was really interested in. That’s great. But that Yolanda . . . I’m trying to hold things together here, and it’s nothing but an endless campaign of harassment. I'm getting too old for this, Bernal. I really am.”
9
“We know you slept with him, you slut!”
The voice came around the side of the house.
“Why don’t you read your own subtitle? It’s right across your chest. You can read, can’t you?”
A TV audience hooted.
“Oh, yeah, that’s what you’d like to think, you pathetic wannabe studmuffin.”
It was a woman’s voice, husky and irritated. No one had responded to the doorbell, so Bernal walked around the silver Lexus GS in the driveway and past the garage, pushing his way through overgrown hostas.
A woman in a yellow bikini lay on a lounge chair on a patio. Despite her pose, there was no pool in evidence. She was protected from the cool spring air by a kerosene burner hissing overhead. A television stood on a round glass table, the extension cord snaking along the flagstones and into the house. An excited host was yelling at someone that she had to get her life together, while the studio audience stomped feet and applauded. A laptop, a bulky older model with duct tape holding on a loose cover panel, lay on the flagstones.
The woman looked up at Bernal through her sunglasses, then raised her remote and muted the show.
“Excuse me,” Bernal said. “Do you know Norbert Spillvagen?”
Instead of answering, she turned and picked up a cocktail shaker from the rolling bar next to her chair. She reached underneath, pulled out a cocktail glass, and poured something into it. She handed it to Bernal. She was in her mid-forties, maybe older. Her skin had lost some of its elasticity, and veins showed on her pale legs. But she wore maroon toenail polish and had some clear muscles in her shoulders. Her bobbed hair was the pale zoo-polar-bear yellow of a porn star. She tilted her sunglasses up to look at him. Her blue eyes were expertly outlined with eyeliner, her pursed lips outlined in a pencil darker than her not-too-vivid lipstick.
Bernal took a sip: slightly watery sour-apple martini. He gazed up at the sun. It was moving into late afternoon, so maybe this wasn’t as decadent as it looked.
“Come sit next to Momma.” She patted a spot on her recliner. There was a stack of white resin chairs on the other side of the table, so he had a choice of wrestling rudely with the stack or perching ridiculously on top of it. He sat down next to her knee. She tilted it away, but he still felt it, as if it radiated like the heater overhead. "Spill complain about me? Are you here to administer some discipline?”
“I just talked to Norbert Spillvagen.”
“And he complained. Stalking. Harassment. He’s such it whiner. Spiritual types like him often are, you ever notice that?”
“I’m not so interested in Spillvagen himself. But he said you had been talking with Muriel Inglis. In fact, that you had sent Muriel to him. It’s Muriel I want to talk about.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know any Muriel.”
Bernal described Muriel Inglis to her and showed her a picture on his phone, the only one he had of her, taken at some charity event as she listened earnestly to someone accepting an award, a china coffee cup at her elbow. Looking at it, Yolanda shook her head slowly. “No. Might be someone I’d like to know, but . . . I’ve never seen her before.”
Bernal was stunned. “But... Norbert said Muriel had gotten some information from you.”
Yolanda laughed. “Oh, oh. You’re so cute when you look betrayed. What, you thought Spill cared about your little mission or whatever? He’s a little snake. The one good thing about him is that he doesn’t really know what he’s doing. He sent you to harass me, because he’s scared of me. But, no offense, you’re not really the heavy type.”
“None taken.” Bernal couldn’t have said why that perfectly reasonable observation nettled
9
“We know you slept with him, you slut!”
The voice came around the side of the house.
“Why don’t you read your own subtitle? It’s right across your chest. You can read, can’t you?”
A TV audience hooted.
“Oh, yeah, that’s what you’d like to think, you pathetic wannabe studmuffin.”
It was a woman’s voice, husky and irritated. No one had responded to the doorbell, so Bernal walked around the silver Lexus GS in the driveway and past the garage, pushing his way through overgrown hostas.
A woman in a yellow bikini lay on a lounge chair on a patio. Despite her pose, there was no pool in evidence. She was protected from the cool spring air by a kerosene burner hissing overhead. A television stood on a round glass table, the extension cord snaking along the flagstones and into the house. An excited host was yelling at someone that she had to get her life together, while the studio audience stomped feet and applauded. A laptop, a bulky older model with duct tape holding on a loose cover panel, lay on the flagstones.
The woman looked up at Bernal through her sunglasses, then raised her remote and muted the show.
“Excuse me,” Bernal said. “Do you know Norbert Spillvagen?”
Instead of answering, she turned and picked up a cocktail shaker from the rolling bar next to her chair. She reached underneath, pulled out a cocktail glass, and poured something into it. She handed it to Bernal. She was in her mid-forties, maybe older. Her skin had lost some of its elasticity, and veins showed on her pale legs. But she wore maroon toenail polish and had some clear muscles in her shoulders. Her bobbed hair was the pale zoo-polar-bear yellow of a porn star. She tilted her sunglasses up to look at him. Her blue eyes were expertly outlined with eyeliner, her pursed lips outlined in a pencil darker than her not-too-vivid lipstick.
Bernal took a sip: slightly watery sour-apple martini. He gazed up at the sun. It was moving into late afternoon, so maybe this wasn’t as decadent as it looked.
“Come sit next to Momma.” She patted a spot on her recliner. There was a stack of white resin chairs on the other side of the table, so he had a choice of wrestling rudely with the stack or perching ridiculously on top of it. He sat down next to her knee. She tilted it away, but he still felt it, as if it radiated like the heater overhead. "Spill complain about me? Are you here to administer some discipline?”
“I just talked to Norbert Spillvagen.”
“And he complained. Stalking. Harassment. He’s such it whiner. Spiritual types like him often are, you ever notice that?”
“I’m not so interested in Spillvagen himself. But he said you had been talking with Muriel Inglis. In fact, that you had sent Muriel to him. It’s Muriel I want to talk about.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know any Muriel.”
Bernal described Muriel Inglis to her and showed her a picture on his phone, the only one he had of her, taken at some charity event as she listened earnestly to someone accepting an award, a china coffee cup at her elbow. Looking at it, Yolanda shook her head slowly. “No. Might be someone I’d like to know, but . . . I’ve never seen her before.”
Bernal was stunned. “But... Norbert said Muriel had gotten some information from you.”
Yolanda laughed. “Oh, oh. You’re so cute when you look betrayed. What, you thought Spill cared about your little mission or whatever? He’s a little snake. The one good thing about him is that he doesn’t really know what he’s doing. He sent you to harass me, because he’s scared of me. But, no offense, you’re not really the heavy type.”
“None taken.” Bernal couldn’t have said why that perfectly reasonable observation nettled
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