The Lineup Read online

  They advanced across the flat stones, quick jerking shapes of light and dark, and some were spotted with brown and gray, uniform only in their forward motion, and one of them was insane.

  Feet of red and red rings around the bright mad eyes, he was otherwise coal black until he passed into a dapple of sun, and iridescent flecks of green shimmered in the light. The feathers of his head were not smoothed back and rounded. Spiky they were, and dirty, as though a great fear had put them that way, and the fear had lasted such a long time, a season or more, and the dirt of no bathing or rain had pomaded them into stick-out fright, though the bird was long past fear now and all the way crazy. No fear of the human foot. A pedestrian waded through the flock, which parted for her in a wave, all but the crazy one, and it was kicked, startling the pedestrian more than the bird.

  The woman shrieked and stiff-walked down Seventh Avenue. The insane pigeon followed after her, listing to one side with some damage from the kick, until he forgot his purpose.

  I do not like the Thought Police, modern cousins to D. H. Lawrence’s Censor Morons—I love these people. I cultivate them. I call them Cannon Fodder.

  And I make no apologies… except for the gratuitous pigeon.

  ROBERT B. PARKER

  Robert Brown Parker was born in 1932 in Springfield, Massachusetts, where he met Joan, his future wife, when they were children. They began dating while both attended Colby College and were married in 1956. They separated in 1982 but reconciled two years later and celebrated their golden anniversary in the autumn of 2006. They have two sons, David and Daniel. Parker received his doctorate from Boston University in 1971 with a thesis on the private eyes of Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, and Ross Macdonald.

  Generally regarded as next in succession after the three icons mentioned above, as the great writer of the hard-boiled private-detective novel, Parker has averaged nearly two books a year for more than three decades. In addition to his Spenser series, which served as the basis for the popular television series Spenser: For Hire in the 1980s, he has written several books each about Jesse Stone and Sunny Randall, two with Philip Marlowe as the protagonist, and such stand-alone novels as All Our Yesterdays, Wilderness, and Double Play. His fourth novel, Promised Land, won an Edgar® as best novel of 1977. The Mystery Writers of America named him a Grand Master for lifetime achievement in 2002.

  SPENSER

  BY ROBERT B. PARKER

  Susan and I sat at a table in the Charles Square courtyard, having a drink in the late afternoon with Susan’s friend Amy Trent. It was one of those days in late June. The temperature was about 78. There were maybe three white clouds in the sky. The quiet breeze that drifted in from the river smelled fresher than I knew it to be.

  “I’m trying to write a book,” Amy said. “The working title is Men Who Dare, a series of profiles of men who are strong and tough and do dangerous work. Mountain climbers, Navy Seals, policemen, firemen.”

  “Amy needs a sample profile to submit with her proposal, in hopes of getting a contract and an advance,” Susan said. “I said you’d be perfect.”

  “Amy’s looking for sexual splendor as well?” I said.

  Amy smiled.

  “Always,” she said. “Will you talk with me?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Okay, I have a bunch of questions written down,” Amy said. “You can answer them, dismiss them, respond to a question I didn’t ask, anything you want, I’m interested in what you’re like. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Susan, feel free to jump in any time,” Amy said. “You know him better than anyone.”

  “Don’t rat me out,” I said, “about the sexual splendor.”

  “Our secret,” Susan said.

  Amy took a notebook out of her book bag and opened it. She was a professor at Harvard and, faced with that limitation, not bad looking. If she had dressed better, done her hair better, improved on her makeup, and worn more stylish glasses, she might have been good-looking… but then the faculty senate would probably have required her to wear a scarlet A on her dress.

  She studied her notebook for a moment. I looked at Susan. She smiled. Zing went the strings of my heart. Then Amy took out a small tape recorder and put it on the table.

  “Okay?” she said.

  “Sure.”

  She turned the recorder on.

  “Okay,” Amy said. “Just to warm up a little. Why are you such a wise guy?”

  “It’s a gift,” I said.

  Susan frowned at me.

  “If you’re going to do this,” Susan said, “you have to do it.”

  “You didn’t tell me I had to be serious,” I said.

  “Well, you do.”

  Amy waited. She had a lot of kinetic intensity about her, but she knew how to keep it in check. I nodded.

  “I seem to have an unavoidable capacity for seeing a thing and seeing beyond it at the same time.”

  “Would you say that you have a heightened sense of irony?” Amy asked.

  “I probably wouldn’t say it, but it’s probably true.”

  “It is also,” Susan said, “a distancing technique. It keeps people and events from getting too close.”

  “Except you,” I said.

  She smiled again.

  “Except me.”

  “Besides Susan, are there things that can get through that ironic barrier?” Amy said.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Because?”

  “Because if they did,” I said, “I couldn’t do what I do.”

  “But if you refuse to care… ” Amy said.

  “I don’t refuse to care,” I said. “I refuse to let it control me.”

  “How do you do that?”

  “It’s a matter of perspective.”

  “Meaning?”

