Early Autumn (3 page)

Giacomin stopped looking at me long enough to look at his girl friend. She didn’t have anything to offer. He looked back at me.

“All right,” he said. “I’ve had enough. Either you walk out of here now or I kick your ass out.”

“Don’t do that,” I said. “You’re out of shape. I’ll hurt you.”

Giacomin looked at me and looked away. I knew he wasn’t going to.

“The hell with it,” he said with a small push-away hand gesture. “It’s not worth a fight. Take him. He’s down the hall.” Giacomin gestured with his head. He didn’t look at me or Elaine Brooks.

But the boy wasn’t down the hall. He was right
around the corner in the dining room. He stepped into sight around the archway.

“Swell fight you put up for me, Daddy dear” he said.

He was a short thin kid and his voice had a soft whine to it He was wearing a short-sleeved vertically striped dress shirt that gapped open near his navel, and maroon corduroy pants and Top-Siders with the rawhide lacing gone from one.

Giacomin said, “You remember who you’re talking to, kid.”

The kid smiled without humor. “I know” he said. “I know who I’m talking to, Dads.”

Giacomin turned away from him and was silent.

I said, “My name is Spenser. Your mother sent me to bring you back to her.”

The kid shrugged elaborately. I noticed that the pants were too big for him. The crotch sagged.

“You want to go?” I said.

He shrugged again.

“Would you rather stay here?”

“With him?” The kid’s soft whine was full of distaste.

“With him,” I said. “Or would you prefer to live with your mother?”

“I don’t care.”

“How about you?” I said to Giacomin. “You care?”

“The bitch got everything else,” he said. “She can have him too. For now.”

I said, “Okay, Paul. You got any stuff to pack?”

He shrugged. The all-purpose gesture. Maybe I should work on mine.

“He’s got nothing to pack,” Giacomin said. “Everything here is mine. She isn’t getting any of it”

“Smart,” I said. “Smart. I like a man gets out of a marriage gracefully.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” Giacomin said.

“You wouldn’t know,” I said. “The kid got a coat? It’s about nineteen degrees out. I’ll see that she sends it back if you want.”

Giacomin said to his son, “Get your coat.”

The boy went to the front hall closet and took out a navy pea coat. It was wrinkled, as if it had been crumpled on the floor rather than hanging. He put it on and left it unbuttoned. I opened the door to the stairs and he walked through it and started down the stairs. I looked at Giacomin.

“You’ve gotten yourself in a lot of trouble over this, Jack, and don’t you forget it,” he said.

I said, “Name’s Spenser with an
S
, like the poet. I’m in the Boston book.” I stepped through the door and closed it. Then I opened it again and stuck my head back into the hall. “Under Tough,” I said. And closed the door, and walked out.

The kid sat in the front seat beside me and stared out the window. His hands fidgeted on his lap. His fingernails were chewed short. He had hangnails. I turned left at the foot of Chestnut Street and drove south past the Academy.

I said, “Who would you rather live with, your mother or your father?”

The kid shrugged.

“Does that mean you don’t know or you don’t care?” I said.

“I don’t know.”

“Does that mean you don’t know the answer to my question or you don’t know who you’d rather live with?” I said.

The kid shrugged again. “Can I turn on the radio?” he said.

I said, “No. We’re talking.”

He shrugged.

“Would you rather be adopted?”

This time he didn’t shrug.

“A ward of the state?”

Nothing.

“Join a gang of pickpockets and live in the slums of London?”

He looked at me as if I were crazy.

“Run off and join the circus? Make a raft and float down the Mississippi? Stow away on a pirate ship?”

“You’re not funny,” he said.

“Lot of people tell me that,” I said. “Who would you rather live with, your mother or your father?”

“What’ll you do if I won’t say?” he said.

“Ride around and be funny at you till you plead for mercy.”

He didn’t say anything. But he didn’t shrug. And he did look at me. Briefly.

“Want me to turn around and take you back to your father?”

“What difference does it make?” the kid said. “What do you care? It’s not your business. Whyn’t you leave me alone?”

“Because right now you’re in my keeping and I’m trying to decide what’s best to do with you.”

“I thought my mother hired you, Whyn’t you do what she tells you?”

