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Mr. Spenser’s things so he can stay.”
    Paul came down the few steps from his bedroom to the living room. He had on a long-sleeved shirt with pastel flowers all over it, black corduroy pants, and the Top-Sider moccasins. If anything, he’d gotten thinner since January.
    I nodded at him. He didn’t say anything. His mother said, “Get your coat, we’re going to drive Mr. Spenser home to get his suitcase.”
    Paul put on the same pea coat he’d had in January. There were two buttons missing. But it was too warm to button it anyway. We climbed into Patty Giacomin’s stick-shift Audi Fox and cruised into Boston. We went into my apartment, where Paul sat down with his hands in the pockets of his pea coat and put on my television. His mother told me the apartment was beautiful and referred to it as a bachelor pad. She looked at Susan’s picture on the bookcase and asked about her. She remarked that the kitchen was spotless. I put some extra clothes and a shaving kit and a box of .38 ammunition in my suitcase and said I was ready. Patty asked if I didn’t get lonely living alone. I said sometimes I did. Paul stared at a rerun of
My Three Sons
. She said she supposed it was easier for a man, living alone. I said I wasn’t sure that it was, but that I had friends and I was often busy. I didn’t try to explain about Susan.
    On the way back to Lexington we stopped at a Star Market and Patty Giacomin cashed a check at the courtesy booth and bought some groceries. Then we went back to her house and she cooked us dinner. Steak, peas, and baked potato, and a bottle of Portuguese rosé. Innovative.
    After dinner Paul returned to the tube and Patty Giacomin cleared the table. I offered to help.
    “Oh, no,” she said. “You sit right there. It’s a pleasure to wait on a man again.”
    I looked at my watch. It wasn’t ten o’clock yet.

CHAPTER 8
    The Giacomin house was on three levels. I had a room on the first. There was a lavatory with a shower across the hall from me. There was a family room with a Ping-Pong table next to me, and next to the lavatory across the hall was an office where Mel Giacomin had worked out of his house occasionally when he’d lived there. The next level was living room with a dining el and kitchen. The third level was a bathroom and three more bedrooms. Patty Giacomin slept up there and so did Paul.
    The next morning I drove Paul to school at seven twenty-five. He didn’t eat any breakfast. When we left, his mother was in the bathroom with the door closed. I delivered him right to the school door.
    When he got out, I said, “What time does school get over?”
    He said, “Five after two, I guess. I don’t know exactly.”
    I said, “When it gets out, I’ll be right here at this door. Don’t come out another one. Don’t go anywhere with anyone but me.”
    He nodded and walked into the school. I noticed his hair wasn’t combed. I sat in the car and watched him until he was out of sight, then I turned and drove back to Emerson Road. Patty Giacomin was outof the bathroom, bathed and powdered and shiny with makeup. She had on a red apron with yellow flowers and underneath it a maroon silk blouse, white tapered pants, and white sandals. There was polish on her toenails. Coffee was perking in an electric pot, bacon was frying. Toast was in the toaster. The dining room table was set for two and the orange juice was all poured. There was jam out and butter on a plate.
    “Sit down,” she said. “Breakfast is almost ready.”
    “Paul doesn’t know what he’s missing, going off to school like that,” I said.
    “Oh, he never eats breakfast. Hates it I’m glad actually. He’s such a grouch in the morning. How do you like your eggs?”
    “Over easy.”
    “Sit,” she said, “It’s almost ready.”
    I sat.
    “Drink your orange juice,” she said. “Don’t wait I’ll sit right down in a minute.”
    I drank my orange juice. Frozen. The toast popped. Patty Giacomin put the four slices on a