Pale Kings and Princes

“I know what you are. I’ve looked into you very carefully. I’d like to hire you to go down there and see who killed that boy and tell me and we’ll bring him to justice.”

“Including if it was a jealous husband?”

“Yes.”

“You have any copy that he filed?” I said.

“No, nor any of his notes.”

“There should be notes,” I said.

“There should in fact,” Kingsley said. “But there aren’t any. He’d been there a month, looking around, talking with people. There’d be notes.”

“You know who he talked to?”

“No. Nor who he might have played around with, though in his case the best guess would be everyone. All I have is a photo of him, background on him. We gave him a long leash. We said go down, feel your way around, see what’s there, take your time. Most papers need to make money. This one makes money but it doesn’t need to. It’s my toy. My grandfather made all the money any of us will ever need.”

“You had him down there under cover,” I said.

“More or less,” Kingsley said.

“And me?”

“You can go down wide open,” Kingsley said. “You’re working for me and you can tell anyone you like, or nobody. This is what you know, I don’t hire people and tell them how to work.”

“You want to talk about money?”

“I don’t care about money, tell me what you need up front, and bill me for the rest when it’s over. You won’t cheat me.”

“I won’t?”

“No,” Kingsley said, “you won’t. I told you we’ve looked into you thoroughly. I know what you are.”

“That’s comforting,” I said. “I’ve often wondered.”

2

I was at the downstairs bar in the Parker House drinking Killian Red Ale with Rita Fiore, who was an assistant DA from Norfolk County and, myself excepted, the best-looking law person in Boston. In point of fact I wasn’t exactly a law person anymore, and in point of more fact Rita wasn’t drinking Red Ale with me. She was drinking Glenfiddich on the rocks and smoking long Tareyton cigarettes.

“The DEA guy’s name is Fallon,” Rita said. “I’ve known him two, three years, he’s okay. Just don’t talk too fast.”

“Or use big words?” I said.

Rita nodded. Her thick reddish hair lay on her shoulders, and her tailored black suit fit snugly. Her stockings were patterned with flowers. Everything was nicely proportioned, very trim.

“You’re looking better than you did last time I saw you,” she said.

“Last time you saw me, I had just almost died,” I said.

“That accounts for it. You better now?”

“Considerably,” I said.

“Back with the sweetie?” Rita said.

“She prefers Susan,” I said.

Rita drank some of her Scotch. “Sure,” she said. “We never had our literate discussion.”

I nodded.

“Literate and sexy discussion was what we had actually planned.”

“I would have loved it,” I said.

“But not now.”

“Not now,” I said.

Rita smiled. “Story of my life,” she said.

“Only the jerks stay unattached.” She lit a cigarette with a butane lighter and dragged smoke in deeply and let it come out slowly.

“You’re single ’cause you want to be,” I said.

“I’m single ’cause only the jerks aren’t attached,” she said. “The unattached jerk incidence in the Boston — Cambridge area is a nationally recognized phenomenon. And occasionally, when you meet a nonjerk, he’s in love with someone else, and somebody is shooting him.”

“If it would have been easier for you I’d have been willing to skip the shooting,” I said.

Rita dipped into her Scotch again. “Now you offer,” she said.

I ordered another ale, Rita agreed to another Scotch. The downstairs bar at the Parker House was oak-paneled and clubby-looking with a small bandstand at one end and big photos of old-time Boston celebs on the wall.

“You’re happy in your work,” Rita said.

“Sure,” I said.

“And the woman you love,” she said.

“Certainly,” I said.

She shook her head. “You insufferable bastard,” she said.

“That too,” I said.

A middle-sized man with reddish hair combed to one side stepped to the bar next to Rita. He wore gold-rimmed glasses.

“Rita,” he said, “you get more lovely every day.”

“Christ, Fallon,” Rita said, “you say that every time you see me.”

“Well, it’s true,” Fallon said, and winked at me, “every time I see you.”

Rita smiled tiredly. “Spenser,” she said, “Phil Fallon.”

We shook hands. Fallon was wearing a gray suit and a blue shirt with a red and gray rep striped tie and black wing-tipped shoes. He slid onto the barstool next to Rita. We were at the corner of the bar so that he was actually facing me when he sat.

The bartender came over.

“Beefeater martini,” Fallon said. “Very dry. Stirred not shaken. Straight up with two olives, please.” He looked at me. “Rita tells me you are looking into something out in Wheaton and wanted some input from me.”

“That’s true,” I said.

“What do you want to know?”

“Tell me about the cocaine business in Wheaton.”

Fallon’s martini came, and he tasted it. He made a face and gestured to the bartender. “Too much vermouth,” he said. “I want it capital D-R-Y.”

“Sorry, sir,” the bartender said and took it away.

“Wheaton,” he said. “Interesting story. Little town in the middle of Massachusetts and there’s probably more coke going through there than any place north of Miami.”