Time Bomb

15

After a while she got up and said, “There’re some things I have to take care of. Boring stuff- shopping, cleaning. Been putting it off for too long.”

“What are you planning to do for transportation?”

“I’ll manage.” Restless. Embarrassed by it.

I said, “I’ve got some things to take care of too. The glories of the single life.”

“Oh, yeah.”

We left the bedroom and walked to the front door, not touching. I opened the door and stepped out into the green corridor. Weekend-silent. The mildew smell seemed stronger. Newspapers lay in front of several doors. The headline was something about Afghanistan.

She said, “Thanks. You’ve been wonderful.”

I held her chin and kissed her cheek. She gave me her mouth and tongue and gripped me for a moment, then pulled away and said, “Out, before I yank you back in.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?”

She smiled, but so briefly it made me wonder if I’d imagined it. “You understand, I just need to…”

“Breathe?”

She nodded.

“Nothing like breathing to liven things up,” I said. “Would asking you out for tomorrow night lower the oxygen level?”

She laughed and her damp hair shook stiffly. “No.”

“Then how about tomorrow? Eight P.M. Take in a couple of art galleries, then dinner.”

“That would be great.”

We squeezed hands and I left, feeling a curious mixture of melancholy and relief. No doubt she viewed me as Mr. Sensitive. But I was happy to have some breathing space of my own.

When I got home, I called Milo.

He said, “How’s she doing?”

“Coping.”

“Called you an hour ago. No one home. Must have been an extended consultation.”

“Gosh, you must be a detective or something.”

“Hey, I’m happy for you. The two of you are cute together- a regular Ken and Barbie.”

“Thanks for your blessing, Dad. What’d you learn at Ferguson’s?”

“Good old Esme? That was fun. She reminded me of the kind of teachers I used to have- more into what lines had to be skipped than what you actually wrote in the composition. Her house had this permanent Lysol smell- made me feel as if I was polluting it just by being there. Porcelain poodles on the hearth, little groupings of miniature doggies in glass cases. But nothing animate. She had me leave my shoes at the door- thank God I’d worn the socks without the holes. But for all the spick and span, she has a nasty little mind. Textbook bigot to boot. First she tested the waters with a few sly comments about the city changing, all those Mexicans and Asians invading, and when I didn’t argue, really got into how the coloreds and the other outsiders have ruined things. Listening to her, the school used to be a regular junior Harvard, chock full of genius white kids. Refined families. Fabulous school spirit, fabulous extracurricular activities. All her star pupils going on to bigger and better things. She showed me a collection of Dear Teacher postcards. The most recent one was ten years old.”

“What did she have to say about the latest illustrious alumna?”

“Holly was a very dull student-wholly unmemorable. A strange girl- the whole family was strange. Clannish, unfriendly, no pride of ownership in their house. The fact that no one really knows what Burden Senior does for a living bugs her. She kept asking me about it, didn’t believe me when I told her I had no idea what New Frontiers Tech was all about. This is a lady who mainlines conformity, Alex. Sounds like the Burdens broke too many rules.”

“Behavioral niggers,” I said.

He paused. “You always did know how to turn a phrase.”

“In what way was Holly strange?”

“Didn’t go to school, didn’t work, rarely left the house except to take walks at night- skulking, Ferguson called it. Said she saw her a few times when she was out trimming her flowers. Holly was skulking along, staring at the sidewalk.”

“Old Esme trims her flowers at night?”

“Twice a day. That tell you something about her?”

“Did Holly always skulk alone?”

“Far as she knows.”

“What about the boyfriend?”

“Sounds as if she was overstating, calling him a boyfriend. Just a colored boy she saw Holly talking to a few times. In old Esme’s world view, that implies fornication, but since we know Holly was a virgin, the two of them might actually have just talked. Or anything in between. Esme said the boy had worked at the local grocery last year but she hadn’t seen him in a while. Bag boy and deliveries. She always felt nervous about letting him into her home- guess why. She didn’t know much about him, just that he was Very Big And Black. But people tend to exaggerate what they’re afraid of, so I wouldn’t put heavy money on ‘big.’ ”

I said, “Perceptual vigilance. Learned about it in social psych.”

