must be burning the oil," I add.
"Clearing the cobwebs from my life," she tells me. Her voice is thick with a nasal quality. I'm wondering if she has a cold.
"I was calling to find out if you know where Tony Arguillo is. I've been leaving messages on his phone for two days. He isn't returning my calls.
" I don't tell her about my meeting with Phil Mendel, or the icy information from Leo Kems, the reasons I have to talk with Tony. I haven't a clue," she says. "I haven't seen him since our meeting in your office." There follows that awkward kind of silence on the line--the pause that might normally accompany news of a death in the family.
"Your turn," I say.
"I need to talk to somebody," she tells me. "If just a friendly voice. "
"Why? What's the matter?" "I've been fired."
A half hour later there is a quiet knock on my door. When I open it, Lenore is standing on the porch, with hair as disheveled as I can ever imagine hers becoming. There is a slight odor of alcohol as she says,
"Hello." She looks like a smoldering Mount Saint Helens after the main explosion, a great deal of psychic smoke with the fire mostly out.
I usher her in and offer her coffee or a drink.
"What have you got?" In her current state hydrochloric acid is probably too mild. I lead her to the kitchen and throw open the cabinet door so she can take her pick.
"You weren't surprised?" she says. "By the news of my demise?" "A little," I tell her. "But then I figured you and Kline for different management styles." She laughs. "A graceful way to put it. Always the diplomat."
"Now you're going to tell me you didn't see it coming," I say.
"I saw it," she says. "It's just that you're always most surprised by your own obituary." It's the kind of bravado that covers a lot of hurt.
She has a few choice words for her former employer, but most of the invective seems gone, consumed, I suspect, in some earlier heat. I am wondering who among her cadre of friends got most of this, maybe over drinks after leaving the office.
She takes Johnnie Walker by the neck in one hand, and pours half a glass into a large tumbler, talking to me all the while, like "who's measuring." She uses no water or ice to cut this. Lenore doesn't want to remember any of this tomorrow.
"So tell me what happened. Another argument?" She shakes her head and sniffles just a little. "Uh-uh. He's too calculating for that. He wanted to think about it, and plan it. Savor the moment," she says.
"I get back from court in the afternoon, about four-thirty, and my office door is open." She takes a long drink from the glass and coughs a little, like some kid after his first drag on a cigarette.
"This is awful." "You picked it."
"Got any wine?" Lenore is not a serious drinker. She is looking for pain medication, something to add to the buzz she is already feeling.
"You can get just as drunk on that."
"But wine takes longer, and I've got a ten-hanky story," she says.
I rummage through my cupboard and come up with a couple of hotties. "The Gewurtz," she says.
"Remind me never to seduce you with liquor," I tell her.
"If you can't take the time to do it right, you shouldn't do it at all, " she says.
"Anyway, you get back from court and your office door is open." I pick up the point while I look for a corkscrew.
"Yeah. As I was saying. My office door is open. I remember closing it before I left. There's a deputy sheriff parked in a chair outside, reading the paper. I thought maybe he was a witness in a case waiting to be interviewed." I give her a nod. Logical conclusion. I pop the cork and pour her a glass.
"Then before I can get there I hear noises in my office, somebody rummaging around. You know, I'm like, what the hell? Then he stops me."
"Who?"
"The deputy," she says. "He puts his hand out and grabs my arm like he's going to tackle me if I try to enter my own office. He demands identification. So I show him my I.D. The little folder," she says.
This is
"Clearing the cobwebs from my life," she tells me. Her voice is thick with a nasal quality. I'm wondering if she has a cold.
"I was calling to find out if you know where Tony Arguillo is. I've been leaving messages on his phone for two days. He isn't returning my calls.
" I don't tell her about my meeting with Phil Mendel, or the icy information from Leo Kems, the reasons I have to talk with Tony. I haven't a clue," she says. "I haven't seen him since our meeting in your office." There follows that awkward kind of silence on the line--the pause that might normally accompany news of a death in the family.
"Your turn," I say.
"I need to talk to somebody," she tells me. "If just a friendly voice. "
"Why? What's the matter?" "I've been fired."
A half hour later there is a quiet knock on my door. When I open it, Lenore is standing on the porch, with hair as disheveled as I can ever imagine hers becoming. There is a slight odor of alcohol as she says,
"Hello." She looks like a smoldering Mount Saint Helens after the main explosion, a great deal of psychic smoke with the fire mostly out.
I usher her in and offer her coffee or a drink.
"What have you got?" In her current state hydrochloric acid is probably too mild. I lead her to the kitchen and throw open the cabinet door so she can take her pick.
"You weren't surprised?" she says. "By the news of my demise?" "A little," I tell her. "But then I figured you and Kline for different management styles." She laughs. "A graceful way to put it. Always the diplomat."
"Now you're going to tell me you didn't see it coming," I say.
"I saw it," she says. "It's just that you're always most surprised by your own obituary." It's the kind of bravado that covers a lot of hurt.
She has a few choice words for her former employer, but most of the invective seems gone, consumed, I suspect, in some earlier heat. I am wondering who among her cadre of friends got most of this, maybe over drinks after leaving the office.
She takes Johnnie Walker by the neck in one hand, and pours half a glass into a large tumbler, talking to me all the while, like "who's measuring." She uses no water or ice to cut this. Lenore doesn't want to remember any of this tomorrow.
"So tell me what happened. Another argument?" She shakes her head and sniffles just a little. "Uh-uh. He's too calculating for that. He wanted to think about it, and plan it. Savor the moment," she says.
"I get back from court in the afternoon, about four-thirty, and my office door is open." She takes a long drink from the glass and coughs a little, like some kid after his first drag on a cigarette.
"This is awful." "You picked it."
"Got any wine?" Lenore is not a serious drinker. She is looking for pain medication, something to add to the buzz she is already feeling.
"You can get just as drunk on that."
"But wine takes longer, and I've got a ten-hanky story," she says.
I rummage through my cupboard and come up with a couple of hotties. "The Gewurtz," she says.
"Remind me never to seduce you with liquor," I tell her.
"If you can't take the time to do it right, you shouldn't do it at all, " she says.
"Anyway, you get back from court and your office door is open." I pick up the point while I look for a corkscrew.
"Yeah. As I was saying. My office door is open. I remember closing it before I left. There's a deputy sheriff parked in a chair outside, reading the paper. I thought maybe he was a witness in a case waiting to be interviewed." I give her a nod. Logical conclusion. I pop the cork and pour her a glass.
"Then before I can get there I hear noises in my office, somebody rummaging around. You know, I'm like, what the hell? Then he stops me."
"Who?"
"The deputy," she says. "He puts his hand out and grabs my arm like he's going to tackle me if I try to enter my own office. He demands identification. So I show him my I.D. The little folder," she says.
This is
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