Robert Parker - Family Honor

Patton looked at his wife. She didn’t speak, but her head was up and she looked at him steadily.

“And what is required of me?” he said.

“You set up an irrevocable trust fund for your wife and daughter. With my humble self as trustee. Amount of the fund to come.”

“So you can embezzle from me?”

“Once the fund was in place, I’d actually be embezzling from Millicent,” I said. “The fund will be large enough to cover the cost of psychotherapy for Millicent and for her mother.”

Patton stood and rested his hands flat on the tabletop and glowered down at his wife and me.

“Do you... have... any idea... who you’re... dealing with?”

I nodded.

“I can have you killed, for Christ sake.”

I shook my head.

“Oh?” Patton said. “You don’t think so?”

“Albert Antonioni suggested you call him when we got to this point.”

“Are you kidding?”

I reached behind me, picked up the phone on the kitchen counter, and dialed.

“Mr. Antonioni please,” I said. “Sunny Randall.”

I waited. In a moment Allie came on the line.

“This is Allie.”

“I have Brock Patton here,” I said. “One moment.”

Patton’s face was gray. But he took the phone.

“This is Brock Patton,” he said.

He listened for a moment.

“You know this broad, Allie?”

He listened again. For several moments, nodding his head slightly.

“Right,” he said. “Right.”

He listened again.

“Sure, Allie,” he said. “Absolutely.”

Then he hung up. His face still looked gray, and his eyes seemed very tired.

“Okay,” he said. “That’s the deal. Have your attorney send me the trust agreement.”

He looked at Betty Patton.

“What about you?” he said.

“I’m not coming home,” she said.

“Fine,” he said. “There’s a hundred others just like you.”

“I know,” she said.

He looked at me.

“You’re a smart little bitch,” he said, “aren’t you.”

“I’m not so little,” I said.

He turned and stalked out of my loft and slammed the door, which roused Rosie. She sat up among the pillows looking annoyed. Rosie jumped down from the bed and came briskly the length of the loft and jumped up in my lap and began to lap my neck. Betty Patton folded her arms on the tabletop and put her head down.

“Oh God,” she said.

“You did good,” I said.

“I still have to face Millicent.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Tell her the truth,” I said. “Tell her what you did and why you did it and how you are going to try and change and why. Don’t talk down to her. Don’t give her orders.”

“I’ve forfeited any rights I had to order her around,” Betty said. “Brock is right, it is crazy now to try to be a mother.”

“Don’t aim so high right away,” I said. “Maybe you can learn to be friends in a while. And then maybe you can be an older friend, one who is helpful, one who can offer guidance, one who can love her, one who seems to be sort of like a mother.”

Betty raised her head.

“Do you have a wonderful mother, Sunny?”

“Not especially,” I said.

“Then how do you know all this?”

“Remember,” I said, “I’m a smart little bitch.”

I had never been able to do the same painting over again, so, since my Chinatown had been destroyed, I was working on a view of the old Charles Street jail. Rosie was lying on the rug near me, and Millicent was reading the paper in bed. We had agreed on no television when I was trying to work. It was a rule for me. I couldn’t stand television and when I’m working I need to be able to focus. But there was a happy and entirely accidental by-product of the rule. She had started to read the paper... Could a book be far behind?

I was busy trying to get the right gray for the jail when Rosie sat up suddenly and looked at the door. I picked up my gun from the table next to me. The doorbell rang. Rosie dashed to the door barking and being fearsome, but her tail was wagging furiously, which meant it was probably Richie. I checked through the peephole. It wasn’t Richie. It was Brian. I opened the door. Brian came in and closed the door behind him and leaned forward and kissed me lightly.

“I figured I better do that,” he said, “or you might shoot.”

I smiled and put the gun on the table. Brian waved at Millicent.

“I might have,” I said. “Would you like coffee?”

“Sure.”

Brian went and looked at my painting while I measured out the coffee and water.

“You decided not to paint Chinatown?” he said.

“I can’t do the same painting again,” I said. “Maybe later.”

“Why is that?”

“I have no idea.”

“Artistic temperament?”

“I suspect that artistic temperament is bullshit,” I said. “Rembrandt and van Gogh were both artists, but I doubt that they had similar temperaments.”

We sat at my counter. I poured coffee. We both added milk. I used Equal in mine, Brian put sugar in his. Rosie sat at his feet, ever hopeful.

“No donuts?” he said.

“I didn’t know there was going to be a cop in the house,” I said.

We were quiet for a moment.

“Cathal Kragan turned up in Chelsea Creek this morning,” Brian said.

“Dead?”

Brian nodded.

“Shot behind his right ear,” he said. “At an up angle. Bullet exited in front above his left eye.”

“Good,” I said.

“You have any idea how that came to pass?” Brian said.

“Yes.”

“But you don’t want to share?”

“It’s not something you should know,” I said.

“Not you?” Brian said.

“No.”

“You have anything to do with it?”

“I might have gotten the ball rolling,” I said.

“Richie Burke?”

“No.”

Brian paused for a moment and thought.

“Richie put you in touch,” he said. “His family applied some pressure.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Are you sorry he’s dead?”

“Hell, no,” Brian said. “I’m just trying to figure out where to send the medal. You want me to call Framingham, let them know?”

“No,” I said. “I’ll call Anderson. He was a pretty good guy in all of this.”

“Me, too,” Brian said.

“Yes,” I said. “Especially you, too.”

Again we were quiet. Brian reached over and poured himself more coffee.

“So it’s over,” he said.

“Except for Millicent,” I said.

“How about us,” Brian said. “Is it over for us?”

I felt myself tense. I knew we’d have to have this conversation, but I didn’t like it any better because I knew it was coming. I nodded slowly.

“Yes,” I said.

Brian’s face was tight, and his eyes were flat. He wasn’t liking this conversation either.

“Richie?” he said.

“Yes.”

Brian scratched Rosie’s chin with his toe. I’m sure he wasn’t aware that he did it.

“You together again?”

“No.”

“Then...?”

“We’re not apart enough either,” I said.

“Don’t you think maybe you ought to come to some terms with that?” Brian said.

“Yes.”

“But you haven’t.”

“Not yet,” I said.

“He was very helpful to you through this bad patch with Kragan and all,” Brian said.

“Yes.”

“Don’t be fooled by gratitude,” Brian said.

I nodded.

“I hope I’m not.”

Brian drank some coffee. The lines at the corners of his mouth had deepened.

“Well, people don’t love you just because you want them to,” he said.

“I know.”

“We did have fun,” he said.