that were, I supposed, the Nottingham version of TV trays; on them were plates of sumptuous if standard Thanksgiving fare of turkey-cranberries-mashed potatoes-etc. Somehow, though, I got the impression these boys felt they were roughing it.
I say “these boys” because Norman wasn’t alone: he had a friend who was sitting on the couch, transfixed before the dancing images on the television screen. Norman cleared his throat and his friend rose from behind his tray and turned to greet us. He stood an inch or so over six foot and seemed sturdily built; his hands were big and roped with veins and hung loose on the ends of long arms. His hair was blond and very thin on top, with heavy, over-compensating brown sideburns; his forehead was broad over small, wide-set dark eyes and a tiny nose and tiny mouth. The weakness of some of his features was offset by a jutting, Steve Canyon-like jaw. He was wearing a yellow cashmere sweater and mustard bell-bottoms. He said, “Who’s he?” His voice was equal parts sandpaper and sinus trouble.
Stefan Norman said, “His name is Mallory, he says. He came up from Port City to talk to me about something.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. Something, I said.” He looked at me. “This is Mr. Davis.”
“Hi,” I said.
Davis nodded. “Funny time to drop in on people.”
Norman said, “Go back and watch the game.”
The big man shrugged, in a pouty way, and sat back down to his tray of turkey and reglued his eyes to the football game.
Norman said, “Would you like a drink, Mr. Mallory?”
“I didn’t mean to interrupt your dinner.”
“That’s all right, I’d eaten all I cared to anyway. When you spend a lot of time preparing a meal, you become bored with the food even before you serve it.”
I followed him over to the bar and sat down. Even the damn stools were covered with brown leather and stuffed like Chesterfield sofas. Norman said, “What would you like?”
“Anything.”
“In the spirit of the great American sports fanatic, we’ve been drinking beer today. Well, malt liquor, really. How would that be?”
“Sure.”
He got behind the bar and fiddled for a while, as though he had to brew the stuff himself, then handed me a filled glass. I drank half of it in two gulps, watching him as he stayed back of the bar, looking me over, trying to figure what to make of me, I guess. He sipped his glass of malt liquor.
I said, finally, “Did you know a girl named Janet Taber?”
He shook his head no. “No. No, I’m sorry.”
“You might have known her as Janet Ferris.”
“Ferris?”
“Yes.”
“Ferris. No, but let me think. No, I don’t think so.”
“Think some more. She worked as a secretary for your cousin during his Senate campaign.”
“She worked for Richard?”
“Janet Ferris.”
“Janet Ferris. Hmmm. Now, wait, that wouldn’t be that little girl from Drake? She was Richard’s secretary, you say?”
“That’s right.”
“I do remember her, now. Attractive girl. Brunette, isn’t she?”
“Well, she was a blonde when I saw her, but that’s possible.”
“You did say
was,
didn’t you? And you did say
did
I know a girl named Janet Ferris? What does all this use of past tense mean?”
“She’s dead.”
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. She was such a nice, enthusiastic girl. A real help to Richard, if memory serves.”
“She was killed in an automobile accident. Tuesday night. It was in the paper yesterday.”
“I so seldom read the
Port City Journal,
living up here as I do.”
“It was in the Davenport paper, too.”
“At any rate, I didn’t notice it. But I am sorry to hear it.”
“The crash was on Colorado Hill.”
“Really. I don’t see yet, Mr. Mallory, how this concerns me.”
“Richard Norman was killed in a crash on Colorado Hill.”
“So have any number of people been, which is unfortunate, but what exactly has that to do with me?”
“Janet at one time worked for your cousin,
I say “these boys” because Norman wasn’t alone: he had a friend who was sitting on the couch, transfixed before the dancing images on the television screen. Norman cleared his throat and his friend rose from behind his tray and turned to greet us. He stood an inch or so over six foot and seemed sturdily built; his hands were big and roped with veins and hung loose on the ends of long arms. His hair was blond and very thin on top, with heavy, over-compensating brown sideburns; his forehead was broad over small, wide-set dark eyes and a tiny nose and tiny mouth. The weakness of some of his features was offset by a jutting, Steve Canyon-like jaw. He was wearing a yellow cashmere sweater and mustard bell-bottoms. He said, “Who’s he?” His voice was equal parts sandpaper and sinus trouble.
Stefan Norman said, “His name is Mallory, he says. He came up from Port City to talk to me about something.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. Something, I said.” He looked at me. “This is Mr. Davis.”
“Hi,” I said.
Davis nodded. “Funny time to drop in on people.”
Norman said, “Go back and watch the game.”
The big man shrugged, in a pouty way, and sat back down to his tray of turkey and reglued his eyes to the football game.
Norman said, “Would you like a drink, Mr. Mallory?”
“I didn’t mean to interrupt your dinner.”
“That’s all right, I’d eaten all I cared to anyway. When you spend a lot of time preparing a meal, you become bored with the food even before you serve it.”
I followed him over to the bar and sat down. Even the damn stools were covered with brown leather and stuffed like Chesterfield sofas. Norman said, “What would you like?”
“Anything.”
“In the spirit of the great American sports fanatic, we’ve been drinking beer today. Well, malt liquor, really. How would that be?”
“Sure.”
He got behind the bar and fiddled for a while, as though he had to brew the stuff himself, then handed me a filled glass. I drank half of it in two gulps, watching him as he stayed back of the bar, looking me over, trying to figure what to make of me, I guess. He sipped his glass of malt liquor.
I said, finally, “Did you know a girl named Janet Taber?”
He shook his head no. “No. No, I’m sorry.”
“You might have known her as Janet Ferris.”
“Ferris?”
“Yes.”
“Ferris. No, but let me think. No, I don’t think so.”
“Think some more. She worked as a secretary for your cousin during his Senate campaign.”
“She worked for Richard?”
“Janet Ferris.”
“Janet Ferris. Hmmm. Now, wait, that wouldn’t be that little girl from Drake? She was Richard’s secretary, you say?”
“That’s right.”
“I do remember her, now. Attractive girl. Brunette, isn’t she?”
“Well, she was a blonde when I saw her, but that’s possible.”
“You did say
was,
didn’t you? And you did say
did
I know a girl named Janet Ferris? What does all this use of past tense mean?”
“She’s dead.”
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. She was such a nice, enthusiastic girl. A real help to Richard, if memory serves.”
“She was killed in an automobile accident. Tuesday night. It was in the paper yesterday.”
“I so seldom read the
Port City Journal,
living up here as I do.”
“It was in the Davenport paper, too.”
“At any rate, I didn’t notice it. But I am sorry to hear it.”
“The crash was on Colorado Hill.”
“Really. I don’t see yet, Mr. Mallory, how this concerns me.”
“Richard Norman was killed in a crash on Colorado Hill.”
“So have any number of people been, which is unfortunate, but what exactly has that to do with me?”
“Janet at one time worked for your cousin,
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