Роберт Паркер - Sixkill

“He focus in on her?” I said.

“Nope,” James said. “He was ready for any of us.”

I said, “It doubles the dating pool, I guess.”

“You interested?” James said.

“No.”

“You don’t find me attractive?” James said.

“Stunning,” I said. “But not my type.”

“What’s your type?” James said.

He was having fun.

“Female,” I said.

“You married?” Christine said.

“I keep steady company with the girl of my dreams,” I said.

“So I don’t interest you, either?” she said.

“Sadly,” I said, “no.”

“Because of your girlfriend?”

“Exactly,” I said.

In fact, of course, I had never been aroused by anyone with maroon hair.

“That’s amazing,” Christine said.

James grinned.

“Old school,” he said.

“So how come Dawn was the one ended up in Jumbo’s hotel room?” I said.

“Too fat for me,” James said.

He dropped his cigarette butt on the floor and stepped on it.

“Christine?” I said.

She squinched up her face.

“Gross,” she said.

“But Dawn liked him?” I said.

“Dawn wasn’t choosy who she hooked up with,” James said.

He lit a new cigarette.

“And for crissake,” Christine said, “he was a freaking movie star. You know?”

“She would care about that?” I said.

“Of course,” Christine said. “Who wouldn’t.”

“You?” I said.

“Sure,” she said. “But he’s too icky.”

“But not too icky for Dawn,” I said.

“No.”

“Why not,” I said.

They were silent for a moment. James let the smoke from his new cigarette drift out through his nose.

“Not many people too icky for Dawn,” he said.

I looked at Christine. She shrugged.

“Dawn wasn’t choosy,” she said. “She was a good kid, but she, you know, went for pretty much anybody with a winkie.”

“A winkie?” I said.

“You know,” Christine said.

I nodded.

“So what do you think happened with her and Jumbo?” I said.

She shrugged and took another cigarette from James’s pack. He lit it for her.

“I think it was kinky sex, got out of hand,” James said.

“Anything special?” I said.

“Said in the papers that she died of asphyxiation,” James said.

“I know,” I said.

“That right?” he said.

“They’re not sure,” I said.

“Well, if it is...” James spread his arms as if it was a nobrainer.

“She into choking games?” I said.

“Got me,” James said.

“Christine?” I said.

“I don’t know,” Christine said. “She was very interested in all kinds of sex stuff.”

“Aren’t we all,” I said.

“We’re kids,” James said. “We’re even more interested.”

“Ageist,” I said.

“And,” Christine said, “I think she might have been more interested than most.”

I stopped on my way back to the office to get a sub sandwich. When I got back to my office, it was nearly two in the afternoon. I found Zebulon Sixkill, fragrant with booze, asleep on the floor in front of my office. I stepped over him, unlocked my door, and opened it. I put my sandwich on my desk and went back and got hold of Zebulon Sixkill by the collar and dragged him into the office and laid him out on my office rug. I stepped back over him again and shut my office door, then made some coffee, poured myself a cup, and sat at my desk with my feet up, eating my sandwich and drinking my coffee. When I got through, I wrote some bills and put them in envelopes and stamped them.

At about three-thirty the sun had moved out over the Charles River, five blocks away. It slanted in through my office window, making a long parallelogram on the floor where Zebulon Sixkill was lying on his back. It woke him up.

“Where the fuck am I,” he said.

His voice was very hoarse.

“My office,” I said.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Spenser,” I said. “We met, couple days ago.”

He raised his head and looked at me. I smiled in a friendly way.

“Yeah,” he said. “You got a bathroom?”

I pointed. He got painfully up and went into the bathroom. He was in there a long time. When he came out he looked as if he might have washed his face.

I pointed to a chair.

“You got a drink?” Zebulon Sixkill said.

I took the bottle of Dewar’s out of my desk drawer and put it on the desk along with a lowball glass. He took a couple of deep breaths as if to steady himself and carefully poured some. He looked at the glass for a moment, then picked it up with both hands and drank some whiskey. He showed no sign of pleasure. He drank it the way you take aspirin for a headache.

“You’re lucky,” I said. “Lila across the hall had seen you, she’d have called the cops and you’d be waking up in the drunk tank.”

“That’s me,” Zebulon Sixkill said. “Lucky.”

“You functional?” I said.

“I will be in a minute,” he said. “You got any ice?”

“Wow,” I said. “A picky drunk.”

I got him some ice in a second lowball glass. He poured the remains of his drink over it and drank some. I waited. He sat.

After a while he said, “I’m in trouble.”

I nodded.

“I can see that,” I said.

He shook his head and poured a little scotch over the ice in his glass.

“All my life I been a tough guy. You know?”

“Till now,” I said.

Z looked at me. I looked back.

“Whaddya want?” I said finally.

He shook his head again. We sat. He drank a little of his drink.

“I never lost a fight before,” he said.

“Have many?”

“People always careful around me.”

“Ever fight somebody knew what they were doing?” I said.

He held his glass of whiskey and looked at it some more.

“Guess not,” he said.

We were quiet again. He drank a little. I was watching something happening. I wasn’t sure what. But I kept watching.

“You know what you’re doing,” he said.

“Yep.”

“I want you to show me how,” he said.

“If you don’t get the booze under control, it’s a waste of time,” I said.

“I can not drink,” he said.

“You just got no reason not to,” I said.

“No,” he said.

“You been juicing?”

“Like HGH?” he said. “That kind of thing?”

“Yeah.”

“Little,” he said.

“Rock bottom,” I said.

“Yeah.”

We sat for a time, contemplating how rock-bottom he was.

Finally I said, “Good place to start.”

“Good as any,” he said.

Zebulon Sixkill III

Her name was Lucy, and he’d never seen anything like her. She was a Southern California sorority girl, and she was the color of honey. Golden hair, golden tan. Golden prospects. She was homecoming queen during his second season. The first time they had sex, he discovered that her golden tan was all over. He loved that. He loved the fresh smell of her. Expensive soap. Shampoo. Cologne. She always sat close to him. She always looked right at him when he talked. Her lips were glossy and parted slightly when she listened to him. She was rapturous when they made love, and she was always waiting outside the locker room after a game. He could talk to her. He talked about his parents, and their friend Mr. Booze. About his grandfather, and the loss of him. About being a Cree. They went together to dinners at Mr. Calhoun’s home in Bel Air. On the weekends they went to uproarious parties at Mr. Calhoun’s place in Malibu. They clubbed on Sunset. They came to know a lot about good wine and fine whiskey. They became increasingly sophisticated about which drug to use for which effect. Their pictures were in the style section. Paparazzi began to notice them coming out of clubs. At the end of sophomore year, they moved into a condo owned by Mr. Calhoun, near the campus.