“I learned it interviewing eyewitnesses. Anyway, I couldn’t even get a full name out of her. She thought his first name was Isaac or Jacob but wasn’t sure. Something Jewish-sounding. She found it amusing that a colored boy would have a Jewish name. That launched her into another what’s-this-world-coming-to speech. I kept waiting for her to segue to faggots, but she just droned on about stupid stuff until I found myself staring at the poodles.”

“Sounds like a lonely lady.”

“Three times divorced; men are beasts. She probably talks to the goddam poodles. I finally got out of there and stopped by the grocers- place called Dinwiddie’s- to see if I could learn anything more about the boy, but the store was closed.”

“Planning on going back?”

“Eventually.”

“How about today?”

“Sure, why not? Not that it’s likely to lead to anything earth-shattering. But Rick’s out doing good works at the Free Clinic. If I stick around I’ll end up doing laundry.”

Or drinking too much.

I said, “An hour, lunch on me?”

“Hour it is. But forget lunch. While we’re at the market I can palm an apple, just like Pat O’Brien walking the beat. Always wanted to do that. Be a real cop.”

Despite his pessimism, Milo arrived dressed for work: gray suit, white shirt, red tie, note pad in pocket. He directed me to a street named Abundancia Drive, which ran through the center of Ocean Heights and ended at a small town square, built around a treeless circular patch of lawn. A hand-lettered sign- the kind you see in the small parks of Mayfair in London- designated the patch as Ocean Heights Plaza. The grass was bare except for a white Lutyens-style garden bench chain-bolted to the ground next to a NO DOGS, NO BICYCLES warning.

Ringing the patch were business establishments. The most prominent was a one-story red brick bank done in retro-Colonial, complete with pillars, pediments, and limestone planters brimming with geraniums. The rest of the shops were also red brick. Red brick and gingerbread cute enough for a theme park.

I found a parking spot in front of a dry cleaner’s. Gold-leaf Gothic lettering was de rigueur for the storefronts. Welcome to the home of mixed metaphors. Ficus trees pruned low and trimmed to look like mushrooms grew from circular metal grilles embedded in the sidewalk, spaced so the plantings fronted every other store.

The shops were a classic village mix. Haberdasheries for both sexes, each with a soft spot for Ralph Lauren. Ye Olde Gift Emporium and Card Shoppe. Alvin’s Apothecary complete with a stone mortar and pestle over Dutch doors. A medical building that could have passed for Santa’s Workshop. Arno’s Old World Jeweler/Watchmaker. Janeway’s European Bakery. Steuben’s Imported Sausage and Charcuterie. The Ocean Café.

Dinwiddie’s Fine Grocers and Purveyors was a double-width enterprise with forest-green wainscoting and a cream-colored oval sign over the entry that read EST… 1961.

California antiquity.

The picture window was framed with green molding and dominated by a straw cornucopia, out of which tumbled a contrived flow of gleaming, oversized produce. More fruit was displayed in wooden crates slathered with old-fashioned painted labels. Each apple, pear, orange, and grapefruit had been polished to a high gloss and was individually cradled in damson-blue crepe.

“Looks like you picked the right place to palm,” I said.

Inside, the place was bustling and spotless, cooled by wooden fly fans, serenaded by Muzak. GOURMET FOODS at the front. A liquor section big enough to intoxicate the entire neighborhood. Foodstuffs stacked to the rafters, everything neatly ordered, the wide aisles marked by overhead wooden signs painted that same dark green.

A pair of green-aproned women worked steadily at antique brass cash registers hooked up to computerized scanners. Three or four shoppers waited in each line. No one talked. Milo walked up to one of the registers and said, “Hi. Where’s the owner?”

The cashier was young, chubby, and fair. Without looking up, she said, “In the back.”

