In Pursuit of Spenser (4 page)

He got off the weight bench and started to admonish me for acting like “a damn homosexual.”

I assured him that if I were a homosexual, he definitely was too short and fat for my taste.

A lot of stadium stairs were run that day.

I also learned it wasn’t a good idea to correct my position coach’s grammar. He said the only books worth reading were either the Bible or were written by televangelist Pat Robertson and believed the past tense of the word squeeze was “squez.” After the hundredth time hearing this, I raised my hand, telling him the truth.

More stadium steps were run.

The laughter from my teammates was worth every step. And the confidence I gained from making light of the men trying to run me from the program allowed me to finish what I started. I made it through my senior year, a season where a new coach led us to an undefeated year and I was fortunate enough to be featured on the cover of
Sports Illustrated
.

I think Spenser would have liked how it all turned out.

I don’t think I ever considered how a man wouldn’t go for a hot Jewish woman like Susan Silverman or trust his life with a tough black guy like Hawk. After all, I’d grown up with a father working in the NFL, and some of the coolest, most bad-ass dudes I met in my youth were black, as were my present teammates and buddies. But as a teenager, the idea of being around someone gay was fraught with a lot of questions, hesitations, and jokes. This was something I’d never really considered at a young age. Most men who played football or sports would use offensive gay slurs for men who didn’t. There was a lot of locker room humor and dummies like that weight coach who looked at homosexuals as people afflicted by a disease—as if you could catch it.

In college, Spenser absolutely molded my views on sexual orientation. Why should a man fear or look down on a man or woman who’s gay? This has been a topic of conversation for Spenser since
Looking for Rachel Wallace
, when Spenser is hired to guard an outspoken lesbian writer. Hate mongers and bigots have threatened to kill Rachel Wallace if she
publishes a book on oppression. Spenser muses over why he should pass judgment on someone’s sexual orientation; after all, he’s sure that he and Susan “weren’t all that slick in the actual doing ourselves. When you thought about it, maybe none of us were doing Swan Lake.”

In
Paper Doll
we first meet Detective Lee Farrell, a hard Boston cop whose partner is dying of AIDS. The relationship between Spenser and Farrell is of two men who live by the same code of honor and believe in the same thing. Who they take to bed is completely irrelevant.

The meeting of the two starts off in rocky fashion, with Spenser telling Farrell to let go of the chip on his shoulder:

“I don’t care if you are as good as I am or not. I don’t care if you’re tough or not, or smart or not. I don’t care if you are gay or straight or both or neither. I care about finding out who killed that broad with a framing hammer, and so far you’re not helping me worth shit.”

But the conversation is between two men who set out to do a job, all prejudices aside.

Later in the series, we meet Teddy Sapp, an exceptionally bad-ass Georgia bouncer who just happens to be gay. Spenser judges Sapp on his ability as a tough and someone to count on. Again, not exactly ideas I’d considered as a teenager. But if Spenser could respect a gay man for his professionalism and personal code, then I figured I would, too.

In the world of tough crime fiction, Spenser’s acceptance and appreciation of the gay community was light years ahead when
Paper Doll
was published twenty years ago or when
Rachel Wallace
hit stores more than thirty years ago. Spenser talked about discrimination in the work place, the AIDS epidemic, and committed gay relationships long before these
were mainstream conversations. If Spenser can influence a young man raised in a traditional home and living in a very macho-driven world to change his thinking, imagine what Spenser has done for millions of other readers.

When we think of Spenser, we all think of good food and drink. It’s as much a part of his character as his love of baseball or the .357 he keeps in his right-hand desk drawer. No one is better at throwing a meal together from assorted items found in the refrigerator or pantry. Although he enjoys a steak at Grill 23 or a lobster sandwich at Locke-Ober, he also has a deep appreciation of an assorted dozen from Dunkin’ Donuts. Spenser is never snobbish, but self-assured on what he likes to eat and what he likes to cook.

I know Spenser definitely led me to cooking. As a teenage boy, I had no interest in making apple fritters or baking corn muffins. But a few books into the series, I realized how much fun and how relaxing cooking can be. I started to experiment with ingredients, diving more into Creole and Cajun cooking, looking for places to find really good andouille or redfish. I have hand picked apples to be cored, dipped in a simple batter and fried in rings for fritters. Grocery shopping isn’t just monotony with Spenser; it’s full of possibilities and excitement.

As Spenser noted in
Pastime
,

“I’ve spent a lot of my time alone, and I have learned to treat myself as if I were a family. I give myself dinner at night. I give myself breakfast in the morning. I like the process of deciding what to eat and putting it together and seeing how
it works, and I like to experiment, and I like to eat. There is nothing lonelier than some guy alone in the kitchen eating Chinese food out of the carton.”

As a young newspaper reporter in Tampa, I lived in a small studio in a brick apartment building built in the ‘20s. I didn’t have a lot of money, but I always stocked Sam Adams, good whiskey, and basic items that could create a quick and delicious meal. I was often on my own, even on the weekends, and I’d pour myself a cocktail, turn on some Coltrane, and have a terrific evening. Being alone and being content was a fine place to be. Self-sufficiency is being content with yourself.

“What you’re good at is less important than being good at something. You got nothing. You care about nothing. So I’m going to have you be strong, be in shape, be able to run ten miles, and be able to lift more than you weigh and be able to box. I’m going to have you know how to build and cook and to work hard and to push yourself and control yourself. Maybe we can get to reading and looking at art and listening to something beside situation comedies later on. But right now I’m working your body because it’s easier to start there.”

