Lullaby by Robert B. Parker

Author:Robert B. Parker [Parker, Robert B.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Spenser, Ace Atkins
ISBN: 9781101584927
Google: Rh64qc4BK-oC
Amazon: 0399158030
Publisher: Penguin
Published: 2012-05-01T05:00:00+00:00

32

How is it that you make friends so damn fast, Spenser?” Rita Fiore asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I am truly blessed.”

“You’re lucky I’m on good terms with the U.S. attorney.”

“Or maybe he just likes hearing your sexy voice.”

“I didn’t sound sexy when I called him,” she said. “They had absolutely no probable cause. I’ve never seen such a heinous arrest in my life. What the hell did you do to this agent? Screw his daughter?”

“If I were ever to step out on Susan, it would be with you, Rita.”

“I certainly hope so.”

“Besides, if this guy had a daughter, she would resemble a gorilla.”

Rita and I walked down the big steps of Government Center in the late blustery afternoon. She had covered up a very formfitting emerald green belted dress with a winter-weight Burberry trench. She wore take-no-prisoners black boots that gave her impressive legs at least another four inches.

Rita Fiore was redheaded and built. Not only did she reek of distilled sexuality, she happened to be a pit bull in the courtroom.

“May I ask what you did to piss him off?”

“I’m looking into a couple street soldiers who work for Gerry Broz.”

“Joe’s son?”

“One and the same.”

“What’d they do?”

“My client thinks they killed her mother.”

“Any proof?”

“She saw them push her mother into a car a few hours before her death.”

“What are you going to do next?” Rita asked. A gust of cold wind shot down Congress Street and threw a slash of red hair across her eyes and mouth.

“Eat.”

“You always eat.”

“It helps me think,” I said. “Would you believe this is the second day in a row that I’ve skipped lunch?”

“No, I would not,” Rita said. “Would you like some company?”

“Will you keep your hands to yourself?”

“Maybe.”

“Okay, then,” I said. “I’ll buy.”

“Where?”

“Let’s walk over to Union Oyster House,” I said.

Union Oyster House was the oldest restaurant in Boston, the kind of place that bragged that they had routinely served Daniel Webster. It was in the section of original storefronts by the harbor and had that kind of touristy, nautical feel that was more pleasant than annoying.

Rita and I sat at the horseshoe bar facing Union. I ordered a large bowl of chowder and some Sam Adams Brick Red. They only served Brick Red at restaurants along the Freedom Trail. I always felt patriotic when I drank it.

Rita ordered a martini.

The bartender served her first, then poured my beer.

With the first sip, I was pretty sure I heard the sound of angels.

“So how have you been?” Rita asked. “Besides having your car stolen, packed with drugs, and being threatened by lawman and hood alike?”

I waffled my hand over the bar.

“I figured you would have cashed that check from the firm and taken Susan to someplace very sunny.”

“I like to work.”

“Who’s your client?”

“A fourteen-year-old kid from Southie.”

“Pro bono?”

“Nope,” said, sipping some beer. “I’m adequately paid.”

“Good for you,” she said. Rita turned on the barstool and crossed her legs. There was a lot of leg to cross. And so artfully done.

“Are you staring at my legs?” she asked.

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