We made our way past PASTA and BREADSTUFFS. Next to the DAIRY case was a green wooden panel door with a brass lock dangling from an open hasp. Milo pushed it open and we stepped into a short, dark hall, cold as a refrigerator, rank with an old lettuce smell, and filled with generator noise. At the end was another door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY.

Milo knocked and opened it, revealing a small windowless office paneled in imitation knotty pine and furnished with an old mahogany desk and three red Naugahyde chairs. The desk was crowded with papers. A brass balance scale served as a paperweight for an inch-thick stack. An assortment of commercial calendars hung on the walls, along with a couple of faded hunting prints and a framed photo of a pleasant-looking, slightly overweight brunette woman kneeling next to two white-haired, ruddy boys of preschool age. A pine-ridged expanse of lake was in the background. The boys struggled to hold on to a fishing rod from which a healthy-looking trout dangled.

The obvious genetic source of the children’s pigmentation sat behind the desk. Early thirties, pink-skinned, with thin, near-albino hair cut short and parted on the right. He had broad, beefy shoulders, a nub of a broken nose above a bushy mustache the color and consistency of old hay. His eyes were large, colored a curious tan-gray, and had a basset droop. He wore a blue broadcloth button-down shirt and red-and-blue rep tie under a green apron. The shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbows. His forearms were pale, hairless, Popeye-thick.

He put down a hand calculator, looked up from a pile of invoices, and gave a weary smile. “Weights and Measures? We passed just Last week, gentlemen.”

Milo showed him his police ID. The blond man’s smile faded and he blinked several times, as if forcing himself awake.

“Oh.” He stood and extended his hand. “Ted Dinwiddie. What can I do for you?”

Milo said, “We’re here to talk about the sniping at Hale Elementary, Mr. Dinwiddie.”

“Oh, that. Horrible.” His wince seemed involuntary and sincere. He blinked a couple more times. “Thank God no one was hurt.”

“No one except Holly Burden.”

“Oh, yes. Sure. Of course.” He winced again, sat down, and pushed aside his paperwork.

“Poor Holly,” he said. “It’s hard to believe she’d go and do something like that.”

“How well did you know her?”

“As well as anyone, I guess. Which means not much at all. She used to come in here, with her dad. I’m talking years ago, when she was just a little girl. Just after her mom died. Back when my dad was alive.” He paused and touched the balance scale. “I used to bag and check after school and on Saturdays. Holly used to stand behind her dad’s legs and peek out, then draw back. Really shy. She always was kind of a nervous kid. Quiet, as if she was in her own little world. I’d try to talk to her- she never answered back. Once in a while she’d take a free candy, if her dad would let her. Most of the time she ignored me when I offered. Still, there was nothing…”

He looked up at us. “Sorry. Please, sit down. Can I get you some coffee? We’ve got a new European roast brewing out in front in the sample pot.”

“No thanks,” said Milo.

We sat in the red chairs.

Milo said, “Any more recent impressions of her?”

“Not really,” said Dinwiddie. “I didn’t see much of her. They were usually delivery customers. The couple of times I did see her wandering around the streets, she looked kind of… detached.”

“Detached from what?”

“Her surroundings. The external world. Not paying attention to what was going on. The kind of thing you see in creative people. I’ve got a sister who’s a writer- very successful screenwriter. She’s getting into producing. Emily was always like that, fantasizing, off in her own world. We used to kid her, call her Space Cadet. Holly was spacey but in her case I don’t think it was creativity.”

“Why’s that?”

The grocer shifted in his chair. “I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but basically, Holly wasn’t very bright. Some of the kids used to call her retarded- which she probably wasn’t. Just dull, a little below average. But in her family that had to be especially tough- the rest of the Burdens were all pretty intellectual. Her dad’s downright brilliant- used to work for the government as some kind of high-level scientist or mathematician. The mom did, too, I think. And Howard- her brother- he was a scholastic ace.”

“Sounds like you knew the family pretty well.”

“No, not really. Mostly I’d just deliver the groceries or go over there for tutoring. From Howard. He was a math whiz, totally brilliant with numbers. We were in the same class but he could have taught it. Lots of kids went to him for help. Everything came easy for him, but he really had a thing for math.” He gave a wistful look. “He actually stuck with what he loved, became some sort of statistician. Has a great position with an insurance firm out in the Valley.”

