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giving a real goddamn about what you want."
    Quirk took my gun out of his desk and handed it to me; butt first.
    "Beat it," he said.
    I put the gun away, went down the stairs three flights and out the front door. There were no cameramen, no TV trucks. It was cold and the wet snow-rain had frozen into gray lumpy ice. I went around the corner, got in my car, drove home, drank two glasses of milk, and went to bed.

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Chapter 6

     
    The phone woke me again. I squinted against the brutal bright sunlight and answered.
    "Spenser?"
    "Yeah."
    "Spenser, this is Roland Orchard."
    He paused as if waiting for applause.
    I said, "How nice for you."
    He said, "What?"
    I said, "What do you want, Mr. Orchard?"
    "I want to see you. How soon can you get here?"
    "As soon as I feel like it. Which may be a while."
    "Spenser, do you know who I am?"
    "I guess you're Terry Orchard's father."
    He hadn't meant that.
    "Yes," he said. "I am. I am also senior partner of Orchard, Bonner and Blanch."
    "Swell," I said. "I buy all your records."
    "Spenser, I don't care for your manner."
    "I'm not selling it, Mr. Orchard. You called me. I didn't call you. If you want to tell me what you want without showing me your scrapbook, I'll listen. Otherwise, write me a letter."
    There was a long silence. Then Orchard said, "Do you have my address, Mr. Spenser?"
    "Yeah."
    "My daughter is home, and I have not gone into the office; and we would very much like you to come to the house. I expect to pay you."
    "I will come out in about an hour, Mr. Orchard," I said, and hung up.
    It was a little after noon. I got up and stood a long time under the shower. I'd had about four and a half hours' sleep and I needed more. Ten years ago I wouldn't have. I put on my suit-I wasn't sure you could get onto West Newton Hill without one-made and ate a fried egg sandwich, drank a cup of coffee, and went out. I should have made the bed. I knew I would hate finding it unmade when I came back.
    It was cold and bright out. It took five minutes for the heater in the car to get warm enough to melt the ice on my windows, and another five minutes for it to melt. I had no ice scraper.
    By the Mass Turnpike it is less than ten minutes from downtown Boston to West Newton. From West Newton Square to the top of West Newton Hill is a matter of fifty thousand dollars. Status ascends as the hill rises, and at the top live the rich. It is old rich on West Newton Hill. Doctor rich, professor rich, stockbroker rich, lawyer rich. The new rich, the engineer rich, and the technocratic rich live in developments named after English kings in towns like Lynnfield and Sudbury.
    Roland Orchard looked to be a rich man's rich man. His home was large and white and towering as one came up the hill toward it. It occupied most of the lot it was built on. New rich seem to want a lot of land for a gardener to manicure. Old rich don't seem to give a damn. Across the front and around one side of the house was a wide porch, empty in the winter but bearing the wear marks of summer furniture. Above the door was a fan-shaped stained glass window. I rang the bell. A maid opened the door. Her black skin, devoid of make-up, shone as though freshly burnished. Her almond-colored eyes held a knowledge of things that West Newton Hill didn't want to hear about.
    She said, "Yes, sir."
    I gave her one of my cards. The one with only my name on it.
    "Yes, Mr. Spenser. Mrs. Orchard is expecting you in the study."
    She led me down a polished oak-floored hall, past a curving stairway. The hall-it was more like a corridor-ran front to back, the depth of the house. At the far end a floor to ceiling window opened out onto the backyard. The coils of a grapevine framed the window. The rest was dirty snow. The maid knocked on a door to the left of the window; a woman's voice said, "Come in." The maid opened the door, said "Mr. Spenser," and left.
    It was a big room, blond wood bookcases built in on three walls. A fieldstone fireplace covered the