Part 48 (1/2)

'Moira Richardson, Brandon Pearson.'

'h.e.l.lo,' Pearson said, and took her outstretched hand. 'Credit a.s.sistance, isn't it?'

'That's like calling a garbage collector a sanitation technician,' she said with a cheerful grin. It was a grin, Pearson thought, that a man could fall in love with, if he wasn't careful.

'Credit checks are what I actually do. If you want to buy a new Porsche, I check the records to make sure you're really a Porsche kind of guy . . . in a financial sense, of course.'

'Of course,' Pearson said, and grinned back at her.

'Cam!' she called. 'Come on over here!'

It was the janitor who liked to mop the John with his cap turned around backward. In his streetclothes he seemed to have gained about fifty IQ points and a rather amazing resemblance to Armand a.s.sante. Pearson felt a small pang but no real surprise when he put an arm around Moira Richardson's delectable little waist and a casual kiss on the corner of her delectable little mouth. Then he offered Brandon his hand.

'Cameron Stevens.'

'Brandon Pearson.'

'I'm glad to see you here,' Stevens said. 'I thought you were gonna high-side it this morning for sure.'

'How many of you were watching me?' Pearson asked. He tried to replay ten o'clock in the plaza and discovered he couldn't - it was lost in a white haze of shock, for the most part.

'Most of us from the bank who see them,' Moira said quietly. 'But it's okay, Mr. Pearson - '

'Brandon. Please.'

She nodded. 'We weren't doing anything but rooting for you, Brandon. Come on, Cam.'

They hurried up the steps to the porch of the small frame building and slipped inside. Pearson caught just a glimpse of muted light before the door shut. Then he turned back to Duke.

'This is all real, isn't it?' he asked.

Duke looked at him sympathetically. 'Unfortunately, yes.' He paused, and then added, 'But there's one good thing about it.'

'Oh? What's that?'

Duke's white teeth flashed in the drizzly dark. 'You're about to attend your first smoking-allowed meeting in five years or so,' he said. 'Come on - let's go in.'

3.

The foyer and the bookstore beyond it were dark; the light - along with a murmur of voices - was filtering up the steep staircase to their left.

'Well,' Duke said, 'this is the place. To quote the Dead, what a long strange trip it's been, right?'

Pearson agreed.

'Is Kate a Ten O'Clock Person?'

'You better believe it,'

'The owner? Nope. I only met her twice, but I have an idea she's a total non-smoker. This place was Robbie's idea. As far as Kate knows, we're The Boston Society of Hardboiled Yeggs.'

Pearson raised his eyebrows. 'Say again?'

'A small group of loyal fans that meets every week or so to discuss the works of Raymond Chandler, Das.h.i.+ell Hammett, Ross Macdonald, people like that. If you haven't read any of those guys, you probably ought to. It never hurts to be safe. It's not that hard; some of them are actually pretty good.'

They descended with Duke in the lead - the staircase was too narrow for them to walk abreast - and pa.s.sed through an open doorway into a well-lit, low-ceilinged bas.e.m.e.nt room that probably ran the length of the converted frame house above. About thirty folding chairs had been set up, and an easel covered with a blue cloth had been placed before them. Beyond the easel were stacked s.h.i.+pping cartons from various publishers. Pearson was amused to see a framed picture on the left-hand wall, with a sign reading DAs.h.i.+ELL HAMMETT: ALL HAIL OUR FEARLESS LEADER beneath it.

'Duke?' a woman asked from Pearson's left. 'Thank G.o.d - I thought something had happened to you.'

She was someone else Pearson recognized: the serious-looking young woman with the thick gla.s.ses and long, straight black hair. Tonight she looked a lot less serious in a pair of tight faded jeans and a Georgetown University tee-s.h.i.+rt beneath which she was clearly braless. And Pearson had an idea that if Duke's wife ever saw the way this young woman was looking at her husband, she would probably drag Duke out of the bas.e.m.e.nt of Kate's by the ear, and never mind all the batpeople in the world.

'I'm fine, darlin,' he said. 'I was bringing along another convert to the Church of the f.u.c.ked-Up Bat, that's all. Janet Brightwood, Brandon Pearson.'

Brandon shook her hand, thinking: You're the one who kept sneezing.

'It's very nice to meet you, Brandon,' she said, and then went back to smiling at Duke, who looked a little embarra.s.sed at the intensity of her gaze. 'Want to go for coffee after?' she asked him.

'Well . . . we'll see, darlin. Okay?'

'Okay,' she said, and her smile said she'd wait three years to go out for coffee with Duke, if that was the way Duke wanted it.

What am I doing here? Pearson suddenly asked himself. This is totally insane . . . like an AA meeting in a psycho ward.

The members of the Church of the f.u.c.ked-Up Bat were taking ashtrays from a stack on one of the book cartons and lighting up with obvious relish as they took their seats. Pearson estimated that there were going to be few if any folding chairs left over when everyone had gotten settled.

'Got just about everyone,' Duke said, leading him to a pair of seats at the end of the back row, far from where Janet Brightwood was presiding over the coffeemaker. Pearson had no idea if this was coincidental or not. 'That's good . . . mind the window-pole, Brandon.'

The pole, with a hook on the end to open the high cellar windows, was leaning against one whitewashed brick wall. Pearson had inadvertently kicked it as he sat down. Duke grabbed it before it could fall and possibly gash someone, moved it to a marginally safer location, then slipped up the side aisle and snagged an ashtray.

'You are a mind-reader,' Pearson said gratefully, and lit up. It felt incredibly strange (but rather wonderful) to be doing this as a member of such a large group.

Duke lit his own cigarette, then pointed it at the skinny, freckle-splattered man now standing by the easel. Freckles was deep in conversation with Lester Olson, who had shot the batman, pop-pop-pop, in a Newburyport barn.

'The redhead is Robbie Delray,' Duke said, almost reverently. 'You'd hardly pick him as The Savior of His Race if you were casting a miniseries, would you? But he might turn out to be just that.'

Delray nodded at Olson, clapped him on the back, and said something that made the white-haired man laugh. Then Olson returned to his seat - front row center - and Delray moved toward the covered easel.

By this time all the seats had been taken, and there were even a few people standing at the back of the room near the coffee-maker. Conversation, animated and jittery, zinged and caromed around Pearson's head like pool-b.a.l.l.s after a hard break. A mat of blue-gray cigarette smoke had already gathered just below the ceiling.

Jesus, they're cranked, he thought. Really cranked. I bet the bomb-shelters in London felt this way back in 1940, during the Blitz.

He turned to Duke. 'Who'd you talk to? Who told you something big was up tonight?'

'Janet,' Duke said without looking at him. His expressive brown eyes were fixed on Robbie Delray, who had once saved his sanity on a Red Line train. Pearson thought he saw adoration as well as admiration in Duke's eyes.

'Duke? This is a really big meeting, isn't it?'