God Save the Child

Two spots of color showed on Roger Bartlett’s face as he looked at the picture.

“This the guy?” he said.

“That’s him.”

“He’s really quite nice-looking in a physical sort of way,” Marge Bartlett said. “The apartment is quite neat too.” Her husband looked at her, opened his mouth, and then closed it.

“Let’s go,” I said. And we trailed out. The super came last in line to make sure we didn’t lift anything and closed the door behind her. I said, “Okay for now. If you run into Mr. Harroway, say nothing. This is official business, and it’s to be kept still.” I thought about invoking national security, but she might get suspicious.

“What now?” Bartlett said when we got outside again.

“We wait,” I said. “Obviously they’ll be coming back. Clothes laid out on the bed, hamburg defrosting for supper.” We walked back toward my car when Marge Bartlett said, “My God, it’s Kevin.”

25

On the far side of the Fenway two figures were jogging. One big man, one small one. Vic and Kevin. Harroway was taking it easy, and the boy was obviously straining to stay with him. Cross streets made a natural circle of that part of the Fenway, and one complete lap around it, without crossing any streets, was about a mile. If we stayed where we were, Harroway and the boy would run right up to us. We walked across to the park and stood, partly shielded by a blue hydrangea, watching them. As they got closer, you could see Harroway talking, apparently encouragingly, to Kevin, who had his head down, jogging doggedly. Harroway had on a lavender net sleeveless shirt and blue sweat pants with zippers at the ankles and white stripes down the sides. Kevin had on a white T-shirt and gray sweat pants, a little big and obviously brand-new. The boy was breathing hard, and Harroway said, “Just to the edge of the stands, Kev; that’s a mile. Then we’ll walk a bit. You can make it. You’re doing terrific.” Behind us, along the near sideline of the football field, cement stands descended maybe twenty feet below street level to the field.

Roger Bartlett stepped forward and said, “Kevin.” The boy saw him and without a word he veered left, jumped the low back of the grandstand, and ran down the cement stands. Bartlett went after him. Marge Bartlett began to scream after them, “Kevin, you come back here. Kevin.” I was watching Harroway. He looked at me a long ten seconds, then looked after the boy. Bartlett was gaining on his son rapidly. The boy was bushed from jogging. Bartlett caught the boy in midfield, and Harroway went after them. I said, “Stay here,” to Marge Bartlett and went after Harroway. Bartlett had Kevin by the arm, and the boy was struggling and punching at his father with his free hand.

“Let me go, you sonova bitchin’ bastard,” Kevin said.

“Kevin, Kevin, I want us to go home,” Bartlett said. He was crying.

Harroway got there ahead of me. He caught a handful of the back of Bartlett’s work shirt and threw him sprawling toward the end zone.

“I want to stay with you, Vic.” Kevin was crying too now, and behind me I could hear Marge Bartlett begin to wail. Jesus. Maybe I should get out of this line of work. Get into something simple and clean. Maybe a used-car salesman. Politics. Loan sharking.

Harroway said, “No one’s taking you anywhere, Kev. No one.”

Bartlett came up on his feet, the red spots on his cheekbones much brighter now. “Stay out of this, Spenser,” he said. “That’s my kid.”

Harroway’s arms and shoulders gleamed with sweat, and the afternoon sun made glistening highlights on the deltoid muscles that draped over his incredible shoulders.

“Bartlett,” I said, “don’t be crazy.”

“Let him try it,” Kevin said. “No one can beat Vic. All of you together can’t beat Vic. Go ahead, Roger.” The first name dripped with distaste. “Let’s see you try to handle Vic.”

Bartlett did. He must have been nearly fifty and probably hadn’t had a fight since World War II. He was a wiry man and had worked with his hands all his life, but compared to Harroway he was one of the daughters of the poor. He ran at Harroway with his head down. Harroway caught him by the shirt front with his left hand and clubbed him across the face with his right. Twice. Then he let him go, and Bartlett fell. He tried to get up, couldn’t, caught hold of Harroway’s leg, and tried to pull him down. Harroway didn’t move.

“Okay,” I said and reached back for my gun, “that’s...” and Marge Bartlett jumped at Harroway, still wailing, and swung at him with both clenched fists. He swatted her away from him with the back of his right hand, and she sprawled in the mud on her back. Told her to stay up there. There was blood showing from her nose. Kevin said, “Mama.”

I had the gun out now and held it by my side. “Enough,” I said. Bartlett was oblivious. All he had left was going into bending Harroway’s leg, and he might as well have been working on a hydrant.

Harroway said, “Get him off me or I’ll kick him into the river.”