Part 5 (1/2)

”Your deacons will need medical attention,” I said. My breath was still coming in short rasps. ”And maybe if I don't find Sherry Spellman pretty soon, you will too.” I let the clutch pedal out and the car continued around the circular drive and back out onto Route 114. In the rearview mirror I saw people hurrying toward the road.

The Incredible Hulk doesn't have a girlfriend either.

CHAPTER 13.

The deacons had landed a few punches. When I woke up in the morning I had some bruises and my left eye was half shut. My hands were sore. I stumbled out into the kitchen and put ice cubes in a bowl and ran some water and put my hands in to soak. Paul wasn't home. He was in Connecticut with his girlfriend for the weekend. I took my hands out of the ice long enough to start the coffee and squeeze some orange juice and drink it. Then I soaked them some more and held some ice against my eye. I got dressed and poured some coffee and thought about breakfast. That seemed too complicated for me. So I had a corn m.u.f.fin and drank a lot of coffee and read the Globe Globe and the and the Times Times and half watched and half watched Sunday Morning Sunday Morning on CBS. By 11:30 I was through both papers and felt over-coffeed and there was a Ma.s.s being broadcast on TV. It was too early to start drinking. I could go and look over one of the branch churches in Salisbury or West Boylston or Lakeville. Nice choice of locations. No trouble parking at any of thern. I thought about that for a while and found it more complicated than what to have for breakfast. I decided to wait until Monday. I looked at the clock, it was 11:33. There was a ball game on television at two and when that was over it would be late enough to start drinking, and then it would be time for bed. The immediate problem was getting through the next two and a half hours. I went into the living room and looked out the window. That wasn't as much fun as I'd hoped it might be. The phone rang. It was Hawk. on CBS. By 11:30 I was through both papers and felt over-coffeed and there was a Ma.s.s being broadcast on TV. It was too early to start drinking. I could go and look over one of the branch churches in Salisbury or West Boylston or Lakeville. Nice choice of locations. No trouble parking at any of thern. I thought about that for a while and found it more complicated than what to have for breakfast. I decided to wait until Monday. I looked at the clock, it was 11:33. There was a ball game on television at two and when that was over it would be late enough to start drinking, and then it would be time for bed. The immediate problem was getting through the next two and a half hours. I went into the living room and looked out the window. That wasn't as much fun as I'd hoped it might be. The phone rang. It was Hawk.

”How are you,” he said.

”I'm all right,” I said.

”You feel like a date?”

”With you?” I said. ”For crissake, you're colored.”

”Always figured that bothered you,” Hawk said. ”So I got a girl in mind for you, she just split with her old man.”

”She go for middle-aged thugs,” I said.

”She go for me,” Hawk said.

”Okay, I'll give it a go.”

”She'll meet us tonight, six thirty at the Bay Tower Room. I'll bring Laura.”

”The Harvard professor.”

”Yeah. Your date's a friend of hers. She say something hard, I explain it to you.”

We hung up. A date. Whoopee. Hope my acne doesn't flare up A date. Whoopee. Hope my acne doesn't flare up. I put on my gun and went downstairs. Bullard Winston's registration number had gotten me his address and it seemed a good way to spend a few pre-date hours on a Sunday afternoon. I walked up Arlington to Commonwealth and then west on Commonwealth toward Kenmore Square. Winston's home was in the block between Fairfield and Hereford, a block and a half this side of Ma.s.s Ave. It was a graystone town house and it was elegant. The stairs leading up to the front door were broad marble slabs. There were columns rising three stories to the roof on either side of the entry and the big windows above the entry on floors two and three were as tall as a man and paned with violet gla.s.s. The front door was black with a very large bra.s.s knocker. The gla.s.s panels on either side of the door were also violet. I knocked with the knocker. In maybe thirty seconds the door opened and there was Stewart Granger. He wore dark gray slacks and a white broadcloth s.h.i.+rt with the cuffs rolled up and the collar open. White hair showed at the open collar of his s.h.i.+rt and a small crucifix on a gold chain was around his neck. His thick silver hair was brushed back and his face had a healthy outdoor color. He smelled of bay rum, and his smile was open and honest and full of magnetism. Through the open doorway the air was cool. Central air-conditioning.

