horrible apartment.'
'Geez,' said Eliot. He was wondering what she would think of his apartment.
'Does that mean I'm pathetic?' she said.
'No!' said Eliot.
'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I'll stop dumping on you, I promise.'
'Hey,' he said. 'Anytime.'
'Thanks,' she said. She touched his forearm. Whoa.
They stood there for a moment, both of them a little bit uncomfortable, but neither of them wanting to break the spell, and then ...
I want your sex pootie!
I want your sex pootie!
The sound of the thudding bass preceded the Kia, which pulled into the driveway going too fast, as it always did when Matt was at the wheel. It jerked to a stop. Jenny got out, and Matt followed, holding a CD.
'You want to borrow it?' he said.
'Sure, thanks,' Jenny said. 'I love the Seminal Fluids.' In fact, she already had this particular CD; she was borrowing it so she could return it, and thus talk to Matt again. When she took the CD, their hands touched. Whoa.
'I'll drive,' said Eliot, and Matt did not argue, which indicated to Eliot that Matt was either falling in love or suffering from a concussion.
The four of them stood by the car for a second or two.
'Well,' said Eliot, to Anna, 'bye.'
'Bye,' said Anna, to Eliot.
'Bye,' said Jenny, to Matt.
'Bye,' said Matt, to Jenny.
'Get down,' said Jenny, to Roger, who was checking to see if the CD was food.
As they drove away, Eliot, going into Parental Lecture Mode, said, 'Listen, Matt, you ... '
'I know,' said Matt.
'Well,' said Eliot, 'you better not ... '
'I know,' said Matt.
'Well, OK,' said Eliot, 'but your mother ... '
'Dad, I said I know,' said Matt.
'OK, then,' said Eliot.
They lapsed into silence, each drifting off into jumbled recollections of the evening. At the Herk home, Anna, Jenny, and Nina were doing the same, as was Puggy in his tree. In each case, the recollections were surprisingly pleasant, considering that the evening had begun with somebody apparently trying to kill somebody.
Arthur Herk was pretty sure he knew who both somebodys were, and his thoughts were not pleasant. He had been thinking about the situation, and he had decided what he was going to do. After pouring himself another drink, he dialed a number from the phone on the family-room bar.
'It's me,' he told the person at the other end. 'Yeah.' He took a swallow of his drink and looked over at the bullet hole.
'Listen,' he said. 'I need a missile.'
four
'She should be leaning over more,' said the Big Fat Stupid Client From Hell, 'so you can see more gazombas.'
'Good point, more gazombas,' said Eliot, pretending to make a note of it. He was way too tired to argue this morning. It had been a long night: He'd driven Matt home at 2 A.M., and then he'd spent forty-five minutes getting berated by his ex-wife, Patty. Patty was not the berating kind, but she recognized a stupid parental decision when she saw one.
'You knew about this?' Patty had said. 'You knew he was going to be creeping around a stranger's yard with a gun, in Miami, and you let him?'
'It was a squirt gun,' said Eliot, causing Patty to roll her eyes so hard he thought they would pop out and bounce across the kitchen floor. Patty had always been way better at being a grown-up than Eliot; this was one key reason why they were no longer married.
Eliot said little after that. He just stood there and took his berating, because he knew Patty was right: He was an incompetent moron parent who had let his son get into a dangerous situation. He was also (Patty had reminded him quietly, outside of Matt's hearing) five months behind on his alimony and child support.
'I'm sorry,' Eliot had said, as he left. 'I'm working as hard as I can.'
'I know,' Patty had said. 'That's what has me worried.'
Driving home, Eliot pondered his situation: He was a failure as a husband and as a parent; his business was a joke; he had no prospects; he was driving a Kia. Willing his brain, against every instinct, to think practically, he tried to devise a logical, workable plan for straightening his life out, and his brain came up with: suicide. He would write a farewell letter—it would be funny, yet deeply moving—then he would put on some clean underwear and launch himself off the tiny balcony of his tiny apartment, hurtle toward the parking lot, maybe aiming for the 1987 Trans
