Grist 06 - The Bone Polisher by Timothy Hallinan

frontal lobe while he looked at me. It was a speculative look. Finally he nodded. “I’m Jack.” He put out a hand and mauled mine with it. “Come on in, air-conditioning’s expensive. I can give you ten minutes.”
    Four men sat on couches and director’s chairs, talking on phones. “Oooh, I’d
like
that,” one of them said in a seductive voice. “Do you think you could do it twice?”
    I closed the door behind me. “You knew Max?”
    Jack straightened his glasses, which were already as straight as a plumbline. “Everybody knew Max.” It was beginning to sound like a litany. “The saint of the sidewalks. What’s your connection?”
    I told him. He never took the gold-brown eyes from my face. No polite nods, no reflexive sounds of agreement. When I was finished, he said, “Christy,” in a noncommittal tone.
    “That seems to be the general opinion.”
    Jack turned toward the kitchen, and I followed. “He’s a Jonah. You a sailing man?”
    “I know what a Jonah is. Bad luck.”
    “More than that.” He reached back and pulled fingers through his ponytail. “Bad luck for other people, too. Some people trail clouds of it, like scent.” The kitchen was white and spotless, with three electric coffee makers on the tile counter. Labels on the pots read cinnamon, decaf, and ecstasy blend. At the far end of the kitchen was one of those little greenhouse windows people are so fond of these days, jammed full of terra-cotta pots sprouting foliage. Jack pulled up a stool at the counter and indicated another for me.
    I eyed the coffee. “Who had it in for Max?”
    He shrugged. “Nobody. What was there to hate? He was generous, good-hearted, and stupid. The perfect mark.”
    “He didn’t strike me as stupid.”
    “About himself. He was brilliant about everybody else.”
    “You know that personally?”
    He looked puzzled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “Was he brilliant about you?”
    Jack chewed the inside of his lip, looking dubious, and followed my gaze toward the coffeepots. “You’re confusing me. You want some coffee?”
    “I’d love some. I’m recovering from a bullshot.”
    “Lady Ecstasy for you,” he said, getting up to pour.
    “So what about Max?”
    “I’m not sure why you’re here.” He held out a heavy white mug.
    “I told you.” I took the mug and wandered toward the greenhouse window.
    “Max,” he said, weighing his words, “Max just had to help people. There weren’t enough hours in the day, you know?”
    “So I gather.” The plants in the little pots were herbs: rosemary, basil, mint, and a couple I couldn’t identify. They gave the air near the sink a pungency that clashed pleasantly with the coffee.
    Jack’s stool shifted behind me. “What do you know about us?”
    I turned to look at him. “Who’s ‘us’?”
    He made a circling motion, index finger down, as though stirring the air in the apartment. “Us.”
    “You’re a, what, a hot line.”
    “Safe sex,” he said. “Through the ear, like the Holy Ghost’s words to Mary. Did you know that Mary was impregnated through the ear?”
    I pressed a leaf between thumb and forefinger and inhaled the dark, sweet green-clove scent of basil. “Sounds uncomfortable.”
    “We’re more than a hot line. We’re also a dating service. Not-so-safe sex, but people are people. They’ve got to take their own precautions.”
    “You’re First-Class Male, too?” I asked.
    He nodded. “And we’re a computer bulletin board. Something Fine Online.” He looked dissatisfied. “Got to work on that name,” he said.
    “So tell me about this,” I said. I licked the basil from my fingertips and pulled the folded newspaper from my pocket. Jack peered across the kitchen at it.
    “Our ads,” he said, sounding satisfied. He got up and held out a hand, and I passed the page to him. “Designed them myself on the computer. That’s the
Nite Line
. Comes out once a week, on Monday. It’s a bar rag. Lots of little ads.” He