frequently milk huge profits. The Nagasawas’ block was quiet and tree-lined, the house a large tan stucco with a blue tiled roof, a small front garden surrounded by a wrought-iron fence, and a pair of yew trees in gigantic blue urns to either side of the door. Impressive, even in this area of very impressive homes.
When I pushed the bell it rang softly. I waited, but no one answered. I rang again, and yet again. Had Harry forgotten our appointment?
Tires squealed a block away. I turned, saw a red Porsche careening around the corner. Rae called Porsches “asshole-creating machines,” and she should know; Ricky owned one, and whenever either of them got behind the wheel they turned into maniacs. Obviously this car had exerted a similar affect on its driver.
The Porsche screeched to a stop at the curb in front of the Nagasawa house and stalled. A man leaped out, his black hair tousled and his chinos and Henley shirt looking as if he’d slept in them. A pair of sunglasses with one missing earpiece perched crooked on his nose.
“Sharon McCone?” he called as he came up the walk, tripping on an untied shoelace. “I’m Harry, Harry Nagasawa. Sorry I’m late, but I got tied up at the hospital—and now I’m untied.” He let loose with a shrill laugh and bent down to fiddle with the lace.
“Housekeeper’s day off,” he said, speaking to the ground. “Otherwise she’d’ve been here. Well, that’s obvious, isn’t it? What I mean is that you wouldn’t’ve had to wait outside.” He straightened, launched himself at me, and shook my hand, pumping it up and down. Then he aimed a key at the lock and missed, nicking the door’s varnish with its tip.
This man was a resident in cardiac surgery?
Harry finally got the door unlocked and rushed inside. I followed him into a large tiled hallway. It was filled with plants in more urns—silk, but good imitations—and several of a hand-painted type of chest that I’d heard referred to as
tansu.
Harry heaved his keys and sunglasses at one of them, and both slid to the floor behind it. He didn’t appear to notice.
“Come this way,” he said, and led me to a parlor to the right. The room was so crowded with objects that I stopped on the threshold to study them. Scroll paintings and statues and temple lamps vied for space with massive leather furniture. Tables were covered with embroidered silks and ivory and jade
netsuke.
Harry lurched across to a wet bar on the far wall, narrowly missing a porcelain cat that sat haughtily beside an armchair.
“Drink?” he asked. “You’ll like this Viognier my father stocks for my mother. She doesn’t live here anymore, but he still keeps it on ice, hoping.”
It was too early for wine, but I sensed Harry was intent on drinking and would take offense at being forced to do so alone. As he plied the corkscrew without waiting for my assent, he babbled on about the vintage, and I realized I had yet to utter a word during our brief acquaintance.
He carried the drinks—something dark and strong-looking for himself—over to a coffee table and motioned for me to sit on the sofa. After I asked if I could record our conversation and positioned the machine, he gulped most of the liquor, closing his eyes as if he were taking medicine. And of course he was—the classic signs of a person who had been self-medicating in various ways were all present, and why wasn’t anyone in his family or at the hospital doing something about it?
“You’re here to ask me what I thought about Rog, right?” he said. “Well, I thought he was a total asshole.”
No subtle probing necessary with Harry. “Have you always thought that way, or only since he killed himself ?”
“Always. Rog was born a jerk. Whiney, sulky, self-righteous, self-involved. Sensitive, Mom said. Easily wounded, Dad said. A pain in the ass, I said. Of course, nobody listened to me.”
“You expressed your opinion?”
“We kids were taught to always say what we
When I pushed the bell it rang softly. I waited, but no one answered. I rang again, and yet again. Had Harry forgotten our appointment?
Tires squealed a block away. I turned, saw a red Porsche careening around the corner. Rae called Porsches “asshole-creating machines,” and she should know; Ricky owned one, and whenever either of them got behind the wheel they turned into maniacs. Obviously this car had exerted a similar affect on its driver.
The Porsche screeched to a stop at the curb in front of the Nagasawa house and stalled. A man leaped out, his black hair tousled and his chinos and Henley shirt looking as if he’d slept in them. A pair of sunglasses with one missing earpiece perched crooked on his nose.
“Sharon McCone?” he called as he came up the walk, tripping on an untied shoelace. “I’m Harry, Harry Nagasawa. Sorry I’m late, but I got tied up at the hospital—and now I’m untied.” He let loose with a shrill laugh and bent down to fiddle with the lace.
“Housekeeper’s day off,” he said, speaking to the ground. “Otherwise she’d’ve been here. Well, that’s obvious, isn’t it? What I mean is that you wouldn’t’ve had to wait outside.” He straightened, launched himself at me, and shook my hand, pumping it up and down. Then he aimed a key at the lock and missed, nicking the door’s varnish with its tip.
This man was a resident in cardiac surgery?
Harry finally got the door unlocked and rushed inside. I followed him into a large tiled hallway. It was filled with plants in more urns—silk, but good imitations—and several of a hand-painted type of chest that I’d heard referred to as
tansu.
Harry heaved his keys and sunglasses at one of them, and both slid to the floor behind it. He didn’t appear to notice.
“Come this way,” he said, and led me to a parlor to the right. The room was so crowded with objects that I stopped on the threshold to study them. Scroll paintings and statues and temple lamps vied for space with massive leather furniture. Tables were covered with embroidered silks and ivory and jade
netsuke.
Harry lurched across to a wet bar on the far wall, narrowly missing a porcelain cat that sat haughtily beside an armchair.
“Drink?” he asked. “You’ll like this Viognier my father stocks for my mother. She doesn’t live here anymore, but he still keeps it on ice, hoping.”
It was too early for wine, but I sensed Harry was intent on drinking and would take offense at being forced to do so alone. As he plied the corkscrew without waiting for my assent, he babbled on about the vintage, and I realized I had yet to utter a word during our brief acquaintance.
He carried the drinks—something dark and strong-looking for himself—over to a coffee table and motioned for me to sit on the sofa. After I asked if I could record our conversation and positioned the machine, he gulped most of the liquor, closing his eyes as if he were taking medicine. And of course he was—the classic signs of a person who had been self-medicating in various ways were all present, and why wasn’t anyone in his family or at the hospital doing something about it?
“You’re here to ask me what I thought about Rog, right?” he said. “Well, I thought he was a total asshole.”
No subtle probing necessary with Harry. “Have you always thought that way, or only since he killed himself ?”
“Always. Rog was born a jerk. Whiney, sulky, self-righteous, self-involved. Sensitive, Mom said. Easily wounded, Dad said. A pain in the ass, I said. Of course, nobody listened to me.”
“You expressed your opinion?”
“We kids were taught to always say what we
Similar Books
