day, but try telling that to Morris. Rat bastard …
At least he’d let me stay, though. At first he wasn’t even going to do that. Just to be on the safe side, I avoided him as much as possible. So when I took the steps up to the front door two at a time, I peered through the dirty glass first to make sure he wasn’t there.
In a few seconds, I’m bouncing up the two flights ofstairs to my office, trying to stay focused on what comes first. I wanted to try Marsha first, but I needed to call Phil Anderson over at the insurance company to make arrangements to deliver the videotape. I ought to stop by Slim and Ray’s office down the hall as well, just to offer my condolences and make sure they were okay.
Then the thought struck me: does one offer condolences upon the death of an ex-spouse? Life is so complicated these days. I decided that, uncomfortable or not, I’d offer my sympathies. So I turned right at the top of the flight of stairs, away from my office, and walked down to Slim and Ray’s office. The door was locked and there was no reply to my knock.
In my office, there was still a stack of mail on my desk unopened from yesterday. None were checks, though; I could tell that, and I couldn’t bear to open the rest. I’d spent the last month or so, including my expenses on the trip to Louisville, living off the plastic shark. A couple of windowed envelopes in the pile meant the shark had come for his vigorish, and I didn’t have the juice to pay him.
Christ Almighty, I thought, I’m starting to sound like a dick. And I don’t mean private eye.…
I thumbed through my Rolodex, located Phil Anderson’s number, then dialed it on the speakerphone.
“Tennessee Workmen’s Protective Association,” a young woman’s voice answered.
Yeah, right, I thought. Protection, my keister.
“Phil Anderson,” I said.
“Please hold.”
This is why I finally bought a cheap speakerphone. Being on hold gives me a cramp in the neck, among other places.
“Fraud services,” another telephone voice answered. “Phil Anderson, please. Harry Denton calling.” Another round of hold, then Phil’s deep voice laced with southern Mississippi twang answered. I didn’tknow much about Phil, beyond the fact that he grew up in the Delta, went to Ole Miss, got into the insurance business, moved to Nashville, and hates the Vanderbilt Commodores with a passion bordering on the pathological.
“Hey, bo-wee,” he practically yelled into the phone.
“Jew have any luck?”
Jew, I thought? What Jew? Then I realized that in the two weeks since I’d last spoken with Phil, I’d forgotten how to listen to him. It is, after all, an acquired skill.
“Yeah,” I said. “I think you’re going to be real pleased. I’ve got a little movie to show you.”
“Hot day-um,” he said, then: “Hey, where you at, boy? You sound like you at the bottom of a fish tay-unk!”
I picked up the handset and held it to my ear. “Cheap speakerphone,” I explained.
“Well, hail-far, I believe I’d take ’at sucker back and get me the next model up.”
“You pay this invoice,” I said, “I just might do that. When can we get together?”
I heard a flipping of pages as Phil consulted his calendar.
“How about four this afternoon?”
“Works for me,” I said. “Your office at four.”
“You got it, boy. Later.”
I hung up the phone, wondering how old a Southern male had to be before people stopped calling him boy.
I set the phone down inside its cradle and stared at it a moment or two. Should I? I wanted to hear her voice. I had begun, in fact, to ache for it. But could I get through? Would Marsha be able to talk to me? Would she want to?
Oh, hell, this is crazy. I reached over and grabbed the phone and punched in the number to Marsha’s cellular phone, which I’d now committed to memory. Once again, that damn computer monotone told me where to get off.
I stared out the window five more minutes before giving up. There was no
At least he’d let me stay, though. At first he wasn’t even going to do that. Just to be on the safe side, I avoided him as much as possible. So when I took the steps up to the front door two at a time, I peered through the dirty glass first to make sure he wasn’t there.
In a few seconds, I’m bouncing up the two flights ofstairs to my office, trying to stay focused on what comes first. I wanted to try Marsha first, but I needed to call Phil Anderson over at the insurance company to make arrangements to deliver the videotape. I ought to stop by Slim and Ray’s office down the hall as well, just to offer my condolences and make sure they were okay.
Then the thought struck me: does one offer condolences upon the death of an ex-spouse? Life is so complicated these days. I decided that, uncomfortable or not, I’d offer my sympathies. So I turned right at the top of the flight of stairs, away from my office, and walked down to Slim and Ray’s office. The door was locked and there was no reply to my knock.
In my office, there was still a stack of mail on my desk unopened from yesterday. None were checks, though; I could tell that, and I couldn’t bear to open the rest. I’d spent the last month or so, including my expenses on the trip to Louisville, living off the plastic shark. A couple of windowed envelopes in the pile meant the shark had come for his vigorish, and I didn’t have the juice to pay him.
Christ Almighty, I thought, I’m starting to sound like a dick. And I don’t mean private eye.…
I thumbed through my Rolodex, located Phil Anderson’s number, then dialed it on the speakerphone.
“Tennessee Workmen’s Protective Association,” a young woman’s voice answered.
Yeah, right, I thought. Protection, my keister.
“Phil Anderson,” I said.
“Please hold.”
This is why I finally bought a cheap speakerphone. Being on hold gives me a cramp in the neck, among other places.
“Fraud services,” another telephone voice answered. “Phil Anderson, please. Harry Denton calling.” Another round of hold, then Phil’s deep voice laced with southern Mississippi twang answered. I didn’tknow much about Phil, beyond the fact that he grew up in the Delta, went to Ole Miss, got into the insurance business, moved to Nashville, and hates the Vanderbilt Commodores with a passion bordering on the pathological.
“Hey, bo-wee,” he practically yelled into the phone.
“Jew have any luck?”
Jew, I thought? What Jew? Then I realized that in the two weeks since I’d last spoken with Phil, I’d forgotten how to listen to him. It is, after all, an acquired skill.
“Yeah,” I said. “I think you’re going to be real pleased. I’ve got a little movie to show you.”
“Hot day-um,” he said, then: “Hey, where you at, boy? You sound like you at the bottom of a fish tay-unk!”
I picked up the handset and held it to my ear. “Cheap speakerphone,” I explained.
“Well, hail-far, I believe I’d take ’at sucker back and get me the next model up.”
“You pay this invoice,” I said, “I just might do that. When can we get together?”
I heard a flipping of pages as Phil consulted his calendar.
“How about four this afternoon?”
“Works for me,” I said. “Your office at four.”
“You got it, boy. Later.”
I hung up the phone, wondering how old a Southern male had to be before people stopped calling him boy.
I set the phone down inside its cradle and stared at it a moment or two. Should I? I wanted to hear her voice. I had begun, in fact, to ache for it. But could I get through? Would Marsha be able to talk to me? Would she want to?
Oh, hell, this is crazy. I reached over and grabbed the phone and punched in the number to Marsha’s cellular phone, which I’d now committed to memory. Once again, that damn computer monotone told me where to get off.
I stared out the window five more minutes before giving up. There was no
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