“Who?”
“Someone. I don’t know.” She got all sullen. “Anybody.”
Which of course meant someone in particular. Sarah said, “You want a car, you pick me up.”
“Jeez, fine, I’ll pick you up. I just won’t make any friends at college at all. I’ll go to school, come home, leave it to the people who live on campus to have lives.”
I wanted to steer the conversation in another direction, not only because I hated family arguments, but because my head was pounding. “What’s the class tonight?” I asked.
“Some psych-sociology male/female studies thing,” she said. “I have to do some research paper for, like, ten days from now. About why men are so weird.”
“Interview your father,” Sarah offered.
“And I need five dollars for parking,” Angie said.
Sarah sidled up to me as she put in some toast. I said to her, quietly, “Maybe it’s time to think about getting another car.”
“I can’t have this discussion now,” she said.
“We’re having these kinds of problems every day,” I said.
I squeezed out of the way as she got some strawberry jam out of the fridge. This kitchen was about half the size of the one in our house out in the suburbs, and quarters were close. “We can’t afford another car now,” Sarah said. “We’ve got Angie’s tuition, a mortgage-”
The phone rang again. I grabbed it instinctively, not thinking to look at who the caller was, and already had the receiver in my hand when Angie started to shout “Don’t answer it!”
But she cut herself off as I brought the phone to my ear, the mouthpiece exposed. Angie mouthed to me, “I’m not here!”
“Hello?” I said. At this point, I looked at the call display and saw “Unknown name/Unknown number.”
“Hi. Is Angie there?” Very cool. You could almost tell, over the phone, that he had to be wearing sunglasses.
“Can I take a message?” I said.
“Is she there?”
“Can I take a message?” I repeated.
A pause at the other end. “Who’s this?”
Now I paused. “This is her father.”
Angie raised her hands up, rolled her eyes, mouthed, “Jeez!”
“Oh,” he said. “You wrote that book.”
That caught me off guard. “Yeah, I did. I wrote a few.”
“SF stuff.”
“That’s right.”
“About the missionaries.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“I like that kind of shit. You see The Matrix movies?”
“Yes,” I said.
“First one was great, the other two sucked ass.”
I said, “Do you want to leave a message for Angie?”
Angie, in a loud, angry whisper: “I. Am. Not. Here!”
“Tell her Trevor called.” And he hung up.
“God,” I said, taken aback by the abrupt end to our conversation. “What an asshole.”
“What did he want?” Angie said. “What were you talking about?”
“He was asking if I’d seen The Matrix, and if I was the guy who wrote that book, about missionaries.”
“Did he say anything about me?”
“Just wanted me to tell you he called. You think he read my book?”
Paul, finishing his yogurt, said to Angie, “I think he wants to enter your matrix.”
Angie gave him the finger. On her way out of the kitchen she said again that she needed five dollars to pay for parking at Mackenzie that evening. Sarah dug a bill out of her purse and handed it over.
The kitchen emptied out. Paul left for high school, Sarah went up to our room to finish getting ready for work. Angie, who didn’t have a class until midmorning, was in her room, probably fuming about what it was like to live with Third World parents who only had one car.
Sarah and I got into the car. I rode shotgun. We worked out a quick plan, that I’d drive the car home later in the day so that Angie, who was going to return home by way of public transit after her midday class, would have a car for going back to school in the evening. Every day, it was like planning the raid on Entebbe.
As was usually the case when Sarah was behind the wheel, we were attracting the finger from a cross section of motorists as she moved from lane to lane, tailgated, failed to signal. Sarah was what you might call an aggressive driver. The people in the other cars might be more likely to call her a maniac.
“They call it rush hour for a reason,” Sarah said, shaking her head as she got past those slowpokes and got some more in her sights. “How’d it go last night?”
I told her.
Her jaw dropped and she looked over at me. “This other detective, he’s dead? These guys, the ones you and this Lawrence Jones character were waiting for, they killed him?”
“It may just have been because he was short. They might not have seen him when they were backing up.”
“Fuck. Did you call the desk?”
The city desk. “Yes,” I said. “They said they’d call Cheese Dick and send a photog.” Dick Colby, The Metropolitan’s police reporter, who smelled like old havarti. The paper’s editors might trust me to write a profile of Lawrence Jones, but a breaking news story, you couldn’t leave that to some writer from the features team. The desk would want the story covered by someone who could turn it in in under a week.
“So this thing, it really will turn into a decent feature,” Sarah said. The editor in her had taken over. Sooner or later, it might occur to her that if these guys could kill one detective, they could just as easily kill another, particularly one I was hanging out with.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “What if they’d shown up at the store you guys were staking out?”
“I’m sure we’d have been fine,” I said. “Lawrence seems to know what he’s doing.”
“So they killed this Miles Diamond,” Sarah said. “Did they also rob the store?”
“Pretty much cleaned it out of Hugo Boss and Versace and-”
“It’s a ch sound. It doesn’t rhyme with ‘face.’ ”
“Okay, so I’m not familiar. It’s not the Gap.”
Sarah, in the middle of cutting off a Mustang, said, “Yeah, well, you haven’t even seen the inside of a Gap in years. You could use some sprucing up, some new clothes.”
“I sure won’t be buying them at Brentwood’s. It’s very expensive Italian suits, designer stuff, silk ties, you get the picture.”
“You’re right. That doesn’t sound like your kind of place.”
“It’s Lawrence’s, though. Nice dresser. Why do gay guys always dress better?”
Sarah scowled. “You might be surprised to learn that there are heterosexual men who know how to look good in clothes. Does he never go by Larry?”
“No. It’s Lawrence Jones, Private Eye.” I used my TV announcer voice.
“So, you got enough to write this piece? You’ve got color, there was the incident last night.”
“You promised me a week. I’m going back out with him tonight, this’ll be night three.”
Now Sarah looked apprehensive. “You’ve probably got enough already.”
“Look, don’t worry, I’m perfectly safe.”
At which point Sarah swerved from the middle to the inside lane to avoid a green Cutlass. “Jesus,” she said. “Was he going slow or what?”
Now Sarah was taking the off-ramp that would lead us down to the Metropolitan building. The ramp was designed as a single lane, but Sarah was trying to squeeze along the inside, so close to a Mazda that if she put her window down she could hand the guy a coffee. I kept jamming my right foot into the floorboards, figuring if I shoved hard enough I could stop the car. There were a lot of things that made me feel anxious.
I said, “Do we have any jazz CDs?”
“I hate jazz,” Sarah said. There wasn’t a CD player in the Toyota; it was too old to have come equipped with one. But at home, she often slipped a disc into the stereo. Rock, lots of seventies stuff, Neil Young, Creedence Clearwater Revival. “Why you asking about jazz?”