“I might not approve of what she wants me to do.”

“But she hired you,” he said.

“She gave me a hundred bucks, one day’s pay. If you don’t want me to take you to her, I’ll take you back to your old man, give her back her hundred.”

“I bet you wouldn’t,” he said. He was staring out the window when he said it

“Convince me you should be with him and I will.”

“Okay, I’d rather be with him,” the kid said. His face was still turned to the window.

“Why?” I said.

“See. I knew you wouldn’t,” he said. He turned his face toward me and he looked as if he’d won something.

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t,” I said. “I asked for reasons.
This is important stuff, choosing a parent. I’m not going to have you do it to win a bet.”

He stared out the window again. We were in North Reading, still going south.

“See, Paul, what I’m trying to do is get you to decide what you’d like best to do. Are the questions too hard for you? You want to try watching my lips move?”

With his face still turned to the window the kid said, “I don’t care who I live with. They both suck. It doesn’t make any difference. They’re both awful. I hate them.”

The soft whine was a little shaky. As if he might cry.

“Son of a bitch,” I said. “I hadn’t thought of that”

Again he looked at me in an odd sort of triumph. “So now what are you going to do?”

I wanted to shrug and look out the window. I said, “I’ll probably take you back to your mother and keep the hundred dollars.”

“That’s what I thought,” the kid said.

“Would you rather I did something else?” I said.

He shrugged. We were through Reading Square almost to 128. “Can I turn on the radio now?” he said.

“No,” I said. I knew I was being churlish, but the kid annoyed me. In his whiny, stubborn desperation he irritated the hell out of me. Mr. Warm. There’s no such thing as a bad boy.

The kid almost smirked.

“You want to know why I’m taking you to your mother?” I said.

“To get the hundred bucks.”

“Yeah. But it’s more than a hundred bucks. It’s a way of thinking about things.”

The kid shrugged. If he did it enough, I would
stop the car and bang his head on the pavement “When all your options are lousy” I said, “you try to choose the least lousy. Apparently you’re equally bad off with your mother or your father. Apparently you don’t care which place you’re unhappy. If I take you back to your father you’re unhappy and I get nothing. If I take you back to your mother you’re unhappy and I get a hundred bucks. So I’m taking you back to your mother. You understand?”

“Sure, you want the hundred.”

“It would be the same if it were a dime. It’s a way to think about things. It’s a way not to get shoved around by circumstances.”

“And Mommy will give you money,” he said. “Maybe you can fuck her.” He checked me carefully, looking sideways at me as he said it, to see how shocked I’d be.

“Your father suggested the same thing,” I said. “Your mom into sex, is she?”

The kid said, “I dunno.”

“Or you figure I’m so irresistible that it’s inevitable.”

The kid shrugged. I figured I could take maybe two more shrugs before I stopped the car. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said.

“Then you shouldn’t have brought it up,” I said.

He was silent.

I turned off of Route 28 onto Route 128 South, toward Lexington.

“I also think it’s bad form to talk about your mother that way to a stranger.”

“Why?”

“If’s not done,” I said.

The kid shrugged and stared out the window. He had one shrug left.

“If my father had started to fight with you, what would you do?”

“I’d have subdued him.”

“How?”

“Depends how tough he is.”

“He used to be a football player and he still lifts weights at the health club.”

I shrugged. It was catching.

“Do you think you could beat him up?” he said.

“Oh, sure,” I said. “He’s a big strong guy, I guess, but I do this for a living. And I’m in better shape.”

“Big deal,” the kid said.

“I didn’t bring it up,” I said.

“I don’t care about muscles,” the kid said.

“Okay,” I said.

“I suppose you think you’re a big man, having muscles,” the kid said.

“I think they are useful to me in what I do,” I said.

“Well, I think they’re ugly.”

I took my hands off the wheel long enough to turn my palms up.

“How come you’re a detective?” he said.

“Like the man said, because I can’t sing or dance.”

“It’s an awful gross job to me,” he said.

I made the same palms-up gesture. We were passing the Burlington Mall. “What exit do I take?” I said.

“Four and two-twenty-five toward Bedford,” he said. “How come you want to do a gross job?”

“It lets me live life on my own terms,” I said. “You sure you mean toward Bedford?”

