Early Autumn Part 3

CHAPTER 5.

I rang the doorbell a long blast and followed him in. It was a downstairs hall. There were two white hollow core doors on the left and a short stairway to the right. On the wall before the stairway was a big Mondrian print in a chrome frame. Four steps up was the living room. As I went up the stairs behind the kid his mother came to the head of the stairs.

The kid said, "Here's a big treat, I'm home."

Patty Giacomin said, "Oh, Paul, I didn't expect you so soon."

She was wearing a pink silk outfit-tapered pants with a loose-fitting top. The top hung outside the pants and was gathered at the waist by a gold belt.

I was standing two steps down behind Paul on the stairs. There was a moment of silence. Then Patty Giacomin said, "Well, come up, Mr. Spenser. Have a drink. Paul, let Mr. Spenser get by."

I stepped into the living room. There were two gla.s.ses and a pitcher that looked like martini on the low gla.s.s coffee table in front of the couch. There was a fire in the fireplace. There was Boursin cheese on a small tray and a plate of crackers that looked like little shredded-wheat biscuits. And on his feet, politely, in front of the couch was the very embodiment of contemporary elegance. He was probably my height and slim as a weasel. He wore a subdued gray herringbone coat and vest with charcoal pants, a narrow pink tie, a pin collar, and black Gucci loafers. A pink-and-charcoal hankie spilled out of the breast pocket of his jacket His hair was cut short and off the ears and he had a close-cropped beard and a mustache. Whether to see or be seen I had no way to tell, but he was also sporting a pair of pink-tinted aviator gla.s.ses with very thin black rims. The pink tie was shiny.

Patty Giacomin said, "Paul, you know Stephen. Stephen, this is Mr. Spenser. Stephen Court"

Stephen put out his hand. It was manicured and tanned. St Thomas, no doubt His handshake was firm without being strong. "Good to see you," he said.

He didn't say anything to Paul and Paul didn't look at him. Patty said, "Would you join us for a drink, Mr. Spenser?"

"Sure," I said. "Have any beer?"

"Oh, dear, I'm not sure," she said, "Paul, go look in the refrigerator and see if there's any beer."

Paul hadn't taken his coat off. He went over to the TV set in the bookcase and turned it on, set no channel, and sat down in a black Naugahyde armchair. The set warmed up and a Brady Bunch rerun came on. It was loud.

Patty Giacomin said, "Paul, for G.o.d's sake," and lowered the volume. While she did that I went into the kitchen on my right and found a can of Schlitz in the refrigerator. There were two more with it, and not much else. I went back into the living room with my beer. Stephen was sitting again, sipping his martini, his legs arranged so as not to ruin the crease in his pants. Patty was standing with her martini in hand.

"Did you have much trouble finding Paul, Mr. Spenser?"

"No," I said. "It was easy."

"Did you have trouble with his father?"

"No."

"Have some cheese and a cracker," she said. I took some. Boursin on a Triscuit isn't my favorite, but it had been a long time since breakfast I washed it down with the beer. There was silence except for a now softened Brady Bunch.

Stephen took a small sip of his martini, leaned back slightly, brushed a tiny fleck of something from his left lapel, and said, "Tell me, Mr. Spenser, what do you do?" I heard an overtone of disdain, but I'm probably too sensitive.

"I'm a disc jockey at Regine's," I said. "Haven't I seen you there?"

Patty Giacomin spoke very quickly. "Mr. Spenser," she said, "could I ask you a really large favor?"

I nodded.

"I, well, I know you've already done so much bringing Paul back, but, well, it's just that it happened much sooner than I thought it would and Stephen and I have a dinner reservation... Could you take Paul out maybe to McDonald's or someplace? I'll pay of course."

I looked at Paul. He was sitting, still with his coat on, staring at The Brady Bunch. Stephen said, "There's a rather decent Chinese restaurant in town, Szechuan and Mandarin cooking."

