Family Honor - Robert B Parker (8 page)

"Does that dog bite?" he says.

"Yes." I said.

"Bad dog," the boy said.

"She's neither bad nor good," I said. "She's a dog."

"Huh?"

I could feel the hair stiffen along Rosie's back. Her
taste was impeccable. Julie appeared from the garage with a snow shovel
and a plastic bag.

"Oh, look at Michael's mommy," I said. "Maybe you could
help her shovel."

Both kids screamed in horror at the idea of shoveling
pony poop. But they went on to watch.

The guy in the clown suit said, "Okay, kids, who wants
to ride Pepe the pony?"

The kids hung back. One mother attempted to put her son
on it, and he kicked and fought her until she gave up. Julie got her pony
droppings into her green plastic bag and carried it over to the garage.
The guy in the clown suit bent over and spoke to Michael in a voice that
was apparently clownspeak.

"How about the birthday boy, he gets the first ride."

"Don't do that," I said.

But I was too late. The guy in the clown suit picked Michael
up and plunked him on the animal. Michael was on the pony he feared, having
been placed there by the clown he feared more. He screamed. It scared the
pony, who bucked, which annoyed Rosie, who barked. I put Rosie down, held
her leash in my left hand, stepped sideways toward the pony who was kicking
his hind feet lethargically, and scooped Michael off with my right arm.
Julie came out of the garage and across the lawn on a dead run. Michael
was screaming, crying, and, incidentally, trying to kick me. Rosie was
in full bark at the pony now, straining at her leash, thirty-one pounds
of barely (and fortunately) restrained ferocity. Julie grabbed Michael
away from me, and held him.
 
"What happened, honey. What happened, Mommy's here, what
happened?"

Michael cried harder, and hung onto his mother. The guy
in the clown suit didn't seem to have a good read on things. He was leaning
down speaking in his clown voice to Michael.

"What's the matter? Is you scared of old Mister Bubbles?"

"Be better if Mister Bubbles stepped back a little," I
said.

Julie focused on me over Michael's shoulder. "What happened?"

"Mister Bubbles put Michael on the pony."

Julie stared at me, hugging Michael, patting his back.
Rosie continued to bark at Pepe.

"Mister Bubbles?"

"The clown," I said.

"He put Michael on the horse?"

"Yes," I said. "Pepe the pony."

Julie turned her head slowly toward Mister Bubbles. "You
dumb fuck," she said.

"Nice language," Mister Bubbles said, "in front of the
children."

"Fuck the children," Julie said. "Take your fucking pony,
and get the fuck out of here."

"Hey, lady, you hired me."

"Out," she said, her voice soaring, "get the fuck out."

I got a hand on Mister Bubbles's arm and led him away.
Pepe the pony came with him. He took no notice of Rosie, whose barking
had settled into a low steady growl.

"She owe you any money?" I said.

"She got no business talking to me like that," he said.
 
"I'm sure Pepe was shocked," I said. "Have you been paid?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, pardner, then I think it's time for you and Pepe
to mosey on down the trail."

He wanted to say something cutting, but it's hard to be
cutting when you're standing around in a rental clown suit, and I think
he realized that. He gave it up and took Pepe and headed for his truck.

When I put Rosie in the front seat of my car, and went
back to the party, it was over. One of the mothers was explaining to Julie
how Michael was just overtired, and everyone had really enjoyed it, and
thanks for inviting us. Julie had disentangled Michael enough so that she
could stand and say good-bye. He remained wrapped around her leg. There
was a gathering of children, a strapping of car seats, a slamming of car
doors and in a while it was just Michael and me and Julie. I went to Julie's
garage and got a trash barrel and brought it back and began to clean up
the cake and ice cream and paper plates. Julie sat down on one of the folding
chairs that tilted clumsily on the uneven lawn and began to cry.

"I don't blame you," I said.

The crying turned to sobbing.

"Don't you hate parties?" I said to Michael.

He stared at me silently.

"I always did," I said.

"I can't do it," Julie said. "I try so goddamned hard
and I can't do it."

Michael was no longer crying. He was very silent, standing
beside his mother.

"Nobody can." I said. "It's not your fault, it's not Michael's.
It's the way things work."
 
"Other people can have a damn party," Julie said.

"Not many," I said. "And you might not want to trade the
skills you've got for the skills that make good party givers."

"I just wanted him to have a party like other kids." Michael
was very silent.

"In your enthusiasm for blaming yourself," I said, "you
want to be careful that you don't spill some blame onto anyone else."

Julie raised her eyes and looked at me and then looked
at Michael. She hugged him to her and talked and sobbed simultaneously.

"I love you, honey," she gasped, with the tears bubbling
through her voice. "Mommy loves you."

I could see Michael's face over her shoulder. He didn't
look as if he entirely believed her.
 

"Millicent Patton?" I said.

She stared at me and didn't say anything.

"My name is Sunny Randall," I said. "I'm a detective.
Your parents asked me to bring you home."

Without a word she turned and started running down Dalton
Street toward Huntington. Not wearing fuck-me shoes, I caught her in about
ten steps. I got in front of her and put my arms around her and pinned
her arms and made her stop. She made no sound. But she struggled steadily
against me.