I said, ”My name is Spenser, Mr. Winston, and I've been a.s.saulted by a couple of your church deacons.”

He raised his eyebrows. ”Reverend,” he said.

”Excuse me. Reverend Winston. I've been a.s.saulted by some of your deacons. The press is after me for details. The police are after me to press charges, my lawyer wants me to sue. But I'd rather talk with you and see if we can't avoid trouble.”

”That seems sensible, Mr. . . .”

”Spenser,” I said again. ”With an S, like Edmund Spenser.”

”The poet,” he said. ”Yes,” I said.

”Well, come in,” Winston said. ”Perhaps we can have a cool drink and a chat and work out whatever seems to be the matter.”

”Thank you,” I said, and he ushered me in. It was a long high hallway paneled in walnut. We turned right and went into a cool greenish room full of plants. One wall was gla.s.s that extended the length of the room and arched up to form a curved gla.s.s roof eight feet or so out beyond the room. The floor was polished flagstone and the furniture mostly wicker. There was a small fountain in the gla.s.s extension and several of the plants were so tall that they shaded us. The gla.s.s was tinted green so the sun didn't penetrate and the air-conditioning could do its work.

”Sit down, Mr. Spenser. A gla.s.s of white wine perhaps, or a gla.s.s of ale?”

”Ale is fine,” I said. I sat in a green-cus.h.i.+oned wicker chair. Winston sat on a wicker sofa, green-cus.h.i.+oned as well, and crossed his legs and touched a b.u.t.ton on the end table near his right hand. He was wearing soft burgundy-colored Gucci loafers and no socks. His ankles were tan. A maid appeared in one of those maid outfits that you see in the movies.

”Two gla.s.ses of ale, please, Peggy,” Winston said. The maid departed. Winston took a long-stemmed briar pipe from a rack on the end table and began to fill it from a leathercovered humidor on the coffee table. The house was very quiet. When Winston got the thing packed to his satisfaction he fired it with one of those little jet flare lighters that pipe smokers use and he was getting a good draw going when the maid came back with two open bottles of Old India Pale Ale on a tray, and two tall gla.s.ses. She set the tray down on the coffee table between us and poured some ale into each gla.s.s, getting a good head on it, then she left. Winston exhaled some smoke, took his pipe from his mouth, picked up a gla.s.s of ale, and gestured at me. I picked up my gla.s.s. We both drank. Winston put his pipe back into his mouth, made sure it was going good, and said, ”Now, what is this business about a.s.sault.”

”Well, sir,” I said, ”I was just sitting in my car outside your founding church grounds up in Middleton and these two deacons came out and attacked me.”

”And you had to protect yourself,” Winston said.

I nodded.

”You did so successfully,” Winston said. ”Both men are hospitalized.”

I made a sympathetic cluck.

”You had been parked outside there for several days. You had followed our courier vehicles when they went out. Previous to that you were making inquiries about a member of the church community from Mr. Owens.”

”That's true,” I said. I sipped a little more ale. Bitter. Good t.i.tle for my memoirs--Bitter Ale.

”Mr. Owens informed you that the young woman was quite well and had sought sanctuary with us. You were unsatisfied, and you were asked to leave.”

Winston's voice was rich and pleasant. The smell of his pipe tobacco was rich and pleasant. The house was rich and pleasant. So was Winston.

”Also true,” I said.

”So the deacons were asked to make you stop what was viewed as hara.s.sment. Strategically that was sound. Tactically it was an error. You were more vigorous in your own defense than we had counted on.”

”For my age,” I said.

Winston smiled. ”And now you are here,” he said.

”Persistence.”

”Better than skill sometimes,” I said.

”I believe that's so,” Winston said. ”But I am afraid that I must support Mr. Owens. The concept of sanctuary is a very old one, and no church can treat it lightly. I believe that your concern is Miss Spellman's well-being. And I realize that a man like you trusts visible evidence and little else. Would my personal a.s.surance of her happiness and safety suffice?”

”No.”

Winston took his pipe from his mouth and held it in his right hand and rubbed his chin with his thumb, the pipe stem pointing obliquely away from him. His ale grew headless on the coffee table.

”What would satisfy you?” ”See her, talk with her, alone.”

”And perhaps to take her by force and, as the phrase has it so elegantly, de-program her?”