by Robert B. Parker
The Spenser Series
Spenser has his hands full when he takes on two cases at once. In the first, a high-minded university might be hiding a killer within a swamp of political correctness. And in the other, Spenser comes to the aid of a stalking victim, only to find himself the unwilling object of the woman's dangerous affection.
"The shamus and his sidekick still crack wise, Spenser's code of honor remains untarnished, and he and Susan maintain a lusty relationship. Plus, Parker still excels in creating timely situations...Parker writes well about the complexity of relationships, his portrayal of academic bureaucracy is on target, and he strugglesagainst a macho traditionto convey gender, sexual identity and race issues with sensitivity."
Atlanta Journal Constitution
"Parker's Spenser mysteries are so dialogue-driven that you don't realize how well-crafted the plot is until you finish the book, and this is no exception. Hush Money is so much fun primarily because of the repartee between Spenser and everyone he encounters."
San Francisco Examiner
"With the release of each new Spenser novel, critics and fans regularly gather like friends at a funeral...an intelligent, entertaining series...Though Mr. Parker has ushered in the age of a mellower, more introspective Spenser (less slam-bang violence, fewer one-liners), there is a subtle joy inherent in watching beloved characters grow old with the rest of us."
The Dallas Morning News
"It's easy to see why Parker's snappy banter and cynical eye have kept fans turning pages for 25 years...Spenser never seems to be in any real danger, but his wise-cracks, combined with Parker's shorthand flair for scathing characterization, nevertheless make for a satisfying read."
"The story forces Spenser to take on the heroic task of examining his conscience for prejudicial attitudes about black people, gay people and female people who try to rape him. He's a better man for the soul-searching, and so is his friend Hawk, who is moved to snare an intimate secret about his past. 'It's like suddenly discovering Beowulf's childhood,' marvels Spenser's beloved Susan, who softens her own ice-cool image with an inelegant but humanizing fit of jealousy."
The New York Times Book Review
"As we mark the 25th anniversary of the Spenser character, it's time to salute the longevity of the series...The novel...moves along at a rapid clip and provides more than a few good laughs along the way."
The Chicago Tribune
"A guaranteed return on your time and attention."
"Parker's retrograde yet hip PI can still punch, sleuth and wisecrack with the best of them. Beyond dispute, is Parker's reliably gossamer narrative touch and, in this particular instance, his skilled brewing of suspense within the academic setting. Fans will also enjoy unexpected revelations about Hawk's background, Spenser's serving of justice with a vengeance, and, as usual, prose that's as clean as a summer breeze."
"One of the great series in the history of the American detective story!"
The New York Times
"...a guaranteed return on your time and attention."
Buy the book
paperback | $7.99 | Turtleback Books | 2000 | ISBN:
Buy the ebook
Outside my window a mixture of rain and snow was settling into slush on Berkeley Street. I was listening to a spring training game from Florida between the Sox and the Blue Jays. Joe Castiglione and Jerry Trupiano were calling the game and struggling bravely to read all the drop-ins the station had sold. They did as well as anyone could, but Red Barber and Mel Allen would have had trouble with the number of commercials these guys had to slip in. The leisurely pace of baseball had once been made for radio. It allowed the announcers to talk about baseball in perfect consonance with the rhythm of the game. We listened not only to hear what happened but because we liked the music of it. The sound of a late game from the coast, between two teams out of contention on a Sunday afternoon in August, driving home from the beach. The crowd noise was faint in the background, the voices of the play-by-play guys embroidering on a dull game. Now there was little time for baseball talk. There was barely time for play-by-play. And much of the music was gone. Still, it was the sound of spring, and it took some of the chill out of the slush storm.
Just after the fifth inning started, Hawk came into my office with a smallish man in a short haircut, wearing a dark three-piece suit and a red and white polka dot bow tie. His skin was blue black and seemed tight on him. I turned the radio down, but not off.
"Client," Hawk said.
"Ever hopeful," I said.
I recognized the small man. His name was Robinson Nevins. He was a professor at the university, the authorof at least a dozen books, a frequent guest on television shows, and a nationally known figure in what the press calls The Black Community. Time magazine had once referred to him as "the Lion of Academe."
"I'm Robinson Nevins," he said and put his hand out. I leaned forward and shook it without getting up. "Hawk may be premature in calling me a client. We need to talk a bit first, among other things we ought to find out if we can get along."
"Whose tab?" I said to Hawk.
"Guarantee half everything I get," Hawk said.
