Main Street was a couple of blocks that crawled past a one-story bank so petite it resembled a county-fair model. Yellow brick, tile roof, gilt script on the windows over drawn Venetian blinds. CLOSED. Then a general store, a couple of saloons, one with a handwritten MENUDO TODAY poster taped to the front window, and a silvered-wood barnlike structure advertising auto repair, tack and ferrier supplies, bait and tackle.
Milo drove another half block until we reached more empty freightyard. Stopping and consulting his Thomas Guide, he jabbed a finger at a map page and said, “Okay, no problem. No problem finding anything here. We’re not talking Megalopolis.”
“No problem,” I said, “if you know there’s something to look for.”
Circling the tack shop, he drove down a back street, crossed Main, and coasted for another couple of blocks before turning off onto Orchard. The road took on a mild grade, turned to dirt, and ended at a bungalow court. Flat-roofed buildings of yellow stucco. Half a dozen of them, less than a foot of separation between the units. In the center, a plaster fountain that hadn’t spouted for a long time. The Volvo was parked at the curb, windows open, unoccupied, with a cardboard sunscreen stretched across the windshield.
We got out. The air was broiling and smelled like marmalade. Milo pointed again, this time for direction. We walked past the bungalows, taking a dusty path that ran along the right side of the court. Behind the units, in what would have been the backyard, was another building, fenced by waist-high pickets that needed priming and painting. White frame cottage, green sash and shutters, tar roof, warped porch, plank swing hanging lopsided from one piece of rope. To the left, a weeping willow grew out of the dirt- dreaming the impossible dream. Huge and rich with foliage it imprisoned the tiny house in a wide black ellipse of shade.
The drapes were drawn. Milo pointed to the left of the big tree and I followed him. Two-step cement porch. Rear panel door. He knocked.
A voice said, “Who is it?”
Milo said, “Naranjas.”
“Sorry, we’ve got.”
Milo raised his voice and gave it a plaintive twist. “Naranjas! Muy barato! Muy bonito!”
The door opened. Milo shoved his foot in it and smiled.
Ted Dinwiddie stared out at us, startled, his ruddy face mottled by patches of pallor.
He said, “I-” and remained frozen. He was dressed the same way he’d been at the market, minus the apron: blue broadcloth shirt rolled to the elbows, rep tie loosened at the neck, khaki slacks, rubber-soled cordovans. Same good burgher’s uniform he wore every day…
He kept staring, finally managed to move his lips.
“What is it?”
Milo said, “Even though my mother spent years trying to convince me otherwise, I never developed a taste for asparagus. So I guess we’re here to see your other special.”
Dinwiddie said, “I don’t know what you-”
“Look,” said Milo, his voice gentle and scary at the same time, “I was never any fashion model- I need all the help I can get to be able to walk down the street without freaking out little kids. This”- he pointed to his eye- “ain’t exactly help.”
Dinwiddie said, “I’m sor-”
“Can the apologies,” said Milo. “Your being a little more forthcoming in the first place might have prevented substantial pain and suffering to my person.”
I said, “He’s understating. The two of us nearly lost our lives trying to figure it out.”
Dinwiddie said, “I know that. I read the papers, for God’s sake.” He bit his lip. “I’m sorry. I never meant for it to-”
“Then how about you let us in out of the heat?” Milo said.
“I- What purpose would that really serve?”
Milo turned to me: “What’s that word you used, Dr. Delaware?”
“Closure.”
“Closure, Ted. Dr. Delaware and I would like some closure.”
Dinwiddie bit his lip again and tugged his straw mustache. “Closure,” he said.
“You took psychology,” said Milo. “Or was it sociology? Either case, that should mean something to you. Man’s search for meaning and finality in a cruel, ambiguous world? Man trying to figure out what the fuck is going on?”
He grinned and put his hand on the doorknob.
Dinwiddie said, “And after that, what?”
“That’s it, Ted. Scout’s honor.”
“I don’t believe much in honor anymore, Detective.”
Milo lifted the bill of his baseball cap and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Brushed away black hair and exposed white, sweaty skin, knobbed and scraped and scabbed.
Dinwiddie winced.
Milo tapped his foot. “Lost your innocence, huh? Well, bully for you, Mr. Clean, but there’s still plenty of explaining to do.”
A voice sounded behind Dinwiddie, the words incomprehensible but the tone pure question mark. The grocer looked over his shoulder and Milo took the opportunity to grasp his shoulders, move him aside like a toy, and walk into the house.
Before Dinwiddie realized what was happening, I was inside too. Small kitchen hot as a steambath, with white cabinets and counter tops of yellow tile laid diagonally and bordered with wine-colored bullnose. Open doorway to a paneled room. Yellow enamel walls, white porcelain sink, four-burner gas stove, a Pyrex carafe half-filled with water on one of the burners. Five big paper double-bags printed with the name of Dinwiddie’s market sitting on the counter. A sixth bag, unpacked: boxes of cereal, bags of whole wheat flour and sugar, sausages, smoked meats and fish, spaghetti, tea, a jumbo mocha-colored can of deluxe-grade Colombian coffee.
Holding the can was a boy wearing a baggy T-shirt and cutoff jeans. I knew his age, but he looked younger. Could have been a high school senior. Varsity letter in basketball.
Mocha-colored himself. Very tall, very thin, light-brown hair worn in a two-inch Afro- longer than in his photo. Full lips, Roman nose. His father’s nose.
Almond eyes full of terror.
He lifted the can as if it were a weapon.
Milo said, “It’s all right, son. We’re not here to hurt you.”
The boy darted his head at Dinwiddie. The grocer said, “These are the two I told you about, Ike. The cop and the psychologist. According to the papers, they’re on the right side.”
“The papers,” said the boy. Aiming for defiance, but his voice was reedy, uneven, adolescent in its lack of confidence. Big hands tightened around the can. His legs were skinny and hairless- cinnamon sticks perched on bare feet.
“I don’t want to talk to you,” he said.
“Maybe so,” said Milo, walking up to him and standing on the balls of his feet to go eye to eye. “But you owe us, son. You owe someone else, too, but it’s too late for that. At least this is a debt you can pay.”
The boy retracted his head and blinked. The hand holding the can faltered. Milo reached up and took it from him. “French roast,” he said, examining the label. “Only the best for a super-hip fugitive, huh? And look at all this other good stuff.” Motioning toward the counter. “Granola. Pasta- what is that, tagliarini? Looks like you’ve got yourself hunkered down for the long haul, son. Comfy. Lot more comfy than where Holly ended up.”
The boy clenched his eyes shut and opened them, blinked again. Several times. Harder. A tear rolled down his cheek and his Adam’s apple rose and fell.
“Ike,” said Dinwiddie, alarmed, “we’ve been through that. Don’t let him guilt-trip you.” A cold look at Milo. “Hasn’t he been through enough?”