His brand-new computer sat
centered on the desk, a top-of-the-line laptop with a wireless card and
a screen big enough to qualify as a home theater in some circles.
Tomorrow, he'd start the story.
#
Alan rang the next-door house's doorbell at eight a.m. He had a bag of
coffees from the Greek diner. Five coffees, one for each bicycle locked
to the wooden railing on the sagging porch plus one for him.
He waited five minutes, then rang the bell again, holding it down,
listening for the sound of footsteps over the muffled jangling of the
buzzer. It took two minutes more, he estimated, but he didn't mind. It
was a beautiful summer day, soft and moist and green, and he could
already smell the fish market over the mellow brown vapors of the strong
coffee.
A young woman in long johns and a baggy tartan T-shirt opened the
door. She was excitingly plump, round and a little jiggly, the kind of
woman Alan had always gone for. Of course, she was all of twenty-two,
and so was certainly not an appropriate romantic interest for him, but
she was fun to look at as she ungummed her eyes and worked the sleep out
of her voice.
"Yes?" she said through the locked screen door. Her voice brooked no
nonsense, which Alan also liked. He'd hire her in a second, if he were
still running a shop. He liked to hire sharp kids like her, get to know
them, try to winkle out their motives and emotions through observation.
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