"Your what?"
He motioned with the empty glass toward his feet. "My boots. LPC, that stands for 'Leather Personnel Carrier'. Get it?"
"Got it."
"Like the Hummers, the desert jeeps we had? You run them on asphalt, that's 'hardball.' You run them on sand, that's 'softball.' I read in a magazine that this car dealer in New Jersey's selling them for winter driving, get through the snow like we did the sand over in the Saud."
"What happened to you there?"
"You mean, how come I'm in this bed?"
"Yes."
Another tolerant laugh as he reached for the bottle and poured a few more ounces without offering me any. "I used to say it was from the MREs. You know what that stands for?"
"I heard it as 'Meals Ready to Eat.' "
"Yeah, well, I called them 'Meals Rejected by Ethiopians.' Like, even starving Africans wouldn't touch them, get it?"
A poor joke, but I let him have it.
"Only thing is," said Elmendorf, "it's not the food that got me, though I had to eat those MREs anytime the supply sergeant couldn't come up with better through his 'General Store.' Scrounging and trading, you know?"
"I don't think that part ever changes."
A nod, then another toward the Jim Beam. "No booze, though. Jesus, they were strict about that. A Moslem country, we couldn't disrespect our hosts by drinking liquor before we went off to die for them."
"That where you got hit?"
"Hit? I didn't. Least, not by something you could see."
Elmendorf unzipped the sweatshirt and spread it open with each hand. The rosy blotch grew darker and uglier as it swept toward his waist. "I was exposed. Lots of us were."
"Exposed to what?"
"The Army doesn't know, or at least it isn't saying. Guys started getting sick over there, but because most of us weren't there long, the thing didn't hit us till we got back. Headaches, nerves, rashes like this here. Plus aches in the joints so bad you'd think they were engines running without oil, just seizing up on you. How come I have to use the braces most of the time. And how come I can't go back to photography. Man, there are days when I can't even hold a newspaper much less adjust the settings on a camera."
"What about the VA?"
"The Department of Veterans Affairs? They're a joke. They had all of us register, we had any symptoms. But the Defense Department's saying there isn't any 'syndrome,' and without a 'syndrome' they can't treat us and won't pay us. Thousands of soldiers now, but they say they aren't responsible because we didn't really get infected, or whatever, over there."
I thought about Agent Orange, and how long it took those vets to receive any—and meager—satisfaction through the courts. Good Luck, Norman. I said, "So you can't work at all?"
"Not with the aches, man. They just dominate the day, you know?"
I didn't like the feeling I was getting about Elmendorf, that big-talk, no-action sense you develop about some troopers in bars. I took out two of the interview forms and handed one to him.
"What's this?"
"As I told your daughter, I'm looking into whether another condo complex should switch to the Hendrix company for its management, and I've been asking your neighbors a few questions to assess your satisfaction with how Hendrix is managing Plymouth Willows."
"Okay by me. I don't exactly have anything else to do."
"NAME?"
"Elmendorf, Norman, NMI."
"For 'No Middle Initial.' "
"Right. Guess that didn't change, either."
"Change'?"
"From your war, I mean."
I nodded. "HOMETOWN?"
"Lowell, like I said."
"EDUCATION?"
"Lowell Tech. They call it 'University of Massachusetts-Lowell' now, but it was just Lowell Tech when I went there."
"Your wife?"
"We're divorced. She took off when I got back from the Saud. Basically abandoned Kira, the cunt."
I decided to skip the rest of the SPOUSE questions.
"How long ago did you move here?"
"About six years. Pioneers, like. First purchasers from the guy who developed Plymouth Willows."
As with Lana Stepanian, I wanted to ease slowly toward the Andrew Dees questions, hiding them among the others. "One of your neighbors told me about the problems he had."
"Which neighbor was that?"
I couldn't see it did any harm, but . . . "I'm telling everybody I talk to that their answers will stay confidential?
