than to pick on someone like Snooker.”
I sighed. “So can you tell me how to find Dotty McCarthy’s house then?”
She chuckled. “Sure, I can tell you. You going to pay a visit?”
“Looks like it.”
“Today?”
“Yes.”
I jotted down the directions Kat gave me. I was familiar enough with the area. It wasn’t far from the marina where Des moored Constance.
“Got it,” I said when she was done.
“Supper with me after your visit, then. I accept no excuse.”
“The Grog at six thirty.”
“You got it.”
“Give my best to your, um, administrative assistant.”
“I’d rather save your best for myself.”
I spent the morning signing all the stuff Julie gave me to sign, talking to the people she got on the phone for me, and conferring with the one client with whom I had an appointment, a periodontist named Barton who sported thick gold necklaces and copper bracelets and a three handicap. Rick Barton had earned lots of money cutting and stitching rich people’s gums, none of which he was inclined to share with the government, and he had ignored my advice by retaining a tax accountant who promised more than he could deliver.
I told Rick I doubted we could avoid steep penalties, but that I might be able to keep him out of prison. This seemed to make him happy. He invited me to play the member-guest with him at his country club in Concord. I snapped my fingers in disappointment, citing a fictional court commitment.
I went out at one and brought back Italian subs from across the street. Julie and I spread waxed paper over her desk and ate together, licking oil and bits of onion and hot pepper off our fingers, sipping Pepsi, and talking baseball. She felt that seven and a half games was not too far from first place in the middle of July, and that the Red Sox were poised for a big run at the old gonfalon.
Julie actually talked that way. The old gonfalon.
“They’ve got some good sticks riding the pine,” she said.
Also, she pointed out that the shortstop had been throwing a lot of leather recently.
I told Julie I was looking forward to the football season. “The Pats’re going to abandon the I formation. Mix it up. Go to the shotgun, even on first down. They’ve strengthened themselves at cornerback, and the linemen are learning their stunts. Question is Miami. They still can’t even beat the spread down there, even though they don’t play in the Orange Bowl anymore.”
Julie picked up a chunk of provolone and dropped it into her upturned mouth. She looked like a baby bird at feeding time. “You football nuts talk funny,” she grumbled.
It was about three o’clock when I pulled into Dotty McCarthy’s side yard. She lived in a shoebox-shaped little house. The mustard-colored paint was cracking and peeling. A rusty rotary lawnmower sat in the middle of the front yard, where it had either died or run out of gas halfway through its job. Half of the grass stood about six inches high. The unmowed half was about a foot of shaggy grass and weed. A few white wildflowers bloomed in the uncut part.
I mounted the crumbling cement stoop and tried the bell. I detected no ding from inside. I depressed it again, waited, and then knocked. After a moment I thought I heard movement inside. I knocked again.
The door opened suddenly and completely. “Now you just leave the boy alone!” snapped the woman from behind the screen door. She was shaped like a light bulb, with a small head, narrow shoulders and chest, and massive hips that seemed to span the doorway. Her hands were resting on those great pillow hips. A half-smoked cigarette protruded from the precise middle of her mouth. An inch of ash clung precariously to its tip.
“Mrs. McCarthy?” I said, using my Yale Law School smile.
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re not who I thought you’d be,” she said. It did not come out as an apology.
Without touching her cigarette with her fingers, she sucked on it. The ash fell onto her chest. She
I sighed. “So can you tell me how to find Dotty McCarthy’s house then?”
She chuckled. “Sure, I can tell you. You going to pay a visit?”
“Looks like it.”
“Today?”
“Yes.”
I jotted down the directions Kat gave me. I was familiar enough with the area. It wasn’t far from the marina where Des moored Constance.
“Got it,” I said when she was done.
“Supper with me after your visit, then. I accept no excuse.”
“The Grog at six thirty.”
“You got it.”
“Give my best to your, um, administrative assistant.”
“I’d rather save your best for myself.”
I spent the morning signing all the stuff Julie gave me to sign, talking to the people she got on the phone for me, and conferring with the one client with whom I had an appointment, a periodontist named Barton who sported thick gold necklaces and copper bracelets and a three handicap. Rick Barton had earned lots of money cutting and stitching rich people’s gums, none of which he was inclined to share with the government, and he had ignored my advice by retaining a tax accountant who promised more than he could deliver.
I told Rick I doubted we could avoid steep penalties, but that I might be able to keep him out of prison. This seemed to make him happy. He invited me to play the member-guest with him at his country club in Concord. I snapped my fingers in disappointment, citing a fictional court commitment.
I went out at one and brought back Italian subs from across the street. Julie and I spread waxed paper over her desk and ate together, licking oil and bits of onion and hot pepper off our fingers, sipping Pepsi, and talking baseball. She felt that seven and a half games was not too far from first place in the middle of July, and that the Red Sox were poised for a big run at the old gonfalon.
Julie actually talked that way. The old gonfalon.
“They’ve got some good sticks riding the pine,” she said.
Also, she pointed out that the shortstop had been throwing a lot of leather recently.
I told Julie I was looking forward to the football season. “The Pats’re going to abandon the I formation. Mix it up. Go to the shotgun, even on first down. They’ve strengthened themselves at cornerback, and the linemen are learning their stunts. Question is Miami. They still can’t even beat the spread down there, even though they don’t play in the Orange Bowl anymore.”
Julie picked up a chunk of provolone and dropped it into her upturned mouth. She looked like a baby bird at feeding time. “You football nuts talk funny,” she grumbled.
It was about three o’clock when I pulled into Dotty McCarthy’s side yard. She lived in a shoebox-shaped little house. The mustard-colored paint was cracking and peeling. A rusty rotary lawnmower sat in the middle of the front yard, where it had either died or run out of gas halfway through its job. Half of the grass stood about six inches high. The unmowed half was about a foot of shaggy grass and weed. A few white wildflowers bloomed in the uncut part.
I mounted the crumbling cement stoop and tried the bell. I detected no ding from inside. I depressed it again, waited, and then knocked. After a moment I thought I heard movement inside. I knocked again.
The door opened suddenly and completely. “Now you just leave the boy alone!” snapped the woman from behind the screen door. She was shaped like a light bulb, with a small head, narrow shoulders and chest, and massive hips that seemed to span the doorway. Her hands were resting on those great pillow hips. A half-smoked cigarette protruded from the precise middle of her mouth. An inch of ash clung precariously to its tip.
“Mrs. McCarthy?” I said, using my Yale Law School smile.
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re not who I thought you’d be,” she said. It did not come out as an apology.
Without touching her cigarette with her fingers, she sucked on it. The ash fell onto her chest. She
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