The Fragile World by Paula Treick Deboard Page B

empty if there wasn’t a car in the driveway, or a carbon monoxide leak that she couldn’t smell. So I had to wait until she started a load of laundry to say “Why don’t I just grab dinner?”
    “Can’t you wait a bit? Twenty minutes?”
    “Well, I was thinking In-and-Out. You know how that drive-thru line always takes forever.”
    Olivia frowned. “I could stop the washer.”
    “Don’t bother,” I said, grabbing my keys before she could jump into action. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
    I did go to In-and-Out, and the line was wrapped around the restaurant and through the parking lot, so at least that wasn’t a lie. But while I waited, I made the phone call Olivia absolutely couldn’t overhear. “Pick up, pick up,” I pleaded. It was a long shot; it was Plan A, but there wasn’t a Plan B yet.
    “Yeah?” The voice on the other end was suspicious. One of those conspiracy nuts, Kathleen had always said, back when we’d known him, back when Zach Gaffaney had lived a few blocks away and been married to Marcia, half of a couple we bumped into regularly over the years. Privately, I’d suspected that Kathleen was right.
    “I’m looking for the Zach Gaffaney that used to live in Sacramento?”
    “Who is this?”
    “This is Curtis Kaufman. We used to be part of that neighborhood beautification group, painting over graffiti, that kind of thing.”
    “Okay. I remember you.” There was a long pause. “I don’t live in Sacramento anymore, though. I’m not even married anymore. So I think—I’m probably not the guy you’re looking for.”
    “No, don’t hang up.” I almost dropped the phone, my palm was so slick with sweat. “I remember how we used to have those talks about the government, about our rights—that kind of thing. You’re the guy I’m looking for.”
    “How’d you get this number?” He seemed less suspicious than curious now. This was why I’d remembered Zach Gaffaney, why I’d thought of him almost immediately, when Bill Meyers was still talking to me about how he’d rediscovered his own purpose. I’d stopped listening—all that was required of me was a sporadic nod—and instead remembered a morning I’d spent pulling weeds at a neighborhood park with Zach Gaffaney, who had gone on and on about his gun collection, how he was prepared for just about anything—not just the threat of home invasion or small scale self-defense, but the inevitable failure of a government that was basically controlled by special interests and our streets being overrun by criminals because the government couldn’t afford to keep them locked up. I hadn’t taken him seriously, but Kathleen had. “ She seems like such a normal person. He’s a walking time bomb,” she’d said, mimicking some of his rants as soon as we were home.
    Now I told him, “I heard you were living in Winnemucca, working in a casino.” This was true—a few weeks ago, I’d bumped into Marcia at the grocery store, and we’d exchanged casual information about our exes. I’d told her about Kathleen going to Omaha, and she’d been sympathetic. “Oh, Zach?” She’d laughed. “That was all a million years ago. He’s back in Nevada, working at a dumpy casino, living in some shit-hole trailer with only his guns for company.” I didn’t tell this to Zach, nor did I mention that just about anyone was traceable on the internet.
    “Okay,” he said again, guarded. “I’m listening.”
    “Well, I need something, and I figure you could maybe help me out with that.”
    “You need what, exactly?”
    I’d rehearsed this, too, trying for the right balance of vagueness and specificity. Zach Gaffaney was probably the kind of guy who doubted everyone, who suspected the government had wiretapped his trailer.
    So I told him: I was looking for some protection. I know I could find that through other means, but I’d become concerned about the way the government was prying into the lives of average citizens, people like Zach