Patty Giacomin had taken her purse off the mantel and was rummaging in it "Yes," she said. "The Yangtze River. Paul can show you. That's a good idea. Paul always likes to eat there." She took a twenty out of her purse and handed it to me. "Here," she said. "That should be enough. It's not very expensive."

I didn't take the twenty. I said to Paul, "You want to go?" and then I shrugged at the same time he did.

"What are you doing?" he said.

"Practicing my timing," I said. "Your shrug is so expressive I'm trying to develop one just like it. You want to go get something to eat?"

He started to shrug, stopped, and said, "I don't care."

"Well, I do," I said. "Come on. I'm starving."

Patty Giacomin still held the twenty out. I shook my head.

"You asked for a favor," I said. "You didn't offer to hire me. My treat."

"Oh, Spenser," she said, "don't be silly."

"Come on, kid," I said to Paul. "Let's go. I'll dazzle you with my knowledge of Oriental lore."

The kid shifted slightly. "Come on," I said. "I'm hungry as h.e.l.l."

He got up. "What's the latest you'll be home," he said to his mother.

"I'll be home before twelve," she said.

Stephen said, "Good meeting you, Spenser. Good seeing you, Paul."

"Likewise I'm sure," I said. We went out.

When we were in the car again Paul said, "Why'd you do it?"

"What, agree to take you to dinner?"

"Yes."

"I felt bad for you," I said.

"How come?"

"Because you came home after being missing and no one seemed glad."

"I don't care."

"That's probably wise," I said. "If you can pull it off." I turned out of Emerson Road. "Which way?" I said.

"Left," he said.

"I don't think I could pull it off," I said.

"What?"

"Not caring," I said. "I think if I got sent off to eat with a stranger my first night home I'd be down about it"

"Well, I'm not," he said.

"Good," I said. "You want to eat in this Chinese place?"

"I don't care," he said.

We came to a cross street "Which way?" I said.

"Left," he said.

"That the way to the Chinese restaurant?" I said.

"Yes."

"Good, we'll eat there."

We drove through Lexington, along dark streets that were mostly empty. It was a cold night People were staying in. Lexington looks like you think it would. A lot of white colonial houses, many of them original. A lot of green shutters. A lot of bull's-eye gla.s.s and small, paned windows. We came into the center of town, the green on the right. The statue of the Minuteman motionless in the cold. No one was taking a picture of it.

"It's over there," Paul said, "around that square."

In the restaurant Paul said, "How come you wouldn't let her pay for it?"

"It didn't seem the right thing to do," I said.

"Why not? Why should you pay? She's got plenty of money."

"If we order careful," I said, "I can afford this."

The waiter came. I ordered a Beck's beer for me and a c.o.ke for Paul. We looked at the menu.

"What can I have?" Paul said.

"Anything you want," I said. "I'm very successful."

We looked at the menu some more. The waiter brought the beer and the c.o.ke. He stood with his pencil and paper poised. "You order?" he said.

"No," I said. "We're not ready."

"Okay," he said, and went away.

Paul said, "I don't know what to have."

I said, "What do you like?"

He said, "I don't know."

I nodded. "Yeah," I said, "somehow I had a sense you might say that."

He stared at the menu.

I said, "How about I order for both of us?"

"What if you order something I don't like?"

"Don't eat it."

"But I'm hungry."

"Then decide what you want."

He stared at the menu some more. The waiter wandered back. "You order?" he said.

I said, "Yes. We'll have two orders of Peking ravioli, the duck with plum sauce, the moo shu pork, and two bowls of white rice. And I'll have another beer and he'll have another c.o.ke."

The waiter said, "Okay." He picked up the menus and went away.

Paul said, "I don't know if I'll like that stuff."

"We'll find out soon," I said.

"You gonna send my mother a bill?"

"For the meal?"

"Yes."

"No."

"I still don't see why you want to pay for my dinner."

"I'm not sure," I said. "It has to do with propriety."

The waiter came and plunked the ravioli on the table and two bottles of spiced oil.

"What's propriety?" Paul said.

"Appropriateness. Doing things right."

He looked at me without any expression.