answer.
• • •
Officer Billy Lord entered Lem’s Coffee Shop with a copy of the
Herald
furled under his arm. It was the lunch hour, no stool for him at the counter and no table vacant. He forged his way to the back, where Fran Lovell had a booth to herself and only a cup of coffee in front of her. “Don’t mind, do you?” He settled in opposite her, a knee bumping hers.
“Would it matter?” she said with a tinge of asperity. He shifted the knee. “Don’t shake the table,” she said.
“Ain’t you eating?”
“Worry about yourself.”
He opened a thumb-worn menu and meditated while a waitress stood with a poised pencil. He orderd a chicken salad on wheat. “Don’t toast it.” He flattened the newspaper and opened it. “And dessert. Let you know what when I decide.”
He rattled pages to the gossip column, but his attention went to the article beneath it. Batting away smoke from Fran Lovell’s cigarette, he read swiftly. “You gotta show this to Ed Fellows,” he said with a laugh and pressed the paper partly toward her. “Banks in Boston are giving special service to the rich. Ordinary customers gotta stand in line to cash checks, but a guy with big bucks gets the red carpet. They usher him into posh privacy, give him a chair to sit in, and treat him to a glass of wine. If the guy’s wife’s with him, she can look at the latest
Cosmo
. Or, if she wants, she can use the private powder room. They probably got a little bell on the toilet. She rings it, some assistant vice-president charges in to tear the paper.”
“Billy, shut up.”
His sandwich arrived, a pickle and potato chips on the side. He nodded at the chips. “Have some.” She shook her head and lit a fresh cigarette.
“I was there.”
He gave her a blank look.
“The cemetery,” she said.
“The girl?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know her?”
“A little.”
“Sonny’s got the case. It’s in good hands.” He lowered his head to eat. She smoked, and he turned a page, continued to read, chewing with gusto. “Listen to this, Fran. A scientist experimenting with the genes of fruit flies made some with four wings instead of two and some with legs sticking out of their heads. I don’t think they should fiddle with things like that, never on people. You know, you could say that guy’s got a lot of balls and hurt his feelings. He might have twenty.”
“You keep that up, I’ll throw coffee in your face.”
He shrugged. “You got none left in your cup.”
“Tell me about the case,” she said, and he returned to his sandwich, picked up the pickle.
“Can’t talk about it.”
“Why not?”
“Police business.”
“That’s never stopped you before.”
“Sonny’s orders.”
She butted out her cigarette. “You think Sonny’s special. He’s not.”
Billy Lord gathered up the chips and ate all of them, then used a napkin. “Let me tell you something I read yesterday in the
Globe
, about a doctor in Brookline.”
“I’m not interested.”
“Just hear me out. Honest to God, it’s good.”
With a whip of the wrist, she flashed the coffee cup at him, nothing in it but grounds, which spattered the arm of his padded police jacket. She was gone when the waitress came over and asked whether he had decided yet on dessert.
“Cheesecake with strawberries,” he said.
When he finished, he groped his way to the cashier, who took his check, rang it up, and said, “What was the matter with Fran?”
“I was making her laugh.”
“Couldn’t have, Billy. She was crying.”
• • •
The clerk at Macartney’s said, “Good fit, Sonny. Gives you the ivy league look. People will think you teach at Phillips.” The jacket was a gray herringbone with leather buttons and suede patches on the elbows. Dawson straightened his shoulders in the three-way glass, and the clerk gave his back a brush. “ ’Course the pants don’t go with it.”
“How about tan corduroys? I’ve got a couple of pairs at
• • •
Officer Billy Lord entered Lem’s Coffee Shop with a copy of the
Herald
furled under his arm. It was the lunch hour, no stool for him at the counter and no table vacant. He forged his way to the back, where Fran Lovell had a booth to herself and only a cup of coffee in front of her. “Don’t mind, do you?” He settled in opposite her, a knee bumping hers.
“Would it matter?” she said with a tinge of asperity. He shifted the knee. “Don’t shake the table,” she said.
“Ain’t you eating?”
“Worry about yourself.”
He opened a thumb-worn menu and meditated while a waitress stood with a poised pencil. He orderd a chicken salad on wheat. “Don’t toast it.” He flattened the newspaper and opened it. “And dessert. Let you know what when I decide.”
He rattled pages to the gossip column, but his attention went to the article beneath it. Batting away smoke from Fran Lovell’s cigarette, he read swiftly. “You gotta show this to Ed Fellows,” he said with a laugh and pressed the paper partly toward her. “Banks in Boston are giving special service to the rich. Ordinary customers gotta stand in line to cash checks, but a guy with big bucks gets the red carpet. They usher him into posh privacy, give him a chair to sit in, and treat him to a glass of wine. If the guy’s wife’s with him, she can look at the latest
Cosmo
. Or, if she wants, she can use the private powder room. They probably got a little bell on the toilet. She rings it, some assistant vice-president charges in to tear the paper.”
“Billy, shut up.”
His sandwich arrived, a pickle and potato chips on the side. He nodded at the chips. “Have some.” She shook her head and lit a fresh cigarette.
“I was there.”
He gave her a blank look.
“The cemetery,” she said.
“The girl?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know her?”
“A little.”
“Sonny’s got the case. It’s in good hands.” He lowered his head to eat. She smoked, and he turned a page, continued to read, chewing with gusto. “Listen to this, Fran. A scientist experimenting with the genes of fruit flies made some with four wings instead of two and some with legs sticking out of their heads. I don’t think they should fiddle with things like that, never on people. You know, you could say that guy’s got a lot of balls and hurt his feelings. He might have twenty.”
“You keep that up, I’ll throw coffee in your face.”
He shrugged. “You got none left in your cup.”
“Tell me about the case,” she said, and he returned to his sandwich, picked up the pickle.
“Can’t talk about it.”
“Why not?”
“Police business.”
“That’s never stopped you before.”
“Sonny’s orders.”
She butted out her cigarette. “You think Sonny’s special. He’s not.”
Billy Lord gathered up the chips and ate all of them, then used a napkin. “Let me tell you something I read yesterday in the
Globe
, about a doctor in Brookline.”
“I’m not interested.”
“Just hear me out. Honest to God, it’s good.”
With a whip of the wrist, she flashed the coffee cup at him, nothing in it but grounds, which spattered the arm of his padded police jacket. She was gone when the waitress came over and asked whether he had decided yet on dessert.
“Cheesecake with strawberries,” he said.
When he finished, he groped his way to the cashier, who took his check, rang it up, and said, “What was the matter with Fran?”
“I was making her laugh.”
“Couldn’t have, Billy. She was crying.”
• • •
The clerk at Macartney’s said, “Good fit, Sonny. Gives you the ivy league look. People will think you teach at Phillips.” The jacket was a gray herringbone with leather buttons and suede patches on the elbows. Dawson straightened his shoulders in the three-way glass, and the clerk gave his back a brush. “ ’Course the pants don’t go with it.”
“How about tan corduroys? I’ve got a couple of pairs at
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