Milo said, “When you say you and he were in the same class, was that at Nathan Hale?”

Dinwiddie nodded. “All the kids went to Hale back in those days. Things were different.” He fussed with the knot of his tie. “Not necessarily better, mind you. Just different.”

I said, “How so?”

He fidgeted some more and lowered his voice. “Listen, I work here, live here, lived here all my life- it’s a great neighborhood in many ways, great place to raise kids. But the people here pretend nothing will ever change. That nothing should ever change. And that’s not too realistic, is it?” Pause. “Standing behind the register, or making a delivery, or coaching Little League, kind of gives you the chance to observe- you hear all sorts of things- ugly things from people you thought were decent, people your kids play with and your wife has coffee with.”

“Racial comments?” Milo said.

Dinwiddie gave a pained look. “That’s not to say it’s any worse here than anywhere else- racism’s fairly endemic in our society, isn’t it? But when it’s your own neighborhood… you’d just like it to be better.”

Fairly endemic in our society.

It sounded like a phrase out of a textbook.

Milo said, “Do you think any of that- the local racial attitudes- are related to the sniping?”

“No, I don’t,” Dinwiddie said quickly. “Maybe if it had been someone else, you could make the connection. But I can’t see Holly being racist. I mean, to be racist you’d have to be political, at least to some degree, wouldn’t you? And she wasn’t. Least as far as I knew. Like I said, she wasn’t too in touch with her surroundings.”

“What kind of political attitudes did her family have?”

“No idea if they had any,” he said quickly. His hand flew to his tie again, and he blinked several times in succession. I wondered if something about the discussion was putting him on edge.

“Really, gentlemen, I just can’t see any political connec-tion,” he said. “I truly believe whatever Holly did came from inside her- her own problem. Something intrapsychic.”

“Mental problems?” said Milo.

“She’d have to be crazy to do something like that, wouldn’t you say?”

I said, “Besides being ‘spacey,’ did she ever show signs of other mental problems?”

“That I couldn’t tell you,” said Dinwiddie. “Like I said, I haven’t seen her in a long time. I was just talking theoretically.”

Milo said, “When you saw her walking around the neighborhood, was this at night or during the day?”

“Day. I’m only talking a couple of times. I’d be on my way to make a delivery and she’d be making her way down the street, kind of a loose shuffle, staring down at the sidewalk. That’s what I meant by spacey.”

“Anything else you can tell us about the family that might relate to the shooting?”

Dinwiddie thought. “Not really, Detective. They were never real social. Marched to their own drummer, but basically they were decent people. You can tell a person’s character when you check their groceries. When he was alive, my dad had a system for classifying folks- Grumblers, Skinflints, Nitpickers, Tomato Squeezers.” A sheepish smile spread under the mustache. “Kind of an us-them thing. Happens in every profession, right? Don’t let on to my customers or I’d be out of business.”

Milo smiled and ran his finger across his lips.

Dinwiddie said, “It’s funny. When I was younger I used to hear my dad come home and grouse, and think he was being intolerant, just didn’t understand people. I majored in sociology in college, had all sorts of theories and explanations for why he’d become so misanthropic, how what he really needed was more intrinsic satisfaction in his work. Now here I am, doing the same job he did, and I find myself using the same labels.”

I said, “Which of your dad’s labels would you apply to the Burdens?”

“None, really. They were easy to deal with, never complained, always paid their bills right away with cash. Mr. Burden always had a generous tip ready, though he wasn’t much for conversation. He always seemed busy with something, doing his own thing.”

“Another spacey one?” said Milo.

“Not like Holly. With him, you always felt he was lost in thought. Thinking about something important. With Holly, it just seemed- I don’t know- stuporous. As if she were withdrawing from reality. But if this is making her sound like some dangerous psychotic, that’s not what I mean at all. She’d be the last person I’d expect to do anything violent. On the contrary, she was timid, a real mouse.”

