True-Life Adventure

about.”
    “Calm down. Nobody’s going to kill you. It could be love, fool.”
    “Debbie, of course it’s love. Marry me.”
    “Hush, I’m thinking. How long have you been staying with Sardis?”
    “Four days. If you count the night I passed out on her couch.”
    “Have you had any fights yet?”
    “Deb, in case you haven’t been listening, my life may be at stake.”
    “Better yet. That means you’re under stress— fights run statistically higher than average under stress conditions. And you can be a brat. I’ve seen it.” Debbie nodded some more, still evaluating. “She sounds good; I’d go for it.”
    “But—”
    “Paul. Stop a minute. How do you really feel about her?”
    I didn’t answer. I was trying to think.
    “Tell your auntie.”
    I took a deep breath. “She’s terrific.”
    “That’s what you think about her. How do you feel?”
    Another deep breath. “Pretty strongly.”
    “That’s what I thought. It’s 4:30 Friday afternoon, May 7, okay? In a month, let’s have another chat.”
    I didn’t see what she was getting at. “You’ve lost me.”
    “Well, it’s this way— I’ve kind of noticed over the years that you’ve got sort of a selective memory about certain things. A month from now I’m just going to remind you what you said today. That’s all.”
    “Jesus, Debbie. I was hoping for a little sympathy. And all I’m getting is a lecture on something I don’t even understand. You’re not making any sense, you know that?”
    “I’m just saying be a little extra careful with Sardis; you could blow it real easy.”
    “I could die real easy, goddammit!”
    “Nonsense. If they wanted to kill you, you’d be dead already.”
    I stopped staring into my glass and stared at Debbie instead. I didn’t speak, trying to assimilate what she’d said, but she made it easy for me: “They’re trying to scare you off the story, that’s all. Think about it. All the guy in the car had to do was make it look like he was trying to run you down. And a Molotov cocktail in your window— come on! The brakes are sillier still, unless you were parked on Mt. Diablo or something.”
    On reflection, I decided she was right, sort of. If the murderer really wanted to kill me, he’d just do it— like he’d killed Jack and Brissette and Tillman. So Deb was probably right; he probably was just trying to scare me. But the way he was going about it, I felt he harbored a reckless disregard for my health.
    Still, I left Deb feeling somewhat cheered. Somewhat beat my previous cheered level all to hell.
    The mood lasted until I got home and found an empty house. I could have called Sardis to see if she was working late, but I felt that would be interfering in her life. I could have made myself an omelet and some home fries. But hell. I was full of afternoon martinis and evening beer. I’d had the worst day of my life, unless you counted the one three days earlier when I woke up and found my house had ceased being a home.
    I fed Spot and we both went to sleep on Sardis’ bed.
    She shook me awake after a while. “Have you eaten?”
    “No. What time is it?”
    “Nearly nine. I worked late again.” She kissed me.
    And all of a sudden I felt the best I’d felt all day. Considering the kind of day it was, I’d better rephrase that— I actually felt good. Like maybe things were going to get better after all.
    And they did. Right away.
    We had a very late supper, but by that time we were all showered and sated. There never was a better omelet or better home fries.
    While we ate, I told Sardis the bad news and the bad news. First I told her about the brakes, because it was the worst (technically, the worse, if you care). I tempered the story with Debbie’s theory and found it had the same somewhat cheering effect on Sardis that it had on me. And then I ruined her evening a second time by telling her the cops hadn’t found Lindsay. Once again we tried to figure out where she was and failed. So we moved on to the mystery woman. Sardis pointed out that even Susanna matched the description. I added that so did Joan. And Marilyn Markham. And if you stretched curly to mean wavy and dark to mean non-blonde, so did Sardis. So did Booker Kessler’s pal, Denise.
    It was very discouraging.
    Sardis kissed me again. She suggested we rest our minds with a nooky break, but I was too wound up. I stayed up awhile after she went to bed, trying to make sense out of any of it. I didn’t realize I’d fallen