Someone was standing behind him.
Presley Huenengarth. His face floated over Milo's shoulder like a malignant moon. His mouth was as small as a baby's.
Milo saw the look in my eyes, gave an it's-okay wink, put his hand on my shoulder, and walked in. Huenengarth hesitated for a moment before following. His hands were at his sides. No gun. No bulge in his jacket; no sign of coercIon.
The two of them could have been a cop team.
Milo said, 'Be right with you,' and went into the kitchen.
Huenengarth stood there. His hands were thick and mottled and his eyes were everywhere. The door was still open. When I closed it, he didn't move.
I walked into the living room. Though I couldn't hear him, I knew he was following me.
He waited for me to sit on the leather sofa, unbuttoned his jacket, then sank into an armchair. His belly bulged over his belt, straining the white broadcloth of his button-down shirt. The rest of him was broad and hard. His neck flesh was cherry-blossom pink and swelled over his collar. A carotid pulse plinked through, steady and rapid.
I heard Milo messing in the kitchen.
Huenengarth said, 'Nice place. Any view?'
It was the first time I'd heard his voice. Midwest inflections, medium-pitched, on the reedy side. On the phone it would conjure a much smaller man.
I didn't answer.
He put a hand on each knee and looked around the room some more.
More kitchen noise.
He turned toward it and said, 'Far as I'm concerned, people's personal lives are their own business. As long as what he is doesn't get in the way of the job, I could care less. Matter of fact, I can help him.'
'Great. You want to tell me who you are?'
'Sturgis claims you know how to keep a secret. Few people do.'
'Especially in Washington?'
Blank stare.
'Or is it Norfolk, Virginia?'
He pursed his lips and turned his mouth into a peeved little blossom.
The mustache above it was little more than a mouse-colored stain. His ears were close-set, lobeless, and pulled down into his bull neck.
Despite the season, the gray suit was a heavy worsted. Cuffed pants, black oxfords that had been resoled, blue pen in his breast pocket. He was sweating just below the hairline.
'You've been trying to follow me,' he said. 'But you really have no idea what's going on.'
'Funny, I felt followed.'
He shook his head. Gave a stern look. As if he were the teacher and I'd guessed wrong.
'So educate me,' I said.
'I need a pledge of total' About what?'
Anything I tell you.'
