The Line Up (32 page)

I promise to tell you a story.

Ideally, the setting of every story should be a place that you can inhabit for the duration of a novel, and Manhattan, which figures prominently in most of my books, takes on character status. So this is not the dreaded scenery description; it’s character development, and I always aim to make it painless:

Riker’s binoculars strayed to the surrounding buildings and then down below to the stream of late traffic. Ah, New York, all decked out in city lights like sequins on her best dress—all dazzle and smart moves. He had seen the city in harsher light, and he knew she was really a whore, but that could be fun, too.

Stone Angel was a departure, a foray into southern gothic and a different kind of setting, a place where nature is no small player and every living thing is running for its life or running for its supper:

One osprey flopped its catch onto the grass. The fish struggled under the bird’s talons; its silver scales were striped with watery blood. The fish hawk was so intent on tearing flesh from bone, he paid the woman no mind as she drew closer, smiling benignly on the creature and his bloody living meal, nodding her approval of a good catch.

If reincarnated, Augusta knew she could depend on coming back to the earth with feathers, for she had the ruthless makings of a fine bird, and God was not one to waste talent.

And once I took Mallory on the road—the Mother Road:

The two homicide detectives were soaked through and through. They surrendered, throwing up their hands and then jamming them into coat pockets. Grim and helpless, they watched the heavy rain come down on their forensic evidence and carry it away. There it went, the body fluids, stray hairs and fibers, all flowing off down the gutter. The corpse, washed clean, could tell them nothing beyond the cause of death—extreme cruelty. There had never been a crime scene quite like this one in the history of Chicago, Illinois, nothing as shocking, nothing as sad.

The religious detective made the sign of the cross. The other one closed his eyes.

The dead man at their feet was pointing the way down Adams Street, also known as Route 66, a road of many names. Steinbeck had called it a road of flight.

When strangers on a train or a plane ask what I do for a living, I say, “I kill people.” This response makes for a short conversation, no eye contact, and no sudden movement by my seatmate, only peace and quiet.

Rare is the fellow passenger who asks why I do it.

I suppose I got tired of hanging out in a book all day long waiting for a story to begin. I write the kind of novels I want to read. And why the theme of solving murders? Violent death is larger than life. And it’s the great equalizer. By law, every victim is entitled to a paladin and a chase, else life would be cheapened.

And the real reason I do this? My brain is simply bent this way. There is nothing else I would rather do. This neatly chains into my theory of the writing life: If you scratch an artist, under the skin you will find a bum who cannot hold down a real job. Conversely, if you scratch a bum… But I have never done that. (The heart of my theory has Puritan roots: If you love what you do, you cannot call it honest work.)

I love a mystery. And I loathe lectures.

Characters may have their independent issues, but nothing overshadows the death of a human being. I write crime novels, not morality plays—no soapboxes, no scolding. If you fail to wash your aluminum foil before recycling it, I am not gunning for you. If you smoke, I don’t care. If you drink too much, I wasn’t born to save you by burying a twelve-step program in the chapters. Also, I have no desire to suck all the charm out of your life by adding more green leafy vegetables to your diet. And political correctness has no place in my work.

Mallory never deals with any feminist issues. She doesn’t have to. It would not occur to most people, while facing a woman with a loaded gun, to suggest that she might be happier barefoot and pregnant. That’s an image of her that never comes to mind on any page of these books. There are no diatribes on bigotry of any kind, which can only come as a relief to people who are really, really tired of being told how it feels to be them. I envision a great dump site filled with broken lamps, the casualties of books being hurled across a room and missing the target of the open window.

Do you walk with a cane or roll in a chair? I don’t care.

Because the handicapped populate my city, they are sometimes major players or peripheral characters in my books. (Do I go gently with them? Yeah, right.) Informed by observation, I say the halt, the lame, and the blind have the same percentage of ignoble people among them as can be found in the general population. And I never received any hate mail about that poor sightless bastard from Killing Critics who had a dead fly pitched into his drink. (Mallory did it. But he had it coming. This was retribution for an unkind remark to a friend of hers.)

Just before he took a sip…

The small group surrounding the blind man wondered, each one of them, if it might be rude or worse, politically incorrect, to mention the dead bug in his wineglass. Wouldn’t that call attention to his blindness?

Ah, too late.

(One small deviation on the subject of special-interest politics: As a concession to animal-rights activists, no actual house pets are killed or injured in the creation of these novels.)

A copyeditor once wrote a sweet note on a Post-it and stuck it to the last page of my manuscript. She thanked me for merely wounding a pet this time and not killing it outright. Apparently, I can murder all the people I like. No one minds that. But the first time an animal died (on the first page of my first book), it generated anxious mail.

The dog circled the chair, fear rising up to a human crying. He moved her hand with his nose. Nothing. The hand fell limply to her lap.

The dog wailed.

Soon.

The dog’s mind was breaking. Regimentation instilled by pain was falling apart. He was departing from ritual, backing out of the room, terrified eyes fixed on the woman till he was clear of the kitchen. Now he turned and flung himself into the next room, racing across the carpet, passing through the open door and down the long hallway, paws touching lightly to ground in the perfect poetry of a beautiful animal in motion, muscles elongating and contracting, eyes shining with purpose. Now springing, rising, flying, crashing through the glass of the fifth-floor window.

Vermin have no fan base—only dogs and cats do—and a lot of fictional rats had to die so that I could bring you that bit of trivia.