Milo said, “When did her mother die?”

Dinwiddie touched his mustache, then tapped a fingertip absently to his tongue. “Let’s see. I think Holly was four or five, so that would make it about fifteen years ago.”

“What’d she die of?”

“Some sort of stomach condition, I think. Tumors or ulcers or something- I’m not sure. Only reason I remember it being the stomach is she used to buy a lot of antacids, really stocked up on them. Whatever it was, it wasn’t supposed to be fatal, but she went in for surgery and didn’t come out. Howard was pretty freaked out- all of us were. It was the first time anyone in the class had lost a parent. We were in high school- sophomores. Howard had never been much of a joiner, but after his mom died he really pulled away, dropped out of Chess Club and Debate Club, gained a whole lot of weight. He kept on getting good grades- that was like breathing for him- but he cut himself off from everything else.”

I said, “How did Holly react?”

“I can’t say I remember anything specific. But she was just a little kid, so I’d expect she was devastated.”

“So you can’t say if her spaciness was due to her mother’s death?”

“No-” He stopped, smiled. “Hey, this sounds more like psychoanalysis than police work. I didn’t know you guys did this kind of thing.”

Milo hooked a thumb at me. “This gentleman’s a noted psychologist. Dr. Alex Delaware. He’s working with the kids at Hale. We’re trying to get a picture of what happened.”

“Psychologist, huh?” Dinwiddie said. “I saw a psychologist being interviewed about the kids on TV. Heavyset fellow, big white beard.”

“Change of plans,” said Milo. “Dr. Delaware’s the one.”

Dinwiddie looked at me. “How are they? The kids.”

“Doing as well as can be expected.”

“That’s real good to hear. I send my own kids to private school.” Guilty look. Shake of the head. “Never thought I’d be doing that.”

“Why’s that?”

Another tug at his tie knot. “Truth be told,” he said, “I used to be pretty much of a radical.” Embarrassed grin. “For Ocean Heights, anyway. Which means I voted Democrat and tried to convince my dad to boycott table grapes in order to help the farm workers. That was back when the last thing I wanted to do was run a grocery. My actual goal was to do what you do, Doctor. Therapy. Or social work. Something along those lines. I wanted to work with people. Dad thought that was soft work- the ultimate put-down. Said eventually I’d come back to the real world. I set out to prove him wrong, did volunteer work- with crippled kids, Job Corps Inductees, adoption agencies. Became a Big Brother for a kid out in East L.A. Then Dad dropped dead of a heart attack, left no insurance, just this place, and Mom was in no position to run it, so I stepped in. One semester short of my B.A. It was supposed to be temporary. I never got out.”

His brow creased and his eyes drooped lower. I remembered his comment about Howard Burden, the wistful look: He actually stuck with what he loved…

“Anyway,” he said, “that’s about all I can tell you about the Burdens. What happened over at Hale was a real tragedy. Lord only knows Mr. Burden didn’t need any more. But hopefully time will heal.” He looked to me for confirmation.

I said, “Hopefully.”

“Maybe,” he said, “people will even learn something from all of this. I don’t know.”

He picked up his calculator, tapped the buttons.

“One more thing, Mr. Dinwiddie,” said Milo. “There’s a young man who works or used to work for you, making deliveries. Isaac or Jacob?”

Dinwiddie’s thick shoulders tightened and his breath caught. He let it out a moment later, slowly, deliberately. “Isaac. Ike Novato. What about him?”

“Novato,” said Milo. “He’s a Hispanic? We were told he was black.”

“Black. A light-complected black. What’s that… what’s he got to do with any of this?”

“We were told he was friendly with Holly Burden.”

“Friendly?” The shoulders hunched higher and shrugged.

Milo said, “He still work for you?”

The grocer glared at us. “Hardly.”

“Know where we can find him?”

“It would be difficult to find him anywhere, Detective. He’s dead, cremated. I scattered the ashes myself. Off the pier at Malibu.”

Dinwiddie’s gaze was angry, unyielding. Finally he looked away, down at his desk, picked up an order blank, gave it an uncomprehending look and put it aside.