"Doesn't matter. Lana's the only one here long enough to really fill you in. She's a nice girl, only kind of uptight about life. You know, a place for everything and everything in its place? I don't see how you can live that way, myself."
Explained his living room. "I understand the Hendrix company was brought in by the C.W. Realty Trust."
"If that's the name of the people who bailed out Quentin's estate, yeah."
"Quentin?"
"Yale Quentin, the guy who built Plymouth Willows."
"And he's dead now?"
"Four, five years. There was some kind of stink about fraud, him supposedly making up dummy buyers to fool the banks he borrowed off. I even remember him coming to the paper I worked for, checking me out with the editor so he could show the banks he was legit. Guess he wasn't, though."
"How come?"
"Well, he killed himself over the mess."
Lana Stepanian would probably classify suicide as "gossip."
"That's too bad."
"Yeah, brand-new Caddy, too."
"I'm sorry?"
"Quentin. He took his car over that ocean bluff you pass on the left just before our turn. Smashed the Caddy and himself on the rocks down by the water."
I nodded, bringing Elmendorf back to the form. "Any FAMILY MEMBERS visit you here?"
Elmendorf looked up from his copy. "If you mean overnighters, no. I got a brother comes by for dinner once in a blue moon."
"Has he always been treated well by the Hendrix people?"
"I doubt he's met any, except for maybe running into Paulie. He's the retarded kid does the lawns and all."
"How about your DEALINGS WITH THE HENDRIX COMPANY?"
"They've been fine, only they want to be paid."
"Paid?"
"Yeah. After I couldn't work at the paper anymore, I got unemployment. You ever had to live on that?"
"Years ago."
"Well, let me tell you, it still isn't much. I can barely cover the mortgage, bread, and water. I'm in hock up to my ears, and I don't know how long we can hold on."
Elmendorf said it awfully matter-of-factly.
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"Yeah, well, for your form and all, the Hendrix guy has been pretty good, considering how much Kira and me owe. He hasn't been pounding on the door with the sheriff, anyway, and all his letters and calls are pretty decent."
That didn't square with my impression of him, but you never know where people's hearts lie.
"Have they been helpful in accommodating your disability?"
"I can't get the VA to recognize I'm disabled, I don't see Hendrix having to, but I've never asked them, other than to explain how come we're not current on the bills."
"Ever visited the Hendrix offices?"
"No."
"How does Hendrix handle COMPLAINTS?"
"You mean, like from me if there's a leak or something?"
"Yes."
"We haven't called him recently. I mean, we're so far behind in our monthly maintenance, I figure, don't kick the sleeping dog, right?"
I could see his point.
"NEIGHBORS is the next entry, and, as I said, I'll keep whatever you say confidential."
"Look, buddy, I worked on a newspaper, okay? I know how the reporters I'd go out with felt about confidential sources and all. Even if you're as good about it as they were, I got to tell you, I could care less what my neighbors think of me or think I said to you. They want to sue me, they can sue me. I got diddly squat for them
to come after."
Good. Work toward Andrew Dees gradually. "How about the Stepanians?"
"Nice, like I said. The husband, Steve, he's kind of uptight too, but it seems to me they try to be good citizens. School committee, condo board, and Lana spells Kira once in a while so the poor kid can have something resembling a life for herself instead of having to look after me all the time." .
Glancing toward the braces, I said, "Can you make it up and down stairs?"
"Barely. And I try it more than twice a day, I'm dogshit the next morning. Like I'm not puppy shit now, you know?"
"How about Andrew Dees?"
"Christ, you'd just about have to describe him to me. I mean, these windows look out the back, but I can't see his deck, and I haven't been out front for months. I shook hands with him once, saw him another time with a good looking woman, something foreign about her. But I can't see where that helps you with your condo association any."
It wouldn't.
"So you don't know HOMETOWN?"
"No. Wait a minute . . . No, I got the feeling Midwest somewheres, but that's probably from his accent."
"What about EDUCATION?"
