The Big Dirt Nap

Dunkin' Donuts—and somewhat less typically a police substation. A few years back these outposts were common in suburban Connecticut and may have even helped keep the petty crime rate down, but budget cuts and benign neglect had forced many of the substations to close, and the rest, like this one, to be virtually abandoned for most of the day. A faint light shone from behind the blinds, but there were no other signs of life.

Babe came back and handed the bikers' orders to Pete, the diner's cook. There was always a chance that a cigarette ash might make its way into the food, but that aside, dining at the Paradise had gotten a whole lot better since Pete discovered the Food Network, and the captivating trio of Sara, Rachael, and Giada. Pete routinely threatened to leave this Babe to go chop vegetables for one of those babes, but smart money says he won't.

'Grilled chicken Caesar, two spinach salads, and two turkey clubs, I think we're okay,' Babe whispered to me.

I'd heard of people being able to predict criminal behavior by computing a person's gender, age, youthful exposure to violence, even head shape, but never by what they ordered in a diner. I wanted to believe she was right but what did she expect them to order—Twinkies with chocolate sauce? But, Babe wasn't finished. She had more anecdotal evidence.

'And furthermore,' she said, 'they're riding Harleys. It's the rice-burners you have to watch out for. They ride for speed not comfort. I prefer a man who doesn't go too fast.' According to Babe, men on Japanese bikes were nine times out of ten more likely to be thugs than men riding Harleys. I don't know where she got her statistics but since I had zero information on the subject, I believed her.

My biker friends considered dessert, but decided against it after a lengthy debate on how much further they'd ride that night, and whether or not the sugar overload of one of Pete's four-story desserts would cause them to crash, nutritionally speaking. Despite Babe's confidence in her culinary assessment of my escorts, I wasn't comfortable leaving her alone with them so I stuck around after finishing my coffee.

'You boys have a good ride?' Babe asked.

'Coming back from Marcus Dairy. Just went for the day,' one of them said.

Marcus Dairy was actually a working dairy but better known as a hangout for bikers all over the East Coast. One of the guys had had a breakdown and had to leave his bike there for a couple of days. As Charlie and the boys left, they promised to stop in again on their return trip. From the way Charlie was looking at Babe, it was a sure thing.

'I don't think I've ever been here this late,' I said, helping Babe pull the shades down. She opened the register, counted out some cash, and put it in a zippered bank bag. She put a hundred dollars back in the drawer and left it open. 'So the robbers don't feel like they've wasted their time and trash the place.'

'Are you ever nervous,' I asked, 'all by yourself?' I followed Babe out and she yanked the front door shut.

'I don't scare easy. Besides . . .' She seemed on the verge of telling me something, then pulled back. 'It doesn't happen that often. I close when I feel like it, and Neil usually picks me up after work. He's just away for a few weeks. His mother's sick.'

'That's a drag.'

Neil MacLeod was Babe's . . . what? Hookup? Lover? Boyfriend? Can you have a boyfriend after the age of thirty? Whatever she called him, he was handsome, young, Scottish, and visiting home, where his parents owned a small pub and inn in Cardhu, on the Malt Whisky Trail.

'Is it serious?' I asked.

'Don't know. But it was time he went back. He hasn't been home for ten years. Listen, if you're planning to meet up with those guys, go for Charlie,' she said, putting the receipt tape in her bag. 'That gap between the teeth presents possibilities,' she added, always looking on the bright side.

'Please. They served a purpose and are now, conveniently, out of the picture.'

Babe climbed into her car and I climbed into mine. How long had it been since I'd been home? And where was home anyway? New York City, where all my friends were? Brooklyn, where my eighty- five-year-old aunt still lived in the house where she and my father were born? Boca Raton, where my mother inexplicably moved after my father died? Or was it finally Springfield? The small house and big garden that the bank and I owned, but only I lived in?

In A.D. 93, the Roman poet Horace wrote: This is what I prayed for! A piece of land not so very large, with a garden, and near the house a spring of ever-flowing water, and up above these a bit of woodland. That's exactly what I had. And that's where I was going.

Eleven

I hauled myself up the stairs, dumped my things in the living room, and dropped the mail on the kitchen table. Despite the decaf, I was wired. Maybe I shouldn't have cleaned out the mailbox at the foot of the driveway. It was mostly junk anyway—catalogs, campaign literature, and flyers from cleaning services and house painters. I always wondered if they targeted my house. Good grief, that hovel needs a coat of paint.

My house is the most modest in the neighborhood. Wetlands restrictions and the nearby bird sanctuary saved my little bungalow from spec contractors who'd cock it up with fake dormers and stone facing and then try to flip it to some middle manager who'd sweat the mortgage until he thought he could palm it off on someone else. I told myself the neighbors silently thanked me for maintaining the character of the place, but couldn't be sure since I didn't know any of the neighbors, so I never had the opportunity to ask.

On my left was a formerly noisy guy who'd either grown up, gotten married, or died; I hadn't seen or heard him all winter. That's the way it was in the suburbs if you had no PTA or country-club connections. You could be almost as anonymous as you were in a big city.

I trashed the solicitations and the mailings from grinning office seekers with jackets not so casually thrown over their shoulders. Problem was, I couldn't toss the bills. Dirty Business was doing okay, but I was still getting used to the challenge of being flush for half the year and rolling change the other half. I wasn't eating cat food, but it had been a long time since I'd treated myself to a splurge. That was the real reason for my trip to Titans. But that plan had backfired when Lucy didn't show and a dead guy did instead.

I checked my cell messages again. Nothing from Lucy. I wasn't worried about her, just curious. And maybe a little jealous. I hadn't been in a relationship for over a year, and if anyone had asked I would have said that was okay, I had my hands full running a business. But I hadn't had an adventure for even longer—and I was due.

There was just one call from Anna, my sometime assistant. I left Lucy another message, then checked my home phone just to make sure she hadn't tried to reach me on that number. Zip.

It was midnight. Fatigue was setting in; bills were staring me in the face. I thought of opening them, but . . . Screw it, they'd be here tomorrow. The article for the Bulletin would bring in a few bucks, and more important, maybe a client or two. Hector and Bernie were right about that, publicity was key. And first thing in the morning I'd call on Caroline Sturgis, my rich suburban matron.

I meant to wake up at six and get a run in before driving to Caroline's. Instead, I slept in until after eight when I heard a key in the front door and Anna Jurado sang out my name, 'Meez Pohlah!'

March through October is garden season in my part of Connecticut. For those eight months the newlywed team of Anna and Hugo Jurado worked for Dirty Business. I couldn't afford to pay them the rest of the year, and they generally returned to Mexico anyway, but for those months we were a real company, not just a woman with stationery and business cards who still felt a little like a fake. Hugo was a master in the garden and helped me hire temporary workers when I was lucky enough to need them. Anna made appointments and kept the books.

I ran my fingers through my hair, pulled on a sweatshirt over my pajamas, and went into the kitchen to greet Anna. She was resplendent in a tomato-red track suit with white jeweled stripes down the sides puckering and threatening to give in to fabric fatigue.

'?Que tal?' I asked, starting to make coffee.

'I am very well, thank you very much. And how are you today?' Anna and I played this little game practicing our language skills on each other. If we'd been keeping score, she'd have been killing me.

She and Hugo were married less than a year ago in a ceremony that made the local paper, not because they