—
Early Autumn

Early on, I didn’t really need Spenser to tell me to keep in shape. I had to keep in shape, or I could be hurt pretty badly or lose my scholarship. Training was an everyday thing. I checked into the weight room daily, ran sprints and distance. It was one part of the college athlete experience that I actually enjoyed.

But after college, I really had to find drive and motivation to keep making time for this. I was working a pretty competitive beat at the newspaper, and a few hours in the gym or jogging wasn’t easily found. But as Spenser tells us, the purpose of a training regimen is developing discipline, not necessarily to lift the most weight or be the fastest. Keeping in check with your body and pushing yourself will manifest itself in other positive ways.

As a young reporter, I ended up joining a gym that stepped right out of a Parker novel. It was run by a tough, short, ex–pro wrestler named Harry Smith, who was every bit as tough and salty as Henry Cimoli. Harry is the kind of guy who gave every ethnicity grief for their known stereotypes while proudly flying all the flags of his member’s ethnicities on the gym roof. The gym became like my second home when I lived in Tampa, and it was a hell of a good place to learn some one-liners.

I’ve just hit my forties, about the same age as Spenser when we met him in
The Godwulf Manuscript
, and the training gets harder every year. But it’s become a core part of my writing routine, especially now that I’m writing two physical heroes. I work out storyline ideas as I run or battle some tough rednecks or Southie thugs as I hit the heavy bag. Spenser taught me that sometimes the toughest answers are found while you sweat.

I’d spent most of my life looking around in dark places that were often appalling. But oddly, I was never really appalled. I looked where I needed to look to do what I did. And what was there was there. I’d done it too long to speculate too much on why it was there. When I
needed to, I could flatten out my emotional response until it was simply blank. I liked what I did, probably because I was good at it.

—
Painted Ladies

I don’t know if anyone could ever fully be Spenser—I’ve never met anyone that cool in real life. Parker always said Spenser could do five times what he could do. I don’t think he just meant physically. Not only was Spenser unflappable around the assholes he met, he could find enjoyment anywhere he went. He entertained himself equally by knowing and recognizing the details of a police house, a fine restaurant, or a flophouse motel.

I think the reason readers have stayed with Spenser for nearly forty books, making him arguably the most successful private eye series of all time, is Spenser’s outlook. There is something in the pages of the novels that makes readers take note of the world around them, maybe enjoy that cup of coffee as they sit at the airport or pay more attention to where they are at that very moment. And I feel this is a crucial lesson these days as people become more absorbed in the digital world without experiencing the actual world. Spenser is all in the here and now. This serves him well as an investigator, a bodyguard, and as someone who has survived numerous attempts on his life. But it’s also a worldview that helps him enjoy life more than the rest of us.

There have been countless times I’ve returned to Spenser when I feel I’ve run aground, when I’m experiencing grief, or when I feel I’m overwhelmed with too much in my head. There is a rhythm and a Zen energy that Parker developed for Spenser that transfers well beyond the page, adjusting readers’ outlooks even if it’s just for the time they’re reading the novel. You can hear the wind, the leaves in the trees, and appreciate the change of seasons.

In that, Bob Parker has left us much more than just an entertaining series and compelling hero. In the spaces between and during the action, he’s taught us how to untie our minds and stand still, to watch and enjoy what’s going on around us. To be here now.

As Spenser heads into his fortieth adventure, I was honored to be chosen by the Parker estate to continue this iconic series that has meant so much to me. As I started the task, I was filled with natural self-doubt and hesitation. I found it a bit ironic, knowing that Spenser chose an ex–college football player with an appreciation for bourbon as his apprentice in
Sixkill
, the last novel that Bob wrote. In that book, Susan and Spenser talk about Sixkill’s transformation:

SUSAN
: If he learns what you know, and behaves as you behave, then it allows him to slough off the costume.

SPENSER
: So I haven’t helped him change as much as I’ve helped him get out.

And as I write, I keep in mind what Spenser tells Sixkill when they first take on a bunch of thugs together, feeling like I’m walking with Bob as I do this:

Four men came out of the entrance tunnel and onto the field.

“Don’t think about it. You’ve trained enough. It should come as needed. Like riding a bicycle.”

After two decades of friendship, I’ve learned a hell of a lot.

| DENNIS LEHANE |

I DIDN’T PUBLISH
anything worth noting until the second chapter of my first novel. I say the second chapter, not the first, because the second chapter opens with the line, “The old neighborhood is the Edward Everett Square section of Dorchester.” That’s my voice. The opening line of the
first
chapter is, “The bar at the Ritz Carlton looks out on the Public Garden and requires a tie.” That is not my voice; that is Robert B. Parker’s voice. In fact, the whole first chapter, with its self-consciously flashy repartee and overtly smartass main character, Patrick Kenzie, cracking wise with excessive abandon, is so faux-Parker, so mimeo-Spenser, so wearing the anxiety of its influence on every inch of its sleeve, that if I could publicly disown it and still have the book make sense, I would do so.

The reason I discovered myself only in chapter two was because that’s when I left downtown for the neighborhoods. My Boston is the Boston of the neighborhoods, the ring around the hub. Robert B. Parker’s Boston is the city proper, The Hub itself. I write about the Victoria Diner and the Ashmont Grill in Dorchester; he wrote about the Parker House and Maison Robert on School Street by Old City Hall. He wrote about Newbury Street, Marlborough Street, and Commonwealth Avenue. I write about East 2nd, the Melnea Cass, and Dot Ave. And when I did wander into Parker’s backyard, I trod lightly and with respect. Because it was his zip code; I was visiting.