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Authors: Loren D. Estleman
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gout?”
“I’m in considerable discomfort. Thank you for asking. Please report when you have something.” He was quiet long enough for me to wonder if he was still on the line. Then he said, “Have something soon.”
I cradled the receiver. The string of commercials had come to an end and the M*A*S*H rerun hovered back on. It was the episode in which Hawkeye and Trapper John ordered ribs all the way from Chicago. That reminded me of dinner. I went to check on progress.
I wouldn’t have ordered it from Korea. The breading on the chicken was like oatmeal and the peas were like nothing in nature. I only buy the things because I like how the courses are arranged. If the rest of the human race could keep the house in one compartment, the office in another, and leave the last for dessert, life would be a Banquet ® .
The TV listings had The Magnificent Ambersons on Channel 31 at 3:00 A.M . Old movies on regular television were getting to be as rare as glass bottles. I set the alarm for 2:45 and turned in early. I got up with the bell, plugged in the coffee pot, and sat down in front of a $19.95 electroplated gold necklace on the Home Shopping Network. I checked the selector. It was 31, all right. When it became obvious they weren’t going to interrupt the necklace for Orson Welles I turned off the set and went back to bed. Sometimes the peas jump the little partition and spoil the applesauce.
I’d been asleep five minutes when the kid next door started gunning the Roadrunner.
My first sip of coffee six hours later was from a paper cup at the office. I’d left the pot at home percolating all night and the stuff that eventually came out of the spout was what county road crews use to fill potholes. The counter down the street, where I was accustomed to getting carry-out in good insulating Styrofoam, had in a fit of environmental consciousness switched to waxed cardboard, the kind that started to biodegrade on the way upstairs. I had burns on my fingers to match the brand on my arm from yesterday’s car-window incident. It could have been worse. I could have had gout.
The mail was a trip down memory lane. The dealership that had sold my Cutlass to its original owner before Kent State had tracked me down to inform me that the car was being recalled to repair a loose nut at the base of the steering column that made the doors fly off at sixty-five miles per hour. If their people decided to go into the detective business I was through. Two bills I’d sent out for services rendered came back stamped ADDRESSEE UNKNOWN . An eleven-month-old overdue parking ticket had come to the attention of a clerk downtown who spelled warrant with one R. I filed it under the blotter with the others and slam-dunked everything else. Then I sat back with my eyes closed and waited for my watch to say nine o’clock. That would be as early as I could expect a prime mover like Arsenault to be in his office.
When I woke up shortly before ten I went into the closet, bathed my face, and stood by the fan flapping my damp shirttail while a receptionist put me through. It was another muggy morning, with no relief predicted before the weekend.
“Mr. Arsenault’s office. This is Greta.”
“Hi, Greta. Hot enough for you?”
“Who’s speaking, please?”
“Tell Mr. Arsenault I’m calling for Jay Bell Furlong.”
“Isn’t he very ill?”
“That’s why he isn’t making his own calls.”
“One moment.”
I got violins. It wasn’t until the French horns came in that I realized I was listening to “I Want to Hold Your Hand.” By then the promised moment was long gone.
“This is Lynn Arsenault. Who is this?”
That No. 3 sandpaper never goes with a voice in its early thirties. He sounded like Mr. Potter in a high school production of It’s a Wonderful Life.
“Mr. Arsenault, my name is Amos Walker. I’m a licensed private investigator working for Jay Bell Furlong. I wonder if I could have an interview today.”
“About
“I’m in considerable discomfort. Thank you for asking. Please report when you have something.” He was quiet long enough for me to wonder if he was still on the line. Then he said, “Have something soon.”
I cradled the receiver. The string of commercials had come to an end and the M*A*S*H rerun hovered back on. It was the episode in which Hawkeye and Trapper John ordered ribs all the way from Chicago. That reminded me of dinner. I went to check on progress.
I wouldn’t have ordered it from Korea. The breading on the chicken was like oatmeal and the peas were like nothing in nature. I only buy the things because I like how the courses are arranged. If the rest of the human race could keep the house in one compartment, the office in another, and leave the last for dessert, life would be a Banquet ® .
The TV listings had The Magnificent Ambersons on Channel 31 at 3:00 A.M . Old movies on regular television were getting to be as rare as glass bottles. I set the alarm for 2:45 and turned in early. I got up with the bell, plugged in the coffee pot, and sat down in front of a $19.95 electroplated gold necklace on the Home Shopping Network. I checked the selector. It was 31, all right. When it became obvious they weren’t going to interrupt the necklace for Orson Welles I turned off the set and went back to bed. Sometimes the peas jump the little partition and spoil the applesauce.
I’d been asleep five minutes when the kid next door started gunning the Roadrunner.
My first sip of coffee six hours later was from a paper cup at the office. I’d left the pot at home percolating all night and the stuff that eventually came out of the spout was what county road crews use to fill potholes. The counter down the street, where I was accustomed to getting carry-out in good insulating Styrofoam, had in a fit of environmental consciousness switched to waxed cardboard, the kind that started to biodegrade on the way upstairs. I had burns on my fingers to match the brand on my arm from yesterday’s car-window incident. It could have been worse. I could have had gout.
The mail was a trip down memory lane. The dealership that had sold my Cutlass to its original owner before Kent State had tracked me down to inform me that the car was being recalled to repair a loose nut at the base of the steering column that made the doors fly off at sixty-five miles per hour. If their people decided to go into the detective business I was through. Two bills I’d sent out for services rendered came back stamped ADDRESSEE UNKNOWN . An eleven-month-old overdue parking ticket had come to the attention of a clerk downtown who spelled warrant with one R. I filed it under the blotter with the others and slam-dunked everything else. Then I sat back with my eyes closed and waited for my watch to say nine o’clock. That would be as early as I could expect a prime mover like Arsenault to be in his office.
When I woke up shortly before ten I went into the closet, bathed my face, and stood by the fan flapping my damp shirttail while a receptionist put me through. It was another muggy morning, with no relief predicted before the weekend.
“Mr. Arsenault’s office. This is Greta.”
“Hi, Greta. Hot enough for you?”
“Who’s speaking, please?”
“Tell Mr. Arsenault I’m calling for Jay Bell Furlong.”
“Isn’t he very ill?”
“That’s why he isn’t making his own calls.”
“One moment.”
I got violins. It wasn’t until the French horns came in that I realized I was listening to “I Want to Hold Your Hand.” By then the promised moment was long gone.
“This is Lynn Arsenault. Who is this?”
That No. 3 sandpaper never goes with a voice in its early thirties. He sounded like Mr. Potter in a high school production of It’s a Wonderful Life.
“Mr. Arsenault, my name is Amos Walker. I’m a licensed private investigator working for Jay Bell Furlong. I wonder if I could have an interview today.”
“About
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