Mortal Stakes s-3 Read online

  ”One film,“ she said. ”One goddamned film for good money under first-class conditions and no S and M or group sex, and right after that I met Marty.“

  ”In New York?“

  ”Yes, they were in town to play the Yankees, and one of the other players set it up. Mrs. Utley sent three of us over to the hotel. It was Marty’s first time with a whore.“ The word came out harsh and her stare was heavy on me. ”He was always very straight.“

  More silence.

  ”He was a little drunk and laughing and making suggestive remarks, but as soon as we were alone, he got embarrassed. I had to lead him through it. And afterward we had some food sent up and ate a late supper and watched an old movie on TV. I still remember it. It was a Jimmy Stewart western called Broken Arrow. He kissed me good-bye when I left, and he was embarrassed to death to pay me.“

  ”And you saw him again?“

  ”Yes, I called him at his hotel the next day. It was raining and the game with the Yankees was canceled. So we went to the Museum of Natural History.“

  ”How about the other two players that night? Didn’t they recognize you?“

  ”No, I had on a blond wig and different makeup. They didn’t pay much attention to me anyway. Nobody looks at a whore. When I met Marty the next day, he didn’t even recognize me at first.“

  ”When did you get married?“

  ”When we said, except that we changed it. Marty and I worked out the story about me being from Arlington Heights and meeting in Chicago and all. I’d been to Chicago a couple of times and knew my way around okay if anyone wanted to ask about it. And Marty and I went out there before we were married and went to Comiskey Park, or whatever it’s called now, and around Chicago so my story would sound okay.“

  ”Where’d you get Arlington Heights?“

  ”Picked it out on a map.“

  We looked at each other. I could hear the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. And somewhere down the corridor a door opened and closed.

  ”That goddamned movie,“ she said. ”When the letter came, I wanted to confess, but Marty wouldn’t let me.“

  ”What letter?“

  ”The first blackmail letter.“

  ”Do you know who sent it?“

  ”No.“

  ”I assume you don’t have it.“

  ”No.“

  ”What did it say?“

  ”It said—I can remember it almost exactly—it was to Marty and it said, ’I have a copy of a movie called Suburban Fancy. If you don’t lose your next ball game, I’ll release it to the media.‘“

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I WENT OVER to Fenway and watched the Sox get ready for an afternoon game. I talked for a half hour with Holly West and a half hour with Alex Montoya to keep up my investigative-writer image, but I wondered how long that would last. Doerr knew I was there, which meant probably that someone there knew I was not a writer. Which also meant that there was a connection between Doerr and the Sox, a connection Doerr wanted to protect. He’d made an error coming to see me. But it’s the kind of error guys like Doerr are always making. They get so used to having everyone say yes to them that they forget about the chance that someone will say no. People with a lot of power get like that. They think they’re omnipotent.

  They screw up. Doerr was so surprised that I told him and Wally to take a walk that he didn’t know what else to do, so he took a walk. But the cat was now out of the valise. I had a feeling I might hear from Doerr again. It was not a soothing feeling.

  I was leaning against the railing of the box seats by the Red Sox dugout, watching batting practice, when Billy Carter said, “Hey, Spenser, want to take a few cuts?”

  I did, but I couldn’t take my coat off and show the gun.

  And I didn’t want to swing with my coat on. I didn’t need any handicaps. I shook my head.

  “Why not? Sully’s just lobbing them up,” Carter said.

  “I promised my mom when I took up the violin I’d never play baseball again.”

  “Violin? Are you shitting? You don’t look like no violinist to me. How much you weigh?”

  “One ninety-five, one ninety-seven, around there.”

  “Yeah? You work out or anything?”

  “I lift a little. Run some.”

  “Yeah. I thought you did something. You didn’t get that neck from playing no fiddle. What can you bench?”

  “Two fifty.”

  “How many reps?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Hey, man, we oughta set up an arm wrestle between you and Holly. Wouldn’t that be hot shit if you beat him?

  Man, Holly would turn blue if a goddamned writer beat him arm wrestling.”

  “Who’s pitching today?” I asked.

