'Well,' I said, 'if you'll forgive my saying so, it doesn't exactly add up. A political-science degree, and you spend your days scraping up dead mammals.'
' 'Phibians too,' he said. 'Don't forget the 'phibians.'
'You have a lot of invigorating political discussions with the dead 'phibians?'
'You forget the philosphy. This is a good job for a guy with philosphy flowin' through his veins.'
'Thought you didn't like snakes.'
'Don't be gettin' tricky, now. Any fool that can tell poop from pizza knows snakes ain't 'phibians. They riptahls.'
'I'd love to hear you spell that.'
'R-i-p-t-a-h-l-s.' He smiled. 'Easy.' he said. 'Almost as easy as 'Smif.' '
'No bosses,' I said. 'Lots of time to speculate on the implications of mortality.'
'They only one implication I can think of. We all gone to end up in somebody's truck.'
'The Chariot of the Gods.'
He fished out a pack of cigarettes and lit one, crossed impossibly long legs, and leaned back. 'So,' he said, 'we talkin' about my job. What career path brought you to this mansion on the hill?'
'I'm an investigator,' I said. The word 'detective' always made me uncomfortable.
'Can't be insurance. You don't look like you could get it, much less give it. Can't be a cop. Cops got to be macho, you know? Your average cop would have picked up ol' Fluffy out there with his teeth and then flossed with the tendons. You certainly ain't IRS. Got any more coffee?'
'I'll make some. It'll take a while. You don't have to go anywhere?'
'No bosses, remember? And Fluffy, she ain't no jug of perfume but she real patient. So I guess that means you in business for yourself.'
I poured water into the top of the coffeemaker and put some beans in the grinder. 'I guess it does.'
'Wo, real gourmet. Beans and all. You got a ashtray?'
'Use the floor. The cleaning crew comes in today.'
'They gone bring a wrecking ball?'
'A fire hose. You want it strong?'
'You like the job?'
I thought about it. 'Some days.'
'Explain the appeal.' He stubbed out his cigarette in the saucer.
The coffeemaker gurgled three or four times as the water heated. 'This is its idea of foreplay,' I said. 'In about an hour we'll have some coffee.'
'Like I said, explain the appeal.'
'Well, once in a while you get a chance to reduce the number of assholes in the world.'
'That's a losin' battle. Ain't never gone to be no asshole shortage. We got oil shortages, grain shortages, coal shortages, every kind of fuckin' shortage you can think of, but there ain't no asshole shortage. Assholism is a dominant trait.'
'It's still nice to take one out.' I gave the coffeepot a useless whack to speed it up.
'You an idealist,' he said. 'Me, I'm a realist. You know the difference between an idealist and a realist?'
'No,' I said, 'but I have a feeling you're going to tell me.'
'The idealist is holdin' the gun. The realist is on the other end.'
'And where'd you pick up this bit of knowledge?'
'Nice little island name of Grenada. I was a member of the victorious invadin' force. We fought them on the beaches, we fought them in the streets.'
'One of my favorite wars.'
'Like the man say, democracy in action. 'Nother exercise in poli sci.'
'So you went to college, went into the forces, and then put all that background to work picking up dead animals.'
'Markin' time.'
The phone rang. I went to pick it up, and Dexter went over to study the coffeemaker.
'It's Hammond,' Hammond said.
'Damn,' Dexter said to the coffeemaker, which still hadn't dripped a drop. 'Come on, now.'
'You were right about the Oldfield house,' Hammond said. 'They were pros. They even ripped the paper off the back of the mirror in the bedroom.'
'Did they wipe the place?'
'Looks like it. Lots of smears around, hardly one good print, not even many of hers. Also, they left money. There was about three hundred in a flour canister. Canister was open but the money was still there.'
'Be drippin',' Dexter said, rattling the pot and peering into it. 'Move your ass.'
'What did they take?'
'Well, that's hard to say,' Hammond said with exaggerated politeness. 'Because it wouldn't be there, would it? I mean, after they took it, we wouldn't find it, so we wouldn't know if they'd taken it, would we?'
'I knew there was a reason I hadn't joined the force,' I said. 'The difficulties you overcome in the line of duty. Was there a personal phone book?'
'No.'
'Don't most women have a personal phone book?'
There was a silence. 'Are you going to let me tell this my way, or are we going to play Twenty Questions?'
'Sorry,' I said. 'Just trying to gain insight into the police mentality.'
'Police?' Dexter said. 'Get a man out here to arrest this coffeepot. It gone on strike.'
'Someone's there?' Hammond said.
'A man from the county,' I said. 'Animal Homicide.'
'Ask a stupid question,' Hammond said. 'No phone book, no checkbook, no letters, no fingerprints. Not many photographs. They wanted to know who she'd been talking to, who she'd been writing to, who she really was.'
'Who was she?'
'Sarah Theresa Oldfield. Married, divorced. Husband in Utica. That's in New York. No kids. In L.A. three years.'
'Utica?'
'That's what it says. Sounds like something that hangs in the back of your throat. Booming little town. Saturday night, you ask your date if she'd like to go down to the beer factory and watch the gauges rise.'
'How long in the Church?'
'That's coming. Ought to know this afternoon.'
'You're not talking to the Church.'
'Please,' Hammond said. 'We're going to check her bank records.'
'I got a idea,' Dexter said. He yanked the empty pot out from under the spout.
'You'll make a mess,' I said warningly.
'Somethin' this contrary, a mess is what she want.'
'Jesus,' Hammond said, 'it's nice to have your attention.'
'Here she come,' Dexter said with nicely modulated triumph. A stream of brown coffee splattered on the hot plate. Dexter slipped the pot back under the filter.
'I never thought of that,' I said admiringly.
'There is much in heaven and earth, Horatio,' Dexter said, 'that is not in your philosphy.'
'Maybe you'd like me to call back to tell you about Wilburforce,' Hammond said. 'Or maybe you'd like to call me when Animal Homicide has gone to that big kennel in the sky.'
'Sorry. What about Wilburforce?'
'A real shtarker. An old-time con man named Jason Jenks, aka Jinks Jenks. Actually, I sort of remember Jinks. He was jugged about fifteen years ago for practicing medicine without a license.'
'What's so memorable about that?'
'He was doing surgery.'
'Ah.'