"That much," I said.
"I can't afford very much," Nevins said.
"Maybe we won't get along," I said.
"I am dependent largely on a university salary and, as I'm sure you know, that is not a handsome sum."
"Depends what sums you're used to," I said. "How about the books?"
"The books are well received, and have influence I hope beyond their sales. Their sales are modest. I make some money on the lecture circuit, but far too often I speak because I feel the cause is just rather than the price is right."
"Don't you hate when that happens," I said.
Nevins smiled, but not as if he thought I was funny.
"What would you like to pay me a modest amount to do?" I said.
"I have been denied tenure," Nevins said.
I stared at him.
"Tenure?" I said.
"And you want me to look into that?" I said.
"Tenure," I said.
I was silent. Nevins didn't say anything else. I looked at Hawk.
"You want me to do this?" I said to Hawk.
I was silent again.
"I understand your reaction," Nevins said. "I sound churlish to you. And you think that there are causes of greater urgency than whether I get tenure at the university."
I pointed a finger at Nevins. "Bingo," I said.
"I know, were I you that would be my reaction. But it is not simply that I am denied tenure and therefore will have to leave. I can find another job. What is at issue here is that I shouldn't have been denied tenure. I am more qualified than most members of the tenure committee. More qualified than many who have received tenure."
"You think it's racial?" I said.
"It would be an easy supposition and one most of us have made correctly in our lives," Nevins said. "But I am, in fact, not sure that it is."
"What else?" I said.
"I don't know. I am something of an anomaly for a black man at the university. I am relatively conservative."
"What do you teach?"
"Well, my perspective. I include black writers, but I also include a number of dead white men."
"Daring," I said.
"Do you know that we are turning out English Ph.Ds who have never read Milton?"
"I didn't know that," I said. "You think you were shot down for being insufficiently correct?"
"Possibly," Nevins said. "I don't know. What I know is there was a smear campaign orchestrated by someone, which I believe cost me tenure."
"You want me to find out who did the smearing?"
I looked at Hawk again. He nodded.
"Wouldn't an attorney be more likely to get you your tenure?"
"I am not fighting this because I didn't get tenure. I'm fighting this because it's wrong."
"If you got the tenure decision reversed, would you accept it?"
Nevins smiled at the question.
"You press a person, don't you," he said.
"I like to know things," I said.
"Like how sincere I am about fighting this because it's wrong."
"That would be good to know," I said.
"If I were offered tenure I would have to assess my options. But even if I accepted it, the process was still wrong."
"What was the thrust of the smear campaign?"
Hawk appeared to be listening to the faintly audible ball game. And he was. If asked, he could give you the score and recap the last inning. He would also be able to tell you everything I said or Nevins said and how we looked when we said it.
"A young man, a graduate student, committed suicide this past semester. It was alleged to be the result of a sexual relationship with me."
"What was his name?" I said.
"Any truth to it?"
"I imagine you'd like that laid to rest as well."
"Okay," I said.
"Okay meaning you'll do it?"
Nevins seemed mildly puzzled.
"Aren't you going to ask if I'm gay?"
"But," Nevins frowned, "it might be germane."
"If it is, I'll ask," I said.
Nevins opened his mouth and closed it and sat back in his chair. Then he took a green-covered checkbook out of his inside coat pocket.
"What will you need for a retainer?"
"No need for a retainer," I said.
"Oh, but I insist. I don't want favors."
Hawk was looking out the window at the slush accumulating around the stylishly booted ankles of the young women leaving the insurance companies on their way to lunch.
Without turning around he said, "He doing me the favor, Robinson."
Nevins was not slow. He looked once at Hawk, and back at me, and nodded to himself. He put the green checkbook back inside his coat and stood.
"Do you need anything else right now?" he said.
"No. I'll poke around at it, see what develops."
"And I'll hear from you?"
"Yes," I said.
"Will you be involved, Hawk?"
Hawk turned from the window and grinned at Nevins.
"Sure," he said. "I'll help him with the hard stuff."
Nevins put out his hand. "I appreciate your taking this," he said, "for whomever you're doing the favor."
I shook it.
"You need a ride anyplace?" he said to Hawk.
Hawk shook his head. Nevins nodded as if to confirm something in his head, and turned and left. Hawk continued to look out the window. The ball game had moved quietly into the eighth inning. Outside my window it was mostly rain now. Hawk turned away from the window and looked at me without expression.
"Tenure?" I said.
"'Fraid so," he said.