Threats by Amelia Gray

with the concept of jazz?”
    â€œThey’ve got all this gear now,” David said. He had never purchased a cellular phone. The weighty molded plastic of the real telephone cupped too nicely in his hand to give it up. Against his ear it felt like an actual method of communication. He had used Franny’s cell phone once, and it felt as if he was speaking into a potato chip. He didn’t want the daily experience. It was hard enough adjusting to the digital answering machine Franny had set up on the landline.
    The blanket man closed his eye. “I don’t like the color of his jeans or the content of his character,” he said. “I know this is sounding real ‘kids these days,’ but man, kids these days, you know? These guys don’t even talk to their girlfriends anymore. They’ll sit and send them text messages all damn day, but the instant this gorgeous girl walks in and alights next to him like a thick-waist bird of paradise, the guy’s on the damn phone sending the text message. Girl’s all batting the phone outta his hand, ‘Come on, Regis,’ got that sweet little pout on. Regis wants to know the score of some damn game that’ll still be there when he’s done laying hands on this girl. Kids these days have no concept of jazz.”
    The bus rounded the corner and shuddered to a stop before them. The doors opened and the bus hissed and lowered, coming to an easy angle with the curb. The man with the blanket stood and shuffled on first, while David waited behind and then followed. The silent kid looked up at the number on the side of the bus and back down to his phone.

 
    33.
    FRANNY had always been overconcerned with her small flaws, the spider veins sprouting like thin roots from the curves of her nostrils. She covered her face daily with thick creams and powders that caused her forehead and cheeks to resemble a tanned volleyball. Her complexion cracked when she spoke. In part because of the attention Franny brought to it, David remembered his wife’s face as easily as he forgot the town where they had lived. The town was composed of a main road with branching side streets and a few small shops surrounding the police station, where Detective Chico was likely sitting at his desk, regarding a set of photographs he had taken of David’s home. Between a sandwich shop and the furniture outlet was a long, thin split in the tanned brick with what looked like scorch marks emerging from either side. His old dental office had been on the north side of town, and he avoided walking past it.
    He had to circle around the town square twice before he found Franny’s salon. Inside, the place was softly lit. Its building had previously housed a pool hall in one large room. The new owner built thick walls that stretched up eight feet before terminating in open space. It gave the whole thing the look of a television studio. As he approached the reception desk, David thought he caught a glimpse of boom mic rigging over the far wall.
    The girl behind the desk had her black hair pulled up in the same wrapped style that Franny had always worn to work. A tattoo of a bear on its hind legs dominated the center of her chest, its haunches nestled in the cleavage of her tank top.
    â€œDo you have an appointment?” she asked her computer. The computer did not respond, and she looked at David. “Sir?”
    â€œSorry,” he said. “Yes, I don’t have an appointment. I’m sorry. No.” He saw that she was looking at him hard, and he realized he was still carrying the bundle of junk mail. He tried to compress it in his arms.
    â€œYou don’t have an appointment?”
    â€œI’m here to see my wife,” he said. He thought of Franny applying liniments to a face behind one of the half walls. “She’s not here, I mean. I’m here to see about her.”
    The tattooed girl frowned. “Does your wife have an