velour, Herculon, and unidentifiable synthetic couch.
The walls were a charming concrete. No paint, no wallpaper, no art, no decoration at all. There was mood lighting—depression being the mood encouraged by little task lights with opaque metal shades scattered around the ceiling.
I liked the refrigerator in the middle of the room. Always kept you close to cold cuts and beer. He had a fan blowing on the refrigerator’s coils, and every shallow window had an air conditioner struggling to hold the temperature at about sixty.
“What happened to the house?” Harry asked, pointing at the ceiling.
“Burned down.”
“Bummer,” I said.
He shrugged. “Nothing says you have to build it back again.”
“Except for a few dozen state, county, and municipal statutes,” I said.
“She’s a real-estate lawyer,” said Harry.
“I thought this was about Sergey’s estate?”
“Mind if we sit?”
I asked. He shrugged again.
“I don’t care. Grab a couch,” he said as he plunked himself down on an office chair in front of a computer screen, a big one, on which some sort of online game was running. I picked a leather couch. Less likely to hide things that bite.
Fuzzy noticed me looking at the big screen. He spun around and rested his hands on the keyboard.
“I’m in the process of scouring the Free Earth Quadrant of alien hostiles,” he said.
“Really.”
As a presumed resident of the Free Earth Quadrant, I was grateful for his success. Harry bent down to take a look at the monitor.
“You made it all the way to level twelve. Impressive. I’ve never gotten past ten.”
Fuzzy scoffed.
“Twenty-two is my personal best, making me one of three Grand Warlords in North America. There’s only one son of a bitch in the entire world who’s made it all the way to level twenty-five, and he’s like a Tibetan monk or some shit.”
“So, anyway,” I said, “we’re here to talk about something important.”
“Like this isn’t. Just a stupid video game. Kid stuff. You try it sometime. NASA scientists’ll tell you getting to level twenty is statistically impossible.”
Harry nodded. “He’s right. Grand Warlords aren’t minted every day.”
“Oscar,” I said.
“Fuzzy,” said Fuzzy.
“Fuzzy. I need to tell you something about your Uncle Sergey.”
“He wasn’t my blood uncle. I just called him Sergey. Or sometimes Dipshit.”
“He didn’t just die. He was murdered.”
Fuzzy shook his head as if trying to shake a thought out of his brain. Despite the twitchy reaction, there was little surprise behind his eyes. “You’re shittin’ me.”
“I’m afraid not. The police think somebody beat him up, then threw him out of their car. Tough way to go.”
“Yeah, I guess,” he said sarcastically. “Even for a miserable little prick like Sergey.”
“No disrespecting the dead. It’ll come back at you.”
“Legal advice?”
“Spiritual,” I said.
“So now you’re a priest?” he asked.
His voice had moved up a notch in register.
“Any idea who did it?” I asked.
He jumped out of his chair. “So now you’re a cop? What the hell is this?”
“Why don’t you sit down, Mr. Wolsonowicz,” said Harry, his voice a lot calmer. “We are.”
Fuzzy didn’t seem to have a firm grip on his movements. As if coordinating thoughts, feelings, and facial expressions wasn’t the automatic thing it should have been. I had trouble fixing his age, especially with his potbelly pushing out from under an untucked Pepto Bismol–colored shirt, and his black peg-legged jeans and white Velcroed sneakers. But I figured early thirties.
He sat down.
“So what do you do for a living?” I said, looking around the basement. “Looks like something with computers.”
“You think? Yeah, something with computers. Everything with computers. Nothing matters but computers.”
I felt myself about to leap down his throat, but Harry slipped in front of me.
“Boy, you got that right,” he said. “I
The walls were a charming concrete. No paint, no wallpaper, no art, no decoration at all. There was mood lighting—depression being the mood encouraged by little task lights with opaque metal shades scattered around the ceiling.
I liked the refrigerator in the middle of the room. Always kept you close to cold cuts and beer. He had a fan blowing on the refrigerator’s coils, and every shallow window had an air conditioner struggling to hold the temperature at about sixty.
“What happened to the house?” Harry asked, pointing at the ceiling.
“Burned down.”
“Bummer,” I said.
He shrugged. “Nothing says you have to build it back again.”
“Except for a few dozen state, county, and municipal statutes,” I said.
“She’s a real-estate lawyer,” said Harry.
“I thought this was about Sergey’s estate?”
“Mind if we sit?”
I asked. He shrugged again.
“I don’t care. Grab a couch,” he said as he plunked himself down on an office chair in front of a computer screen, a big one, on which some sort of online game was running. I picked a leather couch. Less likely to hide things that bite.
Fuzzy noticed me looking at the big screen. He spun around and rested his hands on the keyboard.
“I’m in the process of scouring the Free Earth Quadrant of alien hostiles,” he said.
“Really.”
As a presumed resident of the Free Earth Quadrant, I was grateful for his success. Harry bent down to take a look at the monitor.
“You made it all the way to level twelve. Impressive. I’ve never gotten past ten.”
Fuzzy scoffed.
“Twenty-two is my personal best, making me one of three Grand Warlords in North America. There’s only one son of a bitch in the entire world who’s made it all the way to level twenty-five, and he’s like a Tibetan monk or some shit.”
“So, anyway,” I said, “we’re here to talk about something important.”
“Like this isn’t. Just a stupid video game. Kid stuff. You try it sometime. NASA scientists’ll tell you getting to level twenty is statistically impossible.”
Harry nodded. “He’s right. Grand Warlords aren’t minted every day.”
“Oscar,” I said.
“Fuzzy,” said Fuzzy.
“Fuzzy. I need to tell you something about your Uncle Sergey.”
“He wasn’t my blood uncle. I just called him Sergey. Or sometimes Dipshit.”
“He didn’t just die. He was murdered.”
Fuzzy shook his head as if trying to shake a thought out of his brain. Despite the twitchy reaction, there was little surprise behind his eyes. “You’re shittin’ me.”
“I’m afraid not. The police think somebody beat him up, then threw him out of their car. Tough way to go.”
“Yeah, I guess,” he said sarcastically. “Even for a miserable little prick like Sergey.”
“No disrespecting the dead. It’ll come back at you.”
“Legal advice?”
“Spiritual,” I said.
“So now you’re a priest?” he asked.
His voice had moved up a notch in register.
“Any idea who did it?” I asked.
He jumped out of his chair. “So now you’re a cop? What the hell is this?”
“Why don’t you sit down, Mr. Wolsonowicz,” said Harry, his voice a lot calmer. “We are.”
Fuzzy didn’t seem to have a firm grip on his movements. As if coordinating thoughts, feelings, and facial expressions wasn’t the automatic thing it should have been. I had trouble fixing his age, especially with his potbelly pushing out from under an untucked Pepto Bismol–colored shirt, and his black peg-legged jeans and white Velcroed sneakers. But I figured early thirties.
He sat down.
“So what do you do for a living?” I said, looking around the basement. “Looks like something with computers.”
“You think? Yeah, something with computers. Everything with computers. Nothing matters but computers.”
I felt myself about to leap down his throat, but Harry slipped in front of me.
“Boy, you got that right,” he said. “I
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