God Save the Child

“But who the hell...” Marge Bartlett came in carrying the highball glass. Her lipstick was fresh and her hair was combed and her eye shadow looked newly applied. She poked the glass at her husband. “Fill ’er up,” she said and giggled. “Fill ’er up. Or is there a fuel shortage?”

“Why don’t you slow down, Marge?” Bartlett said. He took the glass.

“Slow down. Slow down. That’s all you can say. Slow down. Well I’m not going to slow down. Live fast, die young, and have a good-looking corpse. That’s my motto.” She did a pirouette and bumped against the counter “Everything is slow down with you, Roger. Old slow-down-Roger, that’s you.”

Bartlett gave her a new drink.

“You want mayonnaise?” He asked me.

“Please,” I said. He put a plate of sliced turkey, a jar of mayonnaise, some bread-and-butter pickles, and a loaf of oatmeal bread on the table. “Help yourself,” he said.

“My God, Roger,” Marge Bartlett said. “Is that how you’re going to feed him? No plate? No napkins? Can’t you even make a salad? We have those nice mugs for beer that Dolly and I bought you.”

“It’s a lot better than the way you’re feeding him,” Bartlett answered. “Or me.”

“Oh, certainly. I should be cooking a big meal when my very life has been threatened. I should be keeping your supper warm in the oven when you won’t even come home from work to protect me.”

“Christ! Trask was here and Paul Marsh and Earl. I was way the hell and gone out past Worcester on a job.”

“Well, why don’t you work closer to home, anyway? You’re never around when I need you.”

“I can’t find enough work close to home to pay for all the goddamned scotch you drink.”

“You bastard,” she said and threw her drink at him. A little scotch spattered on my turkey sandwich. Not a bad combination.

“Oh, stop showing off for Spenser,” Bartlett said. He got a paper towel and wiped up the moisture on the table. She made a new drink.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Spenser. It’s just that I’m under great strain, as you might imagine. I’m an artist. I’m volatile; I’m quick to anger.”

“Yeah,” I said, “both those things. You got a lousy arm, though. You got scotch on my sandwich.”

She drank half her drink. Not only her face but her whole body seemed to get progressively slacker as she drank. Her voice got harsher, while her language got more affected. I wondered if the progress continued until she sank to the floor screaming nonsense. I didn’t think I’d find out. I was pretty sure I’d crack first.

“Can you think of any connection between this death threat and Kevin’s disappearance?” Slick how smoothly I changed the subject.

“I think someone is out to get us,” she said. Oddly, I agreed with her. It made me nervous.

“Who the hell would be out to get us?” Bartlett said. “We haven’t got any enemies.”

“How about in business? Got anyone mad at you there? Fire anyone? Out-shrewd someone?”

He shook his head. His wife said, “Not good old Rog. Everybody likes good old Rog. Everyone thinks he’s so terrific. Everyone feels sorry for him married to a bitch. But I know him. The bastard.”

“How about you?” I said to her “Anyone you can think of that has reason to hate you? Or hates you without reason?” She looked at me blankly. The booze was weaving its magic spell. “Any old boyfriends, disappointed lovers?”

“No,” she shook her head angrily, “of course not.”

“Can either of you think of anyone at all who hates you enough to give you this kind of trouble?” Blank stares. “There must be someone. Maybe hate is too strong a word. Who dislikes you the most of anyone you know?”

In a voice thick and furry with booze she said, “Kevin.”

Bartlett said, “Marge, for God’s sake.”

“It’s true,” she said. “The little sonova bitch hates us.”

“Marge, goddamn you. You leave my kid alone. He didn’t kidnap himself.”

“The little sonova bitch.” She was mumbling now.

“She’s drunk as a goddamned skunk, Spenser. I’m putting her to bed. Drunk as a skunk.” He took her arm, and she sagged protestingly away from him. “Sonova bitch.” She began to giggle. “He’s the little sonova bitch, and you’re the big sonova bitch.” She sat down on the floor still giggling. I got up.

“You need any help?” I said.

He shook his head. “I’ve done this before.”

“Okay, then I’ll go to bed. Thanks for supper.” As I went out of the kitchen I saw Dolly Bartlett scuttle up the stairs ahead of me and into her room. Pleasant dreams, kid.

13

The next morning, Saturday, Kevin’s guinea pig turned up. I was sitting at the kitchen table reading the Globe when I heard Marge Bartlett scream in the front hall. A short startled scream and then a long steady one. When I got there the front door was ajar, and she was holding an open package about the size of a shoe box. I took it from her. Inside was a dead guinea pig on its back, its short legs sticking stiffly up. I looked out the door. A young Smithfield cop I didn’t know came busting around the corner of the house with a shotgun at high port.