Free God Save the Child by Robert B. Parker

blushed.
    “This is a very nice apartment,” she said as she stepped into the living room. I said thank you. She walked across and looked at the wood carving on the server “Isn’t this the statue of the Indian in front of the museum?”
    “Yes.”
    “It’s lovely. Where did you get it?”
    This time I think I did blush. “Aw hell,” I Said.
    “Did you do it?”
    “Yes.”
    “Oh, it’s very good.” She ran her hands over the wood.
    “What kind of wood is it?”
    “Hard pine,” I said.
    “How did you get the wood so smooth?”
    “I rubbed it down with powdered pumice and a little mineral oil.”
    “It is very lovely,” she said. “Did you do all these wood carvings?” I nodded. She looked at me and shook her head.
    “And you cook too?”
    I nodded again.
    “Amazing,” she said.
    “Can I get you a drink?” I said.
    “I’d love one.”
    “Would you take a vodka gimlet?”
    “That would be splendid,” she said. Splendid. In her mouth it sounded just right. Anyone else who said “splendid” would have sounded like the wrong end of a horse.
    I put five parts of vodka and one part Rose’s lime juice in a pitcher, stirred it with ice, and strained some into two short glasses.
    “Would you care to sit on a stool and drink it while I make last-minute motions in the kitchen?”
    “I’ll do better than that, I’ll help set the table while I’m drinking my drink.”
    “Okay.”
    The kitchen area was separated from the living-dining area by a waist-high partition and some lathe-turned risers extending to the ceiling. As I poured oil and vinegar over the tomatoes, I watched her through the partition. She was probably between thirty-five and forty. Her body was strong, and as she bent over the table placing the silverware her thighs were firm and smooth and her back and waist graceful and resilient where the blouse gapped. She moved surely, and I bet myself she played good tennis.
    I sliced half the pork en croute in quarter-inch slices and arranged them on the serving platter. I put the chafing dish of vegetables on the table, put the tomatoes and roast out also. Susan Silverman’s glass was empty, and I filled it. My head was feeling a little thick from five beers and a large gimlet. Some would say a thickness of head was my normal condition.
    “Candles too hokey?” I said.
    She laughed and said, “I think so.”
    “Shall we finish our drinks before we eat?” I asked.
    “If you wish.”
    She sat at the end of the couch and leaned back slightly against the arm, took a grown-up sip of her gimlet, and looked at me over the glass as she did so.
    “What ever happened to your nose, Mr. Spenser?”
    “A very good heavyweight boxer hit it several times with his left fist.”
    “Why didn’t you ask him not to do that?”
    “It’s considered bad form. I was hoping for the referee.”
    “You don’t seem to choose the easiest professions,” she said.
    “I don’t know. The real pain, I think, would be nine to five at a desk processing insurance claims. I’d rather get my nose broken weekly.”
    Her glass was empty. I filled it from the pitcher and freshened mine. Don’t want to get drunk on duty. Don’t want to make a damned fool of myself in front of Susan Silverman, either.
    She smiled her thanks at me. “So, sticking your nose into things and getting it broken allows you to live life on your own terms, perhaps.”
    “Jesus, I wish I’d said that,” I said. “Want to eat?”
    “I think we’d better; I’m beginning to feel the gimlets.”
    “In that case, my dear, let me get you another.” I raised my eyebrows and flicked an imaginary cigar.
    “Oh, do the funny walk, Groucho,” she said.
    “I haven’t got that down yet,” I said. I gestured toward the pitcher, and she shook her head. “No thank you, really.”
    I held her chair as she sat down, sat down opposite her, and poured some wine in her glass.
    “A self-effacing little domestic red,” I said, “with just a hint of