Short Squeeze by Chris Knopf

them would jump up on the door to get a better look.
    A sharp whistle pulled the dogs away from the car. They ran to the house, then came back down more docilely, followed by a tall, big-boned woman in coveralls. She was somewhere in her thirties, with dark hair afflicted by an excess of kink and wave, like yours truly. Hereyes were pale blue, her face broad and friendly, her stride strong and direct.
    I got out of the car and offered my hand.
    “If you can do that for me, you’ll be a miracle worker,” she said, pointing to my face, while reaching out the other hand to shake.
    This would have been an unusual greeting for anybody, but more so for a woman who’d recently had her face rebuilt.
    “I didn’t think it showed,” I said, unsure of what else to say.
    She lingered over our handshake like my dad’s awkward engineer friends would do as a lame form of flirtation.
    “Are you kidding me? I love freckles.”
    Being the keen-witted, perceptive lawyer that I am, I spotted a miscommunication.
    “I’m Jackie Swaitkowski,” I said. “I’m an attorney. I was hoping to talk to you about a case I’m working on.”
    “You’re not from the Fabulous Face?” she asked, looking bemused but no less friendly.
    “Sorry, no.”
    She dropped my hand, looking a little disappointed.
    “They’re supposed to come today. I finally got up the nerve to try it out.”
    “Try what?”
    “A full neck-up makeover. They come to your house. A plus for me, because I don’t have a car.” She used the tips of her fingers to tap around her face. “First they give you a consult, then do things with peels and mud and face creams.”
    She looked around her property.
    “I spend a lot of time outside,” she said. “After a while I start looking like Jeremiah Johnson.”
    “I understand completely,” I said. “For every hour in court I need at least thirty minutes in a bathtub.”
    The Lab had been shoving against my legs as I spoke to Wendy,and I’d been scrunching around the top of his head. The white shepherd decided to get in on the action. The other dog still held back, moving to and fro, low to the ground and looking up at Wendy with nervous eyes.
    “You said something about a case,” said Wendy.
    “Your uncle’s, Sergey Pontecello. He was a client of mine. Do you mind if we chat for a few minutes?”
    She answered by walking over to a picnic table under a gnarly-looking shade tree. I followed her and we sat across from each other. I looked down at the tabletop and noticed purple and orange lumps of organic debris, obviously fallen from the tree above. Considering too late, as usual, the fate of my favorite lime green jeans.
    “Because he’s dead?” she said.
    I couldn’t tell if the question was rhetorical, so I assumed it wasn’t.
    “He died a few days ago.”
    She folded her hands and looked down at the table.
    “I heard. The police told me.”
    “Did they come out?” I asked.
    She shook her head.
    “I told them everything I could think of on the phone. They said they might call me back, but nothing about seeing me.”
    “Odd way to learn about a dead relative, from the police.”
    “I never talk to my mother. Did she send you?”
    I told her no.
    “You don’t seem too busted up about it,” I said.
    She raised her shoulders, then settled them back down in a languid shrug.
    “Uncle Sergey didn’t mean anything to me. I didn’t wish him any harm, but he was just this weird little dude who married my aunt. Who I mostly knew as a crabby old librarian who smoked like a chimney and insulted waitresses. I only saw her about once a year. What did they do, have a funeral or something?”
    The gray-and-black dog had followed us, staying close to Wendy’s side. I’d forgotten it was there until it startled me by jumping on the bench and sitting down next to her. She stroked the dog’s back.
    “Poaggie always demands a seat at the table.”
    “Everyone needs a protector,” I said.
    “Do you have one?”
    I