Obsession

minutes gone.”

Petra said, “May we start?”

Wanamaker stepped away. Fortuno picked his nose.

No chairs in sight, so we stood in front of him. His jaunty smile was dimmed by green-tinged jailhouse pallor. His white hair was thin, greased back, curling behind his ears. Puny, pocked chin, a bulb nose embroidered with gin blossoms. Squinty, hyperactive eyes the color of cigar ash were dragged down by pouches of skin. He fooled with his nose again, ground his index finger against his thumb.

Another lazy smile, off kilter and saurine. The offspring of a human-iguana mating.

Petra said, “Mr. Fortuno, we’re here about Peterson Whitbread aka Blaise De Paine. Please tell us everything you know about him.”

“Who says I’m cognizant of anything?” said Fortuno. Flat, mid-western inflection. Hint of emphasis on “cognizant.” As if he’d just memorized the word.

“You recommended him for tenancy at a house on Oriole Drive.”

“When was this?”

“Shortly before you went to jail.”

“Boy, my mind must be slipping.” Fortuno pointed at the pizza box. “Maybe too many carbs.”

Petra turned to Wanamaker.

He said, “Nonfederal matters don’t fall under compliance regulations.”

“Meaning,” Milo said, “he can jerk us around while you time us.”

Fortuno said, “God forbid.”

Petra said, “If you’re going to be uncooperative, Mario, let us know right now and we’re out of here.”

Fortuno tensed. Forced a smile. “A feminist.”

Petra turned heel. We followed.

When she reached the door, Fortuno said, “Ease up. There’s no free lunch.”

Milo said, “Spoken by someone getting federal babysitting at a four-star hotel.”

Wesley Wanamaker frowned.

Fortuno said, “Don’t fret, Ms. Pro-Choice. I don’t want a meal, just an amuse-bouche- that’s ‘hors d’oeuvre’ in French. And I’m not talking The Ivy or Le Dome or Hans Rockenwagner’s place, I love that place.”

Wanamaker said, “Food again? We’ve been through this. Our per diem budget is preset and no one but the FBI is authorized to-”

“I’m not talking cuisine, Mr. Literal.” To us: “These guys have no clue about metaphors and similes.”

“An English major,” said Milo.

“Journalism,” said Fortuno. “City College of Chicago, did a year until all the perfidy and falsehood got to me.”

Petra touched the doorknob.

Fortuno said, “I’m crushed. You just got here.”

She turned the knob and had a foot out in the hall when Fortuno said, “Let me talk to the shrink.”

S.A. Wanamaker said, “The door must remain closed at all times.”

Petra said, “No solo interviews, Mario.”

“Oh boy, another literal one,” said Fortuno. “What is it, all the TV and video games and microwaves in the brain, no one reads the classics anymore?” He waved. “Come back, honey, don’t let me rile you, I’m really a sociable person.”

“Plastique and machine guns in your office is sociable?”

S.A. Wanamaker said, “That topic is off limits, Officer.”

Fortuno’s arrest had been in the papers for weeks.

“Close the door, Officer.”

Petra complied, shot Fortuno a long, dark look.

Fortuno said, “You’ve got gorgeous melting eyes. No offense, I’m avuncular not lecherous. What I’m trying to get across here is I can possibly offer you some satisfaction vis-a-vis your subject. But the shrink’s the one who can make me happy.”

Wanamaker said, “Nine minutes down.”

Petra ignored him and moved closer to Fortuno. “You can possibly help us?”

“Let’s upgrade to probably.”

“What do you want from Dr. Delaware?”

“Come closer, dear,” said Fortuno. “Conversing so far away makes my throat hurt. All the artificial coolants in the AC system, dries up the sinuses, they won’t let me open the window. Or the curtains, I’m living like a gopher.”

Wanamaker said, “It’s dark, anyway. Stop complaining.”

Petra said, “How do I know you can help us?”

Fortuno said, “How’s this: The individual under question is a no-talent punk kid who purloins other people’s songs and cobbles them together in what the popular parlance terms ‘mixes.’”

The three of us returned to our former positions facing the couch.

Fortuno said, “Dr. Alexander Delaware, you’ve got street cred for helping kids. Anxieties, phobias-I like that paper you published on sleep problems. Could’ve used that with a few of mine, I have eight. From five wives, but that’s another story. Journal of Nervous and Mental Disease-July, five years ago. Is my memory serving me well?”

My name had been given to the feds a few hours ago. Fortuno had managed to research me.

I said, “What can I do for you?”

“One of my progeny, the youngest, Philip, he’s six. Quiet, a very quiet boy, know what I mean?”

“Shy?”

“That, too. Extremely quiet. Sits and draws, doesn’t go outside to play, doesn’t like sports. His mother’s young, not too experienced in the parent department. With Philip, she’s a pushover, spoils him completely. He used to go to private school but now he’s in public school, due to the fact that I’m temporarily inconvenienced financially. Am I making myself lucid?”

“Philip’s having problems in his new school.”

“The other kids,” said Fortuno, “do not appear to appreciate him. In public school, you’ve got some tough little rats. A tough kid-a resilient kid-could cope. Philip, being quiet, does not cope so well. If I was there, perhaps I could aid him, but I am not and that makes me feel regretful. His mother tells me Philip comes home crying. Sometimes he doesn’t sleep well.” Throat clear. “He has also started to have…accidents. Number one and number two. Which does not help his popularity with his peer group. I, being out of the picture, feel partially culpable for all this. Then I find out you will be visiting and lo and behold I experience epiphanization: Saint Agnes has sent me someone who can help the problem.”

“I’ll be happy to see Philip.”

“As I said, my financial resources are limited. However, I do see that changing some time in the future and when that time comes you’ll be recompensed ably.”

“I understand.”

Fortuno clapped his hands, as if summoning a servant. “Excellent. When will you see Philip?”

“Have his mom call me.”

“She will do that. They live in Santa Barbara.”

“That’s ninety miles away. Maybe the best thing would be for me to find you a referral there.”

Fortuno’s mouth tightened and his eyes were black lines. “Maybe not.”

“It’s a long drive for a young chi-”

“You drive to Philip,” he said. “When I am in a position to do so, I will compensate you for your fuel and your time-portal-to-portal, like what lawyers get. Like what I used to get. I’m not talking long-term Freudian or Jungian psychoanalysis. One visit, maybe two, three four-a consultation. In one of those articles you wrote, you said a lot of child therapy can be done short-term. Journal of Clinical and Consulting-”