Shallow Graves

see you. Cotter.“
    My knowing his name confused him more. “Me? What about?“
    Putting away the holder, I said, “Look, can I get up?“
    He relaxed from his stance. “Uh, sure.“
    I took a deep breath as I got halfway to my feet, then rose completely, brushing the spruce needles off my pants and sleeves. “How about we go inside?“
    “Sure. Okay.“
    Cotter turned completely around, giving me his back. Whoever trained him left out the instincts.
    I followed the rugby shirt to a patio with blue and white all-weather pipe furniture that cost more than my car. French doors led to a solarium room with more furniture, only nicer. We then entered what I guessed was a playroom, decked out like an elaborate sports bar. A large television screen was embedded in the facing wall. The screen was in freeze-frame, one man in an odd helmet swinging on a Tarzan vine toward another, muscle-bound guy standing on a pedestal and holding a padded riot shield.
    Cotter caught me staring at the screen. “ American Gladiators."
    I said, “What?“
    “ American Gladiators. It’s a TV show. Here.“
    Cotter picked up a remote device from an easy chair. The screen came back to live action. Cheers from what sounded like a studio audience for one swinger who knocked his targeted shield-bearer off the pedestal, groans for another who didn’t.
    I said, “This is on the level?“
    “Sure. I taped it last Saturday. I’m studying to be on it.“
    “Studying.“
    “Right. I want to make the transition—from print to TV? I need to show the ad agencies what I can do. This would be a great showcase, even though I couldn’t really use the karate.“
    Cotter pronounced the word “kuh- rah -tay,“ with the same inflection some people use to make tomato “tuh- mah -toe.”
    I looked back at the screen. The odd helmets of the contestants apparently held cameras. In slow-motion replay, we got to see each shield-bearer prepare for collision as the camera swung with the contestant at him. On the ground, two guys I vaguely remembered from NFL broadcasting booths interviewed the successful contestant with much shoulder slapping and manly grinning.
    I said, “This is what they do? Swing at each other?“
    “That’s just the Human Cannonball segment. There’s also Breakthrough and Conquer, The Eliminator—“
    “I’ll take your word for it.“
    “Hold on. The chicks’ll be up next.“
    Two female contestants, the football announcer referring to them as “contenders,“ were on screen. Two stolid female gladiators, named I think “Diamond“ and “Lace,“ readied themselves for repelling boarders. I turned away from the immediate future of American culture.
    “You suppose we could talk without the competition?“
    “Uh, sure.“
    Using the remote to stop the tape and blacken the screen, Cotter dropped into a chair. One leg slung over the armrest, the other stretched out on the floor, his own arms lazing along the back and down one side of the chair. A little too perfect to be anything but a pose.
    “You have any idea why I’m here?“
    Cotter seemed confused again, the vapid look from his comp card. “Uh, no. Why, should I?“
    It might be an act, or he might just be dense as a post. “I’m investigating the death of Mau Tim Dani.“
    That broke the pose. I thought I was going to have to deal with the “Kuh- rah -tay“ Kid again.
    He said, “You find the guy yet?“
    “The guy who killed her?“
    “Yeah, the guy who killed her. That’s what you do, right? Find the killer when the cops are too stupid.“
    Too much time in front of the tube. “Not always. She have any enemies you know of?“
    “Enemies? Mau Tim?“ He seemed to try to think for a minute. “She got killed by some druggie breaking in, right?“
    “We don’t know that.“
    The idea seemed to dawn on him all at once. “You mean, like she was really murdered?“
    As opposed to sort of murdered. “It’s a possibility.“
    “Oh, man. This is too much.“
    The head shook, but the hair stayed put. I waited him out. Cotter looked up at me, suddenly red-eyed. “Man, she was so beautiful, who’d want her dead?“
    “Maybe somebody who was jealous of her. Or jealous of her boyfriends.“
    The eyes cleared. “You son of a bitch.“
    Cotter came out of the chair, but this time I was up at the same count. He whipped the right foot at me in a backhand motion, but not the way you should, not as a feint for another move. Stepping toward him, I parried with