on the eighteenth-century cherrywood coatrack. You hear voices. You go into the living/dining room, Mr. Kindt’s hand on your elbow, his breathing a little louder than usual. A small man with gray hair, deep wrinkles, and large, indistinct features turns toward you.
Here he is, says Mr. Kindt.
Hello, you say.
Hello, says the murderer.
He cordially shakes your hand and asks you how you do and you tell him that the day has been difficult for various reasons, but, as is always the case when you walk through Mr. Kindt’s front door, things have improved.
I know exactly what you mean, says the murderer.
You are both too kind, but there is really no need, says Mr. Kindt.
Then you eat, the four of you, no, the five—you, plus Mr. Kindt, plus Tulip, plus the murderer, plus the murderer’s guest, who is just returning to the room from the toilet with a cell phone pressed against her ear. She is a knockout. She is almost as tall as Tulip, has gorgeous mahogany skin, broad shoulders, and mile-long legs, and is bald. She slips her tiny phone into an orange shoulder bag.
I hope it’s all right, she says, not to you but to Mr. Kindt. I’ve asked a friend to join us.
Mr. Kindt does not mind. He says as much and smiles, and when he smiles his little blue eyes are sucked back into his face and his rather bad but not unsightly teeth are exposed. He waves his hand over the bowls of nuts and olives and cubed Gouda that are spread out over the table. He says, we will just nibble and chat until they get here.
We nibble and chat. The knockout tells a story about a cab that almost ran her over and how she took off her heels, chased it down at the next light, and smashed out one of its rearview mirrors with a rock. You don’t believe a word of the story but admire the way she tells it, punctuating her sentences with the brisk ingestion of carrots and cheese cubes. You know this is not how she is doing it, but each time you look away you have the impression that she is lifting the cheese and carrots with a single finger and popping them into her mouth. There are numerous embellishments to the story. You all listen, although for part of her account, the murderer and Mr. Kindt put their heads together and murmur. While she speaks, you try lifting an olive with your index finger and send it rolling toward Tulip, who doesn’t notice its approach. It leaves a line of oil on the dark wood, a faint trace of its pointless trajectory. The murderer, whom you think you have just heard say “the Benny problem,” although it could just as easily have been “the Lenny or the Kenny problem,” pulls his head away from Mr. Kindt’s, reaches over, winks at you, and plucks it up.
The buzzer sounds and the knockout’s friend has arrived, only it is three friends not one. So now you are dining in company with seven people, one of whom is a murderer, or actually two of whom are murderers, you find out after you’ve all begun tucking into Mr. Kindt’s heavy beef and carrot and shiitake stew.
I have just recently, says the second murderer, by way of introduction, become one.
Job, I say.
I go by Anthony, he says.
No one else makes any introductory statement.
Mr. Kindt, who has been seeing to something in the kitchen, comes and puts his hand on your shoulder and leans close and tells you that although it had never crossed his mind prior to your “kind intervention,” he has given some desultory thought to your offer to help him.
Yeah? you say.
Tonight, my boy, he says, there might be something you could do, or that you might wish to do, and that I would be happy for you to do, if you decide to.
His hand presses into your shoulder and you notice the first murderer looking and smiling at you and you notice Tulip looking at the first murderer and smiling at him.
Does it possibly have anything to do with me murdering anyone? you say.
Yes, Mr. Kindt says. I hope the prospect doesn’t bother you.
Not at all, you say, not sure how else to
Here he is, says Mr. Kindt.
Hello, you say.
Hello, says the murderer.
He cordially shakes your hand and asks you how you do and you tell him that the day has been difficult for various reasons, but, as is always the case when you walk through Mr. Kindt’s front door, things have improved.
I know exactly what you mean, says the murderer.
You are both too kind, but there is really no need, says Mr. Kindt.
Then you eat, the four of you, no, the five—you, plus Mr. Kindt, plus Tulip, plus the murderer, plus the murderer’s guest, who is just returning to the room from the toilet with a cell phone pressed against her ear. She is a knockout. She is almost as tall as Tulip, has gorgeous mahogany skin, broad shoulders, and mile-long legs, and is bald. She slips her tiny phone into an orange shoulder bag.
I hope it’s all right, she says, not to you but to Mr. Kindt. I’ve asked a friend to join us.
Mr. Kindt does not mind. He says as much and smiles, and when he smiles his little blue eyes are sucked back into his face and his rather bad but not unsightly teeth are exposed. He waves his hand over the bowls of nuts and olives and cubed Gouda that are spread out over the table. He says, we will just nibble and chat until they get here.
We nibble and chat. The knockout tells a story about a cab that almost ran her over and how she took off her heels, chased it down at the next light, and smashed out one of its rearview mirrors with a rock. You don’t believe a word of the story but admire the way she tells it, punctuating her sentences with the brisk ingestion of carrots and cheese cubes. You know this is not how she is doing it, but each time you look away you have the impression that she is lifting the cheese and carrots with a single finger and popping them into her mouth. There are numerous embellishments to the story. You all listen, although for part of her account, the murderer and Mr. Kindt put their heads together and murmur. While she speaks, you try lifting an olive with your index finger and send it rolling toward Tulip, who doesn’t notice its approach. It leaves a line of oil on the dark wood, a faint trace of its pointless trajectory. The murderer, whom you think you have just heard say “the Benny problem,” although it could just as easily have been “the Lenny or the Kenny problem,” pulls his head away from Mr. Kindt’s, reaches over, winks at you, and plucks it up.
The buzzer sounds and the knockout’s friend has arrived, only it is three friends not one. So now you are dining in company with seven people, one of whom is a murderer, or actually two of whom are murderers, you find out after you’ve all begun tucking into Mr. Kindt’s heavy beef and carrot and shiitake stew.
I have just recently, says the second murderer, by way of introduction, become one.
Job, I say.
I go by Anthony, he says.
No one else makes any introductory statement.
Mr. Kindt, who has been seeing to something in the kitchen, comes and puts his hand on your shoulder and leans close and tells you that although it had never crossed his mind prior to your “kind intervention,” he has given some desultory thought to your offer to help him.
Yeah? you say.
Tonight, my boy, he says, there might be something you could do, or that you might wish to do, and that I would be happy for you to do, if you decide to.
His hand presses into your shoulder and you notice the first murderer looking and smiling at you and you notice Tulip looking at the first murderer and smiling at him.
Does it possibly have anything to do with me murdering anyone? you say.
Yes, Mr. Kindt says. I hope the prospect doesn’t bother you.
Not at all, you say, not sure how else to
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