Straight Man

prickle, even though I know that Occam’s Razor cannot be applied to this dramatic scenario. If Paul Rourke is going to shoot me from the woods behind my own house, he doesn’t require even one car, much less two, and presumably he wouldn’t want to establish the second Mrs. R. at the scene, unless he’s got a third Mrs. Rourke in mind, some pretty twenty-year-old in his English lit survey course, perhaps. The second Mrs. R., who’s eating a yogurt on my top step, looks like she’s got some good miles left on her, though. She’s licking her plastic spoon suggestively, it seems to me.
    “They’re around back,” she calls down when Julie and I get out. “Planning their strategy.”
    “Good for them,” I say, confident that no strategy that isn’t grounded in chaos theory is likely to work against a man like me. I reach back inside the car and hit the garage door opener so Julie can go inside with her suitcase.
    It turns out that “they” is Paul Rourke and Herbert Schonberg, who apparently meant it about tracking me down this afternoon. They come sauntering around the corner of the house, their heads down, their hands in their pockets. Herbert seems to be urgently impressing some point upon his companion, who’s neither buying nor selling. They’re a pretty odd couple. Normally Herbert and Rourke wouldn’t have much use for each other, but these are not normal times.
    It’s Herbert who makes a show of being glad to see me, hurrying forward, hand extended. “We took a walk in your woods, Hank,” he admits. “I hope you don’t mind.” He’s puffing heroically, a small man with a large belly, unused to physical exertion. Rourke, I note, is not breathing hard.
    “You’re a hard man to corner,” Herbert continues, after we’ve shaken hands. His tone is jovial—no hard feelings about my being so slippery, he seems to be saying.
    “I’m not cornered yet, Herbert,” I remind him. “You’re not parked behind me, I’m parked behind you.”
    Paul Rourke, who knows me far better than Herbert, and therefore knows that I’m not cornered, doesn’t pretend he’s glad to see me. When Herbert and I shook hands, he didn’t even take his own out of his pockets. Instead he follows Julie into the garage with his eyes. He does not appear to be trying to figure out what’s behind the sunglasses, or why my daughter has a suitcase. His gaze is noted by not only the young woman’s father but the second Mrs. R., who drops her plastic spoon into her empty yogurt container. “What?” Rourke wants to know, glancing up at her.
    “Nothing.”
    Rourke snorts, as if he’s not surprised it’s nothing, given the source.
    So far he hasn’t acknowledged my presence with eye contact, which is fine by me. For years, since the day he threw me up against thewall at the English Christmas party, we’ve avoided open conflict by not taking each other on directly. If our arena of conflict were a boxing ring, he’d have conceded to me the entire perimeter. I can dance and run and play on the ropes with impunity, like the lightweight coward I am. He has no desire, he lets on, to chase me, an activity that would be undignified for a heavyweight like himself. But if I’m ever foolish enough to venture into the center of the ring, he’ll make short work of me, as he has before. This is his public posture, maintained with sly insults and knowing sneers, the occasional taunt. I suspect that his leering after my daughter is a taunt of sorts.
    I’m not a coward, but I can play that role. I turn my attention to Herbert, and grin at him all friendly-like. I can take Herbert. One arm tied behind my back.
    “We’re hoping you’ll give us a half hour of your time, Hank. Paulie here has offered the use of his place if that’s more convenient.”
    “Nah,” I say. “It’s nicer over here.”
    Rourke’s jaw works a little, but that’s his only reaction. It’s a nice long jab I’ve got. Sometimes I can nail him from the corner of the ring, sitting atop the turnbuckle.
    “Is Lily home?” Herbert wants to know.
    My wife’s name must have been part of his briefing out there in the woods. “You mean Lila?” I ask.
    Herbert, alarmed, glances over at Rourke, who sighs.
    “Just kidding,” I say. “Some people call her that.”
    “ ’Cause this has got to be strictly private,” Herbert says, regaining his equilibrium.
    “Can I come in?” the second Mrs. R. wants to know, her voice following us inside.
    “Maybe