"We never got to talking about that. Like I said, it was just a handshake kind of thing. 'Welcome to the Wi1lows,' you know?"
"And other than the woman, nobody visiting him?"
Elmendorf seemed taken aback.
"What does that have to do with how Hendrix manages the complex?"
"Just toward the FAMILY VISITING angle."
"Well, I don't see it, but you'd have to ask him."
I didn't want Elmendorf thinking I was focusing on Dees.
"How about the Robinettes?"
"Depends on whether you like rap music."
"I'm sorry?"
"The Afro music Jamey plays on his ghetto blaster. Account of my nerves, Kira uses that Walkman thing so I can't hear it, but she's always having to go next door, pound on the door to get him to turn his shit the fuck down."
I didn't like the racist undertones from Elmendorf. "You don't know anything more about them?"
"The woman doesn't seem to work, but they've got a pretty new car, so maybe she's figured out a way for the government to recognize some disability of hers. What do you think?"
"Haven't met her yet," I said quietly. "I wonder if you'd mind signing this."
"What is it?"
I gave him my filled-in form. "The questionnaire we've been going over. Just so I can show I spoke to you."
"Sure, sure. I'm kind of shaky, though, so you might not be able to read my signature."
"That's okay."
Scratching along the dotted line, Elmendorf said, "Her kid goes to some private school on top of it."
"Jamey Robinette?"
“Who else? He'll have my job someday."
"Your job?"
"Yeah. He'll be a photographer or better, the degree he'll have." Norman Elmendorf gave me back the form and my pen. " 'Upwardly mobile,' they call it."
* * *
Coming back down the stairs, I saw Kira catch my movement from the corner of her eye. She sat up and slid the earphones onto her neck again. "You get what you wanted?"
"Yes," stretching the truth some. "I wonder if I could talk to you for a while?"
A shrug that made her hands flap a little on the wrists. "Sure. Let me, like, clear away the junk first."
Kira Elmendorf gathered up the magazines that covered an old easy chair. Instead of carrying them off somewhere, she just dropped them onto the floor. The carpet looked to be original equipment, but unlike the Stepanians', this one showed dirt and stains.
I sat as Kira took the couch again and, despite the combat boots, did a yoga crossover with her ankles.
"So," she said, "what do you want to know?"
I gave her a questionnaire and waited while she read through it.
"What's this for?"
"It would help me with my clients if I could ask you some of the stuff on there. I already got most of it from your dad."
Another shrug, the form in her hand flapping. "So, sure."
"How do you feel the Hendrix company does in managing the place'?"
"Oh, wow." A hand went through the platinum hair, causing neither damage nor improvement. "They do what they're supposed to, I guess. The heat's on, the road's plowed in winter, the grass is cut in spring—thanks to Paulie, anyway, he's just so extremely cute in his little uniform—and he does the pool right in summer, no bugs or leaves or other disgusting uck in it."
"You never had any trouble with Mr. Hendrix, then?"
"No. Wait." Kira ran her hand through her hair again. "Do you mean like, did Boyce ever hit on me?”
Boyce. "Any kind of trouble at all."
"No. I mean, he's cute too, in a sort of older mode, with good buns."
"Buns?"
"For sure. Whenever he's over checking in with Lana—that's Mrs. Stepanian."
Boyce and Lana. "I've met her."
"Yeah, well, she's like one of the presidents of the condo somehow, and when he visits her, Boyce is always dressed real cazh."
"Hendrix dresses real casual."
"So you can scope the buns."
Scope the . . . "Kira, have you ever heard any complaints from the other neighbors about Mr. Hendrix?"
"No. Just does a totally line job, I guess."
"Nothing from Mr. Dees, either?"
The shrug. "He's kind of a quiet dude. I guess staring at a machine that makes copies kind of flattens the brain waves."
I sat forward. "How do you mean?"
