63
TOM LOPATA'S OFFICE was in a converted storefront in
Malden Square. There were several desks. Tom sat at the one closest
to the door. The others were unoccupied.
He stood when I came
in, and I could see him flipping through his mental Rolodex until
he matched my face with a name. Then he stuck out his
hand.
"Hey," he said. "Mr.
Spenser, excellent to see you."
I didn't shake hands
with him.
"I've stopped by to
tell you what I know," I said. "I'm not telling anyone else. But I
want to be sure that you know that I know."
"Sure," he said, and
sat down. "Sure. I'll help you any way I can."
He gestured toward a
chair. I stayed on my feet.
"You drove your
daughter in to hook up with Jumbo Nelson," I said. "We know that.
What only you and I know is that you did it because you hoped it
would help you sell a big policy to him and the movie
company."
"What are you
saying?"
"I'm saying you
pimped your daughter to a notorious pig. For money, and it got her
killed."
"Why. . . What good
does this kind of talk do now?" Lopata said.
"It doesn't do the
kid any good. And I won't tell your wife or your son. I won't tell
the cops. I won't tell anybody. But I want you to wake up every
morning of every day and know what you did," I said. "Every
morning."
"This is crazy," he
said. "There's no way you could know this. I didn't do anything
wrong."
I looked at
him.
"I didn't," he
said.
I didn't
answer.
"I spent my life,
for crissake, feeding them and buying them stuff I couldn't afford,
and sending them to schools I couldn't afford. My fucking son is at
Harvard. All I wanted was for her to put in a good word for me,
just once. Is that fucking evil?"
"Yeah," I said. "In
fact, it is."
"Come on," he said.
"That's bullshit. I didn't do nothing so bad."
"Think about it," I
said. "Every day."
I left.
WHEN I GOT BACK to Boston I changed into sweats, put
some clean clothes and a shaving kit in a gym bag, and went down to
the Harbor Health Club. I lifted weights. I hit the speed bag. I
hit the heavy bag until the sweat was all over me and soaking
through my shirt. Then I went to the steam room and sat for a long
time. When I came out, I showered and shaved and put on my clean
clothes.
It was still raining
when I came out of the club. But it seemed to me that it was
getting a little lighter in the west. Over Cambridge. Where Susan
lived.
After the rain
lifted, the world would probably seem as freshly washed as I was.
The cleanliness was almost certainly illusory, or at best
short-lasting. But life is mostly metaphor, anyway.
I got in my car and
drove west.