  “Marty,” Carter said. “Who busted up your nose?”

  “It’s a long list,” I said. “I used to fight once. How’s Marty to catch?”

  “A tit,” Carter said. One of the coaches was hitting fungoes to the outfield from a circle to the right of the batting cage. The ball parabolaed out in what seemed slow motion against the high tangible sky. “A real tit. You just sit back there and put your glove on the back of the plate and Marty hits it. And you can call the game. You give a sign, Marty nods, and the pitch comes right there. He never shakes you off.”

  “Everything works, huh?”

  “Yeah, I mean he’s got the fast ball, slider, a big curve, and a change off all of them. And he can put them all up a gnat’s ass at sixty feet six, you know. I mean, he’s a tit to catch. If I could catch him every day, and the other guys didn’t throw curves, I could be Hall of Fame, baby. Cooperstown.”

  “When do you think you’ll catch a game, Billy?”

  “Soon as Holly gets so he can’t walk. Around there.

  Whoops… here comes the song of the South, old hush puppy.

  Bucky Maynard had come out from under the stands and was behind the batting cage. With him was Lester, resplendent in a buckskin hunting shirt and a black cowboy hat with big silver conches on the band around the crown. Maynard had swapped his red-checked shirt for a white one with green ferns on it. His arms in the short sleeves were pink with sunburn. He had the look of someone who didn’t tan.

  ”You don’t seem too fond of Maynard,“ I said.

  ”Me? I love every ounce of his cuddly little lard-assed self.“

  ”Okay to quote you?“ I wanted to see Carter’s reaction.

  ”Jesus, no. If sowbelly gets on your ass, you’ll find yourself warming up relievers in the Sally League. No shit, Spenser, I think he’s got more influence around here than Farrell.“

  ”How come?“

  ”I don’t know. I mean, the freakin’ fans love him. They think he’s giving them the real scoop, you know, all the hot gossip about the big-league stars, facts you don’t get on the bubble-gum card.“

  ”Is he?“

  ”No, not really. He’s just nasty. If he hears any gossip, he spreads it. The goddamned yahoos eat it up. Tell-it-like-it-is Bucky. Shit.“

  ”What’s the real story on the lizard that trails behind him?“

  ”Lester?“

  ”Yeah.“

  Carter shrugged. ”I dunno, he drives Bucky around.

  He keeps people away from him. He’s some kind of karate freak or whatever.“

  ”Tae kwon do,“ I said. ”It’s Korean karate.“

  ”Yeah, whatever. I wouldn’t mess much with him either. I guess he’s a real bastard. I hear he did a real tune on some guy out in Anaheim. The guy was giving Maynard some crap in the hotel bar out there and Lester the Fester damn near killed him. Hey, I gotta take some swings. Catch you later.“

  Carter headed for the batting cage. Clyde Sullivan, the pitching coach, was pitching batting practice, and when Carter stepped in, he turned and waved the outfielders in.

  ”Up yours, Sully,“ Carter said. Maynard left the batting cage and strolled over toward me. Lester moved along bonelessly behind him.

  ”How you doing, M
r. Spenser?“ Maynard said.

  ”Fine,“ I said. ”And yourself?“

  ”Oh, passable, for an older gentleman. That Carter’s funny as a crutch, ain’t he?“

  I nodded ”Ah just wish his arm was as good as his mouth,“ Maynard said. ”He can’t throw past the pitcher’s mound.“

  ”How’s his bat?“

  Maynard smiled. It was not a radiant smile; the lips pulled down over the teeth so that the smile was a toothless crescent in his red face with neither warmth nor humor suggested. ”He’s all right if the ball comes straight. Except the ball don’t never come straight a course.“

  ”Nice kid, though,“ I said. Lester had hooked both elbows over the railings and was standing with one booted foot against the wall and one foot flat on the ground. Gary Cooper. He spit a large amount of brown saliva toward the batter’s cage, and I realized he was chewing tobacco. When he got into an outfit, he went all the way.

