The Axeman's Jazz (Skip Langdon Mystery Series #2) (The Skip Langdon Series) by Julie Smith

could almost feel the flow of energy she talked about. Who was he to say she was wrong? Even he knew doctors knew nothing about nutrition. She talked like a Venusian, but maybe this elfin, slightly nutty woman knew more than he did. He could never have thought of all those puns with Missy. Being around Di energized him, kicked something into gear.
    “I’ll bet you’re a writer,” she said. “You’re so clever! A poet, maybe.”
    He preened. He wasn’t clever. He was smart, sure, like all the Gerards were smart, smart like a scientist, but his brother was the clever one, the only Gerard who was different. Before now, he’d no more thought he could make up a line of poetry than wrestle an alligator.
    He said, “No. Just a student.” He’d meant to leave it at that, not mention the suddenly mundane thing he actually did, but he realized that “student” alone sounded absurdly young. “A medical student,” he added.
    “In that case, be Jean-Paul.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “I checked on those names for you. Jean-Paul is an eight—philosophical and mature; intense, determined. That could work for a doctor.”
    “You checked on those names for me?” He was so immensely flattered he had hardly heard what she said.
    “In either case, Arthur or Jean-Paul, your cornerstone would be one. Very creative and original. A visionary, really.”
    Now he was embarrassed. Surely he didn’t deserve this much attention. And he was no visionary. More like a plodder. He wanted to get the spotlight off him before it revealed unpleasant truths. He said, “What do you do, Di?”
    “Me? You mean my job?”
    He nodded.
    “I’m going to meetings right now. I go to three most days—I’m playing hooky today, but I’ll go tonight. I think I can go to two—two really good ones.”
    “I see.”
    “I guess I’d have to say my job right now is healing myself.”
    Absently, Abe wrapped the last crusts of his dreary sandwich in aluminum foil, not thinking about the task, looking miserably out his office window.
    Shit, I hate this place
, he thought.
    He wouldn’t have to be here at all if it weren’t for goddamn Cynthia. Cynthia controlled the universe.
    Mine, anyway. And there’s not a goddamn thing I can do about it.
    He had eaten staring glumly at the facade of the building across the street, possibly the only ugly building in the entire town, its architecture being possibly the only thing in town he could stand.
    Now he walked to the window and looked down on the street, wanting to take a walk but knowing the heat was killing.
    A lovely woman walked by—a lithe, very young one in a blue cotton dress. A blonde. He felt an unreasonable hunger rise up in his loins, a scary, uncontrollable tidal wave of a thing. He sat down again, dizzy, overwhelmed by the wave.
    He knew her number—Missy’s, not that girl’s. He had gotten it from the list. But she wouldn’t be home. What was the point?
    Automatically, he dialed it, the act performed by the robot that had taken over his body, that was being run by that tidal wave, that wouldn’t be stopped. Her machine answered—and then there was a click and she said, “Hello?”
    “I didn’t think you’d be home.”
    “It’s my lunch hour,” she said. “I forgot something.”
    “Missy, this is Abe. Abe from the program.”
    “Abe.” He could hear her taking a breath, searching her memory banks. “I think I know you.”
    “I was at Al-Anon Monday. I just wanted to tell you I was really inspired by what you said.”
    “Thank you.” She was hesitant, sounded properly flattered.
    “I thought … Well, I’m going through something too. I’d like to talk to you.”
    “I remember you now. You’re the one with the bald spot.”
    Oh, Jesus.
    Catching herself in mid-faux pas, she kept talking. “Oh, I didn’t mean… It’s really cute, I mean. My uncle has a bald spot. It’s sexy. Really. It’s nice.”
    “You really think so?”
    “I really do.”
    “Well, listen, would