try to do is this," I said. "You should try to keep from starting up with your old man for a while. And you should try to stay around the house, go to class if you think you should, but for the moment let SCACE stave off the apocalypse without you. Okay?"
"Okay. But don't laugh at us. We're perfectly serious and perfectly right."
"Yeah, so is everyone I know."
I left her then. Said good-bye to her parents, took a retainer from Roland Orchard, and drove back to town.
----
Chapter 7
Driving back to Boston, I thought about my two retainers in the same week. Maybe I'd buy a yacht. On the other hand maybe it would be better to get the tear in my convertible roof fixed. The tape leaked. I got off the Mass Pike at Storrow Drive and headed for the university. On my left the Charles River was thick and gray between Boston and Cambridge. A single oarsman was sculling upstream. He had on a hooded orange sweat shirt and dark blue sweat pants and his breath steamed as he rocked back and forth at the oars. Rowing downstream would have been easier.
I turned off Storrow at Charlesgate, went up over Commonwealth, onto Park Drive, past a batch of ducks swimming in the muddy river, through the Fenway to Westland, Ave. Number 177 was on the left, halfway to Mass Ave. I parked at a hydrant and went up the stone steps to the glass door at the entry. I tried it. It was open. Inside an ancient panel of doorbells and call boxes covered the left wall. I didn't have to try one to know they didn't work. They didn't need to. The inner door didn't close all the way because the floor was warped in front of the sill and the door jammed against it. Mark Tabor was on the fourth floor. No elevator. I walked up. The apartment house smelled bad and the stair landing had beer bottles and candy wrappers accumulating in the corners. Somewhere in the building electronic music was playing at top volume. The fourth flight began to tell on me a little, but I forced myself to breathe normally as I knocked on Tabor's door. No answer. I knocked again. And a third time. Loud. I didn't want to waste the four-flight climb.
A voice inside called out, "Wait a minute." There was a pause, and then the door opened.
I said, "Mark Tabor?"
And he said, "Yeah."
He looked like a zinnia. Tall and thin with an enormous corona of rust red hair flaring out around his pale, cleanshaven face. He wore a lavender undershirt and a pair of faded, flare-bottomed denim dungarees that were too long and dragged on the floor over his bare feet.
I said, "I'm a friend of Terry Orchard's; she asked me to come and talk with you."
"About what?"
"About inviting people in to sit down."
"Why do you think I know what's her name?"
"Aw, come off it, Tabor," I said. "How the hell do you think I got your name and address. How do you know Terry Orchard is not a what's his name. What do you lose by talking with me for fifteen minutes? If I was going to mug you I would have already. Besides, a mugger would starve to death in this neighborhood."
"Well, what do you want to talk about?" he asked, still standing in the door. I walked past him into the room.
He said, "Hey," but didn't try to stop me. I moved a pile of mimeographed pamphlets off a steamer trunk and sat down on it. Tabor took a limp pack of Kools out of his pants pocket, extracted a ragged cigarette, and lit it. The menthol smell did nothing for the atmosphere. He took a big drag and exhaled through his nose. He leaned against the doorjamb.
"Okay," he said. "What do you want?"
"I want to keep Terry Orchard out of the slam, for one thing. And I want to find the Godwulf Manuscript, for another."
"Why are the cops hassling Terry?"
"Because they think she killed Dennis Powell."
"Dennis is dead?"
I nodded.
"Ain't that a bitch, now," he said, much as if I'd said the rain would spoil the picnic. He went over and sat on the edge of a kitchen table covered with books, lined yellow paper, manila folders, and the crusts of a pizza still
"Okay. But don't laugh at us. We're perfectly serious and perfectly right."
"Yeah, so is everyone I know."
I left her then. Said good-bye to her parents, took a retainer from Roland Orchard, and drove back to town.
----
Chapter 7
Driving back to Boston, I thought about my two retainers in the same week. Maybe I'd buy a yacht. On the other hand maybe it would be better to get the tear in my convertible roof fixed. The tape leaked. I got off the Mass Pike at Storrow Drive and headed for the university. On my left the Charles River was thick and gray between Boston and Cambridge. A single oarsman was sculling upstream. He had on a hooded orange sweat shirt and dark blue sweat pants and his breath steamed as he rocked back and forth at the oars. Rowing downstream would have been easier.
I turned off Storrow at Charlesgate, went up over Commonwealth, onto Park Drive, past a batch of ducks swimming in the muddy river, through the Fenway to Westland, Ave. Number 177 was on the left, halfway to Mass Ave. I parked at a hydrant and went up the stone steps to the glass door at the entry. I tried it. It was open. Inside an ancient panel of doorbells and call boxes covered the left wall. I didn't have to try one to know they didn't work. They didn't need to. The inner door didn't close all the way because the floor was warped in front of the sill and the door jammed against it. Mark Tabor was on the fourth floor. No elevator. I walked up. The apartment house smelled bad and the stair landing had beer bottles and candy wrappers accumulating in the corners. Somewhere in the building electronic music was playing at top volume. The fourth flight began to tell on me a little, but I forced myself to breathe normally as I knocked on Tabor's door. No answer. I knocked again. And a third time. Loud. I didn't want to waste the four-flight climb.
A voice inside called out, "Wait a minute." There was a pause, and then the door opened.
I said, "Mark Tabor?"
And he said, "Yeah."
He looked like a zinnia. Tall and thin with an enormous corona of rust red hair flaring out around his pale, cleanshaven face. He wore a lavender undershirt and a pair of faded, flare-bottomed denim dungarees that were too long and dragged on the floor over his bare feet.
I said, "I'm a friend of Terry Orchard's; she asked me to come and talk with you."
"About what?"
"About inviting people in to sit down."
"Why do you think I know what's her name?"
"Aw, come off it, Tabor," I said. "How the hell do you think I got your name and address. How do you know Terry Orchard is not a what's his name. What do you lose by talking with me for fifteen minutes? If I was going to mug you I would have already. Besides, a mugger would starve to death in this neighborhood."
"Well, what do you want to talk about?" he asked, still standing in the door. I walked past him into the room.
He said, "Hey," but didn't try to stop me. I moved a pile of mimeographed pamphlets off a steamer trunk and sat down on it. Tabor took a limp pack of Kools out of his pants pocket, extracted a ragged cigarette, and lit it. The menthol smell did nothing for the atmosphere. He took a big drag and exhaled through his nose. He leaned against the doorjamb.
"Okay," he said. "What do you want?"
"I want to keep Terry Orchard out of the slam, for one thing. And I want to find the Godwulf Manuscript, for another."
"Why are the cops hassling Terry?"
"Because they think she killed Dennis Powell."
"Dennis is dead?"
I nodded.
"Ain't that a bitch, now," he said, much as if I'd said the rain would spoil the picnic. He went over and sat on the edge of a kitchen table covered with books, lined yellow paper, manila folders, and the crusts of a pizza still
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