“Knock it off,” I said.
“You should consider yourself lucky,” Paul said. “Lots of girls think he’s really hot. They’re into this whole mysterious loner thing he’s got going. And he is kind of hot. I’m speaking strictly hetero here.”
“He’s not my type,” Angie said. “Maybe he’s more your type, Paul. You seem to like him enough to let him get things for you.”
“What are we talking about here?” I said.
“Nothing,” said Paul. “Shut up, Angie. I don’t go ratting you out.”
“What are you talking about?” I said again, trying to force some authority into my voice.
“It’s nothing, forget about it,” Angie said. “I’m just joking.”
Deciding to let this part go for now, I returned to the issue of Trevor Wylie and security. I said, “Maybe I should speak to him.”
I can’t begin to tell you how wrong that comment was.
It was as if Angie exploded. A grenade went off inside her head.
“Great idea!” she shouted at me. “Brilliant! Just like you did with Irwin!”
That was it! The Pool Boy’s name was Irwin.
“Just a fucking brilliant idea!” And with that, she stormed out of the kitchen.
It was very quiet in the kitchen for a few moments after that, until Paul said, “Actually, it would be kind of funny if you did.”
I gave him a look that strongly suggested he should move on, which he did.
Sarah was ready to go, so I walked her to the door. “Nice going in there,” she said.
I ignored that. “If I see a car I think would be good for us, I’ll give you a call.”
“Where is this thing, anyway?”
“Out past Oakwood,” I said.
“Maybe you should drop in on Trixie,” Sarah said, smiling slyly. “Might be an education for Lawrence.”
Trixie Snelling lived two doors down from the house we’d had in the suburbs, and just as I had when I lived out there, she ran her business from home. And while she didn’t write science fiction novels, her occupation would make an interesting subject for a book. She was a stay-at-home dominatrix, with a basement decorated in early Marquis de Sade.
Trixie and I’d become friends while I still thought she was an accountant. One night, after a series of circumstances led me to discover what she actually did for a living, she came to my aid, and we’d remained friends, even if we didn’t see each other every day or get together for coffee.
“Somehow, I think we’ll give Trixie a wave,” I said.
“You know,” Sarah said, looking a bit sheepish, “if you did see something cute, and if it was really a good deal…”
“I don’t believe you,” I said.
“Or maybe a little convertible. That might be fun.”
“You tell me we can’t afford a second car, but you want a ragtop.”
“Fine, forget I just said that. Leave your checkbook at home. Come back with a feature and nothing else.”
I opened the door of the Camry for her. “Let me ask you something,” I said. Sarah looked at me and waited. “If you were gay, would you still find me attractive?”
She paused. Sarah’s been with me long enough now to know that it’s simpler to just answer the question than figure out what’s behind it.
“Well, let’s see, if I were gay, that would make me a lesbian, so I would have to say, no, you would not be my type.”
“No no, if you were a male gay person, would you find me attractive? Would I be your type?”
“So, if I find you attractive as a straight female, would I find you attractive as a gay male?”
“Something like that.”
She pretended to give it some thought. “No,” she said.
I must have looked hurt. “Okay,
“No, hang on,” I said. “Let’s go with your first instinct. You said no.”
“Well, the thing is, I think gay men put a greater emphasis on, I don’t know, sartorial matters.”
“It’s how I dress.”
“You are a bit rumpled, and you know, if you ever decide to update your wardrobe, I’d be happy to assist you. But for now, as a rabidly heterosexual female, I have decided to regard your lack of fashion sense as endearing. I’d love to talk about this more, but I have to get going. I’ve got a bunch of stuff to do at the office before I leave on this stupid retreat. Give me a kiss, you disheveled beast.”
I did as I was told. And she got in the car, backed down the narrow driveway, and disappeared down Crandall.
7
SOMETIMES, I blame my father.
He worried about everything, and I imagine he still does. We don’t talk all that much since my mother died more than a decade ago, and he lives up in the mountains now, renting out a few lakeside cabins to fishermen, and presumably he moved up there because there would be less to worry about.
His obsessive nitpicking and general sense of impending doom were his gift to me, and from all accounts they are what led my mother to leave the family home for nearly six months when I was in my early teens.
We were the only family I knew of that had fire extinguishers on every floor, an escape route in case of fire taped to the back of bedroom doors. Dad had to be the one, every night, to make sure the doors were locked. You always ran cold water in the shower first, then added hot, to ensure against scalding. You put away as much money as you could every week because for sure you’d be fired the next.
We never had a fire. We never got burned in the shower. Dad was never laid off. He’d be the first to tell you his strategy has paid off.
And now I am the worrier. There is no stuff too small to sweat. My obsession with personal safety issues and protecting the members of my family has been a problem for a while, and has even backfired rather spectacularly. You might have heard about that.
It was the memories of my father that persuaded me to listen to Sarah and pay a visit to Harley, my smartass doctor, in a bid to get a handle on this aspect of my personality. But the thing was, the more I tried not to worry about things, the more things there were, landing on my doorstep, to worry about.
Only hours before, I had been in a car that was being pursued by men with guns. I’d looked down the barrel of a gun before, but I’d never been shot at, nor had I ever been in a car that was being shot at. If that guy hanging out the window of the Annihilator had had a little better aim, Lawrence and I might have been sharing space down at the funeral home with Miles Diamond.
Standing in the kitchen, I found myself almost short of breath, and took a seat at the table. I pushed
It wasn’t just my night with Lawrence that had me on edge. There was this whole thing with Angie and Trevor Wylie. All I could picture was Keanu Reeves, decked out in shades and long black coat, a machine gun in each hand, spraying bullets every which way. All while doing that leaning-back doing-the-limbo thing he did.
I’d yet to meet Trevor Wylie, but I was betting he couldn’t do that.
Maybe if it hadn’t been for that story in the paper, about that withdrawn kid blowing away his friends in the park, I wouldn’t have been so obsessed with this. But it was the kind of story you come upon more and more in the news. Postal workers, it seemed, had taken a break from shooting their fellow employees so that dysfunctional teens could have a piece of the action. It was a modern-day cliche: the quiet kid, the one no one believed was an actual threat, the one no one could ever remember causing any trouble, suddenly going off like a bomb. Computer nerd turns mass killer.
