God Save the Child (19 page)

The light blue Smithfield cruiser was still parked in the Bartletts’ driveway, and Silveria, the bushy-haired cop, was reading a copy of Sports Illustrated in the front seat.

I parked beside him in the turnaround, and he looked at me over the top of the magazine as I got out. “Better not park that thing on the street on trash day,” he said.

“Don’t your lips get tired when you read?” I said.

“Your ears are gonna be tired when Mrs. Bartlett gets talking to you. She’s been calling you things I don’t understand.”

“I gather no one tried to do her in.”

“I think her husband might, and I wouldn’t blame him.

Jesus, what a mouth on that broad.”

“Watch me soothe her with my silver tongue,” I said.

Silveria said, “Good luck.”

Marge Bartlett opened the back door and said, “Spenser, where in hell have you been, you rotten bastard?”

Silveria said, “Good, you’ve already got her half won over.”

At the door I said to her, “I know where your son is.”

She said, “We’re paying you to protect me and you run off on your damned own.” I said, “I know where your son is, and I want your husband and you to come with me to get him.”

She said, “It’s lucky I’m alive.”

I pushed past her into the house and said, “Where’s your husband? Working today?”

She said, “Damn you, Spenser, aren’t you going to explain yourself.”

I went to the sink, filled a glass with water, turned back to her. She said, “I want a goddamned explanation.” I poured the water on her head. She screamed and stepped back. She opened her mouth but nothing came out. The relief was wonderful.

“Now,” I said. “I want you to listen to me, or I will get you so wet your skin will wrinkle.” She pulled a paper towel from its roller under a cabinet and dried her hair. “I know where Kevin is. I want you and your husband to come with me to Boston and get him back.”

“Can’t you get him? I mean, won’t there be trouble? I’m not even dressed. My hair’s a mess. Mightn’t it be better if you got him and brought him here? I mean, with me there he might make a scene.”

“No,” I said. “I’ll locate him. And I’ll take care of any trouble. But he’s your kid. You bring him home. I won’t drag him home for you. You owe him that.”

“My husband is working in town—Arden Estates—he’s putting up half a dozen houses near the Wakefield line on Salem Street. We can stop for him on the way.”

“Okay,” I said, “let’s go. We’ll take my car.”

“I have to change,” she said, “and put on my face and do something with my hair. I can’t go out like this.” She had on jeans and sneakers and a man’s white shirt. The curls on each side of her face were held in place by Scotch Tape.

“We are not going out dancing to the syncopated rhythms of Blue Barron,” I said.

She said, “I can’t leave the house looking like this,” and went upstairs. Twenty minutes later she descended in a double-breasted blue pinstripe pants suit with a blue and white polka-dot shirt and three-inch blue platform shoes.

She had on lipstick, rouge, eye makeup, earrings, and doubtless much more that I didn’t recognize. Her hair was stiff with spray. She put on big round blue-colored sunglasses, got her purse from the table in the front hall, and said she was ready.

I said, “I hope you got on clean underwear so if we get in an accident.” She didn’t answer me. And I left it at that. As long as she was quiet, I didn’t want to press my luck.

When we found him at the construction trailer, Roger Bartlett was wearing green twill work clothes and carrying a clipboard.

“Hey,” he said when I told him, “hey, that’s great. Wait a minute, I’ll tell the foreman and I’ll be with you. Hey, that’s okay.” He went across the bulldozed road to a half-framed house and yelled up to one of the men on a scaffold. Then he put the clipbord down on the subfloor of the house and came to my car.

“Get in back, Roger, would you? It’s hard for me without wrinkling my suit.”

She leaned forward and held the seat, and he slid into the back.

On the ride in I told them a little of what I knew. I didn’t mention Croft or Fraser Robinson. I merely told them that I had an address in town where Kevin was staying, and I knew he was staying with Vic Harroway. Neither Bartlett nor his wife knew Harroway. “The sonova bitch,” Bartlett said, “if he’s hurt my kid, I’ll kill him.”

“No,” I said. “You let me handle Harroway. He is not easy. You stay away from him.”

“He’s got my kid, not yours,” Bartlett said.

“He hasn’t harmed Kevin. They like one another. Kevin’s with him by choice.”

Bartlett said, “The sonova bitch.”

