Singer 02 - Long Time No See by Susan Isaacs Page B

pink in the gingham of his short-sleeved shirt, an odd choice of fabric, but perhaps one of his chums had hijacked the wrong truck. His slacks were a white linen that picked up on the white checks in the gingham and matched the white loafers. As did his white patent-leather belt. I decided it was not politic to mention one does not wear such attire until after Memorial Day or, ideally, ever.
    “Gregory’s lawyer’s got some detective she works with,” Fancy Phil continued. “His lawyer’s a she. Anyhow, she says her guy—this ex-cop—knows his ass from his elbow. Pardon my French. But listen, an ex-cop ... What can I tell you? You know how the world works.”
    “I have a general idea,” I conceded.
    “What I mean is, you’re no kid.” Wearily, I nodded. “I meant that as a serious compliment.” With what I guessed was his suave gesture, Fancy Phil smoothed back his hair with the heels of his hands. The top had thinned, but the sides and back were thick and profoundly dark, a black that does not occur in nature. It was held in position by a mousse that apparently hardened into Plexiglas upon application. “Like, for instance,” he went on, “you didn’t scream when you saw me in the garage, which, to tell you the truth, I was a little worried you’d do. Not that I’d blame you. I mean, here I am, some guy you never met before. Except I figured, Hey, if she knows enough to think she should get hired, she probably saw my picture on TV or in the paper, with all the publicity about the thing with—” He looked away from me, past his snake bracelet, down into the jumble of popcorn, and in a mournful tone added: “Courtney.”
    For a moment after he uttered her name he seemed mesmerized by the yellow-white puffs, no two alike. Then he began playing knock hockey with one of the few unpopped amber kernels. At long last he shrugged and went on as if no time at all had passed: “So I figured about you, she’s not gonna think I’m some dangerous lunatic in her garage. Sorry if I scared you. But it wouldn’t be a good idea for me to sit outside in my car. You know how people are.” He shook his head, disheartened by man’s distrust of his fellowman. “One of your neighbors could dial 911.”
    “Where did you put your car?”
    “I had a friend of mine drop me off. I don’t want trouble with cops. Know what I mean?”
    “I do.” The popcorn, I was relieved to see, was a success, though some diet guru or woman in Fancy Phil’s life had clearly coached him to eat only one puff at a time, not a handful. But his arm kept moving so swiftly between bowl and mouth it was almost a blur.
    I fetched a Diet Coke and joined him at the kitchen table. “Anyway,” he went on, “you not being a kid, you being someone who’s a doctor of history, you probably could dig up stuff from a library or computer or whatever that this ex-cop won’t even think of.”
    “I was trying to explain my research capabilities to your son,” I said. “Also, I know the mores of this community. Your son’s neighbors might offer me information they wouldn’t confide in an ex-cop.”
    “‘The Moreys,’“ he repeated. I saw he was trying to recall if the Moreys were a Shorehaven couple Greg had mentioned. Not that Fancy Phil was stupid. On the contrary. Even in the garage I sensed he was not just observing me, but was using my every word, my every action to add to his sum of knowledge. Moment by moment, he recalculated more precisely who and what I was.
    “Mores,” I said offhandedly. “Local customs. Also, I’ve had a little experience investigating—”
    “Yeah, I know. The dead dentist. Dr. Dirty. I remember seeing your picture in the paper.” I must have looked surprised, because Fancy Phil gave me a smile, a surprisingly likable flash of teeth and popcorn. “I got an incredible memory,” he explained, in the modest manner of a man stating the simplest fact about himself. “I said to myself, way back then, ‘Hey,