He put the box back into its niche on the shelf above his desk, then went into the kitchen, pouring himself exactly ten ounces of orange juice, drinking it in three complete swallows in less than twelve seconds. Immediately afterward, he went into the bathroom, closed and locked the door, pulled his pants down, sat on the toilet and defecated.
There was a moment of concern when he looked into the toilet afterward, but he took out his measuring tape and determined the length of the stool. He was okay. It was five inches exactly. More than three and less than six.
He sighed with relief.
All was right with the world.
4
When Brad got home, the girls were fighting again, and Patty was on the phone with her sister in Texas. He broke up the fight—apparently Sue had tried to play with one of Jillian’s dolls after Jillian had specifically told her sister that she could only touch her toys if she paid her a quarter or let her punch her arm ten times—and told both girls to apologize to each other and share their toys or neither of them would be playing with any toys for two days.
Patty hung up the phone when she saw him. “I heard what happened,” she said, coming over and giving him a hug. “I can’t believe it.”
He shrugged, not wanting to talk, especially where the girls could hear. “Yeah, well…”
“What’d Carl do? I heard he robbed a bank.”
“What?” Brad looked into her face. “Where did you hear that?”
“It’s all around town.”
“Jesus.” He shook his head. “That’s not what happened. We were just serving an eviction notice. Bank was foreclosing.”
“He didn’t—?”
“No!”
“Well, at least they got the bank part right.”
“Who starts these rumors? Shit.”
“So he….?”
“Yeah. Right in his front door.”
“How’d Chet take it?”
“I don’t know,” Brad admitted. “I let Hank inform the family.”
“Hank?” She frowned. “You think that was a good idea?”
“I guess we’ll find out tonight.”
Chet Yates, Carl’s brother, had the midnight-to-three slot on the Montgomery radio station, where he ranted about various conspiracy theories cooked up in the crazier corners of the internet. For years, he had been urging people to ditch their cell phones, convinced that the federal government not only used the devices to track individuals’ whereabouts but that the phones emitted targeted radiation specifically designed to cancel out certain genes in order to create future generations of designer citizens. He also believed that the Montgomery town council, in league with unspecified dark forces, was passing laws and ordinances whose sole purpose was to make the community more receptive to a military invasion.
Yet he’d always been considered the stable one in the family.
Patty took his hand. “My bet is you’ll get the blame. He’ll go after you and the department.”
Brad sighed. “Yeah.”
“And you’d better be careful. He’s going to rile up his listeners, who, let’s face it, aren’t exactly the most levelheaded bunch on the planet. Remember when the fire chief got a raise and he told his listeners to set more fires to make sure the chief earned his salary?”
“Don’t worry,” he told her. “I can handle Chet Yates.” He walked over to the refrigerator and got himself a Heineken. “So how was your day?”
“Looks like I’m going to sell that fixer-upper over on Williams, although the couple who want to buy it, the girl from APS and her husband, what’s his name, are going with an internet lender to finance it.”
“Are they sure that’s a good idea? I mean the reason that housing crisis—”
She patted his arm. “Honey, honey, honey. I know what I’m doing. I told you a thousand times, don’t worry about it. I’m not out to cheat anyone.”
“Yeah, well we don’t want another Carl Yates on our hands.” He shook his head, sighing. “At least I sure as hell don’t.”
“Oh, I stopped by the bookstore today at lunch. Got myself a Dean Koontz and you that Ladies’ Detective Agency book you don’t have.”
Brad smiled for the first time since he’d come home. He loved those Alexander McCall Smith novels. It wasn’t something he’d ever admit to Hank, Issac or, really, any of his men, but he found it soothing and relaxing to read about an African lady detective.
“When I got back to the office, Tom saw the books and I guess it jogged his memory because he told me that the empty storefront next to Kyle’s place is going to be a new bank.” She sounded huffy. “I didn’t know anything about it. I’m only Montgomery’s top seller five years running, but apparently this ‘bank’ decided to lease through Evangeline at Century 21.”
“They did have the listing,” Brad pointed out.
“And look how long it took them to get even a nibble. I told that moron Jeffords two years ago that I could have it leased within six months. Even offered him a no-commission deal if I couldn’t deliver. But he stuck with 21.”
“Maybe he’s friends with them.”
“Maybe Evangeline will blow anything in pants in order to get a commish.”
“Blow what in pants?”
They turned to see Sue standing in the doorway, a quizzical look on her face.
“Never you mind,” Patty said. “Are you getting hungry? Are you ready for dinner?”
“What are we having?”
“I defrosted some ground beef. So tacos or burgers. Your call.”
“Burgers!” Sue shouted.
“Burgers it is,” Patty said, as Sue ran off to tell her sister that she’d gotten to choose what they were going to have for dinner.
“Any mail today?” Brad asked.
“Junk,” Patty told him as she started washing her hands in the sink. “It’s on the coffee table if you want to look at it.”
He went into the family room, turned on the TV and sat down on the couch. He picked up the small pile of envelopes atop today’s Arizona Republic. An ad from AT&T asking him to become a customer—even though he’d been one for twenty years. Another ad from Big O Tires announcing an upcoming sale. An “offer” to help him refinance his mortgage.
A postcard with his name on the cover.
And his photo.