outright and knocked me all to hell and gone. I got a fractured fifth vertebra so I ended up taking an industrial retirement. A worker's comp claim."
Too bad."
'No point complaining about things you can't change. The money pays the bills and gives me time to myself. What about you? I hear you're a P.I.
"I've been doing that for years."
He led me through the kitchen to the glassed-in porch that ran along the rear of the house. He seemed to live the way I did, confined to one area like a pet left alone while its owners are off at work. The kitchen was completely tidy. I could see a single plate, a cereal bowl, a spoon, and a coffee mug in the dish rack. He probably used the same few utensils, carefully washing up between meals. Why put anything away when you're only going to take it out and use it again? There was something homely about the presence of the dishes in the rack. From the look of it, he lived almost exclusively in the kitchen and enclosed porch. A futon, doubling as a couch, was set up at one end, blankets neatly folded with the pillows stacked on top. There was a TV on the floor. The rest of the porch was taken up with woodworking equipment: a lathe, a drill press, a router, a couple of C clamps, a vise, a wood chisel, a table saw, and an assortment of planes. He was in the process of refinishing two pieces. A chest of drawers had been stripped, pending further attention. A wooden kitchen chair had been laid on its back, its legs sticking out as stiffly as a dead possum's. Shack must sleep every night with the heady scent of turpentine, glue, tung oil, and wood shavings. He caught my look and said, "Virtue of being single. You can do anything you want."
I said, "Amen to that."
Once upon a time, Bundy had sewn the cafe curtains, hanging them on rods across the middle of the row of windows. The green and white checked cotton, probably permanent press, still looked fresh: crisp, carefully laundered, with little clip-on curtain rings. I found my eyes filling inexplicably with tears and had to feign attention to the backyard, which I could see through the glass. Many of the trees remained, as bent as old spines, curving toward the ground from a onceproud height. A saddle of purple morning glories was cinched to the fence, the chicken wire now swaybacked from the weight of the vines. The barbecue grill top had turned red-brown with rust, replaced by a portable kettle grill parked closer to the back steps.
Shack leaned against the wall with his arms folded across his chest. "So what's the reason for the call?"
"I'm looking for Mickey. The only number I have is a disconnect. "
"You have business with him?"
"I may. I'm not sure. Do I need your approval before I telephone the man?"
Shack seemed amused. Bundy had always given him a hard time. Maybe he missed the rough and tumble of conversation. Live alone long enough and you forget what it's like. His smile faded slightly. "No offense, kiddo, but why not leave him alone?"
"I want to know he's okay. I don't intend to bother him. When's the last time you spoke?
"I don't remember."
"I see. Do you have any idea what's going on with him?"
"I'm sure he's fine. Mickey's a big boy. He doesn't need anyone hovering."
"Fair enough," I said, "but I'd like the reassurance. That's all this is. Do you have his current phone or address?"
Shack shook his head and his mouth pulled down. "Nope. He initiates contact when it suits. In between calls, I make a point of leaving him alone. That's the deal we made."
"What about Lit?"
"Roy Littenberg died. The Big C took him out in less than six weeks. This was three years ago."
"I'm sorry to hear that. I liked him."
"Me too. I see his boy now and then: Tim. You'll never guess what he does."
"I give up."
"He bought the Honky-Tonk. Him and Bundy's boy, Scottie, pal around together whenever Scottie's in town."
I said, "Really. I don't remember meeting either one. I think both were off in Vietnam when Mickey and I were hanging out
Too bad."
'No point complaining about things you can't change. The money pays the bills and gives me time to myself. What about you? I hear you're a P.I.
"I've been doing that for years."
He led me through the kitchen to the glassed-in porch that ran along the rear of the house. He seemed to live the way I did, confined to one area like a pet left alone while its owners are off at work. The kitchen was completely tidy. I could see a single plate, a cereal bowl, a spoon, and a coffee mug in the dish rack. He probably used the same few utensils, carefully washing up between meals. Why put anything away when you're only going to take it out and use it again? There was something homely about the presence of the dishes in the rack. From the look of it, he lived almost exclusively in the kitchen and enclosed porch. A futon, doubling as a couch, was set up at one end, blankets neatly folded with the pillows stacked on top. There was a TV on the floor. The rest of the porch was taken up with woodworking equipment: a lathe, a drill press, a router, a couple of C clamps, a vise, a wood chisel, a table saw, and an assortment of planes. He was in the process of refinishing two pieces. A chest of drawers had been stripped, pending further attention. A wooden kitchen chair had been laid on its back, its legs sticking out as stiffly as a dead possum's. Shack must sleep every night with the heady scent of turpentine, glue, tung oil, and wood shavings. He caught my look and said, "Virtue of being single. You can do anything you want."
I said, "Amen to that."
Once upon a time, Bundy had sewn the cafe curtains, hanging them on rods across the middle of the row of windows. The green and white checked cotton, probably permanent press, still looked fresh: crisp, carefully laundered, with little clip-on curtain rings. I found my eyes filling inexplicably with tears and had to feign attention to the backyard, which I could see through the glass. Many of the trees remained, as bent as old spines, curving toward the ground from a onceproud height. A saddle of purple morning glories was cinched to the fence, the chicken wire now swaybacked from the weight of the vines. The barbecue grill top had turned red-brown with rust, replaced by a portable kettle grill parked closer to the back steps.
Shack leaned against the wall with his arms folded across his chest. "So what's the reason for the call?"
"I'm looking for Mickey. The only number I have is a disconnect. "
"You have business with him?"
"I may. I'm not sure. Do I need your approval before I telephone the man?"
Shack seemed amused. Bundy had always given him a hard time. Maybe he missed the rough and tumble of conversation. Live alone long enough and you forget what it's like. His smile faded slightly. "No offense, kiddo, but why not leave him alone?"
"I want to know he's okay. I don't intend to bother him. When's the last time you spoke?
"I don't remember."
"I see. Do you have any idea what's going on with him?"
"I'm sure he's fine. Mickey's a big boy. He doesn't need anyone hovering."
"Fair enough," I said, "but I'd like the reassurance. That's all this is. Do you have his current phone or address?"
Shack shook his head and his mouth pulled down. "Nope. He initiates contact when it suits. In between calls, I make a point of leaving him alone. That's the deal we made."
"What about Lit?"
"Roy Littenberg died. The Big C took him out in less than six weeks. This was three years ago."
"I'm sorry to hear that. I liked him."
"Me too. I see his boy now and then: Tim. You'll never guess what he does."
"I give up."
"He bought the Honky-Tonk. Him and Bundy's boy, Scottie, pal around together whenever Scottie's in town."
I said, "Really. I don't remember meeting either one. I think both were off in Vietnam when Mickey and I were hanging out
Similar Books