“Yes. I’ll show you,” he said. And he did. We turned off toward Bedford, turned right, and right again and over an overpass back toward Lexington. Emerson Road was not far off the highway, a community of similar homes with a lot of wood and glass
and some stone and brick. It was contemporary, but it worked okay in Lexington. I parked in the driveway out front and we got out. It was late afternoon and the wind had picked up. We leaned into it as we walked to his back door.

He opened it and went in without knocking and without any announcement.

I rang the doorbell a long blast and followed him in. It was a downstairs hall. There were two white hollow core doors on the left and a short stairway to the right. On the wall before the stairway was a big Mondrian print in a chrome frame. Four steps up was the living room. As I went up the stairs behind the kid his mother came to the head of the stairs.

The kid said, “Here’s a big treat, I’m home.”

Patty Giacomin said, “Oh, Paul, I didn’t expect you so soon.”

She was wearing a pink silk outfit—tapered pants with a loose-fitting top. The top hung outside the pants and was gathered at the waist by a gold belt.

I was standing two steps down behind Paul on the stairs. There was a moment of silence. Then Patty Giacomin said, “Well, come up, Mr. Spenser. Have a drink. Paul, let Mr. Spenser get by.”

I stepped into the living room. There were two glasses and a pitcher that looked like martini on the low glass coffee table in front of the couch. There was a fire in the fireplace. There was Boursin cheese on a small tray and a plate of crackers that looked like little shredded-wheat biscuits. And on his feet, politely, in front of the couch was the very embodiment of contemporary elegance. He was probably my
height and slim as a weasel. He wore a subdued gray herringbone coat and vest with charcoal pants, a narrow pink tie, a pin collar, and black Gucci loafers. A pink-and-charcoal hankie spilled out of the breast pocket of his jacket. His hair was cut short and off the ears and he had a close-cropped beard and a mustache. Whether to see or be seen I had no way to tell, but he was also sporting a pair of pink-tinted aviator glasses with very thin black rims. The pink tie was shiny.

Patty Giacomin said, “Paul, you know Stephen. Stephen, this is Mr. Spenser. Stephen Court.”

Stephen put out his hand. It was manicured and tanned. St Thomas, no doubt. His handshake was firm without being strong. “Good to see you,” he said.

He didn’t say anything to Paul and Paul didn’t look at him. Patty said, “Would you join us for a drink, Mr. Spenser?”

“Sure,” I said. “Have any beer?”

“Oh, dear, I’m not sure,” she said, “Paul, go look in the refrigerator and see if there’s any beer.”

Paul hadn’t taken his coat off. He went over to the TV set in the bookcase and turned it on, set no channel, and sat down in a black Naugahyde armchair. The set warmed up and a
Brady Bunch
rerun came on. It was loud.

Patty Giacomin said, “Paul, for God’s sake,” and lowered the volume. While she did that I went into the kitchen on my right and found a can of Schlitz in the refrigerator. There were two more with it, and not much else. I went back into the living room with my beer. Stephen was sitting again, sipping his martini, his legs arranged so as not to ruin the crease in his pants. Patty was standing with her martini in hand.

“Did you have much trouble finding Paul, Mr. Spenser?”

“No,” I said. “It was easy.”

“Did you have trouble with his father?”

“No.”

“Have some cheese and a cracker,” she said. I took some. Boursin on a Triscuit isn’t my favorite, but it had been a long time since breakfast I washed it down with the beer. There was silence except for a now softened
Brady Bunch
.

Stephen took a small sip of his martini, leaned back slightly, brushed a tiny fleck of something from his left lapel, and said, “Tell me, Mr. Spenser, what do you do?” I heard an overtone of disdain, but I’m probably too sensitive.

“I’m a disc jockey at Engine’s,” I said. “Haven’t I seen you there?”

Patty Giacomin spoke very quickly. “Mr. Spenser,” she said, “could I ask you a really large favor?”

I nodded.

“I, well, I know you’ve already done so much bringing Paul back, but, well, it’s just that it happened much sooner than I thought it would and Stephen and I have a dinner reservation…. Could you take Paul out maybe to McDonald’s or someplace? I’ll pay of course.”