around my shoulders and guided me back out to the kitchen.
“Did I hear you correctly?” he asked as he gave me his patented Santa Claus half-grin. “Do I remember Marla? How could I forget? My ears still haven’t recovered. Why don’t we get Miss Yakkety-Yak over here to be with you?”
I said something vaguely affirmative and Schulz began to paw through the kitchen desk until a phone book presented itself. Muttering under his breath, he stared at the phone with its many buttons, frowned, and then punched. His voice murmured into the phone, echoed off the surfaces of the shiny pots and pans, and reverberated from the brilliant counter tiles. I looked around the kitchen but then closed my eyes. Everything seemed too bright.
With my eyes shut, I tried to look inward. What was I feeling? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
“Twenty minutes,” said Schulz after he hung up. And then without asking he moved around the kitchen opening more cabinets until he found some tea. He set about boiling water and heating a pot. Eventually he poured steaming amber liquid into thin porcelain cups. The soothing fragrance of Earl Grey tea filled the kitchen. When I thanked Schulz there was a catch in my voice.
He settled onto a barstool and we drank in silence. Only the distant yells of General Bo and Julian punctuated the silence.
“Goldy,” Schulz said finally with that half-smile of his, “tell me more about your general.”
I tsked and sighed. “He was in Afghanistan,” I said, “role of observer or something. Before that he was a demolitions guy.”
Schulz let out a low whistle. “It’s coming back. He’s the guy, taught the Afghanis how to blow up Soviet tanks with rocket-propelled grenades they’d captured. He was the guy! I knew I’d seen him on TV.”
I turned back to my tea. “Nobody could figure out where the Afghanis were getting their recoilless rifles and C4, which is an explosive used by terrorists.”
Schulz smiled. “Thanks. I know what C4 is.”
I shrugged. “Anyway,” I said, “General Bo wasn’t talking. Maybe the army didn’t want him to give specifics. Marla said Bo was supposedly involved with the black market for explosives. Now he’s a civilian and he consults. He experiments. If he survives, he writes about it.” I stopped talking, exhausted by the effort.
“I don’t know if I’d want to be living on the top floor of a house belonging to a former demolitions expert. Emphasis on the former.”
“Thanks loads.”
“Now tell me about John Richard Korman.”
I sipped tea, tried to think of how to put this so it wouldn’t seem like such a big deal. I had told neither Philip Miller nor Tom Schulz—until our ride over here today—about The Jerk’s behavior last month or how it had frightened me. Why discuss John Richard’s behavior? Philip would have tried to explain it and Schulz would have tried to stop it.
Philip. The name brought pain.
I said, “I told you. John Richard was driving by every night. Hassling me about money, about seeing Arch. For about a month.”
“Did you report it?”
I shook my head.
Schulz said, “Did you do anything ?”
I said, more sharply than I meant to, “I divorced him, didn’t I? I moved, didn’t I? I’m getting a security system for my house, okay?”
“Look,” he said, “we’ve got a weird call and now a death. Someone you knew. You’ve got a violent ex with a bad family history. I want you to stay in touch with me. You’re not safe. Do you understand?”
I nodded, numb.
The security gate buzzed: Marla, thank God. I looked at my watch. 2:30. Hard to believe. Events and conversations were flowing together, out of my control.
Marla arrived at the front door wearing one of her sequined and feathered sweat suits. Here and there jeweled barrettes held her fluffy brown hair. She looked like a plump exotic bird. In her hands were shopping bags. These were undoubtedly filled with ready-to-eat gourmet delicacies hastily purchased to
“Did I hear you correctly?” he asked as he gave me his patented Santa Claus half-grin. “Do I remember Marla? How could I forget? My ears still haven’t recovered. Why don’t we get Miss Yakkety-Yak over here to be with you?”
I said something vaguely affirmative and Schulz began to paw through the kitchen desk until a phone book presented itself. Muttering under his breath, he stared at the phone with its many buttons, frowned, and then punched. His voice murmured into the phone, echoed off the surfaces of the shiny pots and pans, and reverberated from the brilliant counter tiles. I looked around the kitchen but then closed my eyes. Everything seemed too bright.
With my eyes shut, I tried to look inward. What was I feeling? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
“Twenty minutes,” said Schulz after he hung up. And then without asking he moved around the kitchen opening more cabinets until he found some tea. He set about boiling water and heating a pot. Eventually he poured steaming amber liquid into thin porcelain cups. The soothing fragrance of Earl Grey tea filled the kitchen. When I thanked Schulz there was a catch in my voice.
He settled onto a barstool and we drank in silence. Only the distant yells of General Bo and Julian punctuated the silence.
“Goldy,” Schulz said finally with that half-smile of his, “tell me more about your general.”
I tsked and sighed. “He was in Afghanistan,” I said, “role of observer or something. Before that he was a demolitions guy.”
Schulz let out a low whistle. “It’s coming back. He’s the guy, taught the Afghanis how to blow up Soviet tanks with rocket-propelled grenades they’d captured. He was the guy! I knew I’d seen him on TV.”
I turned back to my tea. “Nobody could figure out where the Afghanis were getting their recoilless rifles and C4, which is an explosive used by terrorists.”
Schulz smiled. “Thanks. I know what C4 is.”
I shrugged. “Anyway,” I said, “General Bo wasn’t talking. Maybe the army didn’t want him to give specifics. Marla said Bo was supposedly involved with the black market for explosives. Now he’s a civilian and he consults. He experiments. If he survives, he writes about it.” I stopped talking, exhausted by the effort.
“I don’t know if I’d want to be living on the top floor of a house belonging to a former demolitions expert. Emphasis on the former.”
“Thanks loads.”
“Now tell me about John Richard Korman.”
I sipped tea, tried to think of how to put this so it wouldn’t seem like such a big deal. I had told neither Philip Miller nor Tom Schulz—until our ride over here today—about The Jerk’s behavior last month or how it had frightened me. Why discuss John Richard’s behavior? Philip would have tried to explain it and Schulz would have tried to stop it.
Philip. The name brought pain.
I said, “I told you. John Richard was driving by every night. Hassling me about money, about seeing Arch. For about a month.”
“Did you report it?”
I shook my head.
Schulz said, “Did you do anything ?”
I said, more sharply than I meant to, “I divorced him, didn’t I? I moved, didn’t I? I’m getting a security system for my house, okay?”
“Look,” he said, “we’ve got a weird call and now a death. Someone you knew. You’ve got a violent ex with a bad family history. I want you to stay in touch with me. You’re not safe. Do you understand?”
I nodded, numb.
The security gate buzzed: Marla, thank God. I looked at my watch. 2:30. Hard to believe. Events and conversations were flowing together, out of my control.
Marla arrived at the front door wearing one of her sequined and feathered sweat suits. Here and there jeweled barrettes held her fluffy brown hair. She looked like a plump exotic bird. In her hands were shopping bags. These were undoubtedly filled with ready-to-eat gourmet delicacies hastily purchased to
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