Early Autumn Part 2

"He's got nothing to pack," Giacomin said. "Everything here is mine. She isn't getting any of it"

"Smart," I said. "Smart. I like a man gets out of a marriage gracefully."

"What the h.e.l.l's that supposed to mean?" Giacomin said.

"You wouldn't know," I said. "The kid got a coat? It's about nineteen degrees out. I'll see that she sends it back if you want."

Giacomin said to his son, "Get your coat."

The boy went to the front hall closet and took out a navy pea coat. It was wrinkled, as if it had been crumpled on the floor rather than hanging. He put it on and left it unb.u.t.toned. I opened the door to the stairs and he walked through it and started down the stairs. I looked at Giacomin.

"You've gotten yourself in a lot of trouble over this, Jack, and don't you forget it," he said.

I said, "Name's Spenser with an S, like the poet. I'm in the Boston book." I stepped through the door and closed it. Then I opened it again and stuck my head back into the hall. "Under Tough," I said. And closed the door, and walked out.

CHAPTER 4.

The kid sat in the front seat beside me and stared out the window. His hands fidgeted on his lap. His fingernails were chewed short. He had hangnails. I turned left at the foot of Chestnut Street and drove south past the Academy.

I said, "Who would you rather live with, your mother or your father?"

The kid shrugged.

"Does that mean you don't know or you don't care?" I said.

"I don't know."

"Does that mean you don't know the answer to my question or you don't know who you'd rather live with?" I said.

The kid shrugged again. "Can I turn on the radio?" he said.

I said, "No. We're talking."

He shrugged.

"Would you rather be adopted?"

This time he didn't shrug.

"A ward of the state?"

Nothing.

"Join a gang of pickpockets and live in the slums of London?"

He looked at me as if I were crazy.

"Run off and join the circus? Make a raft and float down the Mississippi? Stow away on a pirate s.h.i.+p?"

"You're not funny," he said.

"Lot of people tell me that," I said. "Who would you rather live with, your mother or your father?"

"What'll you do if I won't say?" he said.

"Ride around and be funny at you till you plead for mercy."

He didn't say anything. But he didn't shrug. And he did look at me. Briefly.

"Want me to turn around and take you back to your father?"

"What difference does it make?" the kid said. "What do you care? It's not your business. Whyn't you leave me alone?"

"Because right now you're in my keeping and I'm trying to decide what's best to do with you."

"I thought my mother hired you. Whyn't you do what she tells you?"

"I might not approve of what she wants me to do."

"But she hired you," he said.

"She gave me a hundred bucks, one day's pay. If you don't want me to take you to her, I'll take you back to your old man, give her back her hundred."

"I bet you wouldn't," he said. He was staring out the window when he said it.

"Convince me you should be with him and I will."

"Okay, I'd rather be with him," the kid said. His face was still turned to the window.

"Why?" I said.

"See. I knew you wouldn't," he said. He turned his face toward me and he looked as if he'd won something.

"I didn't say I wouldn't," I said. "I asked for reasons. This is important stuff, choosing a parent. I'm not going to have you do it to win a bet."

He stared out the window again. We were in North Reading, still going south.

"See, Paul, what I'm trying to do is get you to decide what you'd like best to do. Are the questions too hard for you? You want to try watching my lips move?"

With his face still turned to the window the kid said, "I don't care who I live with. They both suck. It doesn't make any difference. They're both awful. I hate them."

The soft whine was a little shaky. As if he might cry.

"Son of a b.i.t.c.h," I said. "I hadn't thought of that,"

Again he looked at me in an odd sort of triumph. "So now what are you going to do?"

I wanted to shrug and look out the window. I said, 'I'll probably take you back to your mother and keep the hundred dollars."

"That's what I thought," the kid said.

"Would you rather I did something else?" I said.

He shrugged. We were through Reading Square almost to 128. "Can I turn on the radio now?" he said.

"No," I said. I knew I was being churlish, but the kid annoyed me. In his whiny, stubborn desperation he irritated the h.e.l.l out of me. Mr. Warm. There's no such thing as a bad boy.

The kid almost smirked.

"You want to know why I'm taking you to your mother?" I said.

"To get the hundred bucks."

"Yeah. But it's more than a hundred bucks. It's a way of thinking about things."

The kid shrugged. If he did it enough, I would stop the car and bang his head on the pavement "When all your options are lousy," I said, "you try to choose the least lousy. Apparently you're equally bad off with your mother or your father. Apparently you don't care which place you're unhappy. If I take you back to your father you're unhappy and I get nothing. If I take you back to your mother you're unhappy and I get a hundred bucks. So I'm taking you back to your mother. You understand?"

"Sure, you want the hundred."

"It would be the same if it were a dime. It's a way to think about things. It's a way not to get shoved around by circ.u.mstances."

"And Mommy will give you money," he said. "Maybe you can f.u.c.k her." He checked me carefully, looking sideways at me as he said it, to see how shocked I'd be.

"Your father suggested the same thing," I said. "Your mom into s.e.x, is she?"

The kid said, "I dunno."

"Or you figure I'm so irresistible that it's inevitable."

The kid shrugged. I figured I could take maybe two more shrugs before I stopped the car. "I don't want to talk about it," he said.

"Then you shouldn't have brought it up," I said.

He was silent.

I turned off of Route 28 onto Route 128 South, toward Lexington.

"I also think it's bad form to talk about your mother that way to a stranger."

"Why?"

"It's not done," I said.

The kid shrugged and stared out the window. He had one shrug left.

"If my father had started to fight with you, what would you do?"

"I'd have subdued him."

"How?"

"Depends how tough he is."

"He used to be a football player and he still lifts weights at the health club."

I shrugged. It was catching.

"Do you think you could beat him up?" he said.

"Oh, sure," I said. "He's a big strong guy, I guess, but I do this for a living. And I'm in better shape."

"Big deal," the kid said.

"I didn't bring it up," I said.

"I don't care about muscles," the kid said.

"Okay," I said.

"I suppose you think you're a big man, having muscles," the kid said.

"I think they are useful to me in what I do," I said.

"Well, I think they're ugly."

I took my hands off the wheel long enough to turn my palms up.

"How come you're a detective?" he said.

"Like the man said, because I can't sing or dance."

"It's an awful gross job to me," he said.

I made the same palms-up gesture. We were pa.s.sing the Burlington Mall. "What exit do I take?" I said.

"Four and two-twenty-five toward Bedford," he said. "How come you want to do a gross job?"

"It lets me live life on my own terms," I said. "You sure you mean toward Bedford?"

"Yes. I'll show you," he said. And he did. We turned off toward Bedford, turned right, and right again and over an overpa.s.s back toward Lexington. Emerson Road was not far off the highway, a community of similar homes with a lot of wood and gla.s.s and some stone and brick. It was contemporary, but it worked okay in Lexington. I parked in the driveway out front and we got out. It was late afternoon and the wind had picked up. We leaned into it as we walked to his back door.

He opened it and went in without knocking and without any announcement.