“Of course you can watch TV, honey. Go on now. Scoot.”
The child didn’t back-talk her mother. She got up from the table like a little lady, giving me a quick, big grin that told me she was eager to get acquainted. The tension of the scene when I’d arrived had evidently stifled the child’s natural curiosity about this stranger her mother had introduced as “Mr. Mallory, a friend,” and she would have plenty of questions for me later. She bounced out.
“Sweet-looking little kid,” I said.
“Yes, she is,” Debbie said, coming out of her uneasy mood with a smile of pride. “Thank God Pat hasn’t taken to beating her.”
“Hey, listen, I repeat: what’s with that Petersen woman?”
“We were in the midst of an argument when you came in, or did you gather that?”
“I gathered. What caused the tiff?”
“Well, it’s my fault, really. I shouldn’t have called her to come over, should’ve had better sense. She and her husband are… were?… good friends of Pat and me, and I thought Sarah would stand behind me in this unpleasant situation. Up till now she’s seemed sympathetic, but come to think of it, ever since the trouble started, she’s encouraged me to try to patch things up with Pat.”
“Meaning she wasn’t happy to hear you had an overnight guest last night.”
“She sure wasn’t. And evidently Pat went over there last night, after he’d sobered up-or healed up, or whatever-and told them quite a different story. About how my new boyfriend attacked him.”
I shook my head, smiling humorlessly. “She was a bad choice to have come over.”
“Couldn’t have been worse. Here I was asking her for protection because I didn’t feel secure here alone, didn’t know what Pat would do after last night, and she comes over and gives me a sermon about what a bad wife I am. I mean-”
“Yeah. I know what you mean. What about Cindy?”
“She was in reading her book and didn’t hear any of it, or much of it anyway, thank God. When Cindy came in for breakfast, just a few minutes before you showed up, the argument continued, but in an understated way that I don’t think Cindy could pick up on.”
“I don’t know. Kids are pretty hip. Eleven years old isn’t babe-in-arms, you know.”
She nodded. “Yes, Cindy realizes things are pretty rocky with her father and me; I can’t hope to hide that from her. But I can protect her from some of it. From stupid, catty bitches like Sarah, I can protect her.”
“And from knowing her mommy’s shacking up with another guy.”
“That, too.” She let me see that tiny grin of hers, the one I fell in love with at thirteen. “Has it gone that far? Are we ‘shacked up’ now?”
I shrugged. “We’ll see. We’ll see what develops. We’ll see what you decide to do about Pat.”
“You mean… you think I ought to be talking to a lawyer. Think I ought to file the papers.”
“It’s your marriage. I’m glad to help you and delighted to… enjoy your company, let’s say. But it’s your marriage, your child, your life, your decision.”
“You’re right, Mal. But I’m not sure if… if I’m strong enough. In some ways I’m as much of a little girl as my daughter in there.”
“Well, there’s no time limit on it.”
“On what?”
“Growing up.”
She thought about that, started to say something, then decided against it. She rose and got me some coffee.
After a third cup (she made great coffee, that woman; her years with Pat had honed her kitchen abilities to a fine edge), I got up from the table, kissed her cheek in thanks, and said, “Can I use your phone?”
“Sure.”
“You mind if I revert to chauvinist and let you do the dishes by yourself this time?”
“Not at all. I’m used to it. Go ahead, make your call.”
I went to the phone on the wall and looked up George Price’s number in the book.
George Price was a black guy who lived a few blocks from me on East Hill. A huge man who was beefy but not fat, George was around fifty years old but could have passed for thirty-five, easy. His face was broad, dominated by a big, disarming, dazzling white grin that had (added to some hard work and perseverance) made George many a dollar over the years. George owned the whole block he lived on and had built (with the help of various of his six sons) his own home and rebuilt most of the other houses on that block. He was, as he put it, “a blackjack of all trades” and liked to refer to himself as “the poor man.” How many poor men do you know that own their whole block?
George was a plumber. And a TV repairman. And a farmer for hire. Also an auto mechanic. Anything, in fact, that could be broken George could fix. He was one of those guys who buys something and, before using it, takes the thing apart to make sure he knows how it ticks, in case a breakdown should occur.
He was also a bit of a con man, as his “poor man” routine might indicate. He could bullshit his way right into your heart, and your pocketbook, but he was very good about standing behind whatever it was he sold you, and generally fixed up whatever it was you bought from him even after his generous personal warranty had run out. For $250 I’d bought a color TV from George just last year, a like-new set that, as George put it, had “a picture more natural than my natural.”
Because he was black, and because he sold things cheap, many of his Port City customers assumed George’s merchandise was obtained in some less-than-legal way. I didn’t believe that, but since so many people did, I thought George would be a good bet for some information.
“How you doin’, Mallory? That TV set hasn’t conked out on you, has it? If it has, the poor man’ll fix it up for you. That’s how I keep my customers happy, you know; a poor man has to treat his friends right.”
I could picture his wide grin as I heard the deep bass voice roll out over the phone. I let him continue with his good-natured bullshit for a while, then cut in.
“George,” I said, “There’s nothing wrong with my set. It’s beautiful.”
“You need something else, then? How ’bout a videotape machine? You ain’t in control of your life if you ain’t in control of your TV, you know.”
“George.”
“Yeah, Mallory?”
“I’m not buying anything, George.”
“Not buyin’ anything?”
“No, George.”
“What, then?”
“I need some help.”
“That toilet of yours backin’ up again? We can get that took care of in a flush.”
“George, not that kind of help. Information.”
“Information?”
“Yeah. You know those break-ins that’ve been going on lately?”
“Sure do. Got my gun by my bed. Look after that whole damn block of mine. No no-good freeloader’s going to lift any of my stuff. What’s wrong with people? Don’t they know you got to work for what you get? Nothin’ comes free.”
“It does for these guys. There’s been eight break-ins so far, and an old lady got killed in the process of the last one.”
“Yeah, I heard about that. Shame. Say, weren’t you the guy that found the old gal’s body?”
“That’s right.”
“And now you want to find these guys yourself?”
“That’s right, George, and before you try to sell me a gun, let me ask you something. Can you tell me the names of anybody in town who might be peddling hot merchandise?”
“Mallory, you know me better than that. Don’t hurt the poor man’s pride. You know my prices are low ’cause I buy from people direct and I got low overhead, and-”
“George. I don’t think you’re involved with these rip-off guys. But lots of people would assume that you do deal in hot goods because you sell stuff right out of your house, your prices are low, and….” I hesitated.
“And ’cause I’m black. Yeah, I suppose you’re right. But so what? So what if people think that? I’m not into hot goods, and that’s that.”
“I just thought that, since some people do assume you handle that sort of merchandise, maybe somebody’s approached you about selling their stolen goods.”