I don’t go out of my way to upset social watchdogs. Without even trying, I was once bumped from an interview on a radio show noted for political correctness. (I don’t name names. Don’t ask. I slaughter a great many fictional people. In real life, my bloodletting pales.) The radio host objected to the first acts of murder in Killing Critics, a double homicide. “Gratuitous violence,” he said. Evidently, the person who read the book for him failed to explain the context of the New York art scene, where topping the over-the-top is no small feat. The victims were displayed as works of sculpture. Their objectionable murder (on the charitable assumption that there is another kind) occurred years before the book began and was first disclosed by Detective Mallory’s reconstruction of the event in a bare room—no weapons, no bodies, and no blood on the floor, only dust. (Yet this was too much for him to bear. If he had only put that in writing, I would have included it among the book jacket reviews for the next edition.)

I don’t do anything gratuitously. Well, yeah, once I did throw an unnecessary pigeon into a scene with an unbalanced character:

They advanced across the flat stones, quick jerking shapes of light and dark, and some were spotted with brown and gray, uniform only in their forward motion, and one of them was insane.

Feet of red and red rings around the bright mad eyes, he was otherwise coal black until he passed into a dapple of sun, and iridescent flecks of green shimmered in the light. The feathers of his head were not smoothed back and rounded. Spiky they were, and dirty, as though a great fear had put them that way, and the fear had lasted such a long time, a season or more, and the dirt of no bathing or rain had pomaded them into stick-out fright, though the bird was long past fear now and all the way crazy. No fear of the human foot. A pedestrian waded through the flock, which parted for her in a wave, all but the crazy one, and it was kicked, startling the pedestrian more than the bird.

The woman shrieked and stiff-walked down Seventh Avenue. The insane pigeon followed after her, listing to one side with some damage from the kick, until he forgot his purpose.

I do not like the Thought Police, modern cousins to D. H. Lawrence’s Censor Morons—I love these people. I cultivate them. I call them Cannon Fodder.

And I make no apologies… except for the gratuitous pigeon.

ROBERT B. PARKER

Robert Brown Parker was born in 1932 in Springfield, Massachusetts, where he met Joan, his future wife, when they were children. They began dating while both attended Colby College and were married in 1956. They separated in 1982 but reconciled two years later and celebrated their golden anniversary in the autumn of 2006. They have two sons, David and Daniel. Parker received his doctorate from Boston University in 1971 with a thesis on the private eyes of Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, and Ross Macdonald.

Generally regarded as next in succession after the three icons mentioned above, as the great writer of the hard-boiled private-detective novel, Parker has averaged nearly two books a year for more than three decades. In addition to his Spenser series, which served as the basis for the popular television series Spenser: For Hire in the 1980s, he has written several books each about Jesse Stone and Sunny Randall, two with Philip Marlowe as the protagonist, and such stand-alone novels as All Our Yesterdays, Wilderness, and Double Play. His fourth novel, Promised Land, won an Edgar® as best novel of 1977. The Mystery Writers of America named him a Grand Master for lifetime achievement in 2002.

SPENSER

BY ROBERT B. PARKER

Susan and I sat at a table in the Charles Square courtyard, having a drink in the late afternoon with Susan’s friend Amy Trent. It was one of those days in late June. The temperature was about 78. There were maybe three white clouds in the sky. The quiet breeze that drifted in from the river smelled fresher than I knew it to be.

“I’m trying to write a book,” Amy said. “The working title is Men Who Dare, a series of profiles of men who are strong and tough and do dangerous work. Mountain climbers, Navy Seals, policemen, firemen.”

“Amy needs a sample profile to submit with her proposal, in hopes of getting a contract and an advance,” Susan said. “I said you’d be perfect.”

“Amy’s looking for sexual splendor as well?” I said.

Amy smiled.

“Always,” she said. “Will you talk with me?”

“Sure,” I said.

“Okay, I have a bunch of questions written down,” Amy said. “You can answer them, dismiss them, respond to a question I didn’t ask, anything you want, I’m interested in what you’re like. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Susan, feel free to jump in any time,” Amy said. “You know him better than anyone.”

“Don’t rat me out,” I said, “about the sexual splendor.”

“Our secret,” Susan said.

Amy took a notebook out of her book bag and opened it. She was a professor at Harvard and, faced with that limitation, not bad looking. If she had dressed better, done her hair better, improved on her makeup, and worn more stylish glasses, she might have been good-looking… but then the faculty senate would probably have required her to wear a scarlet A on her dress.

She studied her notebook for a moment. I looked at Susan. She smiled. Zing went the strings of my heart. Then Amy took out a small tape recorder and put it on the table.

“Okay?” she said.

“Sure.”

She turned the recorder on.

“Okay,” Amy said. “Just to warm up a little. Why are you such a wise guy?”

“It’s a gift,” I said.

Susan frowned at me.

“If you’re going to do this,” Susan said, “you have to do it.”

“You didn’t tell me I had to be serious,” I said.

“Well, you do.”

Amy waited. She had a lot of kinetic intensity about her, but she knew how to keep it in check. I nodded.

“I seem to have an unavoidable capacity for seeing a thing and seeing beyond it at the same time.”

“Would you say that you have a heightened sense of irony?” Amy asked.

“I probably wouldn’t say it, but it’s probably true.”

“It is also,” Susan said, “a distancing technique. It keeps people and events from getting too close.”

“Except you,” I said.

She smiled again.

“Except me.”

“Besides Susan, are there things that can get through that ironic barrier?” Amy said.

“I don’t think so.”

“Because?”

“Because if they did,” I said, “I couldn’t do what I do.”

“But if you refuse to care… ” Amy said.

“I don’t refuse to care,” I said. “I refuse to let it control me.”

“How do you do that?”