Robert B. Parker’s Blood Feud

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I said to Spike, “Do I look as if I’m getting older?”

“This is some kind of trap,” he said.

“I’m being serious,” I said. “The UPS kid ma’amed me the other day.”

“I assume you shot him,” Spike said.

“No,” I said. “But I thought about it.”

We were seated at one of the middle tables in the front room at his restaurant, Spike’s, formerly known as Spike’s Place, on Marshall Street near Quincy Market. It had started out as a sawdust-on-the-floor saloon, before there even was a Quincy Market. It was still a comedy club when Spike and two partners took it over. Then Spike bought out the two partners, reimagined the place as an upscale dining establishment — “Complete with flora and fauna,” as he liked to say — and now he was making more money than he ever had in his life.

It was an hour or so before he would open the door for what was usually a robust Sunday brunch crowd. We were both working on Bloody Marys even though it was only ten-thirty in the morning, being free, well past twenty-one, and willing to throw caution to the wind.

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