on a coffee table that had patterned tiles set into its top. Dave shut the door. "You worked for Fox Olson once, right?"
Dave's portable typewriter stood in its case on the floor by the coffee table. The boy looked at it, then at him. "Are you a reporter?" he asked. "I can't tell you much. I only worked for him one day."
"I'm an insurance investigator." Dave picked up the crumpled cigarette pack from the bedside stand. He held it out. The boy shook his head. Dave set a cigarette in his own mouth. "Last Christmas, was it?"
"That's right." The boy took a matchbook from his white jacket and lit the cigarette. Quick and graceful. "Mrs. Olson hired me. As a surprise for him."
"Thanks." Dave bent and poured coffee from the jug. It smelled great. "Was he surprised?"
"Very." The boy grinned. He had beautiful teeth. "He almost fell down."
"But he wasn't pleased? Look, if you get another cup ... "
"It's okay," Ito said. "I've already had enough coffee to surf in." He had no Japanese accent. Strictly California. He blinked thoughtfully. "He seemed pleased. Mrs. Olson told me he was. That was Christmas Day." He raised his shoulders, held his hands out palms up. "Next morning—bop! You're fired."
"No reasons given?" Dave sat down on the edge of the bed, blew at the coffee, sipped it.
"No reasons." Ito smiled. "Just a very fat check. Not two weeks' wages. Two months'. Mrs. Olson said she was very sorry, she'd made a mistake. She'd thought Mr. Olson would want me working for him. He didn't."
"Whose check? His?" The ashtray was full of butts. When he tapped ashes into it, Ito took it and emptied it into the frayed Indian basket by the dresser.
"Hers," he said, putting the ashtray back. "She handled the money. I heard somebody talking about that, Christmas Day."
"What else happened that day?"
The boy shrugged. "They had a lot of people in. It was a beautiful day. Clear and sunny like this. Only dry and warm. I was really happy. I mean, it's a nice house, beautiful surroundings. The kitchen was perfect. That's what bugged me worst. I never got a chance to cook a real meal there."
"You like to cook?" Dave asked. "You don't cook here."
"No. But it's a good job. I'm saving my chips. When I get enough I'll open my own restaurant."
"The Olsons paid you well?"
"Better than any job I ever had. And I liked them. Especially him. He was somebody else, man. Always, like, 'If it's convenient' and 'Don't go to any extra trouble' and 'When you have time' and 'Aren't you getting tired? Would you like a break? I can look after things.... ' Always jumping up to help me whenever I came in sight with a tray. They were mostly out in the garden and around the pool. Even if he was singing or something, he'd take time to ask me if I was okay, did I need anything. Great guy."
"Except he fired you," Dave said.
Ito laughed. "Yeah. And they talk about inscrutable Orientals."
"No incidents with him? Arguments? Criticism?"
"No." The boy frowned. "Unless ... I don't know whether you'd call it an incident, exactly. But after I got everything cleared up that night, real late, I was getting ready to sack out. I'd just had a shower. He knocked at my door and called my name and I said, 'Come in.' It was probably two-thirty, three by now. It'd been a long day. And he was kind of stoned. He opened the door and for a minute he just stood there staring at me. I was drying myself off. Then he said, 'Excuse me,' and started to back out.
"I asked if there was anything more I could do for him. He looked kind. of funny for a minute. He didn't answer. Just stared with his mouth half open. Then finally he gave a smile like maybe he was feeling sick or something. He said, 'No, thanks, Ito. It was a very nice Christmas.... ' And he turned and bumped into the door and mumbled, 'Thanks for all you did . . .' or something like that, and he was gone." The boy knelt, picked up the scattered scripts. "That was the last time we ever
Dave's portable typewriter stood in its case on the floor by the coffee table. The boy looked at it, then at him. "Are you a reporter?" he asked. "I can't tell you much. I only worked for him one day."
"I'm an insurance investigator." Dave picked up the crumpled cigarette pack from the bedside stand. He held it out. The boy shook his head. Dave set a cigarette in his own mouth. "Last Christmas, was it?"
"That's right." The boy took a matchbook from his white jacket and lit the cigarette. Quick and graceful. "Mrs. Olson hired me. As a surprise for him."
"Thanks." Dave bent and poured coffee from the jug. It smelled great. "Was he surprised?"
"Very." The boy grinned. He had beautiful teeth. "He almost fell down."
"But he wasn't pleased? Look, if you get another cup ... "
"It's okay," Ito said. "I've already had enough coffee to surf in." He had no Japanese accent. Strictly California. He blinked thoughtfully. "He seemed pleased. Mrs. Olson told me he was. That was Christmas Day." He raised his shoulders, held his hands out palms up. "Next morning—bop! You're fired."
"No reasons given?" Dave sat down on the edge of the bed, blew at the coffee, sipped it.
"No reasons." Ito smiled. "Just a very fat check. Not two weeks' wages. Two months'. Mrs. Olson said she was very sorry, she'd made a mistake. She'd thought Mr. Olson would want me working for him. He didn't."
"Whose check? His?" The ashtray was full of butts. When he tapped ashes into it, Ito took it and emptied it into the frayed Indian basket by the dresser.
"Hers," he said, putting the ashtray back. "She handled the money. I heard somebody talking about that, Christmas Day."
"What else happened that day?"
The boy shrugged. "They had a lot of people in. It was a beautiful day. Clear and sunny like this. Only dry and warm. I was really happy. I mean, it's a nice house, beautiful surroundings. The kitchen was perfect. That's what bugged me worst. I never got a chance to cook a real meal there."
"You like to cook?" Dave asked. "You don't cook here."
"No. But it's a good job. I'm saving my chips. When I get enough I'll open my own restaurant."
"The Olsons paid you well?"
"Better than any job I ever had. And I liked them. Especially him. He was somebody else, man. Always, like, 'If it's convenient' and 'Don't go to any extra trouble' and 'When you have time' and 'Aren't you getting tired? Would you like a break? I can look after things.... ' Always jumping up to help me whenever I came in sight with a tray. They were mostly out in the garden and around the pool. Even if he was singing or something, he'd take time to ask me if I was okay, did I need anything. Great guy."
"Except he fired you," Dave said.
Ito laughed. "Yeah. And they talk about inscrutable Orientals."
"No incidents with him? Arguments? Criticism?"
"No." The boy frowned. "Unless ... I don't know whether you'd call it an incident, exactly. But after I got everything cleared up that night, real late, I was getting ready to sack out. I'd just had a shower. He knocked at my door and called my name and I said, 'Come in.' It was probably two-thirty, three by now. It'd been a long day. And he was kind of stoned. He opened the door and for a minute he just stood there staring at me. I was drying myself off. Then he said, 'Excuse me,' and started to back out.
"I asked if there was anything more I could do for him. He looked kind. of funny for a minute. He didn't answer. Just stared with his mouth half open. Then finally he gave a smile like maybe he was feeling sick or something. He said, 'No, thanks, Ito. It was a very nice Christmas.... ' And he turned and bumped into the door and mumbled, 'Thanks for all you did . . .' or something like that, and he was gone." The boy knelt, picked up the scattered scripts. "That was the last time we ever
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