We drove along Storrow Drive with the river on our right, took the Kenmore exit, went up over Commonwealth Avenue and onto Park Drive. On the right, apartment houses in red brick and yellow brick, most of them built probably before the war, some with courtyards, low buildings, no more than five stories. It was a neighborhood of graduate students and retired school teachers and middle-aged couples without children. On the left, following the curve of the muddy river, was the Fenway. In early fall it was still bright with flowers, the trees were still dominantly green, and the reeds along the river were higher than a man.

Whenever I passed them, I expected Marlin Perkins to jump out and sell me some insurance.

Number 136 was three quarters of the way down Park Drive, across from the football field. At that point the drive was divided by a broad grass safety island, and I pulled my car up onto it and parked.

Marge Bartlett said, “It’s not a bad neighborhood. Look, it’s across the street from the museum. And there’s a nice park.”

“Breeding shows,” I said. We went across the street and rang the bell marked Super. A fat middle-aged woman with no teeth and gray hair in loose disorganization around her head shuffled to the door. She was wearing fluffy pink slippers and a flowered housedress. When she opened the door, I showed her a badge that said “Suburban Security Service” on it and said in a mean vice-squad voice, “Where’s Apartment Three?”

She said, “Right there on the left, officer, first door.

What’s the trouble?”

“No trouble,” I said, “just routine.”

I knocked on the door with the Bartletts right behind me.

No answer, I knocked again then put my ear against the panel. Silence. “Open it,” I said to the super.

“I don’t know,” she said, “I mean the tenants get mad if…”

“Look, sweetheart,” I said, “if I have to come back here with a warrant, I might bring along someone from the Building Inspector’s office. And we might go over this roach farm very closely, you know.”

“Okay, okay, no need to get mad. Here.” She produced a key ring and opened the door. I went in with my hand on my gun. It was not a distinguished place. Two rooms, kitchen and bath off a central foyer that was painted a dull pink. The place was neat. The bed was made. There was a pound of frozen hamburg half-defrosted on the counter. In the bedroom there were twin beds. On each were some clothes.

Roger Bartlett looked at a pair of flared jeans and a pale blue polo shirt and said, “Those are Kevin’s.” On the other bed was a pair of Black Watch plaid trousers with deep cuffs, and a forest-green silk short-sleeved shirt with a button-down collar. A pair of stacked-heel black loafers was on the floor beside the bed. On the bureau there was a framed eight-by-ten color photo of Harroway and the boy.

Harroway had an arm draped over the boy’s shoulders, and they were both smiling.

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.“

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 wall. 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.“

I stepped closer with the gun still at my side and pulled Bartlett away by the collar. Marge Bartlett was sitting on her heels with her head back trying to stop her nose from bleeding. Bartlett sat on the ground and looked at Harroway.

Harroway had his arm around Kevin’s shoulder.

”He’s staying with me,“ Harroway said.

I held the gun up and said, ”We’ll have to see about that.“

”No,“ Harroway said. ”We won’t see. He’s staying with me. I don’t care about your goddamned gun.“

”That’s the only way you can get me,“ Kevin said, ”if you use a gun. You don’t dare try and stop Vic by yourself.

Nobody does. Nobody can. We’re staying together. If you try to shoot him, you’ll have to shoot me first.“ The kid moved between Harroway and me.

Marge Bartlett said, ”Kevin, you stop that right now.

You are coming home with us. Now don’t be ridiculous.“

Kevin didn’t look at her. ”You see what he did to Big Rog.“ I could feel the distaste like a force. I wondered how his father must feel. ”He’ll do that to anyone that bothers me. He takes care of me. We take care of each other.“ The kid had big dark eyes, and on his cheeks, just like his father’s, two bright spots of color showed.

I flipped the cylinder open on my gun and, with the barrel pointing up, shook the bullets out into my left hand. I put the bullets in my pants pocket, put the gun in my holster.

Then I took off my jacket, folded it, and put it on the ground. I unclipped my holster and put it on the jacket.

Kevin said, ”What are you doing?“ I said, ”I’m going to beat your man.“

Marge Bartlett said, ”Spenser,“ in a strained voice.

Harroway smiled.

”I’m going to beat your man, Kevin, so you’ll know it can be done. Then I’m going to let you decide.“