The Man on the Washing Machine by Susan Cox

didn’t have any family,” I said. “I can ask everyone to keep the group home secret.”
    He shook his head once in a decided negative. “It never works. There’s always someone who can’t resist mentioning it at work or over dinner. We have a couple of weeks at most to find a more secure location for our most critical cases. Some of these women are in fear for their lives. They’re all from other cities in California, but homicidal husbands can be very determined.”
    I felt myself go very still. It’s odd how often things come up that remind me of that fact.
    He looked a question at me, and when I didn’t respond he finished the rest of his beer in one swallow. I was saved from further conversation by Nat’s appearance. He was still on a high from the entertainment value of the association meeting.
    â€œFigured I’d find you here,” he said with a smile. He reached out a hand and untucked the hair from behind one of my ears and fluffed it up gently. “That’s better. Have another to keep me company.”
    â€œI need one,” I said truthfully, tucking the hair back behind my ear.
    Turlough watched the byplay and I was about to introduce the two men when he said good night to me and left. Nat raised one eyebrow at me. “Good-lookin’ guy,” he remarked.
    â€œYou think so?”
    â€œMmm-hmmm.”
    â€œShort, don’t you think?”
    â€œNot especially, you giraffe. He’s my height. Well-built,” he added appreciatively. “The guy seemed interested. Hair’s a real turn-on for straight men; would it kill you to let it loose? You know him?”
    â€œInterested? No, he’s my new tenant. I found out tonight he’s the one putting together the group home or whatever it is in number twenty-three.”
    â€œTheo, no!” Nat hooted with laughter.
    â€œAll right for you,” I said rudely. “But they’re going to skin me. Ah, what am I worried about? By the time they finish with that property manager—”
    When we left Coconut Harry’s nearly an hour later I was the worse for three gin and tonics on an empty stomach. Determinedly not hearing the slight roaring in my head, I said good-bye to Nat and headed in the direction of Mr. Choy’s grocery store on the corner. By this time it was nearly eleven. Mr. Choy was reading his newspaper with his glasses propped on his forehead.
    â€œAh? Good evening. Can I help you?” he said to me, the same as always.
    â€œMilk-Bones,” I said, already halfway there.
    â€œAisle three, next to baby formula,” Mr. Choy said automatically, and returned to his paper. He announces the locations because nothing in the store makes any sense. He occasionally mentions his fortune-teller, and I think this fortune-teller is the marketing whiz who tells him to put tins of sardines and laundry detergent on the same shelf. His cash desk faces away from the door because the fortune-teller told him it was the most auspicious direction when he opened the store eighteen years ago. He sits on a stool surrounded by hanging displays of lightbulbs and huge tins of canned peaches. The rest of the canned fruit is next to the toilet paper and the Hamburger Helper. In among the baby formula, brass polish, and Pepto-Bismol he has Chinese patent medicines with dragons and peach blossoms on the packets. The patent medicines reminded me of Derek’s mission to grow his hair. I went to the counter with my box of Milk-Bones. “Do you know much about traditional Chinese medicine, Mr. Choy?”
    He put down his paper and reached for the cash register. “My late father used to deal in Chinese medicines from his pharmacy in Chinatown. Four employees. Very successful. I studied, but some things I didn’t want to sell, so I go into Milk-Bone business instead,” he said as he handed me my change.
    â€œSexual things?” I hazarded, otherwise at a