"This isn't an actual human position," Justin said. "I never saw anyone make herself so small."
"The point is balance," Deena said, not even breathing hard. "Not size. I'm perfectly balanced."
"You could also fit into somebody's briefcase."
"I don't think you're grasping the finer concepts of the practice."
"No," Justin agreed. "I think you're going to have to work on it with me. I'm mostly focused on the fact that your feet are in a place I can't even get my hands to."
Deena now slowly unfurled her body and lay on the floor, rhythmically breathing in and out. She crossed her legs, bent her head forward until the crown touched the floor, told Justin that she was sealing the practice. It wasn't until she'd lifted her head that Kendall asked, "So what do we do now?"
Justin looked at his watch and said, "Your mom's gonna take a shower, you get to watch TV, and I'm going to start running up our phone bill." Byron Fromm sat in the office of Bert Stiles, the head of the Alexis Development Company. Bert had been silent for quite some time now. All he did, as Fromm sat there, was run an emery board across the tops of his fingernails. Occasionally he would pick up a nail clipper and use it to clean a nail or pinch off an untidy cuticle. The man was obsessed with his nails, was always buffing them or polishing them or neatening them. Watching him, Fromm began to fidget uncomfortably.
"Do you want to talk to Elron yourself?" Fromm asked when he couldn't stand the quiet or the filing any longer.
Stiles shook his head, put his hands together, and placed the well-manicured fingers under his chin.
"Is there anything else you want me to do?"
Stiles nodded but still didn't speak. He pulled his hands from under his chin, stared at the nails, and began filing again.
"What?" Byron Fromm asked. "What do you want me to do?"
"This Elton," Stiles finally said. "Elron," Fromm corrected. "It's Elron, not Elton."
"Byron," Bert Stiles said. "I don't give a rat's ass what his name is. What I want to know is if he has any idea who these people were." When he raised his voice, he ran the emery board a little harder and faster.
"He doesn't. But I do."
"You?"
"I can't be sure. I mean, I didn't see them. But the guy, he sounds like someone who was around here two days ago. And then again yesterday. The first time, he was trying to get into the Growth offices. I didn't let him in. The second time, he insisted on talking to me out of the office, said it was too confidential to discuss inside. But it was just bullshit. I decided he was a nut. But now I realize it was right around the time of the break-in. I went outside with him because he said he was a cop and I think he might be. Not local, though. He showed me his badge but it wasn't from around here."
"Where was he from?"
Fromm shook his head. "Long Island somewhere. He took the ferry over."
"What about the woman?"
"I never saw her."
"Do you remember the cop's name?"
Fromm shook his head again. "But you can describe him?"
Fromm nodded this time. And, as Bert Stiles filed even harder and faster, Fromm described Justin Westwood as best he could. He was within two inches of the correct height, got the hair right and the body type, didn't know the eye color. When he was done, Stiles asked Fromm to repeat the description and this time around took notes, holding the pen very carefully and gently between his delicate fingers. Then he thanked Byron Fromm for coming to him with the information.
As Fromm walked out of his office, Stiles stared at the three-line phone on his desk. He sat there silently for quite a while, maybe ten minutes, not even bothering to use the emery board, until he decided he couldn't put off the phone call any longer. So he pushed down the button for line one, picked up the receiver, and dialed, the whole time thinking he'd rather have his fingernails pulled out one by one than have the conversation he was about to have.
Justin hung up the phone and turned to Deena and Kendall, who were both doing their best to look elsewhere.
"I'll try one more," he said.
"You're not very good at this," Kendall told him.
"Thank you very much," he said. "I'm a little rusty at this kind of thing, too. And it's not easy getting information out of people when you don't even know what you're trying to find out." He turned to Deena. "I'm getting stonewalled. Whatever's going on, either none of the people at these numbers know about it or they know not to talk about it."
"You still don't seem very good at it." Kendall sniffed. "And it's boring."
"That's her new word," Deena explained. "Everything's boring."
Justin held out the phone to the little girl. "Would you like to try, miss?" When she smiled a somewhat haughty smile and took the phone, Justin began dialing. Before anyone could answer on the other end, he shrugged at Deena, as if to say: She can't do any worse than I've done.
A moment later, Kendall was saying into the phone, "Yes, I'd like to speak to my grandfather, please."
Justin stopped his shrug. He looked at Kendall as if asking: What are you doing?
Next they heard Kendall say, "I don't really know his name. I just call him Grampy-gramps. But my daddy is Mr. Edward Marion."
Now Justin looked at Deena. This look said: What the hell have you raised here?
There was a pause, then they heard Kendall say, "Yes, I'll hold." She turned sweetly to Justin and said, "He's getting the manager."
Both Justin and Deena held their breath until they heard Kendall saying, "This is Lucy Marion. I'd like to speak to my grandpa, please." The girl listened, then said, "My daddy told me to call. It's Grampygramps' birthday." The manager said something and Kendall responded, "No, he's not here. I'm with the baby-sitter." There was another pause while the manager said something into the phone; then Kendall broke into a huge grin. "Yes. That's right. I guess I did know Grampy's name. Lewis Granger."
She flashed a triumphant smile at Justin, then her eyes widened and she looked confused. To the manager on the other end of the phone, she said, "Yes. I'll hold." She held the phone out away from her. "He's getting the man," she hissed at Justin. He nodded, said, "You're my new hero," and took the receiver. He waited for several minutes, then he heard an elderly man come on and say, "Hello?"
"Mr. Granger?"
"Who is this?"
"Mr. Granger, my name is Justin Westwood."
"What are they talking about? My granddaughter's on the phone? I don't have a granddaughter. She died years ago."
"Mr. Granger, I'm sorry, I'm afraid we lied about that. I just needed to talk to you and I didn't know how else to get to you."
"What do you want to talk about?"
Justin hesitated, then said, "Growth Industries."
The old man's tone got even sharper. More suspicious. "You work for them? What happened to that Ed Marion?"
"I don't work for them. I'm trying to get some information about them."
"What kind of information?"
"Just about anything you can tell me, sir." There was no response from Granger. As the silence lengthened, Justin thought the old man had hung up. "Mr. Granger? Are you still there?"
"I'm tired," the man said. "I'm very tired."
"I can call you back another time, if you'd like."
"I don't mean I'm tired right this minute. I mean I'm tired. Tired of everything. Tired of life."
"I'd like to come see you, if I can."
"See me?"
"Yes, sir."
"Nobody's been to see me in years."
"What about Ed Marion?"
"Oh yes. He comes. But he doesn't count. He just asks his questions and gives me the shots."
"Shots?"
"I'm tired of those damn shots. I'm tired of everything."
"Can I come see you, Mr. Granger?"
"To ask me questions?"
"Yes, sir."
"You won't believe my answers, you know."
"Well," Justin told him, "I'd like to give it a try. How about tomorrow?"