You’re acting kinda funny.”
I snapped my attention back to my client. His name was Henry Granger. One did not want to be told one was “acting funny” by Henry Granger.
He’d told me during his first session that his friends called him Willy, and since then had regaled me with tales of the tea parties he’d enjoyed while wearing his wife’s garters and little else. I studiously refused to think about why I should call him Willy.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Have you decided whether or not you want to tell Phyllis?”
He cleared his throat and scowled at me. He was a big man, well over two hundred pounds, and seventy years of age. But maybe it’s never easy to tell one’s spouse you’ve been playing dress up in her undies.
“ ’Bout the parties?” he asked.
I wondered vaguely what else he had to confess. Then wondered if I would be ready to hear it anytime soon. I was still a little shaky from the previous night, but I tried not to wince as I broached the next question.
“Are there other details about your past that are bothering you?” I asked.
He cleared his throat again and glanced out the window. “Not really.”
That meant “yes” in psychology terms.
I braced myself. I hadn’t awakened until nine-fifteen. My first appointment was at ten. It was a half-hour drive to work if there weren’t more than three cars involved in the 210’s current fender-bender. I’d once tried taking the 5 down to Eagle Rock, but subsequently decided I’d rather make myself a cardboard sign and join the other panhandlers on the off-ramp downtown than brave that kind of insanity again.
My hair, when I’d finally glanced at it in the rearview mirror, looked as if I had undergone some sort of medieval shock therapy, and though I’d doused myself in enough Jivago to drown a killer whale, I was afraid my particular meld of body odor and terror might be wafting up from under the gallon of cologne.
Life didn’t look good on a fast five hours of sleep and the jouncing memory of a guy running me to ground like a grizzly after a field mouse. Was he simply a burglar or had he seen me enter Solberg’s house?
But wait a minute. He hadn’t been searching for some thing . He’d been searching for some one . I was sure of it suddenly. The gun was burning a hole in my mind.
“I don’t see how telling her’s gonna help things any,” said Mr. Granger.
“Well . . . ,” I said, and glanced at the clock. It was twelve-fifty. “That’s something for you to think about this week, But I’m afraid our time is done for today.”
He stood up. I bid him adieu.
The Hunts came next. Their weekend had gone better than mine. She’d made him waffles on Sunday morning, and he’d reciprocated by cleaning the bathroom.
She sounded fairly shocked when she told me about it, and gave him a smile for his efforts.
Maybe I wasn’t a total screwup, I thought later as they hustled out the door. From my tiny reception area down the hall, I heard murmured voices. I sighed, cupped my hand over my eyes, and tried to refrain from wilting under my desk like yesterday’s spinach.
“You look tired.”
I jerked up my head with a squeal of surprise.
Lieutenant Rivera stood in the doorway. He raised one dark brow, the cynic’s version of a smile. “You’re awfully jumpy,” he said, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “You getting enough sleep, McMullen?”
Memories of the previous night came filtering back to me. I’d been chased by a guy with a gun and a lot of hair, which might be a good thing to tell the police. Then again, the LAPD might still be holding a grudge about one of L.A.’s favorite football stars dropping dead in my office three months earlier. And certain members of law enforcement might consider my foray into Solberg’s house to be less than legal, especially since a few items may have fallen into my purse before my departure—including Solberg’s secret computer disk, which I still hadn’t
I snapped my attention back to my client. His name was Henry Granger. One did not want to be told one was “acting funny” by Henry Granger.
He’d told me during his first session that his friends called him Willy, and since then had regaled me with tales of the tea parties he’d enjoyed while wearing his wife’s garters and little else. I studiously refused to think about why I should call him Willy.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Have you decided whether or not you want to tell Phyllis?”
He cleared his throat and scowled at me. He was a big man, well over two hundred pounds, and seventy years of age. But maybe it’s never easy to tell one’s spouse you’ve been playing dress up in her undies.
“ ’Bout the parties?” he asked.
I wondered vaguely what else he had to confess. Then wondered if I would be ready to hear it anytime soon. I was still a little shaky from the previous night, but I tried not to wince as I broached the next question.
“Are there other details about your past that are bothering you?” I asked.
He cleared his throat again and glanced out the window. “Not really.”
That meant “yes” in psychology terms.
I braced myself. I hadn’t awakened until nine-fifteen. My first appointment was at ten. It was a half-hour drive to work if there weren’t more than three cars involved in the 210’s current fender-bender. I’d once tried taking the 5 down to Eagle Rock, but subsequently decided I’d rather make myself a cardboard sign and join the other panhandlers on the off-ramp downtown than brave that kind of insanity again.
My hair, when I’d finally glanced at it in the rearview mirror, looked as if I had undergone some sort of medieval shock therapy, and though I’d doused myself in enough Jivago to drown a killer whale, I was afraid my particular meld of body odor and terror might be wafting up from under the gallon of cologne.
Life didn’t look good on a fast five hours of sleep and the jouncing memory of a guy running me to ground like a grizzly after a field mouse. Was he simply a burglar or had he seen me enter Solberg’s house?
But wait a minute. He hadn’t been searching for some thing . He’d been searching for some one . I was sure of it suddenly. The gun was burning a hole in my mind.
“I don’t see how telling her’s gonna help things any,” said Mr. Granger.
“Well . . . ,” I said, and glanced at the clock. It was twelve-fifty. “That’s something for you to think about this week, But I’m afraid our time is done for today.”
He stood up. I bid him adieu.
The Hunts came next. Their weekend had gone better than mine. She’d made him waffles on Sunday morning, and he’d reciprocated by cleaning the bathroom.
She sounded fairly shocked when she told me about it, and gave him a smile for his efforts.
Maybe I wasn’t a total screwup, I thought later as they hustled out the door. From my tiny reception area down the hall, I heard murmured voices. I sighed, cupped my hand over my eyes, and tried to refrain from wilting under my desk like yesterday’s spinach.
“You look tired.”
I jerked up my head with a squeal of surprise.
Lieutenant Rivera stood in the doorway. He raised one dark brow, the cynic’s version of a smile. “You’re awfully jumpy,” he said, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “You getting enough sleep, McMullen?”
Memories of the previous night came filtering back to me. I’d been chased by a guy with a gun and a lot of hair, which might be a good thing to tell the police. Then again, the LAPD might still be holding a grudge about one of L.A.’s favorite football stars dropping dead in my office three months earlier. And certain members of law enforcement might consider my foray into Solberg’s house to be less than legal, especially since a few items may have fallen into my purse before my departure—including Solberg’s secret computer disk, which I still hadn’t
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