It was one thing to wave the red flag of guns and illegal drugs before me, but safety hazards, well, that was very difficult for me to overlook.
All Earl needed was one overheated wire to set the entire house ablaze. And once his house was engulfed, would flames spread to the houses on either side of him, or jump across the street to ours, or Trixie's?
It was enough to keep one from finishing a chapter about busybody atheist missionaries trying to bring technological enlightenment to the rest of the galaxy. So I walked out the front door, noticed there was no car in Trixie's driveway other than her own, and decided this would be a good time to drop by. Get her take on what was going on in the neighborhood, see if she had any inkling of what was going on across the street without tipping my hand, even get some tax advice.
And I'd be very clear. I wasn't looking for free advice. I wasn't one of those people who walk up to a doctor at a dinner party and say, "I've got this thing in my shoulder when I move my arm like this, you got any idea what that could be?" She could treat me like anyone else, charge me her regular rates, that was fine. The good thing was, I didn't have to get out the yellow pages and start cold-calling accountants whose reputations I did not know.
I rang the bell. I always feel a bit stupid, standing outside a door waiting for someone to answer, so I slipped my hands into my pockets and tried my best to look nonchalant for anyone who might drive by, which no one did, since almost every other person in this neighborhood was earning a salary in the city through the day.
I rang again, then pressed my ear to the door to see whether I could hear any activity inside.
And then I heard Trixie's voice, tinny, coming from a small speaker box mounted on the wall to the right of the door.
"Can I help you?"
"Hey, it's Zack and -"
"Please press the button to talk."
I placed my thumb over the small, square black button and pushed. "Trixie? Zack. I catch you at a bad time?"
"Oh, Zack, hi. What's up?"
"Sorry, I would have called, but I didn't have your number, and I couldn't find it in the book."
"Is there anything wrong?"
"No, listen, I can come back."
"Look, I thought you were my next appointment. I can't really come to the door right this second. Why don't you put the coffee on, and I'll be by in about an hour?"
"Sure. Sounds good."
As I was turning to walk down the driveway, a beige Impala pulled in. A casually dressed man got out and, as we passed each other, he gave me a wink.
o o o
I plugged in the kettle, measured some coffee into the coffeemaker, and while I waited for the water to boil, sat at the kitchen table and, pencil and paper in hand, started making a list of things to do.
1. Finish last chapter.
2. Fix barbecue.
3. Write letter to Valley Forest Estates demanding action.
4. Bomb offices of Valley Forest Estates.
5. Shove stick of dynamite up ass of Don Greenway.
6. Prepare materials for tax return, get advice from Trixie.
7. Finish caulking around bedroom window.
I glanced out the sliding glass doors and noticed the extension ladder still leaned up against the brick wall of the house, the caulking gun hooked over one of the lower rungs.
8. Buy new tube of caulking.
I put down the pencil and poured boiling hot water into the coffeemaker. If Trixie was true to her word, she'd be over in about twenty minutes. Since that didn't give me enough time to tackle any of the items on my list, I went into my study and started working on my model of the Seaview submarine from Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea. I was having trouble getting the rear fins to stay on properly, and was applying some liquid cement to the underside of the left one when the doorbell rang.
"Hang on!" I shouted. This was probably Trixie, but I was still in the habit of locking the door behind me every time I came in, so I couldn't invite her to walk in on her own. I tried to set the fin in place, but I was going to need to hold it for several seconds, so I abandoned the project and ran to the door.
I was surprised to see that my visitor was not Trixie, but a rugged-looking man in his late twenties, early thirties, wearing a jean jacket and pants flecked with paint and drywall compound and other building materials. In one hand he held an oversized toolbox, and the other was shoved into the front pocket of his pants, only the thumb sticking out. His face was long, lean, and unshaven, at least for a day or so, and his short brown hair was slightly spiked with gel. He was chewing on a toothpick.
"Yes?" I said.
"This is 1481 Greenway?" he said.
"Yes," I said hesitantly.
"I'm here about the shower. Mr. Greenway sent me over. I'm Rick."
Thank you, Detective Flint, for not ratting me out!
"Oh!" I said. "Yes! Come in!"
His boots, I noticed, were dappled with dried mud. He made no effort to remove them as he stepped inside and advanced across the broadloom.