God Save the Child

It was cold and getting colder. The rain fell steadily on the exposed half of my face and got under my collar and ran down my neck. My gun was pressing into my hip, but since I was supposed to be passed out, I didn’t dare shift to adjust it. A guy adjusting a holster looks like a guy adjusting a holster. I lay still and let the rain soak through my clothes.

Harroway shifted from one foot to the other, his hands jammed into the pockets of his leather coat, his campaign hat tilted forward over his face. Two sailors went by with a fat barelegged girl between them. One of the sailors said something I couldn’t hear and slapped the girl on the fanny. Both sailors laughed. The girl said, “Oh, piss on you,” and they went by. Ah, to be young and in love. Or even just upright and dry. A bum shuffled around the bandstand and spoke to Harroway. Harroway put one hand on the bum’s shoulder, turning him around. Placed his foot against the bum’s backside and shoved him sprawling into the mud. The bum picked himself up and shuffled away.

The cold rain had collected in my left ear. The whole left side of my face was beginning to feel glazed over, as if the rain were freezing. If something didn’t happen pretty soon, I’d look like a gumshoe aspic. A lean man with a big black umbrella walked up past me from the direction of Tremont Street. He stopped beside Harroway. His right hand held the umbrella. In his left was a briefcase. I couldn’t see his face, or even the upper half of his body, because he had the umbrella canted toward me against the drive of the rain. His lower half was in dark trousers and raincoat. He wore rubbers. A clandestine meeting in the rain and you wear your rubbers: Romance is dead. Harroway took out an envelope from inside his coat. The Umbrella Man handed him the briefcase and moved off down the hill away from me in his rubbers toward Charles Street. Harroway came past me toward Tremont carrying the briefcase. I had a very quick choice to make. I was pretty sure I could pick Harroway up again at The Odds’ End or the ranch house. It looked as if Harroway had bought something covertly from the Umbrella Man. I wanted a look at him. I stumbled up off the bench and followed the black umbrella down the hill. I staggered legitimately now — my legs felt like two duckpins and my feet were numb. At the foot of the hill there was a lighted entry to the underground garage. The Umbrella Man stopped in front of it and closed the umbrella. It was Dr. Croft. He headed down the stairs to the garage. I didn’t have a car there and saw no point in going too.

I turned back up the hill and ran as hard as I could back across the Common. I got to Tremont Street by the information booth with my chest heaving and sweat mixing with the rain on my face. No sign of Harroway. I turned right, down Tremont across Boylston. No sign of Harroway. I turned right on Stuart back toward The Odds’ End. I passed my car. There was a soaked parking ticket under the wiper on the passenger side. I went into The Odds’ End. No Harroway. I ordered a double cognac and sat at the bar to drink it. I think it saved my life. By the time I finished it, it was nearly midnight. Harroway hadn’t returned. I had another cognac. My head felt a little light. I paid and headed out of the place. If I was going to pass out, I wanted it to be someplace where there wouldn’t be mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Driving back to my apartment, I tried to sort out what I’d bumped into today, but I was too cold and too tired and too wet. Images of steam rising from my shower stall kept getting in the way.

21

At 10:30 the next day, showered, shaved, warmed, and dried, with nine hours’ sleep behind me and hot corn muffins nicely balancing cold vealwurst in my stomach, I headed back for Smithfield. I’d called my service before I left that morning and found that there were nine calls recorded from Marge Bartlett. I ignored them. I wanted Harroway and the kid. I didn’t think Marge Bartlett was in all that much danger. I wanted the kid. At 11:05 I was parked along the side of the street just down from the corner of the road that led into Harroway’s sylvan retreat. I didn’t want to get left standing on a hill this time while they drove away. The road was the only way in or out. I’d settle in here. I watched for eight hours. Nobody went in. Nobody came out.