haggling over the price.
Neal lay awake for most of what was left of the night. He hadn’t had dreams about the Halperin kid for months, and he didn’t want to start again. But when he closed his eyes, he saw the kid again, and thought about the “ifs.” If they had only let the kid be what he was—an amiable, not overly bright gay teenager. If they had treated the case as more than a ground ball and sent two guys instead of just Neal. If only room service hadn’t been closed that night.
He gave up trying to sleep around five, took a wake-up shower, said a quick goodbye to Elizabeth Chase, and asked for a ride downtown. The driver let him off at an Avis counter, Neal got lost about fifteen times before he found Scott Mackensen’s school in Connecticut.
5
Scott mackensen was running to lacrosse practice.
“Coach will kill me if I’m late again,” he said to Neal Carey, who thought the boy was a little too eager to get going.
Neal looked behind him to the beautifully tended green fields where several boys tossed the ball among them in studied insouciance.
“It’ll only take a minute,” Neal lied.
“That’s worth five minutes of stadium steps,” Scott answered. He was tall, muscular, clear-eyed Jack Armstrong and all that shit, but Neal saw that those clear eyes looked scared. He knew then that there was no hurry.
“Later, maybe?” he asked.
Scott waged a brief skirmish with his conscience. Neal had seen it a few hundred times. Duty versus self-interest. Scott was just young enough that duty had a shot at winning, and Neal didn’t want to push a quick decision. He waited.
“There’s a coffee shop in the village—The Copper Donkey. Give me two hours.” Scott backed away as he talked.
“You got it,” Neal said as Scott turned and ran toward the practice field.
Maybe I should have let The Man send me to boarding school, Neal thought as he walked back to his rented car. The Barker School looked pretty nice. “Nestled in the rolling hills of northwest Connecticut,” the brochure had doubtless proclaimed, and indeed, the Berkshire foothills framed the sprawling campus.
Neal slipped into the rented Nova, put it in drive thinking it was reverse, and smacked the front bumper into a white post placed there precisely for such ineptitude. He hated to drive and had done so only because he couldn’t screw Graham into making the trip.
“Connecticut?” Graham had said in dismissal. “They got bees in Connecticut.”
Neal found The Copper Donkey without major mishap, but he took ten minutes to parallel park on the narrow village street. (Twenty bucks had gotten him past that part on the driver’s test.) The village, Old Farmstead, was bona fide New England quaint. Colonial and Victorian houses, all beautifully kept, competed for the oohs and aahs of tourists. Neal didn’t ooh or aah. He had his fill of quaint from the plumbing in his building.
The Copper Donkey catered to the private-school crowd. The boys came over from Barker, and the girls from nearby Miss Clifton’s, which Neal thought sounded like an instant muffin mix, but which had been one of Allie’s pit stops on her race through the academic elite. He figured that even the patient folk at the Donkey wouldn’t appreciate him nursing a cup of coffee for an hour and a half, so be wandered off in search of a bookstore. He found Bookes, which surprised him by having the good sense to stock John MacDonald’s latest. He found a quaint sidewalk bench and settled down to commiserate with Travis McGee.
He and Travis got through a quick hour with no trouble. (Well, none for Neal. Lots for Travis.) Neal went into the Donkey and got a booth at the back.
Scott arrived almost on time. He had showered and changed, and looked fresh and even younger in a white sweater, stone-washed jeans, and brown loafers. He looked around for a moment, spotted Neal, then looked around again to see who else was there. Nobody was.
Sitting down, he started right in.
Neal lay awake for most of what was left of the night. He hadn’t had dreams about the Halperin kid for months, and he didn’t want to start again. But when he closed his eyes, he saw the kid again, and thought about the “ifs.” If they had only let the kid be what he was—an amiable, not overly bright gay teenager. If they had treated the case as more than a ground ball and sent two guys instead of just Neal. If only room service hadn’t been closed that night.
He gave up trying to sleep around five, took a wake-up shower, said a quick goodbye to Elizabeth Chase, and asked for a ride downtown. The driver let him off at an Avis counter, Neal got lost about fifteen times before he found Scott Mackensen’s school in Connecticut.
5
Scott mackensen was running to lacrosse practice.
“Coach will kill me if I’m late again,” he said to Neal Carey, who thought the boy was a little too eager to get going.
Neal looked behind him to the beautifully tended green fields where several boys tossed the ball among them in studied insouciance.
“It’ll only take a minute,” Neal lied.
“That’s worth five minutes of stadium steps,” Scott answered. He was tall, muscular, clear-eyed Jack Armstrong and all that shit, but Neal saw that those clear eyes looked scared. He knew then that there was no hurry.
“Later, maybe?” he asked.
Scott waged a brief skirmish with his conscience. Neal had seen it a few hundred times. Duty versus self-interest. Scott was just young enough that duty had a shot at winning, and Neal didn’t want to push a quick decision. He waited.
“There’s a coffee shop in the village—The Copper Donkey. Give me two hours.” Scott backed away as he talked.
“You got it,” Neal said as Scott turned and ran toward the practice field.
Maybe I should have let The Man send me to boarding school, Neal thought as he walked back to his rented car. The Barker School looked pretty nice. “Nestled in the rolling hills of northwest Connecticut,” the brochure had doubtless proclaimed, and indeed, the Berkshire foothills framed the sprawling campus.
Neal slipped into the rented Nova, put it in drive thinking it was reverse, and smacked the front bumper into a white post placed there precisely for such ineptitude. He hated to drive and had done so only because he couldn’t screw Graham into making the trip.
“Connecticut?” Graham had said in dismissal. “They got bees in Connecticut.”
Neal found The Copper Donkey without major mishap, but he took ten minutes to parallel park on the narrow village street. (Twenty bucks had gotten him past that part on the driver’s test.) The village, Old Farmstead, was bona fide New England quaint. Colonial and Victorian houses, all beautifully kept, competed for the oohs and aahs of tourists. Neal didn’t ooh or aah. He had his fill of quaint from the plumbing in his building.
The Copper Donkey catered to the private-school crowd. The boys came over from Barker, and the girls from nearby Miss Clifton’s, which Neal thought sounded like an instant muffin mix, but which had been one of Allie’s pit stops on her race through the academic elite. He figured that even the patient folk at the Donkey wouldn’t appreciate him nursing a cup of coffee for an hour and a half, so be wandered off in search of a bookstore. He found Bookes, which surprised him by having the good sense to stock John MacDonald’s latest. He found a quaint sidewalk bench and settled down to commiserate with Travis McGee.
He and Travis got through a quick hour with no trouble. (Well, none for Neal. Lots for Travis.) Neal went into the Donkey and got a booth at the back.
Scott arrived almost on time. He had showered and changed, and looked fresh and even younger in a white sweater, stone-washed jeans, and brown loafers. He looked around for a moment, spotted Neal, then looked around again to see who else was there. Nobody was.
Sitting down, he started right in.
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