built into the wall in the hall closet and took out my gun. I don’t often carry it, but if Rawlings picked up Sergio and I signed the complaint I might need it. I cleaned the Smith & Wesson carefully and loaded it. With the clip in, it weighed over two pounds, an awkward weight if you’re not used to it. I stuck it into my waistband and spent some time practicing getting it out and releasing the safety quickly. I really should go to a range regularly, but it’s one of myriad high-discipline projects I can’t force myself to undertake.
After a quarter hour or so of practice I put the gun away and wandered out to the kitchen. Yogurt with fresh blueberries went down easily so I had two bowls with the morning
Herald-Star.
Gooden had shut the Cubs out in the first game, but under the smooth arm of Scott Sanderson the good guys had come back 7-2 in the second.
I put the bowl into the sink. Thanks to Mr. Contreras’s work, it was the only dirty dish in the house. Maybe I should have him up for dinner every Sunday.
I surveyed the living room. Clutter to live by. But I was damned if I was going to clean house just because Burgoyne had invited himself to Consuelo’s funeral. By the same logic I left the bed unmade and added myshorts and sweatshirt to several other garments draped across a chair.
I went into the bathroom to inspect the damage. The reddish-purples in my face were already trailing away to greens and yellows. When I pressed my tongue underneath the wound, it pulled against the stitches but the wound didn’t gape apart. Dr. Pirwitz had been right—this was going to clear up pretty fast. It seemed to me makeup would only accentuate the horrors of the flesh; I limited my toilet to a careful washing and anointing of the wound with the salves given me at Beth Israel.
For the funeral, I picked a navy suit whose bolero jacket ended low enough on the hips to cover the gun. Its rayon-linen blend would be tolerable, if not wonderful, in the heat. With a white lawn blouse, sheer navy panty hose, and low-heeled black pumps, I looked like a candidate for convent school.
When Burgoyne arrived a little before twelve-thirty, I buzzed him in through the street door, then went out to the landing to see what Mr. Contreras might do. Sure enough, he arrived promptly on the scene. I laughed quietly to myself as I eavesdropped.
“Excuse me, young man, but where are you going?”
Burgoyne, startled: “I’m visiting one of the tenants on the third floor.”
“Warshawski or Cummings?”
“Why do you want to know?” Burgoyne used his doctor-to-hysterical-patient voice.
“I’ve got my reasons, young man. Now, I don’t want to have to call the cops, so who are you visiting?”
Before Mr. Contreras got to the point of demanding a driver’s license, I called down that I knew who it was.
“Okay, doll.” Mr. Contreras’s voice floated back up. “Just wanted to make sure he wasn’t friends of friends you don’t want calling on you, if you get me.”
I thanked him gravely and waited on the landing for Burgoyne. He ran up lightly and reached the top without breathing hard. In a navy summer suit, with his dark hair washed and combed, he looked younger and happier than he’d seemed at the hospital.
“Hi,” he said. “Good to see you again…. Who’s the old man?”
“Neighbor. Good friend. He’s feeling in a protective mood but it’s well-intentioned—don’t let it upset you.”
“No, no. It doesn’t. You ready? You want to go in my car?”
“Just a second.” I went inside to fetch a hat. Not for religious scruples. I was taking very seriously the idea of keeping direct summer sun off my face.
“That’s quite a cut you got there.” Burgoyne looked closely at my face. “Looks like you were hit by a piece of flying glass. I thought most windshields crumbled these days instead of shattering.”
“I was cut by a piece of metal,” I explained, double-locking the door.
Burgoyne drove an ’86 Nissan
After a quarter hour or so of practice I put the gun away and wandered out to the kitchen. Yogurt with fresh blueberries went down easily so I had two bowls with the morning
Herald-Star.
Gooden had shut the Cubs out in the first game, but under the smooth arm of Scott Sanderson the good guys had come back 7-2 in the second.
I put the bowl into the sink. Thanks to Mr. Contreras’s work, it was the only dirty dish in the house. Maybe I should have him up for dinner every Sunday.
I surveyed the living room. Clutter to live by. But I was damned if I was going to clean house just because Burgoyne had invited himself to Consuelo’s funeral. By the same logic I left the bed unmade and added myshorts and sweatshirt to several other garments draped across a chair.
I went into the bathroom to inspect the damage. The reddish-purples in my face were already trailing away to greens and yellows. When I pressed my tongue underneath the wound, it pulled against the stitches but the wound didn’t gape apart. Dr. Pirwitz had been right—this was going to clear up pretty fast. It seemed to me makeup would only accentuate the horrors of the flesh; I limited my toilet to a careful washing and anointing of the wound with the salves given me at Beth Israel.
For the funeral, I picked a navy suit whose bolero jacket ended low enough on the hips to cover the gun. Its rayon-linen blend would be tolerable, if not wonderful, in the heat. With a white lawn blouse, sheer navy panty hose, and low-heeled black pumps, I looked like a candidate for convent school.
When Burgoyne arrived a little before twelve-thirty, I buzzed him in through the street door, then went out to the landing to see what Mr. Contreras might do. Sure enough, he arrived promptly on the scene. I laughed quietly to myself as I eavesdropped.
“Excuse me, young man, but where are you going?”
Burgoyne, startled: “I’m visiting one of the tenants on the third floor.”
“Warshawski or Cummings?”
“Why do you want to know?” Burgoyne used his doctor-to-hysterical-patient voice.
“I’ve got my reasons, young man. Now, I don’t want to have to call the cops, so who are you visiting?”
Before Mr. Contreras got to the point of demanding a driver’s license, I called down that I knew who it was.
“Okay, doll.” Mr. Contreras’s voice floated back up. “Just wanted to make sure he wasn’t friends of friends you don’t want calling on you, if you get me.”
I thanked him gravely and waited on the landing for Burgoyne. He ran up lightly and reached the top without breathing hard. In a navy summer suit, with his dark hair washed and combed, he looked younger and happier than he’d seemed at the hospital.
“Hi,” he said. “Good to see you again…. Who’s the old man?”
“Neighbor. Good friend. He’s feeling in a protective mood but it’s well-intentioned—don’t let it upset you.”
“No, no. It doesn’t. You ready? You want to go in my car?”
“Just a second.” I went inside to fetch a hat. Not for religious scruples. I was taking very seriously the idea of keeping direct summer sun off my face.
“That’s quite a cut you got there.” Burgoyne looked closely at my face. “Looks like you were hit by a piece of flying glass. I thought most windshields crumbled these days instead of shattering.”
“I was cut by a piece of metal,” I explained, double-locking the door.
Burgoyne drove an ’86 Nissan
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