Stephen Phelps
Bastard on the line, Christina said. No, she wouldn’t. ‘Alex Greene on the line,’ she said, as if he deserved the respect – and that’s why I paid her: to sit politely outside my office with her knees pressed together under her neat little desk.
‘Put the bastard through,’ I said.
Voice shaking, he told me about the visit. First the husband, now the wife. I knew what to do with a wife. Kitchen counter, bed, or hood of her car. I could take care of that. But the husband? A war vet? Probably armed and, if Alex Greene knew what he was talking about, definitely crazy. Hard to persuade such a man.
‘What did you tell her?’ I asked Alex.
‘Nothing. I had nothing to say.’
‘That’s right.’
‘I don’t like this.’
‘Who asked you to?’
‘I don’t like—’
‘Your voice is shaking, Alex.’
‘What am I supposed to do now?’
‘You’re a good kid,’ I said. ‘Don’t mess it up.’
‘I’m not a kid.’ As if I’d called him boy.
‘Don’t mess it up.’
He breathed heavily. He could become a problem. He said, ‘She gave me a poem for Sheneel.’
‘Cheaper than flowers.’
‘A love poem. I think she was in love with her.’
‘Did she say so?’
‘The poem did. I could see it in her.’
‘You’re smart, Alex. Smarter than her. Smarter than her husband. Stay calm. Stay cool.’
‘And if I don’t?’
‘You will.’ I said it neither reassuringly nor threateningly and let him make of it what he would.