  ”Maybe,“ Maynard said, ”but ah wouldn’t pay much mind to what he says. He likes to run his mouth.“

  ”Don’t we all,“ I said. ”Hell, writers and broadcasters get paid for it.“

  ”Ah get paid for reporting what happens, Carter tends to make stuff up. There’s a difference.“

  Maynard looked quite steadily at me, and I had the feeling we were talking about serious stuff. Lester spit another dollop of tobacco juice.

  ”Okay by me,“ I said. ”I’m just here listening and thinking. I’m not making any judgments yet.“

  ”What might you be making judgments about, Spenser?“

  ”What to include, what to leave out, what seems to be the truth, what seems to be fertilizer. Why do you ask?“

  ”Just interested. Ah like to know a man, and one way is to know how he does his job. Ah’m just lookin‘ into how you do yours.“

  ”Fair enough,“ I said. ”I’ll be looking into how you do yours in a bit.“ Veiled innuendo, that’s the ticket, Spenser.

  Subtle.

  ”Long as you don’t interfere, ah’ll be happy to help.

  Who’d you say was your publisher?“

  ”Subsidy,“ I said. ”Subsidy Press, in New York.“

  Maynard looked at his watch. It was one of those that you press a button and the time is given as a digital readout.

  ”Well, time for the Old Buckaroo to get on up to the booth.

  Nice talking to you, Spenser.“

  He waddled off, his feet splayed, the toes pointing out at forty-five-degree angles. Lester unhinged and slouched after him, eyes alert under the hatbrim for lurking rustlers.

  There never was a man like Shane. Tomorrow he’d probably be D’Artagnan.

  There’d been some fencing going on there, more than there should have been. It was nearly one. I went down into the locker room and used the phone on Farrell’s desk to call Brenda Loring at work.

  ”I have for you, my dear, a proposition,“ I said.

  ”I know,“ she said. ”You make it every time I see you.“

  ”Not that proposition,“ I said. ”I have an additional one, though that previously referred to above should not be considered thereby inoperative.“

  ”I beg your pardon?“

  ”I didn’t understand that either,“ I said. ”Look, here’s my plan. If you can get the afternoon off, I will escort you to the baseball game, buy you some peanuts and Cracker Jacks, and you won’t care if you ever come back.“

  ”Do I get dinner afterwards?“

  ”Certainly and afterwards we can go to an all-night movie and neck. What do you say?“

  ”Oh, be still my heart,“ she said. ”Shall I meet you at the park?“

  ”Yeah, Jersey Street entrance. You’ll recognize me at once by the cluster of teenyboppers trying to get me to autograph their bras.“

  ”I’ll hurry,“ she said.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  MIDTOWN EAST SIDE in Manhattan is the New York they show in the movies. Elegant, charming, clean, ”I bought you violets for your furs.“ Patricia Utley occupied a four-story town house on East Thirty-seventh, west of Lexington. The building was stone, painted a Colonial gray with a wrought-iron filigree on the glass door and the windows faced in white. Two small dormers protruded from the slate mansard roof, and a tiny terrace to the right of the front door bloomed with flowers against the green of several miniature trees. Red geraniums and white patient Lucys in black iron pots lined the three granite steps that led up to the front door.

  A well-built man with gray hair and a white mess jacket answered my ring. I gave him my card. ”For Patricia Utley,“ I said.

  ”Come in, please,“ he said and stepped aside. I entered a center hall with a polished flagstone floor and a mahogany staircase with white risers opposite the door. The black man opened a door on the right-hand wall, and I went into a small sitting room that looked out over Thirty-seventh Street and the miniature garden. The walls were white-paneled, and there was a Tiffany lamp in green, red, and gold hanging in the center of the room. The rugs were Oriental, and the furniture was Edwardian.

  The butler said, ”Wait here, please,“ and left. He closed the door behind him.

  There was a mahogany highboy on the wall opposite the windows with four cut-glass decanters and a collection of small crystal glasses. I took the stoppers out of the decanters and sniffed. Sherry, cognac, port, Calvados. I poured myself a glass of the Calvados. On the wall opposite the door was a black marble fireplace, and on either side floor-to-ceiling bookcases. I looked at the titles: The Complete Works of Charles Dickens, A History of the English-Speaking Peoples by Winston Churchill, Longfellow: Complete Poetical and Prose Works, H. G. Wells’s The Outline of History, Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales, with illustrations by Rockwell Kent.

