security system?”
The woman vanished. The fat man next door blew into his fist and produced a rude noise and Everett Coles, with a grin that showed too much gum, took her hand and led her into the house.
Inside, the place wasn’t as bad as she’d expected. K-Mart taste, of course, furniture made of particle board, hopelessly tacky bric-a-brac, needlepoint homilies on the walls, but at least it was spare. And clean. The man led her through the living room to the open-beam kitchen and threw himself down in a chair at the Formica table. A sliding glass door gave onto the dusty expanse of the backyard. “So,” he said. “Let’s hear it.”
“First I want to tell you how happy I am that you’re considering a SecureCo home security system, Mr. Coles,” she said, sitting opposite him and throwing the latches on her briefcase with a professional snap. “I don’t know if you heard about it,” she said, the conspiratorial whisper creeping into her voice, “but just last week they found a couple—both retirees, on a fixed income—bludgeoned to death in their home not three blocks from here. And they’d been security-conscious too—deadbolts on the doors and safety locks on the windows. The killer was this black man—a Negro—and he was wearing a lifelike mask of President Reagan.…Well, he found this croquet mallet…”
She faltered. The man was looking at her in the oddest way. Really, he was. He was grinning still—grinning as if she weretelling a joke—and there was something wrong with his eyes. They seemed to be jerking back and forth in the sockets, jittering like the shiny little balls in a pinball machine. “I know it’s not a pleasant story, Mr. Coles,” she said, “but I like my customers to know that, that…” Those eyes were driving her crazy. She looked down, shuffling through the papers in her briefcase.
“They crowd you,” he said.
“Pardon?” Looking up again.
“Sons of bitches,” he growled, “they crowd you.”
She found herself gazing over his shoulder at the neat little needlepoint display on the kitchen wall: SEMPER FIDELIS; HOME SWEET HOME; BURN, BABY, BURN .
“You like?” he said.
Burn, Baby, Burn?
“Did them myself.” He dropped the grin and gazed out on nothing. “Got a lot of time on my hands.”
She felt herself slipping. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to go at all. She was wondering if she should hit him with another horror story or get down to inspecting the house and writing up an estimate, when he asked if she wanted a drink. “Thank you, no,” she said. And then, with a smile, “It’s a bit early in the day for me.”
He said nothing, just looked at her with those jumpy blue eyes till she had to turn away. “Shit,” he spat suddenly, “come down off your high horse, lady, let your hair down, loosen up.”
She cleared her throat. “Yes, well, shouldn’t we have a look around so I can assess your needs?”
“Gin,” he said, and his voice was flat and calm again, “it’s the elixir of life.” He made no move to get up from the table. “You’re a good-looking woman, you know that?”
“Thank you,” she said in her smallest voice. “Shouldn’t we—?”
“Got them high heels and pretty little ankles, nice earrings, hair all done up, and that smart little tweed suit—of course youknow you’re a good-looking woman. Bet it don’t hurt the sales a bit, huh?”
She couldn’t help herself now. All she wanted was to get up from the table and away from those jittery eyes, sale or no sale. “Listen,” she said, “listen to me. There was this woman and she came home and there was this strange car in her garage—”
“No,” he said, “you listen to me.”
“’Panty Rapist Escapes,’” Hilary read aloud in a clear declamatory tone, setting down her coffee mug and spreading out the “Metro” section as if it were a sacred text. “’Norbert Baptiste, twenty-seven, of Silverlake, dubbed the Panty Rapist because he
The woman vanished. The fat man next door blew into his fist and produced a rude noise and Everett Coles, with a grin that showed too much gum, took her hand and led her into the house.
Inside, the place wasn’t as bad as she’d expected. K-Mart taste, of course, furniture made of particle board, hopelessly tacky bric-a-brac, needlepoint homilies on the walls, but at least it was spare. And clean. The man led her through the living room to the open-beam kitchen and threw himself down in a chair at the Formica table. A sliding glass door gave onto the dusty expanse of the backyard. “So,” he said. “Let’s hear it.”
“First I want to tell you how happy I am that you’re considering a SecureCo home security system, Mr. Coles,” she said, sitting opposite him and throwing the latches on her briefcase with a professional snap. “I don’t know if you heard about it,” she said, the conspiratorial whisper creeping into her voice, “but just last week they found a couple—both retirees, on a fixed income—bludgeoned to death in their home not three blocks from here. And they’d been security-conscious too—deadbolts on the doors and safety locks on the windows. The killer was this black man—a Negro—and he was wearing a lifelike mask of President Reagan.…Well, he found this croquet mallet…”
She faltered. The man was looking at her in the oddest way. Really, he was. He was grinning still—grinning as if she weretelling a joke—and there was something wrong with his eyes. They seemed to be jerking back and forth in the sockets, jittering like the shiny little balls in a pinball machine. “I know it’s not a pleasant story, Mr. Coles,” she said, “but I like my customers to know that, that…” Those eyes were driving her crazy. She looked down, shuffling through the papers in her briefcase.
“They crowd you,” he said.
“Pardon?” Looking up again.
“Sons of bitches,” he growled, “they crowd you.”
She found herself gazing over his shoulder at the neat little needlepoint display on the kitchen wall: SEMPER FIDELIS; HOME SWEET HOME; BURN, BABY, BURN .
“You like?” he said.
Burn, Baby, Burn?
“Did them myself.” He dropped the grin and gazed out on nothing. “Got a lot of time on my hands.”
She felt herself slipping. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to go at all. She was wondering if she should hit him with another horror story or get down to inspecting the house and writing up an estimate, when he asked if she wanted a drink. “Thank you, no,” she said. And then, with a smile, “It’s a bit early in the day for me.”
He said nothing, just looked at her with those jumpy blue eyes till she had to turn away. “Shit,” he spat suddenly, “come down off your high horse, lady, let your hair down, loosen up.”
She cleared her throat. “Yes, well, shouldn’t we have a look around so I can assess your needs?”
“Gin,” he said, and his voice was flat and calm again, “it’s the elixir of life.” He made no move to get up from the table. “You’re a good-looking woman, you know that?”
“Thank you,” she said in her smallest voice. “Shouldn’t we—?”
“Got them high heels and pretty little ankles, nice earrings, hair all done up, and that smart little tweed suit—of course youknow you’re a good-looking woman. Bet it don’t hurt the sales a bit, huh?”
She couldn’t help herself now. All she wanted was to get up from the table and away from those jittery eyes, sale or no sale. “Listen,” she said, “listen to me. There was this woman and she came home and there was this strange car in her garage—”
“No,” he said, “you listen to me.”
“’Panty Rapist Escapes,’” Hilary read aloud in a clear declamatory tone, setting down her coffee mug and spreading out the “Metro” section as if it were a sacred text. “’Norbert Baptiste, twenty-seven, of Silverlake, dubbed the Panty Rapist because he
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