Shrink Rap Read online

  SHRINK RAP

  by Robert B. Parker

  Joan, Dave, Dan…

  I’ll tell them I remember you.

  Chapter 1

  I always loved Richie’s hands. They looked like such man’s hands. I knew that I was guilty of gross gender stereotyping, but I kept my mouth shut about it, and no one knew. His hands rested on the table between us, the right one on top of the left. They were still. Richie was always still. It was one of the things that had made it hard to be married to him. I knew intellectually that he loved me, but he was so contained and interior that I used to crave even the most unseemly display of feeling. He was still now, sitting across the table from me, telling me he’d met someone else. We were divorced. It was fine for him to see other people. I saw other people too. But this was a somebody else he’d met. This was more than seeing other people. This made me feel like my center had collapsed.

  “Somebody, like walk into the sunset?” I said.

  “She wants to get married,” Richie said. “She has a right to that.”

  “And you?”

  Richie shrugged. “I’m thinking about it.”

  “Three kids and a house in the western suburbs?”

  “We haven’t talked about that,” Richie said.

  “What about Rosie?” I said.

  “She likes dogs.”

  I looked at the hamburger I had ordered. I didn’t want it.

  “Rosie would still want to visit,” I said.

  “I love Rosie,” Richie said.

  “Has Ms. Right met her?” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “They get along?”

  “Very well,” Richie said. “Rosie loves her.”

  She does not.

  “Rosie will remain my dog,” I said.

  Richie smiled at me. “We’re not going to have a custody fight over a goddamn bull terrier, are we?”

  “Not as long as we remember she’s mine.”

  “She’s ours,” Richie said.

  “But not hers.”

  “No. Mine and yours,” Richie said. “She lives with you and visits me.”

  I nodded. Richie was quiet.

  “How long have you been seeing Ms. Right?” I said.

  “About three months.”

  “Three months.”

  Richie nodded.

  “You’re sleeping with her,” I said.

  “Of course.”

  “Do you love Ms. Right?” I said.

  “Her name is Carrie.”

  “Do you love Carrie?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And how are you going to find out?” I said.

  “I don’t know.”

  Richie had ordered a club sandwich, on whole wheat, toasted. He hadn’t eaten any of it. The waitress stopped at our table.

  “Is everything all right?” she said.

  “Fine,” Richie said.

  “Can I get you anything else?”

  “No,” Richie said. “Check will be fine.”

  “Do you want me to have your food wrapped?” the waitress said.

  “No thank you,” Richie said.

  The waitress looked at me. I shook my head. She put a check on the table and went away looking regretful. Richie and I looked at each other.

  “Whaddya think?” he said.

  I shook my head.

  “I know,” Richie said.

  He looked at the check and took some bills out of his wallet and put them on the table.

  “The thing is,” he said, “I can’t get past you.”

  “Oh?”

  “I mean, we’re sort of spinning our wheels.”

  “You could call it that,” I said.

  “I mean this is a nice woman, and she’s happy with who and what I am.”

  I nodded.

  “But I can’t get past you,” Richie said.

  “I face somewhat the same problem,” I said.

  “We need some kind of resolution, Sunny.”

  “I thought the divorce was supposed to be some kind of resolution,” I said.

  Richie smiled quietly. “I did too,” he said.

  “But it wasn’t,” I said.

  “No. It wasn’t.”

  “So what are we supposed to do?” I said.

  “I’m serious about this woman.”

  I nodded. It was difficult for me to speak. The room around me seemed insubstantial, as if I were drifting in space.

  “But,” he said, “I can’t imagine a life without you in it.”

  “So,” I said. “What the hell is this, a warning that you’re going to try?”

  “I guess it is,” Richie said.

  The room was nearly empty. There was only one other table occupied, by three people calmly having lunch. The waitress stayed away from us. Discreet. I looked at the money that Richie had stacked neatly on top of the bill.

  “I miss Rosie,” Richie said.

  “She misses you.”

  I was quiet. Richie was perfectly still, his hands folded motionless on the table. We were so silent that I was aware of his breathing across the table.

  “Are we really talking about the dog here?” Richie said.

  “No,” I said, “we goddamned sure are not.”

  Chapter 2

  Melanie Joan Hall, wearing a considerable hat, sat across from me having breakfast in the dining room of the Four Seasons Hotel. Beside her was the Vice President, Publicity, for Scepter Books, which, very successfully, published Melanie Joan. Beside me was Upton Lake, the publisher’s Corporate Counsel.

  “If I may cut to the chase,” Lake said, “we are asking Ms. Hall to tour on behalf of her new book.”

  I nodded.

  “She was originally scheduled for fifteen cities, but because of the tragic events in New York and Washington…”

  “And Pennsylvania,” I said.

  “And Pennsylvania. We are now asking her only to go to cities where she can drive.”

  “Prudent,” I said.

  “And we need a competent escort to drive her.”

  “Admittedly, I’m a swell driver,” I said, “but why me?”

  “My ex-husband won’t leave me alone,” Melanie Joan said.

  Too bad I can’t say the same.

