“Where are you?” First words out of his mouth. No “Hi,” or “How’s it hangin’, Mort.” Nothing like that. Caller ID was making it harder all the time to surprise anyone.
“On the street. About a hundred feet west of you. West is the direction in which the sun sets in case you don’t—”
“Stay right there. Don’t move.”
Redundant instructions, but I thought I’d save time by heading toward him anyway. We walked back to the house together. He had a lit Camel jammed in the corner of his mouth, so we trailed smoke. He didn’t take the butt out until we hit the driveway.
“Got somethin’ to show you,” he said.
We went around back, then around to the far side of the house. “What do you think?” he asked.
“About what?”
He pointed with the last third of his Camel. “Someone tore the drainpipe off the wall last night.”
I looked around the yard, then over the back fence. “Didn’t figure this for a high-crime neighborhood.”
“Except for a recent murder, you mean?”
“Okay, that. But, a downspout? Who’d want that?”
“Wouldn’t know anything about it, huh?”
I looked up to where the remaining part of the drainpipe had been bent outward, then at Russ. “If I did—hypothetically, you understand—would you want me to tell you about it? And, by the way, I’ll let you know when that five thousand dollars is used up.”
He connected those two comments, which should have had no relation to one another, then looked down at his feet, took one last suck on the Camel, mashed the butt on the bottom of his shoe, and stuck the remains in a pocket to keep from contaminating the crime scene. What a cop.
“Vandalism,” he said with a sigh. “House here has been all over the news. Must’ve been kids, wanting a souvenir since it was Jo-X. We’ll probably never know who did it unless they Facebook it or try to sell it on eBay.”
“A drainpipe on eBay. That sounds about right, but I’d look harder at that Facebook thing. Kids can’t keep a secret worth a damn. Anything else you want to show me around here?”
He didn’t, so I left. A thought occurred to me, so I drove on down to Virginia Street and left the Toyota on a side street, across from Danya’s bank. I sat there for five minutes, then my stomach growled, reminding me of something I’d forgotten to do, so I went into Adelpho’s Greek Food on the corner and ordered up a lamb gyro with Tzatziki sauce, then sat at a window seat with a nice view of the front and side entrances to the bank.
Then time crept by like a sloth doing the hundred-yard dash in sub-zero weather.
I had another gyro.
And a Diet Coke.
A lady with a kid in a car seat went into the bank, came out four minutes thirty-seven seconds later. And, yes, I timed her.
Eighteen hundred seconds passed as 12:18 turned into 12:48.
A man in a suit went into the bank, stayed inside for eleven minutes two seconds, came out, got into an Audi, took off south on Virginia Street.
I couldn’t pack in another gyro but I was bored. Adelpho—all five feet two inches of him—smiled at me since I was taking up a seat. I smiled back, got another Diet Coke, thought maybe I could order up another gyro to go, eat it later.
A white Pontiac pulled up and an elderly lady, eighty pounds overweight, wearing a Goodwill dress and a wide-brim hat, got out on the passenger side and limped into the bank in clunky black shoes.
I drank the last of my Coke. Slurped it. Stared at the bank.
Goodwill clothing. Big hat. Limp.
Huh.
I got up, ambled across the street, and went into the bank to think about opening a new account.
No old lady in the place, but the bank had restrooms. I could see the Pontiac through a glass door at the side of the lobby.
I sat on a couch in a common area and picked up a magazine on a glass table, sat back, started to read an article about Ibo Island off the coast of Mozambique. Cool place. Might go there on vacation if they weren’t beheading Americans.
The old lady emerged slowly from the safe deposit area, came out through a low swinging door, and headed for the side entrance. She was tall, and she had a big purse that looked like it had some heft to it.
I got up.
The lady went outside, and I followed. As she was opening the car door, I said, “I like the hat, Shanna, but that dress has got to go.”
Well, I didn’t mean it like that, like she should take the dress off, right then and there, although I wouldn’t have stopped her if she did, but it slowed her down and brought her head up. And, yes, it was Shanna.
She got in the car, moving spritely now. I went around to the driver’s side. “Your dad’s worried about you,” I said to Danya. She had on a dishwater blond wig, dark glasses. Might fool a cop from sixty feet away.
“Tell him I’m okay.” She put the car in reverse, started to back up, then stopped. “I didn’t kill Jo-X. I mean, we didn’t.”
“Didn’t think you did.”
“But the whole world does, Mortimer.”
“Mort. You should talk to the police, get this cleared up. Both of you, actually, since both of you live in that house.”
“Can’t do that. Anyway, you’re fired. I mean, I never hired you. Gotta go, but it’s been nice talking to you.” She backed up and cut the wheels.
The windows were rolled down so I gave it one last try as the Pontiac started forward. “You should at least call your dad.” I looked at Shanna. “You, too, Celine, if you have family around.”
The car lunged as Danya hit the brakes. “What? What did you call her?” Her dark glasses stared at me like insect eyes.
“Celine.”
“Fuck.”
She hit the gas, stopped as she glanced left on Virginia