  “There’s a line from Auden,” I said. “‘The torturer’s horse scratches its innocent behind on a tree.’”

  “A poem,” Amy said.

  “‘Musée des Beaux Arts.’”

  “Life goes on,” she said.

  “Something like that,” I said. “Though not for everyone.”

  “And you find that consoling?”

  “I find it instructive.”

  “Perspective,” Amy said.

  I nodded.

  Amy wasn’t reading her questions now. She seemed interested.

  “In such a world,” she said, “do you have any absolutes?”

  I nodded at Susan.

  “Her,” I said.

  “Love,” Amy said.

  I shook my head.

  “Her,” I said.

  Amy frowned. Then she nodded.

  “Yes,” she said. “I see.”

  One point for Harvard. The waitress came by, and I had another beer and Susan had another white wine. Amy had more iced tea.

  “So why do you do it?” she asked.

  “What I do?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because I can.”

  “That simple?”

  “I’m pretty simple,” I said.

  Amy looked at Susan. Susan smiled.

  “He is,” Susan said. “And he isn’t. That will show itself if you talk with him enough. But I warn you, he’s almost never one thing.”

  Amy nodded and braced herself with another slug of iced tea.

  “So you do what you do because you can,” Amy said. “You’re good at it.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Do you like it?”

  “Most of the time,” I said. “It allows me to live life on my own terms.”

  “Aren’t there other jobs?” Amy said. “Ones that allow you to do that and don’t require you to carry a gun?”

  “Not that many,” I said. “And almost none at which I’d be any good.”

  “You say you want to live life on your own terms; what are they?”

  “The terms?”

  “Yes.”

  I thought about it. As the afternoon moved along, more people were
coming in for a drink. Maybe several. It was a relatively glamorous crowd for Cambridge. Few if any ankle-length skirts or sandals with socks. I looked at Susan.

  “What are my terms?” I asked her.

  “He’s being cute,” Susan said to Amy. “He understands himself very well, but he wants me to say it.”

  “It’s pretty hard for me not to be cute,” I said.

  Susan rolled her eyes slightly.

  “He can learn, but he can’t be taught,” Susan said. “He can find his way, but he can’t take direction. He will do very difficult and dangerous things, but he cannot be ordered to do them. Voluntarily, he’s generous and compassionate and quite kind. But he cannot be compelled to it.”

  “Autonomous,” Amy said.

  “To a pathological extreme,” Susan said.

  Amy checked her tape recorder. It appeared to be doing what it was supposed to.

  “Can you get him to do things he doesn’t want to do?” Amy asked Susan.

  “I’m doing this interview,” I said.

  Neither of them paid me any attention.

  “Up to a point,” Susan said.

  “What is the point?” Amy said.

  “I can’t change him,” Susan said. “I cannot make him cease to be who he is.”

  “Would you want to?”

  “I would prefer he didn’t risk his life,” Susan said. “In a sense he’s risking mine as well.”

  “Because?” Amy said.

  “I cannot imagine a life without him in it.”

  “Do you try to change that?”

  “No. It’s part of what he is,” Susan said. “He would not be him if he didn’t do what he does. And it’s the him he is that I cannot imagine life without.”

  “Wow,” I said.

  “The syntax is perhaps a little convoluted,” Susan said. “But so are you, Ducky.”

  “You mean I’m not simple?” I said.

  “You are and you aren’t,” Susan said.

  “Oh,” I said. “Yeah.”

  “I want to talk more about your relationship,” Amy said. “Since it’s come up. But I’m not sure I have yet gotten a solid handle on why you do what you do, which would be sort of the heart of my book.”

  “There are a lot of problems which need to be solved,” I said, “and their solution takes the kinds of skills I have. But because of my extreme pathology, I can’t solve those problems in a structured context: police work, military, Harvard College. So I do it this way.”

  “And,” Susan said, “you do it because it allows you to state who and what you are.”

  “So who and what is he?” Amy said.

  Susan shook her head.

  “It has something to do with honor,” she said.

  They both looked at me. I looked at Susan.

  “‘I could not love thee, dear, so much,’” I said, “‘Lov’d I not honor more’?”

  She smiled again.

  “Oh, shut up,” she said.

  “Which makes a nice segue,” Amy said, “back to your relationship. Why have you never married?”

  Susan and I looked at each other.

  “I don’t really like her that much,” I said.

  “Yes, you do,” Amy said. “You’ve been together for years. You seem like the kind of people who would marry. Everyone says you are the two most connected people they’ve ever seen. Why not get married?”

  I looked at Susan. She smiled and didn’t speak. I was, at least for the moment, on my own.

  “What we have,” I said, “is a very… delicate… love affair. We are different at almost every level that doesn’t matter. We are very, ah, committed to our own point of view… and what we have is amazingly good. I guess we don’t want to mess with it.”

  “Have you ever lived together?”

  “We tried it once,” I said.

  “And?”

  “And all the differences that don’t really matter, mattered when they were contained in one space.”

