Death of a Blue Movie Star

shop’s business card, on the back of which was printed the
Miranda
recitation; he knew he’d never remember the words in a real arrest. He’d been called on the carpet several times for failing to wear his service revolver.
    When the conversation turned personal he became quieter, though Rune sensed he wanted to talk. His wife had left him eight months before and she had informal custody of their son. “I want to fight it but I can’t bring myself to. I don’t want to put Adam through that. Anyway, what judge is going to award
me
custody of a ten-year-old kid? I deal with explosive devices all day.”
    “Is that why she left you?”
    Healy pointed across the field. Rune heard the staticky warning again. Another huge flash, followed by a tower of smoke fifty feet high. Rune felt a concussion wave slap her face like a sudden summer wind. The cops watching lifted their fingers to their mouths and whistled. Rune jumped to her feet and applauded.
    “Nitramon cratering charge,” Healy said, studying the smoke.
    “Fantastic!”
    Healy was nodding, looking at her. She caught him and he looked away.
    “The job, you mean?” he asked.
    Rune had forgotten her question. Then she recalled. “The reason your wife left?”
    “I don’t know. I think the reason was I didn’t ever get home. Mentally, I mean. I live in Queens. I’ve got a house with a lab in the basement. One night I’d been doing some work downstairs and I was kind of lost in it and my wife came down and said dinner was ready. I wasn’t paying any attention and I told her about the experiment and I said, ‘You know, this feels just like home.’ And she said, ‘This
is
your home.’”
    Rune said, “Don’t be too hard on yourself. Takes two.”
    He nodded.
    “Still in love with her, huh?”
    “No way,” he said quickly.
    “Uh-huh.”
    “No, really.”
    The sound of wind filled the range. He became silent, almost impenetrable.
    Which would have been one of his wife’s gripes. The difficulty of reaching him.
    After a moment Healy said, “All of a sudden, out of the blue, she says she can’t stand me. I’m just one big irritation. I don’t understand her. I’m never there for her. I was floored. I really asked for it, in a way—I pushed her, I kept telling her how much I loved her, how sorry I was, how I’d do anything…. She said that was just torturing her. I went a little nuts.”
    “Lovers can do that to you,” Rune said.
    Healy continued. “For instance—when she left, Cheryl took the TV. So the next day all I can think about is getting a replacement. I went out and bought
Consumer Reports
and read all about the different kinds of sets. I mean, I had to buy the best TV there was. It became an obsession. Finally, I went to SaveMart and spent—God, I can’t believe it—eleven hundred on this set….”
    “Whoa, that must be one hyper TV.”
    “Sure, but the thing is: I never watch television. I don’t
like
TV. I’d do things like that. I was pretty depressed. Then one day we got a call on this pipe bomb. See, they’re real dangerous because they’re usually filled with gunpowder, which is awfully unstable. Thing weighed about thirty pounds. Turns out it’s planted in front of a big bank downtown. In a stairwell. We can’t get the robot in there so I get a bomb suit on and take a look at it. I could just carry it out to where the robot can pick it up, then put it in the containment vehicle. But I’m thinking, I don’t care if I’m dead or not. So I decide to do a render-safe myself.
    “I started twisting the end off the pipe. And what happened was some of the powder got in the threads of the cap and the friction set off the charge.”
    “God, Sam …”
    “Turned out it was black powder—not smokeless. That’s the weakest explosive you can find. And most of it was wet and didn’t go off. Didn’t do anything more than knock me on my ass and blister my palms. But I said to myself, ‘Healy, time to stop being an asshole.’ That helped me get over her pretty well. And that’s where I am now.”
    “Over her.”
    “Right.”
    After a moment Rune said, “Marriage is a very weird thing. I’m not sure it’s healthy. My mother’s always after me to get married. She has a list of people for me. Nice boys. Her friends’ sons. She’s nondenominational. Jewish, WASP … doesn’t matter to her. Okay, they
are
sort of ranked by professions and, yeah, a doctor’s first—but she doesn’t really care as long as