Cold Fire

the type who favors bludgeoning with a blunt instrument.”
    “I'm a reporter. We use switchblades. But I haven't killed anyone this week.”
    “Last week?”
    “Two. But they were both door-to-door salesmen.”
    “It's still homicide.”
    “Justifiable, though.”
    “Okay, I accept your offer.”
    Her blue Toyota was at the far curb, two back from the parked car into which the drunk driver had slammed. Downhill, the tow truck was just hauling away the totaled pickup, and the last of the policemen was getting into a patrol car. A few overlooked splinters of tempered glass from the truck's broken windows still glimmered on the blacktop in the late-afternoon sunshine.
    They rode for a block or so in silence.
    Then Holly said, “You have friends in Portland?”
    “Yeah. From college.”
    “That's who you were staying with?”
    “Yeah.”
    “They couldn't take you to the airport?”
    “They could've if it was a morning flight, but this afternoon they were both at work.”
    “Ah,” she said. She commented on clusters of brilliant yellow roses that hung from vines entwining a split-rail fence at a house they passed, and asked if he knew that Portland called itself the City of Roses, which he did. After another silence, she returned to the real conversation: “Their phone wasn't working, huh?”
    “Excuse me?”
    “Your friends.” She shrugged. “I just wondered why you didn't call a cab from their place.”
    “I intended to walk.”
    “To the airport?”
    “My ankle was fine then.”
    “It's still a long walk.”
    “Oh, but I'm a fitness nut.”
    “Very long walk—especially with a suitcase.”
    “It's not that heavy. When I'm exercising, I usually walk with handweights to get an upper-body workout.”
    “I'm a walker myself,” she said, braking for a red light. “I used to run every morning, but my knees started hurting.”
    “Mine too, so I switched to walking. Gives your heart the same workout if you keep up your pace.”
    For a couple of miles, while she drove as slowly as she dared in order to extend the time she had with him, they chatted about physical fitness and fat-free foods. Eventually he said something that allowed her to ask, with complete naturalness, the names of his friends there in Portland.
    “No,” he said.
    “No what?”
    “No, I'm not giving you their names. They're private people, nice people, I don't want them being pestered.”
    “I've never been called a pest before,” she said.
    “No offense, Miss Thorne, but I just wouldn't want them to have to be in the paper and everything, have their lives disrupted.”
    “Lots of people like seeing their names in the newspaper.”
    “Lots don't.”
    “They might enjoy talking about their friend, the big hero.”
    “Sorry,” he said affably, and smiled.
    She was beginning to understand why she found him so appealing: his unshakable poise was irresistible. Having worked for two years in Los Angeles, Holly had known a lot of men who styled themselves as laid-back Californians; each portrayed himself as the epitome of self-possession, Mr. Mellow— rely on me, baby, and the world can never touch either of us; we are beyond the reach of fate —but none actually possessed the cool nerves and unflappable temperament to which he pretended. A Bruce Willis wardrobe, perfect tan, and studied insouciance did not a Bruce Willis make. Self-confidence could be gained through experience, but real aplomb was something you were either born with or learned to imitate—and the imitation was never convincing to the observant eye. However, Jim Ironheart had been born with enough aplomb, if rationed equally to all the men in Rhode Island, to produce an entire state of cool, unflappable types. He faced hurtling trucks and a reporter's questions with the same degree of equanimity. Just being in his company was oddly relaxing and reassuring.
    She said, “That's an interesting name you have.”
    “Jim?”
    He was having fun with her.
    “Ironheart,” she said. “Sounds like an American Indian name.”
    “Wouldn't mind having a little Chippewa or Apache blood, make me less dull, a little bit exotic, mysterious. But it's just the Anglicized version of the family's original German name—Eisenherz.”
    By the time they were on the East Portland Freeway, rapidly approaching the Killingsworth Street exit, Holly was dismayed at the prospect of dropping him at the airline terminal. As a reporter, she still had a lot of unanswered questions.