Bad Business by Robert B. Parker

developing a relationship as well.”
    â€œA sexual relationship?”
    â€œOf course.”
    I nodded. I squeezed my eyes shut trying to concentrate.
    â€œSo,” I said slowly, “were they, in the language of courtly love, wife swapping?”
    â€œThey were developing cross-connubial relationships,” O’Mara said.
    â€œI’ll bet they were,” I said.
    â€œMy presence here is voluntary, Spenser. I don’t have any obligation to sit here and listen to your misinformed disapproval.”
    I looked at the gray-haired couple in the booth. They each had a fresh rye and ginger. He was staring out the front window of the pub. She was looking at the bottles stacked up behind the bar. Both were smoking. They didn’t seem close. Probably rebelling against coercive love.
    â€œDid all four members of this tag team know of the situation?” I said.
    â€œOf course. Everything took place within seminar guidelines.”
    â€œSo why did Marlene hire me to follow her husband?”
    â€œI have only your word,” O’Mara said, “that she did.”
    â€œTake as a premise that she did,” I said. “Speculate with me.”
    O’Mara signaled the bartender for another Guinness.
    â€œAnd a pony of Jameson’s,” he said. “Beside it.”
    The bartender looked at me. I nodded yes to another Bud.
    â€œWere that the case,” O’Mara said, “perhaps it would indicate that Marlene had failed to transcend the material plane.”
    â€œMeaning that if Trent became enamored enough ofEllen to stroll off into the sunset,” I said, “Marlene wanted to be sure she’d get hers.”
    O’Mara was watching the bartender pour the whisky. He seemed relieved when she started back down the bar with it.
    â€œHypothetically,” O’Mara said.
    â€œAny sign that was happening?” I said.
    â€œI am not a dating service,” O’Mara said. “I instruct people in a certain philosophy, and I help them understand its implications.”
    â€œDo you know anyone named Gavin?” I said.
    â€œNot that I can think of,” O’Mara said.
    He took a sip of the whisky and washed it with Guinness. He looked happier.
    â€œBob Cooper?” I said.
    â€œNo, I don’t believe I know him either,” he said.
    â€œAnd you don’t know any reason somebody might shoot Trent Rowley?”
    â€œGod no,” he said.
    â€œEisen didn’t mind his wife and Trent.”
    â€œAbsolutely not. Any more than Trent minded Bernie and Marlene.”
    â€œAnd why would anyone,” I said.
    â€œWhy indeed,” O’Mara said.
    The Irish boilermaker was cheering him greatly.
    â€œYou ever read Chaucer’s Troilus and Criseyde ?” I said.
    â€œIf I did,” O’Mara said with a smile, “I’ve forgotten it. Why do you ask?”
    â€œCharacter named Pandarus,” I said. “I was going to ask you about him.”
    O’Mara polished off the rest of the Irish whisky and gestured at the bartender for another one.
    â€œI fear that you may be misled,” he said. “The references to courtly love are metaphoric, if you see what I mean.”
    The whisky arrived. He took a fond sip and let it trickle down his throat. Then he drank some Guinness.
    â€œMy field is not literature,” he said. “Though literature is surely a stimulus to my thinking.”
    He had swung fully around on his barstool, facing the big nearly empty room, with both elbows resting behind him on the bar. I felt a lecture lurking.
    â€œMy field,” he said, “is human interaction.”
    â€œYou and Linda Lovelace,” I said.
    I left O’Mara at the bar. As I came out, I saw a guy with shoulder-length black hair round the corner onto Causeway Street and disappear.
    I only saw his back, but the hair looked like the guy I’d seen at Bob Cooper’s club.

26
    H ealy came into my