Robert B. Parker - The Widening Gyre

One of the great series in the history of the American detective story!

The New York Times

[Spenser is] the sassiest, funniest, most-enjoyable-to-read-about private eye around today.

The Cincinnati Post

Spenser novels are addictive.

The Denver Post

Robert B. Parker has taken his place beside Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, and Ross Macdonald.

The Boston Globe

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

Chicago Sun-Times

Parker is now the best writer of this kind of fiction in business today.

The New Republic

The toughest, funniest, wisest private eye in the field these days.

The Houston Post

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

Lyrics from Button Up Your Overcoat:
Copyright 1928 by DeSylva, Brown & Henderson, Inc.
Copyright Renewed. Assigned to Chappell & Co., Inc.
International Copyright Secured
All Rights Reserved
Used by permission

Copyright 1983 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/Seymour Lawrence, New York, New York.

The trademark Dell is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.

eISBN: 978-0-307-57087-1

Reprinted by arrangement with Delacorte Press/Seymour Lawrence

v3.1_r1

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the center cannot hold;

William Butler Yeats,
The Second Coming

Chapter 1

I was nursing a bottle of Murphys Irish Whiskey, drinking it from the neck of the bottle sparingly, and looking down from the window of my office at Berkeley Street where it crosses Boylston.

It was dark and there wasnt much traffic down there. Across the street there were people working late in the ad agency, but the office where the brunette art director worked was dark. The silence in my office was linear and dwindling, like an art-perspective exercise. The building was pretty much empty for the night and the occasional faraway drone and jolt of the elevator only added energy to the silence.

I sipped a little whiskey.

When you thought about it, silence was rarely silent. Silence was the small noises you heard when the larger noises disappeared.

I sipped another small swallow of whiskey. The whiskey added a little charge to the silence. Irish whiskey was in fact excellent for thinking about things like silence.

A car came slowly down Berkeley Street and parked up on the curb below my office window by a sign that said TOW ZONE NO PARKING ANYTIME . A bulky man with a large red nose got out. I knew who he was.

Across Boylston Street, on the Bonwits corner, a man and woman stood arms around each other waiting for the light to change so they could cross Berkeley. She had her left hand in his hip pocket. He had his arm over her shoulders. Was it love or was she lifting his wallet? The light changed. They crossed. Her hand still in his hip pocket. Love.

Behind me I heard the office door open. I turned away from the window and there was the bulky man with the red nose.

He said, You Spenser?

I said, Yeah.

He said, You know who I am?

Fix Farrell, I said.

F.X. he said, I dont like that nickname.

I said, You want a slug of Murphys Irish Whiskey?

Sure.

I handed him the bottle. He wiped the neck off automatically with the palm of his hand and took a slug. Then he handed me back the bottle.

You a lush? he said.

No.

I cant do business with no lush.

Wouldnt that depend on the business? I said.

Farrell shook his head. Never mind that shit, he said. I woulda heard if you was a lush.

I had a little more whiskey and offered him the bottle. He took it and drank some more. He had on a light gray overcoat with black velvet lapels and he was wearing a homburg. The hair that showed around the hat was gray. The shirt that showed above the lapels of the overcoat was white, with a pin collar and a rep stripe tie tied in a big windsor knot.

I had you checked out, Spenser. You unnerstand? I had my people look into you pretty thorough, and you come out clean.

Yippee, I said.

Were going to hire you.

He gave me back the bottle. What made his nose red was a fine network of broken veins.

The city council? I said.

He shook his head impatiently. No, for crissake, the Alexander campaign committee. We want you to handle security for us.

Meade Alexander? The congressman?

Yeah. They told me you were smart as a whip. Meades running for the Senate, or dont you read the papers?

Only the funny stuff, I said. Tank MacNamara, and the City Council proceedings.

I drank a little more whiskey.

Sure, sure, Farrell said, you want the job?

Security, I said.

Security. Weve had some death threats and theyre probably some left wing crackpot, but Brownes connected, so you gotta pay some attention.

Browne? Alexanders opponent?

Yeah, Robert Browne.

Hes got mob affiliation?

Oh, yeah, sure. Farrell said. Been in the bag for years.

And you think the mobs trying to put a hit on Alexander?

Farrell shook his head. No. But you cant be sure, and we gotta have somebody to handle security anyway. Every campaign has to have security. Why not get the best.

A gentleman of discerning sensibility, I said.

Yeah, sure. You want the job?

Whos doing it now?

Couple of Fitchburg cops on temporary duty to the campaign staff. Theyll stay, but youd be in charge.

Alexanders from Fitchburg?

Yeah.

What mob has Browne in its pocket? I said.

Farrell shrugged. Who knows?

If you dont know who bought him, how do you know hes bought? I said.

Farrell took the bottle from me again without asking and drank. Then he passed it back. I drank a much smaller swallow than he had.

What the fuck are you, the editor of The Boston Globe? It doesnt matter what I can prove. Were talking politics, asshole.

You dont know me well enough to call me pet names, Fix.

Farrell paid no attention. He looked at his watch.

What dya say. You want the job or no? Moneys not a sweat. We can get together on the money.

I turned away from Farrell briefly and stared out my window at the dark street and the darkened window of the art director and listened to the sounds of my office. Did I have something better to do? I did not. Could I use the money? Yes. Would it kill time for me better than drinking Irish whiskey and looking out the window? Maybe.

You have any trouble with Alexanders politics? Farrell asked my back.