he’s had in months, then. If his ass were any tighter he could wear it on his forehead and no one would notice. Did you lend him your magazine?”
“The Atlantic Monthly ,” he said. “I never miss the book reviews.”
“Where did Hinckley come from, anyway? Promoted directly from the Brownies?”
“Times being what they are, we’re lucky to have him. You think he’s bad”—he exhaled a lungful of smoke—“you should see Willis. It takes him ten minutes to get into his uniform and fifteen to do his eyes. What do you want, anyway?”
“Oh, you know. Catching up with an old friend. Taking notes on how a real man talks. Passing time until the videotape rewinds.”
“I’m being paid by the city,” he said with exaggerated patience. “These are your tax dollars at work, here.”
“This will surprise you, but I don’t want anything. I’m calling to give you something.”
“Like what?”
“Like a Jane Doe. Recently deceased in the Sleepy Bear Motel on Sunset.”
“That block, we call it Sinset.”
“Clever.”
“These are the jokes,” he said. “You don’t like them, go back to the VCR.”
“I don’t like them, I call the Times . They might be interested in an unsolved murder.”
“I’m interested. If you were here you could see how my ears are standing up. You could see me reaching for a pencil and a clean sheet of paper. You could see me dreaming about getting out of here and making lieutenant.”
“I don’t want to talk on the phone,” I said. “I’ve got some notes that I want to give you. When can I see you?”
“You know who she is? You know who bought her the big ticket?”
“The big ticket?” I said. ”Al, are you on TV? Is there a Sixty Minutes crew in the room?”
“What have you got?” he asked impatiently.
“Some facts that might keep you awake.”
“This is straight?”
“Straighter than Carrie Nation.”
“Not here, then. I’d like to keep it to myself until I can pop it at the morning meeting. I get off at nine. How about the Red Dog?”
The Red Dog was one of Al’s bars, all Scotch and sawdust on the floor. The male-hormone content at any given moment was higher than that of the East German women’s Olympic track team.
“The Red Dog,” I said. “Nine-thirty.”
“What’s her name?”
“And her address,” I said. “But not till the Red Dog. You’re buying.”
“Wear a white carnation so I’ll know you.”
“In the Red Dog? We’re talking about multiple fractures for dessert.”
“Yeah,” he said, hanging up.
I didn’t have anything to do in the meantime, so I did it. After I hung up I tried to avoid the refrigerator, which was waving its handle at me to remind me of the three sixteen-ounce bottles of Singha Beer inside, resting innocently on their sides. I reviewed my notes and looked at my watch. After eleven minutes I stopped reviewing my notes, got up, and reviewed the refrigerator. It looked the same as ever on the outside, my shopping list scrawled on the door in erasable Magic Marker. It looked the same on the inside, too, until I closed the door. When I did, there were only two bottles of Singha inside.
Ten minutes later, and feeling considerably better, I was reopening the refrigerator door when the phone rang. “Balls,” I said to the beer. I tracked across the living room and picked up the phone.
“Al?” I said.
“Who the hell is Al?” said a voice that I remembered only too well. “This is Ambrose Harker.”
Chapter 9
W ith my left hand I hit the record button on the answering machine and vamped until the red light came on.
“I’ve seen many unexpected things on my journey through the world,” I said, “but even to me it seems improbable that life is full of people named Ambrose Harker. And yet, apparently it is.” The light blinked once and then glowed steadily. “Which Ambrose Harker is this?”
“I owe you money,” he said.
The open refrigerator sent out a siren call that would have lured
“The Atlantic Monthly ,” he said. “I never miss the book reviews.”
“Where did Hinckley come from, anyway? Promoted directly from the Brownies?”
“Times being what they are, we’re lucky to have him. You think he’s bad”—he exhaled a lungful of smoke—“you should see Willis. It takes him ten minutes to get into his uniform and fifteen to do his eyes. What do you want, anyway?”
“Oh, you know. Catching up with an old friend. Taking notes on how a real man talks. Passing time until the videotape rewinds.”
“I’m being paid by the city,” he said with exaggerated patience. “These are your tax dollars at work, here.”
“This will surprise you, but I don’t want anything. I’m calling to give you something.”
“Like what?”
“Like a Jane Doe. Recently deceased in the Sleepy Bear Motel on Sunset.”
“That block, we call it Sinset.”
“Clever.”
“These are the jokes,” he said. “You don’t like them, go back to the VCR.”
“I don’t like them, I call the Times . They might be interested in an unsolved murder.”
“I’m interested. If you were here you could see how my ears are standing up. You could see me reaching for a pencil and a clean sheet of paper. You could see me dreaming about getting out of here and making lieutenant.”
“I don’t want to talk on the phone,” I said. “I’ve got some notes that I want to give you. When can I see you?”
“You know who she is? You know who bought her the big ticket?”
“The big ticket?” I said. ”Al, are you on TV? Is there a Sixty Minutes crew in the room?”
“What have you got?” he asked impatiently.
“Some facts that might keep you awake.”
“This is straight?”
“Straighter than Carrie Nation.”
“Not here, then. I’d like to keep it to myself until I can pop it at the morning meeting. I get off at nine. How about the Red Dog?”
The Red Dog was one of Al’s bars, all Scotch and sawdust on the floor. The male-hormone content at any given moment was higher than that of the East German women’s Olympic track team.
“The Red Dog,” I said. “Nine-thirty.”
“What’s her name?”
“And her address,” I said. “But not till the Red Dog. You’re buying.”
“Wear a white carnation so I’ll know you.”
“In the Red Dog? We’re talking about multiple fractures for dessert.”
“Yeah,” he said, hanging up.
I didn’t have anything to do in the meantime, so I did it. After I hung up I tried to avoid the refrigerator, which was waving its handle at me to remind me of the three sixteen-ounce bottles of Singha Beer inside, resting innocently on their sides. I reviewed my notes and looked at my watch. After eleven minutes I stopped reviewing my notes, got up, and reviewed the refrigerator. It looked the same as ever on the outside, my shopping list scrawled on the door in erasable Magic Marker. It looked the same on the inside, too, until I closed the door. When I did, there were only two bottles of Singha inside.
Ten minutes later, and feeling considerably better, I was reopening the refrigerator door when the phone rang. “Balls,” I said to the beer. I tracked across the living room and picked up the phone.
“Al?” I said.
“Who the hell is Al?” said a voice that I remembered only too well. “This is Ambrose Harker.”
Chapter 9
W ith my left hand I hit the record button on the answering machine and vamped until the red light came on.
“I’ve seen many unexpected things on my journey through the world,” I said, “but even to me it seems improbable that life is full of people named Ambrose Harker. And yet, apparently it is.” The light blinked once and then glowed steadily. “Which Ambrose Harker is this?”
“I owe you money,” he said.
The open refrigerator sent out a siren call that would have lured
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