"Millicent," I said. "I will help you."

She tried to kick me, but I was too tight against her
and she didn't really know anything about fighting.

"We'll sit in my car," I said, "and talk."

"What the fuck is this," someone said.

I let Millicent go and turned. Behind me was a tall black
man wearing a six-button suit and a white shirt buttoned to the neck, no
tie. He had a neat goatee and short hair. He was bony and stronglooking.

"Pharaoh Fox, I presume?"

"Who the fuck are you?" he said.

"My name is Randall," I said. "I'm a detective."

"Vice?"

"Private."

"Goddamn," Fox said, with laughter in his voice, "a private
dick?"

I nodded.

"You can't be no private dick," Fox said. "Best you can
do, be a private pussy."

He loved his joke, and laughed a lot harder than it deserved.
In his presence Millicent Patton was motionless, perfectly docile.

I said, "Millicent's going with me, pimp boy."

Fox stopped laughing. His face was thin. The nostrils
flared and his skin had a bluish tinge to it above the beard. He looked,
in fact, a little like a pharaoh. He put his right hand into his suit coat
pocket.

"Get off my street, private pussy," he said, "right now.
Or I will cut you in fucking two."

One of the advantages of being a woman in this deal is
that no one takes you seriously, so they are careless. While his hand was
still in his pocket I took my gun out. I thumbed back the hammer as the
gun came out, and put the muzzle up under his nose, maybe half an inch
from his upper lip.

"Tell Millicent that she should go with me."

"Like hell," Fox said.

I bumped the barrel of the gun against his upper lip.

"I'm not a patient woman," I said. "And I haven't shot
my pimp quota this week. Tell her. Now."

"You can't just shoot me on the fucking street," Pharaoh
said.

"I'm a small blond cutie. You're a big ugly pimp. You'll
be dead. I say you assaulted me. Who's going to take your side?"

He didn't move. He kept looking at me. There was nothing
human behind his eyes. I didn't move. I could see the muscles tighten in
his shoulders and neck.

"Go for it," I said. "Grab for the gun. Maybe I haven't
got the balls. Maybe I'll hesitate." I smiled at him. "Or maybe I won't,"
I said.

Still he held on, the hatred flickering in his eyes like
heat lightning. But I knew his grip was slipping.

"Let's find out, pimp boy." He let go.

"You can have her," he said.

"Tell her," I said.

"Go with her," Pharaoh said to Millicent.

"Get in my car," I said to Millicent.

"Pimp boy, you turn around and walk straight down to Huntington."
He backed away.

"What you say your name was, bitch?"

"Randall," I said. "Sunny Randall."

"Sunny Randall," he said.

I was in full shooter's stance, the gun in both hands
holding steady on the middle of his body mass.

"Start walking," I said.

He turned and began to walk slowly away. I figured he
didn't have a gun. He'd said he would cut me in two. Just the same I backed
to the car. He was far enough away now that Wyatt Earp couldn't have hit
him with the two-inch .38. I put it back in its holster, slid into the
car and started up. Pharaoh didn't look back. As I drove past him he didn't
look sideways. Then we turned left at Huntington and I couldn't see him
anymore.
 

"We're all right now," I said.

We drove through Copley Square onto Stuart Street and
turned left onto Berkeley. There were a couple of cop cars parked outside
the old Police Headquarters. No one was on the street. There was no traffic.
The mercury street lamps made everything look a bit surrealistic.

"You want to talk to me?" I said.

"About what?" Millicent's voice was small and hostile.
She didn't seem to be feeling rescued.

"Why you ran away."

She shook her head. We drove across Commonwealth Avenue.
The Back Bay was still. The street lights here were more selfeffacing,
filtered through the unleaving trees. A single bum slept in a pile of clothing
on one of the benches in the mall. Millicent didn't speak. She stared straight
ahead through the windshield. Her face was narrow, with a kind of incipient
sharpness to it. Her eyes were black or seemed black in this light. She
might become beautiful. Or she might not. It would depend, probably, on
what life did to her, or what she allowed it to do.

"You like Pharaoh Fox better than you like your parents,"
I said.

"He cares about me," Millicent said.

"Like Colgate cares about toothpaste," I said.

"What do you mean?"

"He sells you," I said.

She shook her head. "He cares about me."

"He's a pimp, Millicent. He cares about money."

"You don't know him."

She scrunched up a little tighter in the passenger seat,
an emblem of stubbornness, hugging her knees, staring straight ahead, her
sharp little face closing in on itself. She was like one of those stars
that implodes and becomes so dense that no light escapes. Across Beacon
Street I went out onto Storrow Drive and headed west, with the river on
our right. On the other side, the big commercial buildings in East Cambridge
splashed light on the empty black surface of the water. Neither of us said
anything as we drove along the river. We were behind B.U. when Millicent
spoke.

"You taking me home?"

"I don't know."

We drove some more in silence. Past the Western Avenue
Bridge she spoke again.

"How come you don't know?"

"I need to know what you ran away from before I take you
back to it."

"What do you care?"

"Maybe it was worth running away from."

"How come you don't just do what they paid you to do and
stop pretending?" Millicent said.