  “Melanie Joan has requested security,” the Vice President, Publicity, said.

  The two women were entirely unalike. Melanie Joan was zaftig and blond in a tight flowery dress with a skirt to mid thigh. The Vice President, Allison Birmingham, was a tall, thin woman wearing a black suit and eyeglasses with green rims. Lake was sporting the full-dress New York corporate look: crisp white hair, ruddy complexion, navy blue suit, red tie, blue striped shirt with a white collar. There was not a question in my mind that if he removed his suit coat he would be wearing wide red suspenders.

  “Are you familiar with Melanie Joan’s books?” Allison said.

  I nodded. I had read one on an airplane once and been unable to finish it, but there seemed no need to share that.

  “Her new book is just out,” Allison said. “It is going to be her biggest book yet. We’re printing seven hundred and fifty thousand copies. And we are asking her to go on a ten-city promotional tour on behalf of the book.”

  “Not as many perhaps as, say, Steve King, but a substantial number.”

  Steve.

  “So Melanie Joan is in the big leagues.”

  Allison said, “Absolutely.”

  Melanie Joan smiled modestly. She was having a toasted bagel. So was Allison. So was I. It wasn’t just weight watching. I knew that all three of us had ordered something that could be eaten neatly. Upton was having bacon and eggs and home fries and buttered toast. Men!

  “Is your ex-husband dangerous?” I said.

  “I don’t think
we know that,” Melanie Joan said. “He is very certainly annoying.”

  “I can probably help with the danger part,” I said. “I don’t know what I can do about making him less annoying.”

  “And you’re prepared to drive city to city with Ms. Hall?” Upton said.

  “That would have something to do with how much you are prepared to pay me,” I said.

  “We will pay you your usual rate, plus expenses,” Upton said. “Ms. Hall, of course, travels first class. So you would as well.”

  “Where would we go?” I said.

  Melanie Joan rattled off the cities in an almost expressionless tone: “Pittsburgh, Cleveland, Cincinnati, Dayton, Louisville, New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Washington, D.C.”

  “Good heavens,” I said.

  “The tour should take two weeks,” Allison said. “It is scheduled to end October thirtieth.”

  “Four cities a week.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you think your ex-husband will be able to keep up the pace?”

  “I don’t know that he won’t,” Melanie Joan said.

  “You’re all from New York, why come up here and offer me the job?” I said.

  “Melanie Joan still lives here,” Allison said.

  “And, I might need you beyond the book tour,” Melanie Joan said. “If we get along all right.”

  “A test run,” I said. “At the publisher’s expense.”

  Melanie Joan smiled.

  “Maybe,” she said.

  The girls were talking too much, Lake needed to reassert himself. “I called your police commissioner,” he said.

  “Oh,” I said.

  “Oh?” Melanie Joan said.

  “Pat Reagan used to be my father’s partner.”

  “Your father was a policeman?” Melanie Joan said.

  “Yes. He retired as a captain.”

  “We checked you thoroughly,” Upton said. “Nepotism aside, we’re prepared to offer you the job.”

  “You’d be gone at least two weeks,” Allison said.

  “Do you have children?” Melanie Joan said.

  “No,” I said. “I have a dog.”

  “Will that be a problem?”

  “I’ll miss her,” I said. “But she can stay with her father.”

  “Your husband?”

  “No.”

  I must have said no with more attitude than I intended. Everyone was silent for a moment.

  “So can we count on you?” Allison said.

  “Certainly,” I said.

  Chapter 3

  “The sonovabitch,” I said to Spike, “has someone else.”

  “He’s thinking of having someone else,” Spike said and gave Rosie a french fry under the table. She ate it at once and turned her laserlike gaze back upward at Spike. Rosie was an English bull terrier, a miniature, and when she sat like that she looked a bit like a small black-and-white pyramid, albeit a beautiful one.

  “It’s not right,” I said. “And don’t give her french fries.”

  “Aren’t you and Richie divorced?” Spike said.

  He gave Rosie another fry.

  “Yes, but we had an arrangement.”

  “Un huh.”

  “Well, goddamnit, we did.”

  “Is it anything like the arrangement you had with Brian Kelly?”

  Rosie elevated without visible volition onto Spike’s lap and lapped his ear.

  “That was different,” I said.

  Spike smiled. He got another french fry off his plate and handed it to Rosie.

  “Well, it was,” I said. “I wasn’t planning to walk off into the sunset with him.”

  “You never thought about it for a moment?” Spike said.

  “Well, of course, sure, naturally you think about it.”

  Spike was big and powerful in a bearish sort of way. He wasn’t bald yet, but his hair had begun to recede visibly. If she couldn’t be with me, or Richie, Rosie wanted to be with Spike. She was busy again, lapping. Spike turned his head, to avoid death by saliva. He smiled at me again and didn’t say anything. We were in his restaurant; not his actually, but the one that he had free reign to manage. I had a salad, which I wasn’t eating. Spike had a lovely cheeseburger and fries, which he was sharing with Rosie.

  “Oh, all right,” I said.

  “Oh, all right?”