  “You travel together?”

  “Sure,” I said. “And we spend nights together. But we don’t live together.”

  Amy frowned.

  “Do I hear you saying,” she asked, “that what you have is too precious to risk compromising it by getting married?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  Amy looked at Susan. Susan smiled and nodded. Amy looked back at me. I smiled.

  “Well,” Amy said. “All righty then. Let me ease onto simpler ground here. A little history.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “You were born in Laramie, Wyoming.”

  “I was.”

  “And your mother bore you, as it were, posthumously.”

  “Yes,” I said. “She died, but they were able to save me.”

  “So you never had a mother.”

  “In any but a biological sense, no.”

  “And your father brought you up?”

  “My father and my two uncles.”

  “You father’s brothers?”

  “No,” I said. “They were my mother’s brothers.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s how my father met my mother. He was friends with her brothers.”

  “You all lived in the same house?”

  “Yes.”

  “How was that?”

  “Fine,” I said. “It didn’t seem unusual. It was just the way my family was.”

  “What did they do?”

  “Carpenters, hunting guides, raised a few cattle, broke some horses, used to ride bucking horses in rodeos, used to box for prize money around Wyoming and Montana at carnivals and smokers.”

  “They sound like tough guys,” Amy said.

  “They were tough guys,” I said.

  “Were they tough with you?”

  “No.”

  “Did any of them marry?”

  “They all went out with a lot of women,” I said. “My father never remarried. Both my uncles married, but not while I was living there.”

  “So essentially you grew up in an all-male household,” Amy said.

  “Yes.”

  “What was the effect of that, do you think?”

  “I suppose there must have been one,” I said. “But I haven’t got a glib answer for you. They made me feel valuable. They made me feel secure. They used to show up at every PTA meeting, all the time I was in school. All three of them, sitting in a row in the back. I’m told they made the teachers nervous.”

  “Anything else about them?”

  “They made me feel equal. I was expected to share the work of the household, which included the work of raising me. If I didn’t want to do something, they listened to me, and sometimes I didn’t have to do it and sometimes I did. But they were never dismissive. I was always a participant. And they were never unkind.”

  I stopped and thought back about my family. It made me smile.

  “Nobody much crossed them, though,” I said.

  “Is Susan the fulfillment of a long deprivation?” Amy said.

  I drank some beer.

  “Absolutely,” I said. “But that would be true if I’d had a mother. The time I spent before I met Susan seems aimless.”

  “They teach you to box?” Amy said.

  “Yes. My uncle Nick, mostly. I fought some golden gloves and had some pro fights, and was looking like a comer. But I also got a football scholarship to Holy Cross, and so I went there to play football for a couple of years.”

  “I don’t know much about football, but what position were you?”

  “Strong safety,” I said. “And I ran back punts.”

  “Were you good?”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t like being coached, and college was boring, so I went back to boxing.”

  “Was it boring because it was Catholic?” Amy said.

  “No,” I said. “It was boring because it was college.”

  “You sound scornful of college,” Amy said.

  “I am.”

  “But you’ve read a lot of books,
I’m told. You quote poetry.”

  “Self-educated,” I said.

  “Remember what I told you about him,” Susan said.

  “Were you a good boxer?”

  “Not good enough,” I said. “While I was still fighting, I took the police exam and passed and decided to do that.”

  “Were you good at that?”

  “No, too many rules.”

  “So you quit,” Amy said.

  “I did,” I said. “I may be unemployable.”

  “And became a private detective.”

  I nodded.

  “You met Hawk while you were boxing?”

  “You know about Hawk,” I said.

  “Susan introduced us,” Amy said.

  “Whaddya think?” I said.

  “He terrified me, and… excited me, I guess.”

  “Me too,” I said.

  “I don’t believe that for a minute,” Amy said. “Hawk told me you bailed him out of a difficult racial situation.”

  “We conspired on that,” I said.

  “Do you want to talk about Hawk?” Amy said.

  “No. You’ll need to talk with him direct. Hawk is what he is.”

  “Including your friend.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why are you so close?”

  “We know the same things,” I said.

  “Like fighting?”

  “Like… if I were black and Hawk were white, then he’d be me and I’d be him.”

  “Race makes the difference?”

  “I grew up white in a white culture. Hawk grew up black in a white culture. When you’re marginalized, you become very practical.”

  “Marginalized,” Susan said.

  I shrugged modestly.

  “I’m with Harvard grads,” I said. “I’m showing off a little.”

  “Talk a bit more about the effect of marginalization,” Amy said.

  “You have less room to maneuver about what’s right or wrong,” I said. “Mostly what’s right is what works. Your view becomes pretty up-close.”

  “It makes him immoral?”

  “No, Hawk is moral,” I said. “His word is good. He does nothing gratuitously. It’s just that his morality is more results oriented. He does what needs to be done without agonizing over it before or after.”

  “You agonize?”

  “Too strong,” I said. “I probably think about it more than Hawk. And right may have a more abstract component for me.”