9
SUSAN HAD OCCASIONAL designer paroxysms in my office.
Some were good. Some I didn't mind because she liked them.
Occasionally an idea was inspired. The couch was inspired. Susan
and I used it every now and again when we were alone in the office
and going to my place or hers just seemed a long delay in our
plans. Also, when Pearl was visiting she spent much of her time on
it. Another winner was the small refrigerator with an ice maker,
which she had set up just in back of the file cabinet where the
coffeepot sat. She said it was important in case a valuable client
wanted a drink. That hadn't worked out as fully as she had thought
it might. But late in the day, I could sit with my chair swiveled
and look out my office window, and sip scotch and soda in a tall
glass with a lot of ice.
Which was what I was
doing. It was nearly dark, and the rain was falling straight down,
and quite a bit of it. I liked rain. I liked to listen to it. I
liked to watch it. I liked to be out in it, if I was dressed for
the occasion. And inside, with a drink, out of the weather, was
good for feeling secure and domestic. I sat and thought, as I liked
to do, about Susan and me and our time together. It always seemed
to me that being with her was enough, and that everything else,
good or bad, was just background noise. The rain flattened out on
my window, and some of the drops coalesced into a small rivulet
that ran down the glass. My drink was drunk. I swiveled around to
make another one, and Martin Quirk came through my
door.
"I'm off duty,"
Quirk said. "I can have a couple of drinks."
He took off his
raincoat and shook it out, and hung it up. He took off his
old-timey-cop snap-brim fedora and put it on the corner of my desk.
While he was doing this, I made two drinks and handed him
his.
"Soda?" I
said.
Quirk shook his
head.
"Rocks is good," he
said. "Gimme an update."
"Scotch is Dewar's,"
I said." I bought it . . ."
"Jumbo Nelson,"
Quirk said.
"Ahh," I said.
"That."
"That," Quirk said,
and drank some scotch.
I told him about my
visit with Jumbo and with the Lopatas, including Matthew. He
listened without comment.
"So except for
pissing people off," he said when I was done, "you're
nowhere."
"Exactly," I
said.
Quirk
nodded.
"Well," he said.
"You're not there alone."
"Whaddya know about
Zebulon Sixkill," I said.
"Cree Indian," Quirk
said. "Single. No kids. Played football at Cal Wesleyan. Worked as
a bouncer. Met Jumbo while he was bouncing in a club in L.A., and
Jumbo hired him. Arrested a couple times for simple assault. No
other record."
"Where'd he grow
up?" I said.
"Reservation in
Montana," Quirk said.
"He any good?" I
said.
"No idea," Quirk
said. "He looks good."
"He does," I said.
"Rita tells me he was in the living room of a hotel suite while
Dawn Lopata was dying in the bedroom."
"Yep," Quirk said.
"Heard no evil, saw no evil."
"You believe him?" I
said.
Quirk
shrugged.
"I assume he's sat
outside a few bedrooms while Jumbo was in there," Quirk said. "He
probably didn't hear anything he hadn't heard before."
"He won't talk to
you," I said.
"No," Quirk
said.
We sat with our
scotch and didn't say anything. The rain made a quiet chatter on
the windowpanes.
"Raining," Quirk
said.
"Yep."
Quirk's glass was
empty. He held it out to me. I made us two more. And sat and we
drank some.
"You gonna talk to
him?" Quirk said.
"Yes."
"How you gonna go
about that," Quirk said. "You go out to Wellesley, and Jumbo will
have him throw you out again."
"Thought I might
visit him on the set," I said.
"While Jumbo's on
camera," Quirk said.
I
nodded.
"Might work," Quirk
said. "Unless Zebulon bounces you on his own."
"Maybe he can't," I
said.
"Maybe," Quirk
said.
He tossed back the
rest of his scotch, put on his hat and coat, and left.