Chapter 17

The Rec Room of Sound plays, the soufflé rises, and Otis stares out at us from his computer. “Here’s Percy Sledge doing another Dan Penn, Spooner Oldham composition called, ‘It Tears Me Up,’” he says, “which I intend to do myself, shortly, thanks to our friend, Muller. We’re on our way to ‘I Want to Be Free,’ by Joe Tex. Here’s a little known fact. James Brown stole Joe’s dance moves, especially dropping to his knees and the cape. Stay tuned. I’ll be back after I eat my wacky brownie.”

I jump up and head for the door.

“Sam—” Mary says.

“I left my wallet at the liquor store.” I run out, jump in my car, and drive like crazy over to Otis’s house. Max and Ruby are out front trimming roses. I run past them up the front steps. “Crisis,” I yell, and they follow.

“What’s up?” Max says.

“Your father’s naming names,” I say.

We find Otis downstairs, licking his fingers. “I’m gonna take a short siesta on the couch, folks,” he says. “I’ll just let Albert King play through. In the meantime, look around your houses and see if you need any painting done. My wife’s affordable and thorough. Don’t believe that crap about College Painters. They’re all immigrants getting ripped off left and right.”

I drag Otis out of frame and upstairs. “You said Muller’s name on air, you dumb bastard,” I say. “My daughter can hear that.”

Otis’s eyes remind me of a bass. “Freedom of speech is guaranteed under the First Amendment”—he hiccups and slaps his chest—“of our beloved Constitution.”

“Fuck the Constitution,” I say. “Quit saying Muller’s name on air. Quit saying it period. If my wife finds out we’re making grass brownies, there won’t be any more. Understand?”

“Duly noted,” he says.

“Sorry, Sam,” Max says. “On that same subject, though. Any chance of Muller making another batch? Otis cleaned us out.”

“Not according to him,” I say.

“Have you been hiding brownies, old man?” Max says, grabbing Otis. “Is this my shirt? Stop wearing my clothes.”

“I put clean shirts in your drawer yesterday, Otis,” Ruby says.

“I have to go,” I say. “Muller’s making soufflé.”

“God, I’m starving, Ruby,” Otis says. “Make a soufflé, will you?”

“I don’t know how to make a soufflé.”

“Make your own soufflé, old man,” Max says. “Hoarding our brownies. You’re lucky we don’t lock you downstairs again.”

“One little soufflé!”

“Forget it, Otis, we got gardening to do.”