Write me a Letter

taking night classes. I’m still taking them, I’m taking one right now in African art, especially West African. Ashanti . Stuff like that.”
    ” Ashanti , eh?” I said. ”I heard it’s nice there in the spring. Whatever happened to old Ski?”
    ”Blew half his pension by taking early retirement and moved to Arizona ,” she said. ”By the way, there’s Denker.” We turned left off Exposition. ”What number are we looking for?”
    I told her. After a minute or so she pulled up in front of a modest, two-story, stuccoed building that was divided into four apartments, two up, two down. A neatly lettered sign on a wooden gate to the left of the building said d. gresham THE THIRD, BY APPOINTMENT ONLY. SALESMEN, MISSIONARIES, MORMONS & MARIACHI BAND MEMBERS ENTER AT YOUR PERIL.
    As we were none of these, as far as I knew, we entered without undue caution. The path led us around the side of the building to a freshly painted firehouse-red door. Through an open window came a sort of eerie keening, a moaning chant, if you will. Momma made a ”who knows?” gesture, then rapped gently but firmly on the door. After a minute it was opened by a tiny Asian girl with a recently scrubbed face and long, tousled black hair. She was wearing a lemon-colored robe that was split up one side and just failed to cover her bare feet.
    ”Yes?” she whispered.
    ”V. Daniel,” I whispered back. I handed her one of my business cards, one that told the truth for once. ”I’m looking into possible misdemeanors by members of the firm who catered the wedding reception Mr. Gresham played at last night. This is Captain Chapman. I wonder if we might ask Mr. Gresham a couple of quick questions, it’s possible he saw something that might help us with our inquiries. Is he all right, by the way?”
    She giggled. ”It’s just his mantra.”
    ”Hope it clears up,” I said.
    ”Come on in,” she said. ”I suppose it’s OK. He’ll be done in a few minutes.”
    We followed her into D. Gresham’s front room. D. Gresham himself was seated cross-legged on a small prayer mat in one corner, his hands, palm upward, resting on his knees, his eyes open but seemingly unseeing. Directly in front of him was an ornate mirror bedecked with a garland of flowers and in front of the mirror a tinny-looking shrine of some kind. Pungent incense burned in two brass ashtrays on either side of the mirror. The low-pitched moans continued. Whatever he was up to he sure didn’t get from the Anglican Book of Common Prayer.
    ”Make yourselves comfortable,” our hostess whispered. ”Be right back.” She padded out. We made ourselves as comfortable as we could on a settee that looked like it was made out of Meccano parts. The high-tech look, I do believe it’s called. In fact the whole room was high tech except for D. Gresham’s devotional corner; it was also immaculate. The dining table was brushed aluminum; the four chairs around it of the metal, folding type, painted the same red as the front door. One whole wall was covered floor to ceiling with pegboard painted in a bright yellow gloss, against which were displayed five electric guitars in various futuristic shapes, and one conventional acoustic guitar. All the instruments gleamed with good health and regular polishing. I saw nothing that resembled a Hockney, a faience, or a Paul Revere teacup, not that I would have recognized one anyway, I am the first to admit.
    D. Gresham was just winding up his afternoon service when our diminutive hostess returned, wearing embroidered slippers and with her tresses tidied up into one long braid. D. Gresham emitted one last moan, then arose lithely. We introduced ourselves. I apologized sincerely for disturbing his reflections.
    ”I was far from being disturbed,” he said gently, blinking guileless blue eyes up at me. ”Tin-Thieu, have you offered our guests some tea?”
    ”No, no, really,” I protested. ”We’ll only be here a minute, please don’t put yourself out.” I spun him my yarn about Kosher Katering; he stroked his whispy Fu Manchu mustache reflectively as he listened. I asked him if he’d seen anything at all suspicious. He thought for a moment, then shook his head regretfully.
    ”I wish I could help,” he said in his soft voice. ”But I can’t remember paying particular attention to anything about the caterers except they were perhaps a little short on vegetarian food.”
    ”Oh, darn,” Momma said.
    ”Ah, well,” I said, getting to my