Read Online Looking for Rachel Wallace by Robert B. Parker - Free Book Online Page A

answer. That really implies a law of nature that exists immutably. I’m not in a position to know about that. Sartre said that perhaps existence precedes essence, and maybe we are in the process of making the laws of nature as we live.”
    “Yes, certainly. Do you advocate lesbian marriage?”
    “Shirley,” Rachel said. “I have documented corruption on several levels of local and state government, in several of the major corporations in the country, and you’ve asked me only about titillating things. In essence you’ve asked only about sex. That seems unbalanced to me.”
    Shirley’s smile glowed. Her splendiferous eyelashes fluttered. “Isn’t that an interesting thought, Rachel? I wish we could spend more time, but I know you have to rush.” She picked up
Tyranny
. “Get Rachel’s book,
Tyranny
, published by Hamilton Black. You’ll love it, as I did. Thanks a million, Rachel. Come back again.”
    Rachel muttered, “Thank you.”
    Shirley said, “Now, this message.”
    The guy squatting under the camera stood up and said, “Okay, next segment. Thanks a lot Mrs. Wallace. Shirley, you’re on the den set.” A technician took off Rachel’s lapel mike, and she got up and walked away. Shirley didn’t say goodbye. She was getting as much mentholated smoke into her as she could before the deodorant commercial ended.
    Linda Smith said, “Oh, Rachel, you were dynamite.”
    Rachel looked at me. I shrugged. Rachel said, “What’s that mean?”
    I said, “It means you did your best in a difficult situation. You can’t look good being interviewed by Shirley North.”
    Rachel nodded. Linda said, “Oh, no, I thought you were super.”
    Rachel said nothing as we walked out of the studio and down the long corridor past the news set, empty now and shabby, then along the corridor where people sat in small offices and typed, and out into the lobby and reception area. On the big monitor opposite the reception desk Shirley was leaning toward the man who raised quail.
    I frowned the way Shirley did and said in a high voice, “Tell me, do quails like to do it with anything but other quails?”
    Rachel gave a snort. Linda smiled. Outside we parted—Rachel and I in my car, Linda in hers.
    We wheeled along Soldiers’ Field Road with the Charles, quite small and winding this far up, on our left. I looked at Rachel. She was crying. Tears ran in silence down her cheeks. Her hands were folded in her lap. Her shoulders were a little hunched, and her body shook slightly. I looked back at the road. I couldn’t think of anything to say. She didn’t cry any harder and she didn’t stop. The only sound was the unsteady inhaling and exhaling as she cried. We went past Harvard Stadium.
    I said, “Feel like a freak?”
    She nodded.
    “Don’t let them do that to you,” I said.
    “A freak,” she said. Her voice was a little thick and a little unsteady, but if you didn’t see the tears, you wouldn’t be sure she was crying. “Or a monster. That’s how everyone seems to see us. Do you seduce little girls? Do you carry them off for strange lesbian rites? Do you use a dildo? God. God damn. Bastards.” Her shoulders began to shake harder.
    I put my right hand out toward her with the palm up. We passed the business school that way—me with my hand out, her with her body shaking. Then she put her left hand in my right. I held it hard.
    “Don’t let them do that to you,” I said.
    She squeezed back at me and we drove the rest of the way along the Charles like that—our hands quite rigidly clamped together, her body slowly quieting down. When I got to the Arlington Street exit, she let go of my hand and opened her purse. By the time we stopped in front of the Ritz, she had her face dry and a little make-up on and herself back in place.
    The doorman looked like I’d made a mess on his foot when I got out and nodded toward the Chevy. But he took it from me and said nothing. A job is a job. We went up in the elevator and walked