Robert B. Parker’s Revenge Tour

Seventeen

“I’ve heard what a tough guy you think you are,” Joe Doyle said. “You should know that I’ve been tougher a lot longer.”

“Thanks for the heads-up.”

Doyle said, “I do think you frightened my assistant, however.”

“Then she’s the one who needs to toughen up,” I said.

Joe Doyle was a large man even sitting down, which is how he had remained as Mary, that delicate flower, had shown me in. He had massive hands that fit the rest of him, palms flat on the desk in front of him, nails, I noticed, a-gleamin’. He had a tan he hadn’t gotten naturally, after a rainy month of May. Mostly bald, white hair around the fringes. Everything about him neat. Including the desk.

“Why are you bothering me?” he said.

“Why are you bothering my father?” I said. “Or would ‘threatening’ be a more accurate way of describing it?”

“I didn’t threaten him,” Doyle said. “Poor Phil must be starting to get a bit wobbly in his old age.”

Doyle had a big voice, too. It was described in some of the articles I’d read as “commanding.” So he had that going for him. I tried to remain calm in its presence. And his.

“Somebody tried to run his car off the road last night,” I said.

I was wearing one of my favorite summer dresses, a Tucker I’d just bought. I crossed my legs. He watched me do it. He was old, too, but clearly not dead.

“This happened to my father not long after you were quoting Leviticus to him,” I said, “you son of a bitch.”

I saw a slight twitch to his head. Not much, there and gone. He was made of much sturdier stuff than his assistant.

“I hope he’s all right,” Doyle said.

“You know he is,” I said. “Maybe we should stop dicking around here.”

He managed to remain calm.

“Maybe you’re trying too hard to be tough,” he said, “and sound that way.”

“I frankly come by it naturally.”

I noticed pictures of his son on the bookcase behind him. In one he was wearing a cap and gown, looking a full head smaller than his father.

“Is there a purpose for you barging in on me this way,” Doyle said, “with information you say I already had?”

“I want you to leave my father alone,” I said. “He’s not the one who put your son in jail. The trial did that, as I recall.”

“Your father knew my son was innocent,” Doyle said.

“He did what he always did,” I said. “He followed the evidence.”

“For all I care,” Doyle said, “he can follow it straight to hell.”

“You obviously don’t know him as well as you think you do,” I said. “God likes my dad best.”

He leaned forward slightly.

“Do you honestly think I would risk my good name on some has-been cop?” he said.

“Define ‘good name.’ ”

“We’re done here,” he said.

“I’m just wondering what your endgame is here, Joe,” I said. “How far you plan to take this.”

“Assuming that I had something to do with what happened to him last night,” he said.

“For the sake of conversation.”

“Maybe just this,” he said. “Maybe I want him to realize that there are all sorts of ways of doing time.”

He patted his desk with the big hands.

“Now, please get out of my office and don’t bother me again,” he said.

He stood. Even taller than I had thought. When I stood, I was looking up at him. The desired effect.

“And you might want to remind him that there is no greater pain for a parent than being predeceased by a child.”

We both let that settle for a moment.

“Now you’re threatening me?” I said.

“Good day, Ms. Randall,” he said.

I didn’t ask him to define good this time as I turned and left his office, thinking this showed all the signs of being an especially shitty week.

About to get worse.