"Wel1, like, the man doesn't ever get to do anything creative, right? All day long, it's just put the original in, push the button, take the original out. I mean, a chimp could do that and stay ecstatic, maybe, but a real human person? Give it up."
Kira seemed to be my best bet so far. "You've talked with Mr. Dees some, then?"
"Some. He's kind of quiet. Nobody around here is exactly into partying hard, you understand. But he never seems to do much except get up, go to work, and come home. I figure he could use some Short Attention Span Theater you know?"
"Short Attention . . ."
". . . Span Theater. It was on the cable, until we couldn't afford that anymore. This coolest dude, Marc Maron, he looks kind of like a photo I saw of one of the Beatles guys. Not Paul—the guy who got assassinated, you know?"
"John Lennon?"
"Yeah, like this old photo I saw from somewhere in the seventies of John Lennon, with the hair and the glasses. Anyways, this show was so cool, it had these little clips, couple minutes each, of Gary Shandling—I think he is just a-dor-able—and then Saturday Night Live with a bunch of dudes I didn't know, and then this British thing, Monty Python—something, and then this soap called Soap, but I didn't get it because it was supposed to be funny and soaps are, like, a scream, but they're not trying to be funny, you know?"
I was losing ground. "And you thought Andrew Dees would benefit from that kind of show."
"Or something, anything, just to get his heart started. Then he started showing up with this executive-fox type, and I think his heart's not the only thing pumping, you know what I mean?"
"He ever talk with you about where he was from?"
"From? Like, who cures?"
"How about where he might have worked before the photocopy shop?"
Kira frowned, the nostril ring doing something that made her nose itself wiggle. "What does that have to do with Boyce's company doing a righteous job?"
Good question. "I got the impression from your father that you have to go next door sometimes about the Robinettes' music noise."
A shrug, but this time with some theatricality to it. "Oh, that's totally nothing. Daddy, he's super hypersensitive to noise. So when Jamey cranks it up on the boom box, I go over and tell him to, like, cool it. No problem. He's a good kid, and his mom's nice too."
"They don't mind you telling them to turn things down?"
"From never. They understa
nd, and they know that even I got to hear my sounds over this thing," jiggling the Walkman, “which is just as well, now that we don't have a stereo rack anymore."
"What happened to it?"
"The sound system? My friend Jude—you saw her with me at the pub today?—Jude took me down to this extremely disgusto pawnshop, and we got money for it."
"You hocked the stereo?"
Kira seemed to bristle. "Hey, man, ever try to eat a cassette? Daddy's been out of work, like, unto years, and things are pretty tight."
"I'm sorry."
She eased off a bit. "Used to be, I'd go to the mall and actually buy something? These days, only time I'm there is to earn some bread, handing out fliers and stuff, like 'Three for two, How about you, come to Papa Gino's'—you know?"
I nodded. "Back in high school, I had to work part-time jobs. Not an easy way to get through."
"Hey, it could be worse. I could be on drugs, or, like, virtually married the way Jude and some of the other juniors are. Or even flunking out, I suppose. But I'm not really a junior because I'm not in school this year, and I'm not in danger of flunking out because I already am out, you know? My dad's sick, and he needs me. I know he can get around better than he lets on, with the braces and all, but he still needs me. And after my mom pulled the ripcord, I needed him so bad, I can give him some time now. Besides, it's like I told Jude today when she drove me back."
"What did you say?"
"Well, Jude's doing this dance on me, how I shouldn't be letting my father run my life, he's the one who's sick. So I say to her, 'Hey, Jude'—wait." Kira stared at me. "That's just so totally weird. Here we're talking about the Beatles like two seconds ago, and I know that's one of their old songs, right?"
"Right."
"Wow. The powers of the occult." The flapping shrug. "Anyways, I say to Jude, 'You really want me to trip you out, here's my view of life to-tal. You got to live for the moment, because tomorrow's only hours away, and it's bound to be so much worse.' "
Invasion of Privacy - Jeremiah Healy Page 7
