Robert Parker - Family Honor

“So maybe you and, what’s her name, Millicent, are a good match.”

“I’ve got to be better than Pharaoh Fox,” I said.

“Who?”

“The gentleman who represented her,” I said.

“Her pimp.”

“Yes.”

“You know, there’s one thing you ought to remember,” Julie said. Her voice dropped a little as she shifted into her professional mode. “Some women rather like being whores, if the circumstances are not too degrading. They like the physical sensation, they like the easy money, they like the semblance of male attention.”

“What’s not to like?” I said.

“A lot, as you well know. But in many cases, these women are able to distance themselves from the actuality of their situation.”

“And,” I said, “in some cases they’re lesbians.”

“The ultimate manipulation of men,” Julie said. “Do you think Millicent is a lesbian?”

“I have no way to know,” I said.

“It would explain some things,” Julie said.

“Can’t work that way,” I said. “Find the explanation and fit the circumstances to it. It’s got to be the other way around.”

“Well, you can keep the possibility in mind.”

At the other end of the loft, Millicent, still in her shorts and tank top, dragged herself out of bed and went into the bathroom.

“I better hang up now,” I said. “My guest will be wanting breakfast.”

“Breakfast? It’s twenty of one in the afternoon.”

“She’s been working nights,” I said.

“You got some coffee?” Millicent said.

“Cups in the cupboard,” I said. “Coffee in the green canisters. The one with the dot on the top is decaf.”

Millicent looked at the coffeemaker and the canisters and me.

“I don’t know how to make coffee,” she said, the way you’d explain to an idiot that you were unable to fly.

“I’ll show you,” I said.

“Whyn’t you just make it for me,” she said. “You’re the one who brought me here.”

“It’s better if you don’t have to depend on someone to make your coffee,” I said. “See, the filter goes in here, then the coffee, and the water here.”

She watched me, radiant with contempt, as I made the coffee.

“Next time you can make it,” I said.

“Sure,” she said.

While the coffee brewed, she sat on a stool at my kitchen counter and stared at nothing.

“Do you want the paper?” I said.

She shook her head.

“Would you like something to eat?” I said.

She made a face. When the coffee had brewed I poured some in a cup and handed it to her.

“You got cream and sugar?” she said.

“The sugar’s right there in the bowl, the spoons are in the drawer right below where you’re sitting,” I said. “Milk’s in the refrigerator.”

She didn’t move. I didn’t move. Finally she got up and went to the refrigerator and got some milk. I went back to reading a book by Vincent Scully. The loft was quiet. Rosie got up from where she had been lying on my feet and went over and looked up at Millicent in case she might be going to eat something.

“Is that a dog?” Millicent said.

“That’s Rosie,” I said. “Rosie is a miniature bull terrier.”

“Does he bite.”

“She does not,” I said.

“I hate dogs,” Millicent said.

“How endearing,” I said.

“Huh?”

“It’s fun sharing,” I said.

She looked at me a little suspiciously.

“Well, I do. They don’t do anything. They just hang around and eat and poop all over the place.”

“Actually,” I said, “that’s not true. Dogs are naturally rather careful where they poop. It’s why you can housebreak them.”

“Well, I don’t like them anyway,” she said.

“Because they don’t do anything useful?” I said.

“I don’t know, why are you always asking me stuff? I say something and you want to talk all about it.”

“And you don’t,” I said.

“No.”

“Then why do you say it?”

“Say what?”

“Stuff you don’t want to talk about?”

“I don’t know.”

We were quiet. She got up and went and got more coffee and brought it back and added milk and sugar and sat back on the stool. Rosie never moved from the position she had assumed at the bottom, her nose pointed straight up at Millicent, her squat body motionless. She looked like a small black-and-white pyramid.

“Isn’t she cute?” I said.

“Who?”

“Rosie.”

Millicent shrugged.

“What good is she?”

“I love her,” I said. “She gives me something to care about.”

Millicent stared at me for a while.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” she said, “loving something that doesn’t do anything for you.”

“It certainly doesn’t,” I said. “What size are you? Four?”

“I guess so. My mother always bought all my clothes.”

“Well, I think some of my stuff will fit you. Go take a shower and then we’ll pick out something.”

“Why have I got to shower?” she said.

“Clean is good,” I said. “Especially if you’re going to be wearing my clothes.”

“I don’t want to take a shower.”

I nodded.

“Of course you don’t,” I said. “And up to a point I care about what you want. But we’re past the point. Either take a shower or I’ll drag you in there and hold you under.”

She stared at me. I stared back. Finally she shrugged and got up and walked into the bathroom.

“Shampoo your hair,” I said.

The door closed. I cleaned up her coffee cup and the coffeemaker and gave Rosie a dog biscuit. Then I went and laid out several pairs of jeans and several tee shirts on my bed, so Millicent would feel like she had a choice. She came out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her. Her hair was straight and glistening. Her nails were clean. She didn’t look anywhere near fifteen. I gestured at the clothes.

“Pick something,” I said.

She took the first pair of jeans on the bed and the nearest tee shirt.

“You have any underwear?” I said.

“No.”

“Of course not,” I said. “Why would you.”

“I won’t wear yours,” she said.

“That’s right,” I said. “We’ll get you some next time we’re out.”

We came back from the Chestnut Hill Mall with clothes for Millicent. Rosie was in the backseat looking out the window and gargling at other dogs when she saw them. Millicent was up front with me.

“So where you get the money to buy these clothes?” Millicent said. “Alimony?”

“I don’t get alimony.”

“How come?”

“I don’t want it. There’s no reason he should support me the rest of my life.”

“So how come you can afford to buy me clothes.”

“I do detective work,” I said. “People pay me. Like your parents did.”

“My mother says a woman alone’s got no chance.”

“No more than a fish does,” I said. “Without a bicycle.”

“Huh?”

“Just me amusing myself,” I said.

“Well, I’d take the alimony,” Millicent said.

“Alimony destroys any kind of relationship people might have,” I said.

“Well, you’re divorced, aren’t you?”

“It doesn’t mean we hate each other,” I said. “If there were alimony, eventually we would.”

“So how come you got a divorce if you don’t hate each other?”

“We’re still working on that one,” I said.

When we pulled up in front of my loft we found a long silver Mercedes Benz parked on the curb. Junior and Ty-Bop were outside, Junior leaning on the fender, Ty-Bop fidgeting on the sidewalk by my front door.

“Who are those colored guys?” Millicent said.