don’t like it interrupted. Sleep in a little, wake up and slurp some coffee, get dressed without rushing, put a leash on Hopalong and walk him around the block, then stroll over to the coffee shop for round two, including some pastries, while I sit and read the paper. If I have time, I’ll browse in one of the thirty-two rooms in the Book Loft next door, then make my way home in time to leave for an 11:30 a.m. appointment I’m not in the habit of missing.
But not today. I’d scarcely begun the paper’s extensive account of the Ohio State football team’s convincing victory over Penn State the day before when my cell phone went off. I didn’t recognize the number.
“Hello? Is this Woody Hayes?” A man’s voice.
“This is Andy Hayes,” I said. “May I help you?”
“Andy Hayes?”
“Andy Hayes,” I said patiently. A lot of my calls go like this.
“You’re sure?”
“Positive. Woody Hayes died in 1987. You can look it up.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I wouldn’t dare to presume. Did you need something?”
A moment of silence. Then he said, “The thing is, I’m in a bit of trouble. Wondering if I could talk to you.”
“Always happy to talk. Any particular topic?”
“It’s kind of a long story.”
“It usually is. I’m free tomorrow morning.”
“I was hoping for sooner.”
“Sooner?”
“Like today.”
“Today.”
“Like, maybe, this morning.”
I glanced at the paper. I still had Travel, Arts and Life, and Business to get through, and I was already thinking a third muffin wouldn’t be such a bad idea. And then of course there was 11:30 a.m.
“Mind if I ask what kind of trouble?”
“It might be better to tell you about it in person. If that’s OK. Is your office close?”
“You do know it’s Sunday morning, right? Is it really that urgent?”
“Yes,” he said. “Burke Cunningham recommended you. Said it was OK to call.”
Of course Burke would say that. So now I was stuck: either get mad at Burke for siccing what could well be a paying client on me, or get mad at the client just because it wasn’t the world’s most convenient time to call. Decisions, decisions.
I told him where I was.
“Any place less public?” he said.
“Plenty of places,” I said. “But this is where I am at the moment.”
“Your office?”
“That would be my living room. Which is a little cluttered right now.”
“OK,” he said finally.
I added, “I’ll be the grumpy-looking guy wearing—”
He interrupted. “I know what you look like.”
Of course he did. Everyone did. Some days it seemed like I was the only person left who didn’t recognize the guy in my bathroom mirror.
3
Less than half an hour later the coffee shop door opened and a man who didn’t look like he was enjoying a relaxing Sunday morning in mid-November walked in. White, age indeterminate but someplace in his early forties. Tall, or taller than me, anyway, sandy hair receding, a few extra pounds but otherwise pretty good looking. Black peacoat, unbuttoned, khakis and blue button-down shirt.
“Ted Hamilton,” he said, stopping at my table.
“Nice to meet you,” I said, shaking the proffered hand. “Coffee?”
He shook his head. “Last thing I need right now.”
“So how can I help you?”
“It’s bad,” Hamilton said, sitting down. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
I waited. It was a familiar type of conversation.
“If you can’t help me, then what? I could be well and truly screwed.”
“I won’t know if I can help until I hear your story.”
“OK,” he said, pausing as he looked around the coffee shop. He took a breath. “It’s like this. I dropped my daughter off at a party Friday night—I needed the car and she was going to get a ride home later. We know the parents, and they were inviting people to stay and have a drink.”
“Where?”
“In the kitchen.”
“No—the house, I mean. What part of town.”
“Upper Arlington. Big place. Near the golf course.”
“That where you live?”
“No. Girls go to school together. Columbus Prep. We live in Clintonville.”
“Gotcha. Go on. You had a beer.”
“Right,” he said. “OK, maybe a couple beers. And I hadn’t eaten yet. Big mistake. I’ve got this blood sugar thing. Anyway, before I left I had to use the bathroom. Somebody was in the downstairs one, so I went upstairs. You know? And after I was finished and came out, I bump into my daughter’s friend. The one whose house it is.”
“This is still upstairs?”
“Right. In the hallway.”
“What’s the girl’s name.”
“Jennifer. Jennifer Rawlings.”
“OK.”
“And she’s like, really glad to see me. You know. ‘Hey, Mr. Hamilton. How’s it going? Whoa, I like that shirt. How’s stuff at work.’ That kind of thing.”
“OK,” I repeated. My ex-wives used to complain, rightfully, that I was slow on the uptake. But even I could see where this was headed.
“So we start chatting, about school and movies and whatever, and then she mentions she’s got something she’s been meaning to show me. In her room.”
I sighed. Couldn’t help myself.
“So we go in there, and God, I don’t know, the next thing I know we’re, ah, kissing, and she’s really, like, sort of all over me.”
“All