“Funny you shouldn’t know,” he said. “That I should be telling you. Though I guess not, considering the size of this city, all the homicides you get. Well, he was one of them, gentlemen. Last September. Shot to death, supposedly in a drug burn, somewhere down in South Central.”

“Supposedly?” said Milo. “You have doubts?”

Dinwiddie hesitated before answering. “I guess anything’s possible, but I seriously doubt it.”

“Why’s that?”

“He was a straight arrow- just wasn’t the dope type. I know cops think all civilians are naïve, but I did enough volunteer work with juvenile offenders to be a pretty good judge. I tried to tell that to the police but they never bothered to come down here and talk to me about him face to face. I only found out about the murder because when he hadn’t showed up for work for two days running, I called his landlady and she told me what had happened, said the police had been by, told her it was a dope thing. I got the name of the detective on the case from her. I called him, told him I was Ike’s employer, volunteered to come down to the station and give information. His attitude wasn’t exactly enthusiastic. A couple of weeks later he called me back, asked me if I wanted to come down and identify the body. ‘A formality’- his words- so that he could clear it. It was obvious that to him this was just a routine ghetto shooting- another case number. What really surprised me when I got there was that the detective himself was black. He hadn’t sounded black over the phone. Smith. Maurice Smith. Southeast Division. Know him?”

Milo nodded.

“Classical self-hatred,” said the grocer. “Turning all that rage against the self. All oppressed groups are at risk for it. Minorities in official capacities are really vulnerable. But in Smith’s case it may be getting in the way of his doing his job.”

“Why’d he need you to identify the body?”

“Ike had no family anyone could locate.”

“What about the landlady?”

Dinwiddie shrugged again and stroked his mustache. “She’s pretty old. Maybe she couldn’t handle the stress. Why don’t you ask Smith?”

“What else can you tell us about Novato?”

“Top-notch kid. Bright, charming, learned fast, not a lick of trouble. Always willing to do above and beyond the call of duty, and believe me, nowadays that’s rare.”

“How’d you hire him?”

“He answered an ad I put up on the bulletin board at the Santa Monica College job center. He was taking courses there, part time. Needed to work to support himself. The all-American work ethic, exactly the kind of thing Dad used to extol.” The gray eyes narrowed. “Course, Dad never would have hired Ike.”

I said, “Did you run into any problems having him work here? Given the attitudes you described.”

“Not really. People will accept blacks in relatively menial positions.”

Milo said, “Do you still have his job application on file?”

“No.”

“Remember his address?”

“Venice. One of the numbered streets, Fourth Avenue or Fifth, I think. The landlady’s name was Gruenberg.”

Milo wrote it down. “What about a picture?”

Dinwiddie hesitated, opened a drawer, took out a color snapshot, and handed it to Milo. I craned and got a look at it. Group photo. Dinwiddie, the two cashiers out front, and a tall, lanky, mocha-colored young man, posed in front of the market, waving. Everyone wearing green aprons.

Ike Novato had light-brown kinky hair cut short, full lips, almond eyes, and a Roman nose. The stooped posture of one who’d reached full height early. Big, awkward-looking hands, shy smile.

“This was taken last Fourth of July,” said Dinwiddie. “We always throw a big party for the local kids. Safe and Sane Celebration. Free candy and soda instead of fireworks. One of the parents brought a camera and took it.”

Milo said, “Can I borrow this?”

Dinwiddie said, “Guess so. Are you saying there’s some connection between Ike and what happened at the school?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Milo said.

“I can’t see that,” Dinwiddie said.

I said, “Were there any problems with his doing deliveries? Having him come into people’s houses?”

Dinwiddie’s right hand curled into a fist. Mounds of muscle and sinew appeared along the massive forearm. “In the beginning there were a few comments. I ignored them and eventually they stopped. Even a stone racist could see what a decent kid he was.” He tightened his other hand. “Chalk up one puny point for truth and justice, huh? But at the time I thought I was doing something important- making a stand. Then he goes down to Watts and gets shot. I’m sorry, hut it still makes me angry. The whole thing was depressing.”

