God Save the Child

The wine was gone, and I was looking a little wistfully at the empty bottle. It was hard concentrating on business. I was also looking a little wistfully at Susan Silverman. Neither rain nor sleet nor snow nor dark of night maybe, but red wine and a handsome woman — that was something else.

She said, “What kind of bizarre are you looking for?”

“Any kind at all. The kind of bizarre that would be capable of that dummy trick in the coffin, the kind of bizarre that would make a singing commercial out of the telephone call. The kind of bizarre that would do the ransom note in a comic strip. Would you like some brandy?”

“One small glass.”

“Let’s take it to the living room.”

She sat where she had before, at one end of the couch. I gave her some Calvados and sat on the coffee table near her.

“I don’t know anything bizarre about the group. I have the impression that there is something unusual about Vic Harroway, but I don’t know quite what it is.”

“Think about it. Who said he was odd? What context was his oddness in?”

She frowned again. “No, just an idea that he’s unusual.”

“Is he unusual in appearance?”

“I don’t know.”

“Size?”

“Really, I can’t recall.”

“Is he unusual in his sex habits?”

She shrugged and spread her hands, palms up.

“Religious zealot?”

She shook her head.

“Unusual family connections?”

“Damn it, Spenser, I don’t know. If I knew, I’d tell you.”

“Try picturing the circumstances when you got the impression he was unusual. Who said it? Where were you?”

She laughed. “Spenser, I can’t do it. I don’t remember. You’re like a hammer after a nail.”

“Sorry, I tend to get caught up in my work.”

“I guess you do. You’re a very interesting man. One might misjudge you. One might even underrate you, and I think that might be a very bad error.”

“Underrate? Me?”

“Well, here you are a big guy with sort of a classy broken nose and clever patter. It would be easy to assume you were getting by on that. That maybe you were a little cynical and a little shallow. I half figured you got me in here just to make a pass at me. But I just saw you at work, and I would not want to be somebody you were really after.”

“Now you’re making me feel funny,” I said. “Because half the reason I invited you in here was to make a pass at you.”

“Maybe,” she said and smiled. “But first you would work.”

“Okay,” I said. “I worked. I am a sleuth, and being a sleuth I can add two and two, blue eyes. If you half expected me to make a pass and you came anyway, then you must have half wanted me to do so... sweetheart.”

“My eyes are brown.”

“I know, but I can’t do Bogart saying ‘brown eyes.’ And don’t change the subject.”

She took the final sip from her brandy glass and put it on the coffee table. When she did she was close to my face. “See?” she said looking at me steadily. “See how brown they are?”

“Black, I’d say. Closer to black.”

I put my hands on either side of her face and kissed her on the mouth. She kissed me back. It was a long kiss, and when it ended I still held her face in my hands.

“Maybe you’re right,” she said. “Maybe they are more black than brown. Perhaps if you were to sit on the couch you might be able to see better.”

I moved over. “Yes,” I said, “this confirms my suspicion. Your eyes are black rather than brown.”

She leaned forward and kissed me. I put my arms around her. She turned across my lap so I was holding her in my arms and put her arms around my neck. The kiss lasted longer than the first one and had some body English on it. I ran my hand under her sweater up along the depression of her spine, feeling the smooth muscles that ran parallel. We were lying now on the couch, and her mouth was open. I slid my hand back down along her spine and under the waistband of her pants. She groaned and arched her body against me, turning slightly as I moved my hand along the waistband toward the front zipper. I reached it and fumbled at it. Old surgeon’s hands. She pulled back from the kiss, reached down, and took my hand away. I let her. We were gasping.

“No, Spenser,” she managed. “Not the first time. Not in your apartment.”

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t think of anything to say, and I was concentrating on breathing.

“I know it’s silly. But I can’t get rid of upbringing; I can’t get rid of momma saying that only dirty girls did it on the first date. I come from a different time.”

“I know,” I said. “I come from the same time.” My voice was very hoarse. I cleared my throat. We continued to lie on the couch, my arm around her.

“There will be other times. Perhaps you’d like to try my cooking. In my house. I’m not cold, Spenser, and I would have been hurt if you hadn’t tried, but not the first time. I just wouldn’t like myself. Next time...”

“Yeah,” I said. Clearing my throat hadn’t helped, but I was getting my breathing under control. “I know. I’d love to try your cooking. What say we hop in the car and drive right out to your place now for a snack?”

She laughed. “You’re not a quitter, are you.”

“It’s just that I may be suffering from terminal tumescence,” I said.