Robert B. Parker’s Revenge Tour

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“I don’t know why they just couldn’t leave well enough alone,” Phil Randall said to me.

“Dad,” I said, “I’m pretty sure you said the same thing when they broke up the phone company.”

We were seated at a window table in The Street Bar at The Newbury, which had been the old Ritz before it became the Taj. Then one of the big hotel chains had bought the property and closed it down for a couple years and done a renovation that I was certain had cost more than Bill Gates’s divorce. When I’d learned the dollar figures on both of them, I’d idly wondered how my life would have turned out if I’d married one of those men, and not a child of the Boston Mob.

We were drinking martinis just because it seemed to be the thing to do. The quality of the martinis at The Street Bar hadn’t improved as much as the condition of the hotel, which really had needed one of those extreme makeovers. But the quality of the martinis hadn’t diminished, either. My father had told them to use Beluga Gold, informing me as he often did that you only live once.

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