“Any other reason for him to be down in Watts?” said Milo.

“That was Detective Smith’s point. The street where he was shot was a notorious crack alley- why else would he be there except to make a deal? But I still have my doubts. Ike told me more than once how much he hated drugs, how drugs had destroyed his people. Maybe he was down there to catch a pusher.”

“His people,” said Milo. “Thought he had no family.”

“I’m speaking generically, Detective. The black nation. And your Smith’s the one who told me there was no family. He said they ran Ike’s fingerprints through all the police files- missing kids, whatever- and nothing turned up. Said Ike had applied for his Social Security card only a few months before working for me. They had no record of any previous address. He told me it would be a Potter’s Field situation if no one came forth and claimed the body.” Wince. “So I took him home.”

“What did the boy tell you about his background?”

“Not much. We didn’t have extended discussions- it was a work situation. I got the impression he’d had a good education because he was pretty articulate. But we never went into detail. The name of the game around here is hustle, hustle, hustle.”

“You never asked him for references?”

“He came from the college- they screen them there. And his landlady said he was reliable.”

“Have you talked to the landlady since his death?”

“Just once. Over the phone. I asked her if she knew anything about his family. She didn’t either. So I took care of everything. Did what I could. I figured cremation would be… I don’t know, cleaner. Ecologically. That’s what I want for myself.”

He raised his hands and let them settle on the desk. “And that’s about all I can tell you, gentlemen.”

Milo said, “What was the relationship between him and Holly?”

“Relationship?” Dinwiddie grimaced. “Nothing romantic, if that’s what you’re getting at. He was on a completely different level than she was. Intellectually. There’d be nothing in common between the two of them.”

“We’ve been told he was her boyfriend.”

“Then you’ve been misinformed,” Dinwiddie said, clipping his words. “Ocean Heights is flap-jaw capital of the world- too many small-minded people with too much leisure time. Take anything you hear around here with a container of salt. Iodized or otherwise.”

Milo said, “We’ve been informed that Ike and Holly used to talk.”

Dinwiddie’s hand rose to his tie and loosened it. “What Ike did tell me,” he said, “is that when he went to deliver to her house, occasionally they’d strike up a conversation. He said she was lonely. He felt sorry for her and took the time to make her feel good about herself- he was that kind of kid. She started preparing things for him- milk and cookies. Tried to keep him there. Which was really unusual for Holly- she never wanted to talk to anyone. I told Ike how unusual that was and I warned him.”

“About what?” said Milo.

“The sexual thing, her developing a crush on him. You know the fantasies people have about blacks- all the hypersexual nonsense. Put black and white together and everyone assumes it’s something dirty. Add to that the fact that Holly wasn’t psychologically normal and the risk of trouble was definitely something to worry about. To Ike’s mind he was just being friendly- the way you’d be to a needy child. But I could see her reading more into his friendliness than he’d intended. Coming on to him, getting rejected, and screaming rape. So I advised him to be careful. For all of our sakes.”

“Did he listen to you?”

Dinwiddie shook his head. “He thought I was worrying over nothing, assured me there was no danger of anything happening- Holly never got seductive. That all she wanted was a friend. What could I say to that? That he should reject her? Because she was white? What would that have said to him?”

Neither of us answered. Dinwiddie kept talking, in a low, deliberate tone, as if unaware of our presence. “One time I was driving home, doing a delivery that took me past the Burden house, and saw the two of them out in front. Ike was holding a bunch of books and Holly was looking up at him as if he were some kind of big brother. She and Howard had never been close. Ike looked more brotherly with her than Howard ever had. I remember thinking how strange it looked- a white kid and a black kid actually communicating. In Ocean Heights. It could have been a poster for tolerance. Then I thought how stupid it was that something as simple as that would be strange.”

He punched a button on his calculator, studied the number that came up as if it were a puzzle.

“They were just a couple of kids,” he said. “Trying to get through life. And now they’re both gone. And I’ve got a special on asparagus.”