Cheap Shot

3

I made corn muffins from scratch for Susan.

I had not planned to make corn muffins but had decided today’s brisk fall wind called for chili. And to me, chili always seemed lonely without corn muffins. Or perhaps I made them because I had stocked a six-pack of Bohemia in Susan’s refrigerator. Truth be told, it was very difficult to know the meal’s catalyst. Probably the beer.

I had let myself in shortly before five and took Pearl for a short walk. Susan was in session, so as silently as possible I crept up to the second floor and helped myself to a Bohemia. I had bought the corn meal, flour, eggs, and ingredients for the chili at the Whole Foods on River Street. I drank while I chopped some peppers, garlic, and onions and browned some ground buffalo. Pearl showed a lot of interest in the sizzling buffalo.

I added the peppers, garlic, and onions to the browning meat, and then a couple dashes of the beer. Some chili powder, kosher salt, cumin, and black pepper. More beer. I played some Mel Tormé at a volume low enough not to disrupt psychotherapy. Pearl tilted her head and I scratched her ears.

“Mel Tormé?” Susan said, walking in.

“The velvet frog himself.”

“‘Goody Goody’ is very odd to hear after talking with a patient who wishes to be impregnated by her husband while conducting an extramarital affair.”

“Better odds?”

“She has no desire to be impregnated by her lover.”

“Must draw a line in the sand somewhere.”

“Yes.”

“How hot is too hot?” I said.

“Is this a trick question?”

“Yep,” I said.

I turned on the oven and found her lonely mixing bowl and measured the corn meal, flour, salt, baking powder, and sugar, and then added the eggs, butter, and some milk and whisked it all to the proper smoothness. I searched for the muffin tin I had stowed in a secret location. When I added the sautéed mix of meat and onions to a large pot of bubbling tomatoes and beans, Pearl lost interest and trotted over to a window facing Linnaean. The branch of an oak tapped at the glass.

I added more beer with the simmering chili. And a quart of water so as not to waste more beer.

“For fear of sounding too domestic, how was your day, dear?”

“I met with a professional football player named after a Japanese emperor,” I said. “His agent hired me to help him.”

“Protection?”

“In a roundabout way,” I said. “The Patriots organization thinks it’s a bad idea if their player shoots or beats up someone.”

“So you’ve been hired to protect the bad guys?”

I nodded. I stirred the chili. I waited to put the corn muffins in the oven. Mel sang “A Stranger in Town.”

“The team also wants me to find out who is following Kinjo and why.”

“Kinjo.”

“Emperor of the gridiron.”

I reached into the refrigerator for a bottle of sauvignon blanc. I poured Susan a modest glass.

“Should I know who this is?” she said.

“You should.”

“Did you?”

“Of course.”

“I thought you only paid attention to baseball and basketball?”

“Sometimes it’s on TV,” I said. “Sometimes I watch it. I played it once.”

“But you prefer baseball.”

“I prefer baseball for the skill and nuance,” I said. “I’m sure a damn good bit of sportswriters could talk to me about the elegant violence of football. But I like the pace of baseball.”

I greased the muffin tin, poured in the batter, and placed the tin into the oven. I finished the beer and opened another.

“How does an investigator, even one of your advanced skill, watch a client and sleuth at the same time?”

“I am hoping the watching will lead to a meeting with the bad guys.”

“As it often does.”

“And if not,” I said, “Z can watch while I sleuth.”

“Nice to have an understudy.”

I nodded. I set the timer. “Of course, I’m not even sure if there are any bad guys.”

“And how is that possible?”

“There is a distinct possibility that his celebrity status is making him a bit paranoid,” I said. “He’s a famous athlete. Some overzealous fans may just recognize him and see where he lives or what nightclub he prefers.”

“Did he seem paranoid to you?”

“You mean did he pace around with some metallic ball in hand and mutter about strawberries?”

“Or something more subtle,” she said. “Was he jittery or nervous? Did he seem on edge?”

“Nope.”

“Yet he felt threatened.”

“Yes,” I said. “But he couldn’t really define it.”

“Hmm.”

“What’s your diagnosis, Doc?”

“Time will tell?”

“What if he tells me the men following him are little and green and perhaps from another planet?”

“Give him my card,” she said. “I have people he should meet.”

I turned back to Susan, pulled her in close, and placed a hand against the flat of her back. I tilted my head toward her open bedroom door. I had missed her a great deal when she’d been away teaching that spring.

“Sometimes I think you use simmering for an excuse,” she said.

“But it’s such a damn good one.”