Robert B. Parker - Pale Kings and Princes

Like Philip Marlowe, Spenser is a man of honor in a dishonorable world. When he says he will do something, it is done. The dialogue zings, and there is plenty of action but it is the moral element that sets them above most detective fiction.

Newsweek

Parkers dialogue crackles, and his one-liners are among the best in the business.

The Washington Post

Parkers wit and dramatic rhythms have not eroded with time.

USA Today

Spenser probably had more to do with changing the private eye from coffin-chaser to a full-bodied human being than any other detective hero.

Sun-Times (Chicago)

Ebullient entertainment. Violence pervades the landscape, yet Parker always pauses to evoke compassion for the victims. A wry and rowdy tale.

Time

Published by
Dell Publishing
a division of
Random House, Inc.
New York, New York

Copyright 1987 by Robert B. Parker

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. For information address: Delacorte Press, New York, New York.

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eISBN: 978-0-307-56990-5

Reprinted by arrangement with Delacorte Press

v3.1

I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
Who criedLa belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall.

John Keats, from La Belle
Dame sans Merci

The sun that brief December day shone weakly through the west-facing window of Garrett Kingsleys office. It made a thin yellow oblong splash on his Persian carpet and gave up.

Eric Valdez was a good reporter, Kingsley was telling me, and a good man, but if hed been neither he wouldnt deserve to die.

Most people dont, I said.

The people that killed Eric do, Kingsley said.

Depends on why they killed him, I said.

They killed him to keep the lid on the biggest cocaine operation in the East.

Kingsley was short and sort of plump. He needed a haircut and his big gray moustache was untrimmed. He had on a green and black plaid woolen shirt and a leather vest. His half glasses were halfway down his nose so he could stare over them while he talked. He looked like an overweight Titus Moody. He owned and edited the third largest newspaper in the state, and he had more money than Yoko Ono.

In Wheaton, Mass? I said.

Thats right, in Wheaton, Mass. Population 15,734, of whom nearly 5,000 are Colombians.

My grandmother came from Ireland, I said. Doesnt mean I deal potatoes.

Potatoes arent selling for $170,000 a pound, Kingsley said.

Good point, I said.

After the war, some guy ran a clothing factory in Wheaton had relatives in Colombia in a town called Tajo. He started recruiting people from the town to work in the factory. After a while there were more people in Wheaton from Tajo than there were in Tajo.

Kingsley took a corncob pipe from one of his vest pockets and a pouch of Cherry Blend tobacco from another pocket. He filled the pipe, tamping the tobacco in with his right forefinger, and lit the pipe with a kitchen match from another vest pocket that he scratched into flame with his thumbnail. I shall return.

Then a couple things happened, Kingsley said. The clothing business in Wheaton went down the toilettheres only one factory still operatingand cocaine passed coffee as Colombias number one export.

And Tajo is one of the major centers of export, I said.

Kingsley smiled. Nice to see you keep up, he said.

And Wheaton became Tajo north, I said.

Colombians have been dealing with cocaine since your ancestors were running around Ireland with their bodies painted blue, Kingsley said. He took a long inhale on the pipe and eased the smoke out.

Corncobs great, he said. Dont have to break it in and when they get gummy you throw em away and buy another one.

Go with the rest of the look too, I said.

Kingsley leaned back and put his duck boots up on the desk. There was a glitter of sharp amusement in his eyes.

You better fucking believe it, he said.

Probably drive a Jeep Wagoneer, I said. Or a Ford pickup.

Un huh, Kingsley said, and drink bourbon, and cuss, and my wife has to tie my bow ties for me.

Just folks, I said.

Were the third biggest paper in the state, Spenser. And the tenth biggest daily in the Northeast and the biggest city in our readership area is Worcester. Were regional, and so am I.

So you sent this kid Valdez down to Wheaton to look into the coke trade.

Kingsley nodded. He had his hands clasped behind his head and both feet on his desk. His vest fell open as he tilted the chair back and I could see wide red suspenders. Kid was Hispanic, grandparents were from Venezuela, spoke fluent Spanish. Been a Neiman fellow, good writer, good reporter.

And somebody shot him.

And castrated him, probably afterwards, and dumped him along Route Nine near the Windsor Dam at the south end of Quabbin Reservoir.

What do the cops say?

In Wheaton? Kingsley took the pipe from his mouth so he could snort. Valdez was a cock hound, no question, they say a jealous husband caught him.

You dont believe it?

Hes been a cock hound since he passed puberty. How come it got him in trouble a month after he started looking at the coke business in Wheaton.

Castration sort of points that way, I said. Cops got anybody in mind?

Kingsley snorted again. Chief down there is a blowhard. Struts around with a pearl-handled forty-five. Thinks hes Wyatt Earp. Smalltown bully is mostly what he is.

Doesnt want a lot of outside help? I said.

Wont admit he needs it, Kingsley said.

Honest? I said.

Kingsley shrugged. Probably, probably too stupid and mean to be bribed.

How about the rest of the department? Coke is money and money is bribery.

Cynical Mr. Spenser.

Old, Mr. Kingsley.

Probably the same thing, Kingsley said. And probably right. I dont know. Its the kind of thing that Valdez was supposed to look into.

And you dont want to send in more reporters.

Kingsley shook his head. And get another one killed? Theyre journalists, not gunfighters. Most of them kids starting out.

You figure Im a gunfighter? I said.

I know what you are. Ive looked into you very carefully. Id like to hire you to go down there and see who killed that boy and tell me and well bring him to justice.

Including if it was a jealous husband?

Yes.

You have any copy that he filed? I said.

No, nor any of his notes.

There should be notes, I said.

There should in fact, Kingsley said. But there arent any. Hed been there a month, looking around, talking with people. Thered be notes.

You know who he talked to?

No. Nor who he might have played around with, though in his case the best guess would be everyone. All I have is a photo of him, background on him. We gave him a long leash. We said go down, feel your way around, see whats there, take your time. Most papers need to make money. This one makes money but it doesnt need to. Its my toy. My grandfather made all the money any of us will ever need.