Sixkill

63

Tom Lopata’s office was in a converted storefront in Malden Square. There were several desks. Tom sat at the one closest to the door. The others were unoccupied.

He stood when I came in, and I could see him flipping through his mental Rolodex until he matched my face with a name. Then he stuck out his hand.

“Hey,” he said. “Mr. Spenser, excellent to see you.”

I didn’t shake hands with him.

“I’ve stopped by to tell you what I know,” I said. “I’m not telling anyone else. But I want to be sure that you know that I know.”

“Sure,” he said, and sat down. “Sure. I’ll help you any way I can.”

He gestured toward a chair. I stayed on my feet.

“You drove your daughter in to hook up with Jumbo Nelson,” I said. “We know that. What only you and I know is that you did it because you hoped it would help you sell a big policy to him and the movie company.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you pimped your daughter to a notorious pig. For money, and it got her killed.”

“Why... What good does this kind of talk do now?” Lopata said.

“It doesn’t do the kid any good. And I won’t tell your wife or your son. I won’t tell the cops. I won’t tell anybody. But I want you to wake up every morning of every day and know what you did,” I said. “Every morning.”

“This is crazy,” he said. “There’s no way you could know this. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

I looked at him.

“I didn’t,” he said.

I didn’t answer.

“I spent my life, for crissake, feeding them and buying them stuff I couldn’t afford, and sending them to schools I couldn’t afford. My fucking son is at Harvard. All I wanted was for her to put in a good word for me, just once. Is that fucking evil?”

“Yeah,” I said. “In fact, it is.”

“Come on,” he said. “That’s bullshit. I didn’t do nothing so bad.”

“Think about it,” I said. “Every day.”

I left.

When I got back to Boston I changed into sweats, put some clean clothes and a shaving kit in a gym bag, and went down to the Harbor Health Club. I lifted weights. I hit the speed bag. I hit the heavy bag until the sweat was all over me and soaking through my shirt. Then I went to the steam room and sat for a long time. When I came out, I showered and shaved and put on my clean clothes.

It was still raining when I came out of the club. But it seemed to me that it was getting a little lighter in the west. Over Cambridge. Where Susan lived.

After the rain lifted, the world would probably seem as freshly washed as I was. The cleanliness was almost certainly illusory, or at best short-lasting. But life is mostly metaphor, anyway.

I got in my car and drove west.