Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn (Spenser, #44)(68)

“What do you tell your patients?”

“Tell me more about your mother.” Susan said it as she imagined Sigmund Freud might have. Her German accent was about as good as my Bogart.

“No,” I said. My hand in hers. “Don’t screw up a good thing.”

“Ah,” she said. “You know, I don’t think I ever said that.”

“Maybe not in so many words,” I said. “How about ‘Stick to what works’?”

“Better,” she said. “And this works for us?”

“Maybe our living apart builds up the animal lust you have for me,” I said.

“I thought you said it was primal.”

With one hand, I beat my chest like Tarzan. I refrained from the jungle call.

“You can stay as long as you like,” she said. “But please pick up your underwear.”

“That’s how it starts.”

She smiled. We kept walking. The crisp air felt good to breathe, and there was a rowdy excitement about the square of kids returning to Harvard. A sort of rekindled energy from the slow summer months.

“Have you heard from Z?” she said.

“Nope.”

“He’s very grateful.”

I nodded.

“You miss him.”

“I had a free trainer for a few years,” I said. “He basically retooled the entire gym. But no one misses him as much as Henry.”

“Maybe we need to invite Henry to dinner soon.”

“He would like that very much.”

“And Hawk?”

“Whenever he flies home,” I said. “I just got a postcard from Marseille.”

“Work?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “He only mentioned the bouillabaisse.”

“Of course,” she said. “When he comes home, there will be trouble?”

“I guess we’ll soon find out.”

We walked toward The Pit, filled with its street painters and drum bucket musicians, the homeless holding out plastic cups. The red line terminal bustled with life, people coming and going into the city. Steam rose from sewer grates while leaves swirled and turned in the brisk wind.

The big digital clock over the Savings Bank clicked off each minute. I looked up at it, closed one eye, and made a gun with my thumb and forefinger.

“Let me guess,” Susan said. “You’d kill time if it wouldn’t injure eternity?”

“No such luck,” I said. I dropped the hammer. Susan and I walked off together into the swirling leaves and music.