Laughing Man by T.M. Wright Page B

watch, saw that it was barely 8:00 p.m., gave him a look of concern. "Are you ill?"
    He shook his head. "Ill? No, it's all right." His voice was hoarse. "Come in." He backed unsteadily away from the door.
    She looked past him, into the apartment, first. It was dark, except for light filtering in from beyond the windows. She said, "Could you turn a light on, Jack?"
    He nodded and flipped a switch next to the doorway.
    A low-wattage overhead copper fixture bathed the room in a soft, yellowish light. She saw a threadbare, red couch under the windows, a white enamel dining table and two white wooden chairs, a small refrigerator; a black clock radio stood on top of the refrigerator.
    Jack took another step back. "Are you coming in?" he said; he sounded peeved.
    But she thought she wasn't sure if she was coming in. Perhaps this had been a mistake. Jesus, the man lived like a hermit, and from his tone and demeanor, she was the last person he wanted to see tonight.
    "Patricia, please," he coaxed. "I'm glad you're here."
    "You are?"
    He managed a lopsided smile.
    She stepped into the apartment. He closed the door. She stood quietly for a moment, then said, "This is very Spartan, isn't it?"
    "It's my taste," Jack said; he was standing behind her, at the door.
    "No TV?" she said, because she was an avid TV watcher. She glanced around at him.
    "No TV," he said, and managed another smile. She thought he was doing more smiling now than he had ever done during their shifts together. "Why don't I put some clothes on, Patricia." He went to his bed, where he'd draped a pair of jeans and a gray sweatshirt over the footboard, scooped them up, went into his little bathroom, and reappeared moments later. He smiled again; it was a good and comforting smile, she thought, though she did not feel comforted by it, and wasn't sure why. "Okay," he said, "what can I do for you?"
    She shrugged. "Nothing, really." She looked around for a chair, saw that there was only the threadbare couch and white wooden dining chairs. She gestured at them. "Can I sit down, Jack?"
    "Can you sit down?" Another smile; he seemed amused. "Why wouldn't I let you sit down, Patricia?"
    She shrugged again. She realized how nervous she looked, and it embarrassed her—they'd worked together for over a year, after all. She nodded, went to one of the dining chairs, pulled it out, sat on it.
    "You could sit on the couch, Patricia," Jack said.
    "No, no. This is good. I've always liked sitting in kitchens."
    "I don't have a kitchen."
    "Sure, well, this is a kitchen," she said, meaning the dining table and chairs, the refrigerator, the little gas stove.
    He sat across the table from her, smiled again his good and comforting smile, and she thought she was beginning to feel at least a little comforted by it. "It's pleasant to see you, Patricia," he said. "I'm glad you came."
    "I should have called first," she said.
    He shook his head, then smiled again. "Do you want something? Some coffee, a beer, maybe some tea?"
    "Thanks, no. I'm not staying long—"
    "Why?"
    "Why?" The question took her aback.
    Erthmun said, "You can stay as long as you'd like." He reached across the table a bit, as if to touch her hand, though his reach didn't extend far enough. His fingers fluttered for a moment in the air between them; then he laid his hand flat on the white enamel tabletop.
    Patricia lowered her gaze because his gaze was so . . . expectant. "Jack, I'm sorry . . . did you believe that I—"
    "Did I hope that you were coming on to me?" Another smile. "Perhaps."
    She shook her head, gaze still averted. "I was concerned about you, Jack. Only concerned. And I thought you might like an update." She heard a little tremor in her voice, as if she were lying; it surprised her.
    "An update," Jack said.
    "On these murders."
    He nodded a little. "On these murders. Yes. I'd like an update."
    She wasn't sure if she believed him. She said, "Actually, there's not a whole hell of a lot to report." Again, she