never too early for me."
Then I chuckled like Aldo Ray. If I had to endure his
l'homme du monde act, he had to suffer my jaded,
alcoholic private eye.
"Of course," he murmured, then reached into a
small refrigerator on the other side of his chair and
came out with a can of Tecate, a perfect pinch of rock
salt, and a wedge of lime already gracing the top of the
45
can. He had prepared, the devil. "Do you like Mexican
beer?"
"I like beer," I said, "just like Tom T. Hall."
"I see," he said, trying to hide a superior smile with a
supercilious eyebrow. "Mexican beer is quite superb.
Perhaps the best in the world. I'm quite fond of it
myself. I summer in Mexico, you see, San Miguel de
Allende, every year. Takes me away from the mundane
world of high school," he said as he handed me the
beer.
"Must be fun," I said, guessing that he spent his
summers wearing a three-hundred-dollar toupee which
looked like a dead possum and boring hell out of
everybody for forty miles in every direction.
"A lovely country," he sighed, meaning to sound
wistful and longingly resigned to a life unworthy of
his talents. Then he glanced up and said, "A touch
of salt on the tongue, then sip the beer, and bite the
lime."
"Right," I said, then gobbled the salt, chug-a-lugged
the whole beer, ate the lime wedge, rind and all, and
tossed the empty can onto the lawn. Gleeson looked
ready to weep, and when I belched, he flinched. "Got
'nother wunna them Mexican beers?" I said cheerfully.
"That weren't half bad."
"Of course," he said, the perfect host, then doled me
another can as if it were rationed. Before I had to
destroy that one too, I was saved by the bell. Or the
chirp. His telephone chirped like a baby bird. "Oh
damn," he said. "Please excuse me."
After he went back inside, I stood up to let the heavy
beer lie down. Out of an old nosy habit, I checked
Gleeson's glass. Cranberry juice and a ton of vodka.
He was either a secret tippler, a pathological liar, or
more nervous about my visit than he cared for me to
know. I sidled up to the kitchen window but I couldn't
hear anything except the distant throb of his voice and
46
the insane buzz of a frustrated fly. I opened the back
door to let the poor starving devil out, then sat down to
watch a hummingbird suck sugar water from Gleeson's
feeder. I couldn't believe the little bastard had come all
the way from South America for that. Or that I had
come all this way to talk about a girl who had run away
·
ten years before.
Gleeson came back muttering gracefully about the
foibles of his simply, simply lovely students. "Now," he
said as he leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands
around his knee with a soft clink of silver rings. "What
can I do for you?"
"Betty Sue Flowers. "
"Quite." A brief frown wrinkled his forehead up
toward the fragrant, glistening expanse of his scalp.
"Betty Sue Flowers," he sighed, then shook his head
and smiled ruefully. "I haven't thought about her in
years. "
"What comes to mind?"
"Such a gauche name for such a lovely, talented
child," he said. "When it became apparent that she was
more than just a good amateur actress, I advised her to
change her name immediately, discard it like so much
childhood rubbish."
"I sort of like the name," I said. I didn't like women
who changed their names. Or men who wore jewelry
before sundown.
"Quite," he said. "What exactly was it you wanted to
know? I haven't seen or heard of her since the Friday
before she ran away. What was that? Six, seven years
ago?"
"Ten. "
"How time does fly," he whispered with a dreamy
lilt, mouthing the cliche like a man who knew what it
meant.
"Quite," I said.
He glanced up, narrowed his eyes as if he was seeing
47
me for the first time. "It isn't polite to mock me, " he
suggested politely. He sounded half pleased, though,
that I had taken the trouble.
"Sorry," I said. "A bad habit I have. What did she
talk about that day?"
"I'm
Then I chuckled like Aldo Ray. If I had to endure his
l'homme du monde act, he had to suffer my jaded,
alcoholic private eye.
"Of course," he murmured, then reached into a
small refrigerator on the other side of his chair and
came out with a can of Tecate, a perfect pinch of rock
salt, and a wedge of lime already gracing the top of the
45
can. He had prepared, the devil. "Do you like Mexican
beer?"
"I like beer," I said, "just like Tom T. Hall."
"I see," he said, trying to hide a superior smile with a
supercilious eyebrow. "Mexican beer is quite superb.
Perhaps the best in the world. I'm quite fond of it
myself. I summer in Mexico, you see, San Miguel de
Allende, every year. Takes me away from the mundane
world of high school," he said as he handed me the
beer.
"Must be fun," I said, guessing that he spent his
summers wearing a three-hundred-dollar toupee which
looked like a dead possum and boring hell out of
everybody for forty miles in every direction.
"A lovely country," he sighed, meaning to sound
wistful and longingly resigned to a life unworthy of
his talents. Then he glanced up and said, "A touch
of salt on the tongue, then sip the beer, and bite the
lime."
"Right," I said, then gobbled the salt, chug-a-lugged
the whole beer, ate the lime wedge, rind and all, and
tossed the empty can onto the lawn. Gleeson looked
ready to weep, and when I belched, he flinched. "Got
'nother wunna them Mexican beers?" I said cheerfully.
"That weren't half bad."
"Of course," he said, the perfect host, then doled me
another can as if it were rationed. Before I had to
destroy that one too, I was saved by the bell. Or the
chirp. His telephone chirped like a baby bird. "Oh
damn," he said. "Please excuse me."
After he went back inside, I stood up to let the heavy
beer lie down. Out of an old nosy habit, I checked
Gleeson's glass. Cranberry juice and a ton of vodka.
He was either a secret tippler, a pathological liar, or
more nervous about my visit than he cared for me to
know. I sidled up to the kitchen window but I couldn't
hear anything except the distant throb of his voice and
46
the insane buzz of a frustrated fly. I opened the back
door to let the poor starving devil out, then sat down to
watch a hummingbird suck sugar water from Gleeson's
feeder. I couldn't believe the little bastard had come all
the way from South America for that. Or that I had
come all this way to talk about a girl who had run away
·
ten years before.
Gleeson came back muttering gracefully about the
foibles of his simply, simply lovely students. "Now," he
said as he leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands
around his knee with a soft clink of silver rings. "What
can I do for you?"
"Betty Sue Flowers. "
"Quite." A brief frown wrinkled his forehead up
toward the fragrant, glistening expanse of his scalp.
"Betty Sue Flowers," he sighed, then shook his head
and smiled ruefully. "I haven't thought about her in
years. "
"What comes to mind?"
"Such a gauche name for such a lovely, talented
child," he said. "When it became apparent that she was
more than just a good amateur actress, I advised her to
change her name immediately, discard it like so much
childhood rubbish."
"I sort of like the name," I said. I didn't like women
who changed their names. Or men who wore jewelry
before sundown.
"Quite," he said. "What exactly was it you wanted to
know? I haven't seen or heard of her since the Friday
before she ran away. What was that? Six, seven years
ago?"
"Ten. "
"How time does fly," he whispered with a dreamy
lilt, mouthing the cliche like a man who knew what it
meant.
"Quite," I said.
He glanced up, narrowed his eyes as if he was seeing
47
me for the first time. "It isn't polite to mock me, " he
suggested politely. He sounded half pleased, though,
that I had taken the trouble.
"Sorry," I said. "A bad habit I have. What did she
talk about that day?"
"I'm
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