  “All right, he’s not doing anything that I didn’t do.”

  Spike nodded.

  “But at least I didn’t tell him about it.”

  Spike nodded again, and smiled again. I wanted to strangle him. Rosie had both forepaws on the table now, her black oval eyes fixed upon the remaining french fries.

  “So I’m mad,” I said, “because Richie didn’t mislead me the way I did him.”

  “You think?” Spike said.

  “Oh, fuck you,” I said.

  “Good point,” Spike said.

  “But, my God, Spike, what if he does marry the damned hussy?”

  “You want to be married to him again?”

  I was quiet for a long time. Spike had a large bite of cheeseburger.

  Finally, I said, “I don’t know.”

  “Does he want to be married to you again?” Spike said.

  “I don’t know.”

  A man and woman came to the table. Mr. and Mrs. Business: dark suits, briefcases, smooth hair, round glasses. The man’s smooth hair was gray. The woman’s smooth hair was blond, and other than that, allowing for anatomy, they looked interchangeable.

  “Are you the manager?” the man said to Spike.

  “Sometimes,” Spike said. “But not right now. Right now I’m doing psychotherapy.”

  The man looked puzzled.

  “We’re having a problem with our waitress,” the woman said.

  “Leave her a big tip,” Spike said, “and call me in the morning.”

  “That’s your response?” the man said.

  “It is,” Spike said. He held another french fry for Rosie.

  “That’s disgusting,” the woman said, “feeding a dog from the table in a restaurant.”

  “She’s not having trouble with her waitress,” Spike said.

  “I’ll tell you one thing right now,” the man said. “We’ll never be back here.”

  “Promises, promises,” Spike said. He smiled at both of them. But there was something in the smile. The man almost flinched. The woman took his arm.

  “Come on, Brett,” she said. “Let’s not get down to his level.”

  Spike took Rosie off his lap and stood, and sat her on his chair. When he straightened he was still smiling his smile. He pointed at them and then at the door.

  “Beat it,” he said.

  The man started to speak, stopped. The woman pulled on the man’s arm until he turned and stalked out with her. Spike picked Rosie back up and sat down and put her back in his lap.

  “I guess the customer isn’t always right,” I said.

  “I hate it,” Spike said, “when I’m doing therapy, and somebody bothers me.”

  “I wouldn’t have guessed that,” I said.

  Spike grinned. His eyes were pale blue. They looked amused. They always looked amused. Almost.

  “You gonna leave Rosie with him when you go off with this author?” Spike said.

  “Yes.”

  “Even if his girlfriend might pat her?”

  “I hate that,” I said. “But… yes.”

  We were quiet while Spike finished the cheeseburger. The fries were gone too. He pushed the empty plate close to Rosie so she could lap it.

  “Here’s what I think,” Spike said. “I think Richie won’t commit to this broad any more than you would commit to Brian Kelly.”

  “And that would be, why?” I said.

  “That would be because you are both connected to each other in ways you don’t even understand yet.”

  “And you think we will?”

  “You’d better,” Spike said.

  Chapter 4

  We we
re on the Mass Pike passing through Lenox, with me driving, heading west with the cruise control set at seventy, two good-looking babes in a rental Mercedes, talking.

  “Sometimes I think it’s so inconsequential,” Melanie Joan said, “in the face of the terrorist horror: my books, my silly marriage problems, all of it.”

  “It is probably consequential to you,” I said.

  “But what does it matter compared to the awfulness of September eleventh?”

  “I don’t imagine anything much matters compared to eternity,” I said. “It’s probably best to keep on doing what you know how to do.”

  “But doesn’t it make you feel vulnerable?” Melanie Joan said.

  “Sure,” I said. “And angry, and vengeful and scared, and appalled.”

  “And what do you do with all those feelings?”

  “I experience them.”

  “And move on?” Melanie Joan said.

  “Yes.”

  We stopped at the West Stockbridge tollbooth. I paid and tucked the receipt over the visor. We were in New York State now.

  “When we first met,” Melanie Joan said, “someone asked about your husband and you were very brusque.”

  “True.”

  “Are you having trouble with your marriage?”

  “I’m divorced,” I said.

  “Do you feel like talking about it?” Melanie Joan said.

  “You first.”

  Melanie Joan was staring out the window at the rural New York landscape. Up a low hill a large billboard announced the prospect of a motel with a pool and an entertainment center only fifty miles hence.

  “It seemed so simple a thing,” she said. “I was smart, I was a cheerleader, I would go to college, meet the right man—in my circles that’s why girls went to college—and happy ever aftering.”

  I smiled encouragingly.

  “And I did,” Melanie Joan said. “In fact I’ve met the right man a number of times.”

  “And married them?”

  “Every time,” she said. “They’re bastards, aren’t they?”

  “Not always,” I said. “Richie’s not a bastard… I don’t think.”

  “Do you ever see each other?”

  “Yes. Once a week, on Wednesday nights, when we can.”

  “How civilized,” Melanie Joan said.

  “We share custody of a dog, Rosie.”

  “Children?” Melanie Joan said.