Act of God

close” had matured into her “hating” him. When I got the drugstore, though, the pharmacist on duty said Profit wasn’t scheduled to work that day. As I hung up to try his home number, two acne-faced teenagers wearing different T-shirts but identical hiking shorts and Oakland A’s baseball caps sauntered up to the phone. I finished dialing and got just a very reserved outgoing tape message with William Proft’s voice on it. I left my name and number, but also said I might not be reachable.
    While I dialed Pearl Rivkind’s number, the bigger of the two teens hiked his baseball cap and said, “Hey, man. You gonna be all fucking day or what?”
    I smiled sweetly. “Might be. I’ve been trying the new Jose Canseco hotline in Texas , and I’ve just now managed to be put on hold.”
    The bigger kid looked enough like he wanted to take the phone away from me that the smaller kid tugged on his shirtsleeve till his friend tore away from the staring contest and walked with him toward the other end of the mall. In my ear, a male voice said, “Hello?”
    “Hello. Can I speak with Pearl Rivkind, please.”
    “Who is this?”
    The voice reminded me of the bigger kid’s attitude, but I remembered my client mentioning a son, and I tried to put myself in his frame of mind three weeks after his father had been murdered. “This is John Cuddy. I’m working on a project for her.”
    “What kind of project?”
    His tone didn’t change for the better. Then, from offstage, Pearl Rivkind’s voice said, “Larry? Larry, who is it?”
    The kid’s voice said to me, “Look, I don’t want you bothering us, you hear me?”
    “Larry? Who?”
    Pearl ’s voice sounded closer.
    I said, “Can I please—”
    “I’m gonna hang up now.”
    Pearl said, “You don’t hang up on somebody’s calling me. What’d they teach you at that college? Hello?”
    “Pearl, it’s John Cuddy.”
    “Oh, yes.”
    “How are you?”
    “Oh, so-so, just so-so.”
    From offstage, “Mom, what’re you—”
    Away from the receiver, Pearl said, “Larry, that’s enough already. I’m on the phone here.”
    To me, she said, “Sorry.”
    “That’s okay.”
    A little color came into her voice. “You find out something?”
    “I’m afraid not.”
    The color waned. “Guess it’s kind of early.”
    “Kind of. I was hoping to stop by the furniture store today, and I just wanted to make sure that you’d paved the way.”
    “You bet. Everybody knows you’re coming, and most everybody’s there all the time, so don’t worry about before lunch or after or whatever.”
    “It’ll certainly be after.”
    “That’s okay.” She became a little more subdued. “You need me there?”
    “Probably not.”
    A breath. “Good. It’s real hard for me to just stroll around the store like I was shopping it, and it’s just impossible for me to try to... spend time in Abe and Joel’s office there.”
    “I understand.”
    “Anybody gives you trouble—they shouldn’t, but they do, you call me here, okay?”
    “Okay.”
    “Oh, and John?”
    “Yes.”
    “Thanks.”
    “You’re paying me well for what I’m doing.”
    “No. I mean, yes, I know that. I meant more... thanks for thinking to call. I appreciate it.”
    “You’re welcome, Pearl.”
    I hung up the phone, knowing I’d been at least half right in taking the case. Then I took out Darbra Proft’s phone bill and tried the number listed in Salem .
    A gravelly woman’s voice said, “Sixties.”
    “Who is this?”
    “Who’s this?”
    “I just wanted to know your hours of operation.”
    “We don’t do any ‘operating,’ but we’re open ten to six weekdays, ten to five Saturdays, closed Sundays. That about do it for you?”
    Real warmth. “Thanks, Ms. Nugent.”
    “Hey, how did you—”
    I hung up on her and went toward the Prelude to head north on Route 128.

    Darlene Nugent’s store was off Route 114 on Bowdoin Street , just short of the bridge that takes you into downtown Salem , the county seat of Essex . I was in the superior court there once, testifying on a case for Empire Insurance. The courtrooms were straight out of Dickens, and the lawyers’ library had a fireplace tall enough for me to walk into without having to stoop. I couldn’t say the same for “Sixties.”
    It had a lot of windows, as though a miniature Woolworth’s had originally been on the site, but I had to duck to get under the door lintel, and the cowbell on the frame made for a less than grand