The man who answered the door was tall and stooped — mid-fifties, she guessed — and he looked like a scholar in his wire-rims and the dingy cardigan with the leather elbow patches. His hair was the color of freshly turned dirt and his eyes, slightly distorted and swimming behind the thick lenses, were as blue as the skies over Oklahoma. “Mr. Coles?” she said.
He looked her up and down, taking his time. “And what’re you supposed to be,” he breathed in a wheezy humorless drawl, “the Avon Lady or something?” It was then that she noticed the nervous little woman frozen in the shadows of the hallway behind him. “Everett,” the woman said in a soft, pleading tone, but the man took no notice of her. “Or don’t tell me,” he said, “you’re selling Girl Scout cookies, right?”
When it came to sales, Giselle was unshakable. She saw her opening and thrust out her hand. “Giselle Nyerges,” she said, “I’m from SecureCo? You contacted us about a home security system?”
The woman vanished. The fat man next door blew into his fist and produced a rude noise and Everett Coles, with a grin that showed too much gum, took her hand and led her into the house.
Inside, the place wasn’t as bad as she’d expected. K-Mart taste, of course, furniture made of particle board, hopelessly tacky bric-a-brac, needlepoint homilies on the walls, but at least it was spare. And clean. The man led her through the living room to the open-beam kitchen and threw himself down in a chair at the Formica table. A sliding glass door gave onto the dusty expanse of the backyard. “So,” he said. “Let’s hear it.”
“First I want to tell you how happy I am that you’re considering a SecureCo home security system, Mr. Coles,” she said, sitting opposite him and throwing the latches on her briefcase with a professional snap. “I don’t know if you heard about it,” she said, the conspiratorial whisper creeping into her voice, “but just last week they found a couple — both retirees, on a fixed income — bludgeoned to death in their home not three blocks from here. And they’d been security-conscious too — deadbolts on the doors and safety locks on the windows. The killer was this black man — a Negro — and he was wearing a lifelike mask of President Reagan.…Well, he found this croquet mallet…”
She faltered. The man was looking at her in the oddest way. Really, he was. He was grinning still — grinning as if she were telling a joke — and there was something wrong with his eyes. They seemed to be jerking back and forth in the sockets, jittering like the shiny little balls in a pinball machine. “I know it’s not a pleasant story, Mr. Coles,” she said, “but I like my customers to know that, that…” Those eyes were driving her crazy. She looked down, shuffling through the papers in her briefcase.
“They crowd you,” he said.
“Pardon?” Looking up again.
“Sons of bitches,” he growled, “they crowd you.”
She found herself gazing over his shoulder at the neat little needlepoint display on the kitchen walclass="underline" SEMPER FIDELIS; HOME SWEET HOME; BURN, BABY, BURN.
“You like?” he said.
Burn, Baby, Burn?
“Did them myself.” He dropped the grin and gazed out on nothing. “Got a lot of time on my hands.”
She felt herself slipping. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to go at all. She was wondering if she should hit him with another horror story or get down to inspecting the house and writing up an estimate, when he asked if she wanted a drink. “Thank you, no,” she said. And then, with a smile, “It’s a bit early in the day for me.”
He said nothing, just looked at her with those jumpy blue eyes till she had to turn away. “Shit,” he spat suddenly, “come down off your high horse, lady, let your hair down, loosen up.”
She cleared her throat. “Yes, well, shouldn’t we have a look around so I can assess your needs?”
“Gin,” he said, and his voice was flat and calm again, “it’s the elixir of life.” He made no move to get up from the table. “You’re a good-looking woman, you know that?”
“Thank you,” she said in her smallest voice. “Shouldn’t we—?”
“Got them high heels and pretty little ankles, nice earrings, hair all done up, and that smart little tweed suit — of course you know you’re a good-looking woman. Bet it don’t hurt the sales a bit, huh?”
She couldn’t help herself now. All she wanted was to get up from the table and away from those jittery eyes, sale or no sale. “Listen,” she said, “listen to me. There was this woman and she came home and there was this strange car in her garage—”
“No,” he said, “you listen to me.”
“’Panty Rapist Escapes,’” Hilary read aloud in a clear declamatory tone, setting down her coffee mug and spreading out the “Metro” section as if it were a sacred text. “’Norbert Baptiste, twenty-seven, of Silverlake, dubbed the Panty Rapist because he gagged his victims with their own underthings…’” She broke off to give her husband a look of muted triumph. “You see,” she said, lifting the coffee mug to her lips, “I told you. With their own underthings.”
Ellis Hunsicker was puzzling over the boxscores of the previous night’s ballgames, secure as a snail in its shell. It was early Saturday morning, Mifty and Corinne were in the den watching cartoons, and the house alarm was still set from the previous night. In a while, after he’d finished his muesli and his second cup of coffee, he’d punch in the code and disarm the thing and then maybe do a little gardening and afterward take the girls to the park. He wasn’t really listening, and he murmured a halfhearted reply.
“And can you imagine Tina Carfarct trying to tell me we were just wasting our money on the alarm system?” She pinched her voice in mockery: “’I hate to tell you, Hil, but this is the safest neighborhood in L.A.’ Jesus, she’s like a Pollyanna or something, but you know what it is, don’t you?”
Ellis looked up from the paper.
“They’re too cheap, that’s what — her and Sid both. They’re going to take their chances, hope it happens to the next guy, and all to save a few thousand dollars. It’s sick. It really is.”
Night before last they’d had the Carfarcts and their twelve-year-old boy, Brewster, over for dinner — a nice sole amandine and scalloped potatoes Ellis had whipped up himself — and the chief object of conversation was, of course, the alarm system. “I don’t know,” Sid had said (Sid was forty, handsome as a prince, an investment counselor who’d once taught high-school social studies), “it’s kind of like being a prisoner in your own home.”
“All that money,” Tina chimed in, sucking at the cherry of her second Manhattan, “I mean I don’t think I could stand it. Like Sid says, I’d feel like I was a prisoner or something, afraid to step out into my own yard because some phantom mugger might be lurking in the marigolds.”
“The guy in the Reagan mask was no phantom,” Hilary said, leaning across the table to slash the air with the flat of her hand, bracelets ajangle. “Or those two men—white men — who accosted that woman in her own garage—” She was so wrought up she couldn’t go on. She turned to her husband, tears welling in her eyes. “Go on,” she’d said, “tell them.”
It was then that Tina had made her “safest neighborhood in L.A.” remark and Sid, draining his glass and setting it down carefully on the table, had said in a phlegmy, ruminative voice, “I don’t know, it’s like you’ve got no faith in your fellow man,” to which Ellis had snapped, “Don’t be naive, Sid.”