16

It was kind of cold for a picnic, so Susan and I sat in the front seat of my car and ate submarine sandwiches and looked at the river from a parking lot near WBZ. That is to say, I ate my sandwich. Susan deconstructed hers and ate it like a composed salad from the wrapper in her lap.

“Did you arrange for Henry to be there?” Susan said. “Or was it serendipity?”

“Serendipity,” I said.

Susan plucked a small slice of pickle from the sandwich and ate it.

“Well, it was fortuitous,” she said when she had finished chewing. “Don’t you think?”

“Susan,” I said. “If you keep talking like you went to Harvard, I may be forced to withhold sex.”

“When’s the last time you did that?” Susan said.

“Well,” I said. “I haven’t ever had to actually withhold. The threat was always enough.”

“Besides,” Susan said. “I did go to Harvard.”

“Well, I suppose that gives you a mulligan,” I said.

Susan said, “Whew,” and carefully ate a tomato slice.

There were a lot of high clouds in the sky, and the river was gray in the raw spring light, and it moved past, without seeming to, at a pretty good clip. The college crews were out. But they seemed always to be out, except when the river was frozen. There were recreational rowers, too. I ate some of my sandwich. Susan took a bite off of the edge of a cold cut.

“How did he take it?” Susan said. “When Henry showed him up?”

“Z? Not bad. Like he took it when I beat him. He was startled and then puzzled, except with Henry he wasn’t drunk.”

“What time of day?” Susan said.

“Early afternoon,” I said.

“Many people are not drunk in the early afternoon,” Susan said.

“But some are,” I said. “And this particular early afternoon, he wasn’t.”

Susan nodded.

“And he gave you no excuses?”

“No. He’d been beaten, and he knew it.”

“He wants you still to train him?”

“He does,” I said.

“And you will,” Susan said.

“Yes. Try to get him in shape, too.”

“Has he told you anything new about that girl’s death?” Susan said.

“I haven’t asked,” I said.

“Why not?” Susan said.

I shrugged.

Susan looked at me while she nibbled another quarter-inch bite off the edge of the cold cut.

“Because you don’t want him to think you’re training him just to get information,” Susan said.

“That’s probably correct,” I said.

“Are you?” Susan said.

“Training him so he’ll tell me stuff?”

“Yes.”

“I’m training him for several reasons,” I said.

“Is information one of them?” Susan said.

“It is,” I said.

Susan smiled and patted my thigh.

“You wouldn’t be you if it weren’t,” she said.

“We wouldn’t want that,” I said.

“No, we wouldn’t,” Susan said. “But you also want to help him.”

“You think?” I said.

“Does anyone know you like I do?”

“I hope not,” I said.

“He wants to be a tough guy,” Susan said. “He’s come to the right place.”

“I can’t teach him how to be a tough guy,” I said. “I can teach him how to fight. But he’ll have to be tough on his own.”

“I know,” Susan said.

“You’re as tough as I am,” I said.

“I know that, too,” Susan said.

“But you wouldn’t win many fistfights,” I said.

“Depends who I was fighting,” Susan said.

“Yes,” I said. “I guess it would.”

“And you would win a lot of fistfights,” she said.

“Depends who I was fighting,” I said.

Susan smiled and nibbled on a fragment of her sandwich. Mine had long ago disappeared. I was drinking coffee from a large paper cup.

“Winning fistfights means being good at fistfighting,” Susan said. “Being tough means looking straight at something ugly, and saying, ‘That’s ugly; I’ll have to find a way to deal with it.’ And doing so.”

“By that definition, most people in their lives have a chance to be tough,” I said.

“And aren’t,” Susan said.

“And we are,” I said.

“It’s sort of how we make our living,” Susan said. “Each in our own way.”

“Shouldn’t that be ‘each in his own way’?” I said.

“Not when we’re talking about me,” Susan said.

“If you say so, Ms. Harvard Ph.D.,” I said.

Susan smiled again. I would be quite happy to sit around and watch her smile, for nearly ever.

“Couple of tough guys,” I said.

Susan’s smile widened.

“Are we a pair?” she said.

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