Mia reached over to her purse, poked in, and came out with an iPhone or an Android or a Yoda for all I know; she scrolled through and said, “Yep, got her number. I’ll give her a call later.”
“Tell her I’ll compensate her for her time as well.”
Mia eyed me and looked around my cluttered living room and at my baggy clothes and cane, and said, “What, are you rich or something?”
“Or something.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Magazine writers make shit. I know for a fact. So what’s the deal? How did you get this cool place on the beach?”
“Retirement package from the government.”
“Some package.”
“Back then, some government.”
I made a cup of coffee and resolved to stay awake for the afternoon, but that resolution lasted about as long as those made every December 31. When I woke up on the couch, I puttered around and tried to shelve some books.
I reached nine volumes before I was too tired to continue. I looked out the sliding glass doors to my deck. I hadn’t been out on my deck in weeks. I limped forward, balanced the cane against the wall, unlocked the sliding glass door, and pushed.
Oomph.
Pushed again.
Nothing again. Had I really become that weak?
I glanced down at the runners and saw the length of wood I had dropped in a long time ago, to prevent burglars easy access through these sliding glass doors.
I hadn’t become that weak, but maybe I had become that stupid.
I grabbed on to the door’s handle to keep my balance, slowly knelt down, and got in a good position to pull the wood piece out. I grabbed one end and tugged.
And tugged.
And tugged.
Nothing budged.
By now my breathing was labored, and I saw what had happened. Wet weather had dripped in and caused the wood to swell just a bit, enough so it was stuck.
The old Lewis could have popped it out in seconds.
The new and not-so-improved Lewis let it be.
I got back up on my feet without falling, grabbed the cane, and went back to the couch.
Later that afternoon I managed to get hold of Diane Woods, and after an exchange of pleasantries and a promise by her to come for dinner tomorrow, I got right to it.
“Can I see the crime scene photos from Maggie’s barn?”
“What?” she said. “I just thought I heard you ask to see the crime scene photos from Maggie’s place.”
“You did.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
“I know you can’t do that for a normal person during normal times. These are neither.”
“Lewis …”
“You know my methods, you know I can be trusted. And it just might help you out.”
“Might, or will?”
“Might,” I said. “I had a thought I wanted to share with you, but only after I see the photos.”
She waited a few seconds, and I wondered why it was taking her so long. We had done many a favor for each other over the years, so this one more shouldn’t have been causing her pause.
Yet it was.
I didn’t like it.
“Okay,” she said. “Just this once. And I’ll only show you after we eat. These aren’t photos to look at and then keep your appetite.”
“Great,” I said. “See you tomorrow.”
One more power nap to break up the afternoon, and I had a brief flash of excitement: this was the first time since I had come home from the hospital that I spent most of the day on the first floor, and not upstairs in my bed. To celebrate, I grabbed the phone and called to find out when I could expect the pathology results from my surgery, because they were at least two days overdue.
After some navigating of prompts, press one for this, two for that, and saying “agent” a few times in an increasingly loud voice, I finally caught up with a sweet young lady named Rachel.
“All right, sir,” she said. “We just need to verify who you are. Could you give your name and date of birth?”
“I already did that, when I made my first call.”
“I’m sorry, I need to ask you again.”
So I complied.
“Very good, sir,” she said. “And could you verify your membership number?”
“But the fact that I’m in your system, doesn’t that mean I’m a customer of yours?”
“Sir … in order for me to proceed further for you, I need your membership identification number.”
“But that was one of the first things I put into the system.”
“Yes, but now I need to reconfirm it, please.”
“Hold on,” I said, and I got up and went over to that section of kitchen countertop where I toss car keys, various bits of mail that need immediate attention, and I got my wallet.
Which I promptly dropped on the floor.
Some swearing and sweating minutes later, I retrieved it from the floor, dug out my membership card, and made it back to the couch. It now felt like two little embers of fire were at play on my back and shoulder.
“All right,” I said. “Here you go.”
After rattling off the numbers, she said, “Very well, Mr. Cole. And could you verify your address for me?”
I rubbed my free hand across my forehead. “Rachel … with no disrespect, please, why do I need to do that? It should be right there in front of you.”
“That’s how our system is set up, Mr. Cole.”
“Why? Because you’re concerned some random criminal folks out there will try to go through all these prompts, armed with some of my personal information, so they can find out the status of my pathology report?”
She didn’t say anything. “Mr. Cole,” she said. “Could you verify your address for me?”
I gritted my teeth. “Physical or mailing?”
“Oh,” she said in a chirpy voice. “Either one will work.”
I gave her my post office box number, there was some more tappity-tap of the keyboard, and she said, “All right, Mr. Cole, how can I help you today?”
I took a breath. “I had major surgery recently. Two tumors were removed from my shoulder and lower back. They