  The door opened behind me, and a woman entered. The butler closed it softly behind her.

  ”Mr. Spenser,“ she said, ”I’m Patricia Utley,“ and put out her hand. I shook it. She looked as if she might have read all the books and understood them. She was fortyish, small and blond with good bones and big black-rimmed round glasses. Her hair was pulled back tight against her head with a bun in the back. She was wearing an off-white sleeveless linen dress with blue and green piping at the hem and along the neckline. Her legs were bare and tanned.

  ”Please sit down,“ she said. ”I see you have a drink.

  Good. How may I help you?“ I sat on the sofa. She sat opposite me on an ottoman. Her knees together, ankles crossed, hands folded in her lap.

  ”I’m looking for information about a girl named Donna Burlington who you probably knew about eight years ago.“ I showed her the picture.

  ”And why would you think I know anything about her, Mr. Spenser?“

  ”One of your colleagues suggested that she had left his employ and joined your firm.“

  ”I’m sorry, I don’t understand.“ Her blue eyes were direct and steady as she looked at me. Her face without lines.

  ”Well, ma’am, I don’t mean to be coarse, but an East Village pimp named Violet told me she moved uptown and went to work for you in the late fall of nineteen sixty-six.“

  ”I’m afraid I don’t know anyone named Violet,“ she said.

  ”Tall, thin guy, aggressive dresser, but small-time. No reason for you to know him. The Pinkerton Agency has never heard of me either.“

  ”Oh, I’m sure you’re well known in your field, Mr.

  Spenser.“ She smiled, and a dimple appeared in each cheek.

  ”But I really don’t see how I can help you. This Violet person has misled you, I suppose for money. New York is a very grasping city.“

  The room was cool and silent, central air conditioning.

  I sipped the Calvados, and it reminded me that I hadn’t eaten since about seven thirty. It was now almost four thirty. ”Ms.

  Utley,“ I said, ”I don’t wish to rock your boat and I don’t want anything bad to happen to Donna Burlington, I just need to know about her.“

  ”Ms. Utley,“ she said. ”That’s char
ming, but it’s Mrs., thank you.“

  ”Okay, Mrs. Utley, but what I said stands. I need to know about Donna Burlington. Confidential. No harm to anyone, and I can’t tell you why. But I need to know.“ I finished the brandy. She stood, took my glass, filled it, and set it down on the marble-topped coffee table in front of me. Her movements were precise and graceful and stylish. So was she.

  ”I have no quarrel with that, Mr. Spenser, but I can’t help you. I don’t know the young lady, nor can I imagine how anyone could think that I might.“

  ”Mrs. Utley, I know we’ve only met, but would you join me for dinner?“

  ”Is that part of your technique, Mr. Spenser? Candlelight and wine and perhaps I’ll remember something about the young lady?“

  ”Well, there’s that,“ I said. ”But I hate to eat alone.

  The only people I know in the city are you and Violet, and Violet already had a date.“

  ”Well, I don’t know about being second choice to—what was it you said—an East Village pimp?“

  ”I’ll tell you about my most exciting cases,“ I said.

  ”Why, I remember one I call the howling dog caper.

  The dimple reappeared.

  “And I’ll do a one-hand push-up for you, and sing a dozen popular songs, pronouncing the lyrics so clearly that you can hear every word.”

  “And if I still refuse?”

  “Then I go down to Foley Square and see if I can find someone in the DA’s office that knows you and might put in a word for me.”

  “I do not like to be threatened, Mr. Spenser.”

  “Desperation,” I said. “Loneliness and desire make a man crazy. Here, look at the kind of treat ahead of you.” I put my glass on the end table, got down on the rug, and did a onehand push-up. I looked up at her from the push-up position, my left hand behind my back. “Want to see another one?” I said.

  She was laughing. Silently at first with her face serious but her stomach jiggling and giving her away, and then aloud, with her head back and the dimples big enough to hold a ripe olive.