Painted Ladies

“Which you don’t like,” Susan said.

“Which I don’t like,” I said.

“Ducks,” Susan said. “You don’t like anyone else calling the shots on what tie to wear.”

“Except you,” I said.

Susan smiled.

“Of course,” she said. “Always except me.”

A group of pigeons was pecking at some popcorn that had been thrown on the ground for them. Pearl chased them off and ate the popcorn. A mature woman in a leopard-skin coat stood up from the bench where the pigeons had gathered and walked toward us.

“Madam,” she said, “control your dog. That popcorn is intended for the pigeons.”

Susan smiled.

“Survival of the fittest,” she said.

The woman frowned.

She said, “Don’t be flippant, young woman.”

“Yikes,” I murmured.

Susan turned slowly toward the woman.

“Oh, kiss my ass,” Susan said.

The woman took a half-step back. Her face reddened. She opened her mouth, and closed it, and turned and marched away.

“They teach you ‘kiss my ass’ at Harvard?” I said.

“No,” Susan said. “I learned that from you. . . . Pearl likes popcorn.”

“At least she called you ‘young woman,’ ”I said.

Susan was glaring after the woman.

“By her standards,” Susan said.

Suddenly Pearl stopped scavenging the popcorn and stood motionless, her ears pricked, as if she were pointing. Which she wasn’t. She was staring.

Coming toward us was a yellow Lab with a massive head and a broad chest. He was wagging his tail majestically as he trotted toward us, as if he was one hell of a dog and proud of it. He stopped about a foot in front of Pearl, and they looked at each other. They sniffed each other. They circled each other, sniffing as they went. Pearl didn’t suffer fools gladly, so I stayed close. In case. Then Pearl stretched her front paws out and dropped her chest and raised her hind end. The Lab did the same. Then Pearl rose up and tore around in a circle. The Lab went after her. The circle widened, and pretty soon the two dogs were racing around the whole of the Public Garden. Occasionally they would stop to put their heads down and tails up. Then they would race around some more. An attractive blonde woman was standing near us, watching.

“Your dog?” Susan said.

“Yes,” she said. “Otto.”

“Mine is Pearl,” Susan said. “They seem to be getting along.”

The woman smiled.

“Or would if they slowed down,” she said.

We watched as the flirtation continued. The two dogs began to roll on the ground, mouthing each other in make-believe bites, unsuccessfully trying to pin each other down with a front paw.

“Do you bring Pearl here regularly?” Otto’s mom said.

“Quite often,” Susan said.

“We’re in from New York, staying across the park.”

Otto’s mom nodded toward the Four Seasons.

“They seem so taken with each other,” she said. “Do you have a card or something? I could call you. Maybe they could meet again while we’re here?”

“Please,” Susan said. “Pearl will be thrilled.”

Susan gave her a card.

“Otto doesn’t mind that Pearl is spayed?” I said.

“Otto’s been neutered,” his mom said.

“Men!” Susan said to me. “This is love, not sex.”

“Both are nice,” I said.

The two dogs stood, panting, tails wagging, looking at each other.

“You should know,” Susan said.

3

Today, Prince had on a gray tweed suit and a polka-dot bow tie.

“We’re supposed to go west on Route Two,” he said when I got in his car. “They’ll call me on my cell phone and tell me where to go next.”

The car was an entry-level Volvo sedan, which was a little tight for me.

“Do they know I’m along?” I said.

“I told them I was bringing a friend because I was afraid to come alone,” he said.

“And?”

“They said you’d have to stay in the car and not get in the way.”

I nodded.

“Do you have a gun?” he said.

“Of course,” I said.

“Have you ever used it?” he said.

“Yes.”

“To shoot somebody?”

“Mostly I use the front sight to pick my teeth,” I said.

He smiled a little.

We drove west on Storrow along the river. It was bright today, and pretty chilly. But the boat crews were hard at it, as they would be until the river froze. To our left, we passed the former Braves Field, now a BU athletic field. The old stucco entrance was still there on Gaffney Street, and maybe vestiges of the right-field Jury Box. An elevated section of the Mass Pike ran above the railroad tracks outside of left field.

“When the Braves played there,” I said, “an outfielder named Danny Litwhiler is alleged to have hit a ball that cleared the left-field wall and landed in a freight car headed to Buffalo, thus hitting the longest measurable home run in baseball history.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t believe I understand what you’re saying,” Prince said.

“Never mind,” I said.

No one was tailing us as we went west on Route 2. Or if they were, they were better than I was. Which seemed unlikely to me. Probably had somebody set up to spot us when we got to a certain point, and then they’d call. I looked for a spotter. But I didn’t see one.

We were approaching Route 128, which in this section was also known to be Interstate Route 95. The phone rang. Prince answered and listened.

After a minute of listening he said, “Okay.”

He looked at me.