As she rides by

would that be?”
    I explained who it would be, and how it came about that I was calling her, and said I hoped I wasn’t disturbing her.
    “What’s to disturb?” she said. “All I’m doing is sitting here looking at a lot of packing cases. Disturb, please.”
    “Would you mind if I disturbed you in person for a few minutes, Mrs. Flint? I promise I’ll help you wrap the china.”
    “I don’t see what good it’ll do,” she said. “But come if you want to—Mr. Daniel, was it? I’m not going anywhere. Until Saturday, that is—then I’m going somewhere—away from here.”
    “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll be by in about half an hour, if that’s convenient.” She said it was fine by her, and did I know where she lived and how to get there? I said I knew where she lived and could look up how to get there, and see you soon, then.
    All my maps were in the bottom right drawer of my desk; I got out the Rand McNally street map of Los Angeles , and looked up her street, which was Baxter. Baxter, Baxter—there it was, right next to the Silver Lake Reservoir, east-southeast of me. I stowed the map away, locked up, shooed King into the backseat where he knew he belonged, and off we went. East on the Ventura Freeway, change-o to the Golden State, pick up the last bit of the Glendale Freeway, cut back up Glendale Boulevard, and hello, Baxter. Mrs. Flint’s home was the last one on the right-hand side before Baxter ran into Rockford ; the reservoir sparkled away some hundred yards in front of me. It was a pleasant residential area, with lots of trees and good-sized yards with well-tended lawns.
    As I was getting out of the car, Mrs. Flint came out the front door and walked across the lawn to greet me. She was a slim, fortyish lady, in paint-spattered overalls, and with a bandana protecting her hair. She held out a hand to me. I took it.
    “I’m Debby Flint,” she said. “Pardon my getup.”
    “Vic Daniel,” I said. “Don’t give it a thought.”
    “Who is that?” she asked, with a nod in the dog’s direction.
    “That’s my boy,” I said. “King.”
    “Might as well bring him in too,” she said. “I presume he’s house-broken, not that it would matter, the mess the house is in.”
    “Well, I’m not sure,” I said. “We’ve been staying in hotels.”
    She cast her eyes heavenward. “I’m not so sure I’ll let you in after all,” she said. “But, seeing as you’re here...”
    We followed her across the lawn, up the steps, in through the front door, then wended our way around half-filled packing cases and cardboard boxes to the kitchen. She gave one unoffending carton a none-too-gentle kick on the way. Once arrived, she said, “Plonk yourself down.” I did so, in one of four aluminum chairs in the breakfast nook. “Want some cold bad coffee, or should I make some hot bad coffee?”
    “Neither, thank you,” I said. “When are the movers coming?”
    “Friday morning,” she said. “I can hear the sound of breaking glass already.”
    “If you really need a hand, Mrs. Flint,” I offered, “I’m available for an hour or two.”
    “Well, aren’t you the sweetest thing,” she said. “Nah, it’ll be all right, the two kids from next door are coming in after school to give me a well-greased hand.” She tucked an errant strand of hair back under the bandana. “Also, my name is Debby.”
    “Victor,” I said. “Where are you going, Debby?”
    “Would you believe Minnesota ?” she said. “ Hutchinson , Minnesota . In the unlikely event that you haven’t heard of Hutchinson , Minnesota , it’s about fifty miles west of Minneapolis .”
    “Why there?” I said, restraining a shudder.
    “Family,” she said. “Licking my wounds and all that in the bosom of. Least I’m out of here. We never liked it here. However, Victor, as you may well know, if you choose to work for a large corporation, you do not always get to choose where you want to live, like before we were stuck up outside Oakland . I bet even you know that, don’t you?” She said to the dog, who was investigating an interesting-looking stain on one of her rolled-up cuffs. “Now. Victor. It’s been over six months, I’m over the worst of it, except for the occasional backlash that only wops me fifteen or twenty times a day now, to say nothing of the nights. So pop me the dreaded questions and I’ll give you the dreaded answers and then go back to trying to figure out what to throw away and what to give away