Then, laughing, Denny and his mortgage-payment suit went off to combat crime and, for all I knew, any fashion faux pas that he spotted along the way.
Chapter 25
The next morning, I stretched my run out a little, doing about ten miles through various paths in Frick Park. I needed the time to think about the Pendleton case and to clear my mind a little.
Okay, so maybe I also wanted to get a little buffed in preparation for my semi-blind date at Angie and Simon’s barbecue that night. Hey, can’t a fella feel pretty once in a while?
When I got home from the run, I spent some up-close-and-personal time with my weights, and then, after a quick shower, I went out back and looked for birds’ nests. I found one, about half finished. I took it down and tossed it in the trash can, enduring all the while what I assumed was a pretty fierce scolding from a couple of robins. Live with it, guys, I thought. The rest of us aren’t lucky enough to be able to eliminate most of the frustrations in our lives by building a new nest every twenty-four hours.
I thought I’d sit and read the morning paper for a bit. Well, actually, I should have just said the paper, since Pittsburgh hasn’t had an afternoon newspaper for several years now. Not something the city fathers (and, I assume, mothers) trumpet in the press releases that are sent out to encourage people to live in the area. I settled down on my living room sofa, put my feet up on the coffee table, and began reading, figuring I’d take a nap afterwards and just spend the day relaxing at home. But within a few minutes, I decided to clean out the closet in my guest room. I’d been meaning to get to that particular chore for several weeks, and now seemed like as good a time as any. I spent about ten minutes up there before realizing that I’d miscalculated how much work was involved. The closet was definitely a rainy-day project. Instead, since it was getting close to noon, I thought I’d walk into Shadyside and grab a light lunch. As I was putting on my jeans, the phone rang. It was Angie.
“Hey, Ang, how’re you doing?” I said.
“Jeremy, I just wanted to remind you to be here at 6:30 this evening.”
“6:30,” I said. “Got it. Can I bring anything?”
“Nope. We’re set. What are you wearing?”
“Clothes,” I replied.
“You know, Jeremy,” she said, “if smart mouth were an Olympic event, you’d be awash in gold.”
Angie can sling it with the best of them.
“The fact that you asked that question means, I assume, that you have some specific suggestions regarding my attire for this evening’s activities,” I said.
“Of course I do,” said Angie. “First, do not, I repeat, do not wear those old jeans you usually wear over here for cookouts.”
I looked down at the jeans I’d just pulled on, the old ones I thought I’d wear that night.
“C’mon, Ang,” I said, “gimmee credit for some taste, okay? Of course, I’m not going to wear those old jeans. My tux is at the cleaner’s, so what else might be appropriate for meeting Ms. Fleming?”
“Anything casual and clean,” she said.
“You sound a little nervous, Ang,” I said. “So, you really think this Laura and I will hit it off, huh?”
“Oh, you’ll like her, Jeremy, there’s no doubt about that. Every adult male at school hits on her at least once a month, including Mr. Grim.”
“Mr. Grim? Angie, the man must be seventy years old.”
“And when you’re seventy,” she said, “how diminished a sex drive do you expect to have?”
“Good point,” I said.
“So wear something nice and try not to make a fool of yourself. You know, I just thought of something. I could tell Laura that you have laryngitis. That would help get you past those crucial first couple of hours, which is when you generally screw things up.”
“Very funny,” I said. “I will present myself at the Ventura estate at half after six this evening, and you may rest assured that both my outfit and my manners will be beyond reproach.”
“They better be,” said Angie, “’cause Laura Fleming is the best thing that’s come your way in a long time. Oh, oh, gotta go. Abby, that is not something that dogs eat. Bye, Jeremy.”
Hanging up the phone, I finished putting on my jeans, the ones that I, of course, would not even think of wearing to an important backyard barbecue, threw on an old sweatshirt and some tennis shoes, and then walked into Shadyside, where I sat at a table outside Starbucks and had a café latte and an orange scone. Not the most nutritional of lunches, but, then, I had run ten miles that morning. Self-satisfaction has its rewards.
Irv was working, but the place was busy, so he didn’t have time for anything in the way of conversation except a quick hello. After a few minutes, I’d finished the scone, and I decided to drink the rest of the latte on the walk home. When I got back, I realized that the 4Runner needed to be washed, so I opened the garage door and drove out on to the street. I spent about an hour giving the car a thorough cleaning, inside and out. After putting it back in the garage, I sat on my deck for a while, chatting with the elderly woman who lives next door. She had to leave to do some grocery shopping, so I went back inside and got some laundry together. While it was in the machines in my basement, I looked through the last two issues of Sports Illustrated. There was an article on some guy for the Twins, a pitcher I’d never heard of, who had just signed a two-year contract for fifteen-million dollars after going 5-8 last season. I was 6-1 my senior year in high school. Briefly,
