Jimm Juree 01; Killed at the Whim of a Hat

minutes.”
    “I hope you had a very good reason.” My teeth were grinding together.
    “I listened to music.”
    “You have an iPod.”
    “Yeah, but the laptop’s got that program with the psychedelic animations that move in time to the music. It’s very restful.”
    I counted backward from a hundred in Portuguese.
    ♦
    “And the sink unit was cracked?”
    “Right down the middle.”
    “Well, you see? In such a situation, the customer would normally bring back the damaged unit for us to determine whether the crack was structural or whether excessive force was used on it.”
    “What excessive force can you exert on a sink unit?” I asked.
    He smiled at Arny with a slight rise in his right eyebrow. He was old school. His jacket was a little too large and his choice of tie made you think he didn’t have a wife at home, at least not a fully sighted one. He had ebony-dyed and moussed-back hair that curled up into a gutter at his collar and the look was rounded off with a pencil mustache, HB light.
    “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you and your wife what happens on the spur of the moment in bathrooms.” He winked. Arny looked blank.
    “I think you do,” I said, dumbly.
    We’d arrived in Koon Boondej’s office at the Home Art Building Accessories Mega Store with our sink complaint as an excuse to get past the Service desk. We’d hoped to have the ex-con, ex-manager of Blissy Travel to ourselves, but the Quality Manageress had accompanied us and she was hovering. The realization seemed to loom above the manager that nobody was going to play along with his sex on the sink unit fantasy.
    “We actually have people standing on the sink to paint the ceiling” was his escape. Not terribly convincing.
    “So, how can you tell we didn’t stand on the sink?”
    “We have experts who can determine that.” He smiled and looked at the quality woman. I guessed he meant her. I thought it was time to shake her off.
    “So you have investigators?” I asked.
    “In a way, yes,” he said.
    “Are they the same people who check the qualifications of prospective staff members? People applying for administrative positions, that type of thing?”
    His smile melted at the edges and his dark skin blushed mauve.
    “Are…are you applying for a job?” he asked.
    “It’s tempting,” I said. “Convincing newlyweds to buy taps has always been a dream career for me.”
    “Then I think I can handle this myself,” he told the woman.
    “What about the sink?” she asked.
    “We’ll wipe off the footprints and bring it in for you to look at,” I said.
    She walked out with a sideways frown at her boss. She wanted his job. I’d used that same frown myself. Once the door was shut the manager seemed to develop a nervous tic that unmoussed his hair one strand at a time.
    “What do you want?” he asked.
    “I was concerned about the background of the management here at Home Art.”
    “I don’t know what you mean.”
    A column of hair fell over one eye, leaving behind a slash of bald.
    “Well, let’s just say that somewhere along the line someone by the name of Boondet with a Y gets muddled up with someone else by the name of, ooh, say, Boondej with a ‘j’?”
    I paused for effect. All the features on his face seemed to be attempting to change position. I was in.
    “I mean, could we, with a clear conscience, buy a Jacuzzi jet bathtub from a convicted murderer?” I continued.
    He stood and walked to the door, looked out, twitched, put his hands in his jacket pockets.
    “How much do you want?”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    I noticed Arny looking pale.
    “I know what this is,” said the manager.
    “What is it?”
    “Blackmail.”
    I considered the concept.
    “In a way, yes, you’re right,” I said.
    “I…I know people,” he said.
    I knew what he was getting at but gangland figures didn’t take salaried positions at Home Art.
    “No, you don’t,” I said. “Don’t let your imagination run away with you. We just need information. You tell us what we need to know and your life and your career are secure. You lie to us and I’m not so sure I’ll be able to keep Fang here on his leash. I’m sure you know what I mean.”
    Arny’s hands were shaking on his lap. I suppose it could have been interpreted as pent-up aggression.
    “Who are you?” Boondej asked.
    “Fair-weather friends,” I said.
    I couldn’t remember the name of the movie I’d lifted that from but it worked just fine.
    “What do you